The last witness of the day is Carol Hodges. She has begun to light a little fire around the edges of their case.
Hodges came out of the blue, a surprise I suspect that Tannery could not wait to spring for fear that sooner or later we might discover the facts from our own client. He needn’t have worried.
“You knew the victim?” says Tannery
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We roomed together for a period.”
“And you remained at the university on faculty. Is that correct?”
“A teaching assistant. Graduate fellow,” she says.
“Now I draw your attention to the evening of the twenty-third of March. Last year,” he says. “Do you recall that date?”
She nods.
“You have to speak up for the record.”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what you were doing about six o’clock that evening?”
“Having dinner,” she says. “In the faculty dining room at the university.”
“And did you have occasion to see the victim, Kalista Jordan, on that evening.”
“Yes.”
“What was she doing?”
“Having dinner.”
“Were you eating together?”
“No. Separate tables.”
“And what happened that evening?”
“There was an argument.”
“With who?”
“With him.” She points to our table.
“You mean the defendant, David Crone?”
“Yes.”
“Who was he arguing with?”
“Kalista.”
“Kalista Jordan?”
“Yes.”
“What was this argument about?”
“I couldn’t hear,” she says.
Harry and I are clearly shaken, though we try not to show it. Harry actually manages a yawn that he covers with the back of his hand as this revelation spills out in front of the jury.
The state has managed to shield much of their testimony. There are few witness statements in their files, and most of the victim’s friends have been told by the cops that they don’t have to talk to us. Accordingly, they have chosen not to.
“Was this a loud argument?”
“Parts of it.”
“Who started it?”
“He did.”
“Dr. Crone?”
She nods. The witness is clearly not comfortable taking on a tenured professor, the academic pecking order being what it is, though Crone’s credentials have long since been tarnished.
“Did Dr. Crone shout at her?”
“He did.”
“Did he threaten her?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Did you hear him make any threatening statements toward the victim?”
“As I said, I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”
“But you did hear shouting?”
She nods. A tangle of hair droops down across her forehead, and she whips it to the side with the back of her hand. “Yes.”
“Did he touch her?” asks Tannery. This is clearly the high point for this witness.
“Yes. He put his hands on her.”
“How?”
“He grabbed her by the arm when she tried to walk away.”
“She tried to get away from him?”
“Yes.”
“At any point did the defendant, David Crone, look as if he might strike the victim?”
“Objection.”
“Goes to the witness’s perceptions,” says Tannery.
“Overruled. I allow the witness to answer.”
“Yes. At one point I thought he would hit her.”
“Did he strike the victim?” Tannery is not going to leave that one for me to ask.
“No.”
“When Dr. Crone grabbed her, did the victim appear to be frightened?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled,” says the judge.
“She wasn’t happy,” says the witness.
“Did she appear to be scared?”
“I would have been,” says Hodges.
“Objection-move to strike.”
Before the judge can rule, Hodges says: “I believe she was frightened.”
The judge strikes her earlier response, but the last one works for Tannery. He has done his damage.
Within three minutes we are beyond the earshot of guards, safely ensconced in the small conference room near the holding cells, with the door closed.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?” Harry is bearing down, red out to the tips of his ears. To Harry, a client may be a lying sack of shit to the rest of the world, but he is our lying sack of shit-that is, until he lies to us.
“I forgot about it. I’m sorry. ”
“How do you forget something like that?” Harry is looking at me for answers. “You tell me?”
“We had a conversation,” says Crone. “We talked. It slipped my mind.”
“You didn’t tell us you saw her that night.”
“Does it matter? Is it that important?”
“Damn right,” says Harry.
“It doesn’t prove I killed her.”
“No. But it does show that you lied to the police,” I say. By now I have the file open on the table in front of me, flipping through papers until I find the one I want: Crone’s initial statement to the cops.
Crone hasn’t thought about this until now.
“They asked you when you saw her last. You told them you hadn’t seen Jordan for at least a week prior to the time she disappeared.”
Those bushy eyebrows now migrate to the middle of his forehead in thought. He scratches his head with the eraser end of a pencil as if this were some math problem for which an equation can be worked out.
“Can’t we simply tell them I made a mistake, that I forgot?”
“Convenient that you should be reminded by the testimony of their witness,” says Harry. “That is the way lies are usually exposed in a courtroom.”
“You’re saying they may not believe me.”
Harry nods and rolls his eyes as if to say, Now he understands.
“And you want to take the stand?” says Harry. “In which case they’re gonna make you eat your statement to the cops like it was a crow and all the feathers were attached.”
Crone actually smiles at the mental image this conjures up. There are times when he seems amused by Harry’s anger and the verbal heat that drips from my colleague’s tongue. I get the feeling that to Crone, expressions of anger are novelties, like animals at the zoo, something with little use other than to amuse in his world of proteins, enzymes and the mathematical equations of life.
He looks at Harry as if he doesn’t understand. So I explain.
“If you testify, they can use your statement in the police report to show that you were lying. A prior inconsistent statement. You did see her that night?” I ask him, simply to make sure of the point.
“Oh, yes.”
“You argued with her?”
“Well, I don’t know if I would go so far. .”
“Was it an argument or not?” Harry is tired of the hairsplitting.
“We had a discussion.”
“A loud discussion?” asks Harry.
“Perhaps.”
“Then your statement to the cops in their report is a prior inconsistent statement.”
“Is that the same as a lie?” asks Crone.
“Only in the eyes of the jury,” says Harry. Harry rolls his big brown ones toward the ceiling and turns away.
“I’m sure the two of you can deal with it. I have utmost confidence,” says Crone.
“I’m glad to hear it,” says Harry. “Just as long as I don’t have to take the needle for you, or do the time.”
Crone actually smiles at this. “You know, Harry. . You don’t mind if I call you Harry?”
He has spent three months calling him Mr. Hinds, to Harry’s continual consternation. Harry’s been telling the professor from the beginning that his name is Harry, that his father was Mr. Hinds, and then only to relatives he didn’t like.
“You have a very colorful manner,” says Crone. “Very original.”
Harry shakes his head as if the man hasn’t heard a word he’s been saying.
“No, I mean it. ‘Take the needle. . or do the time.’ ” Crone repeats it using his fingers like a metronome. “It’s wonderful stuff. You could put it in a song. Gilbert and Sullivan,” he says. “Have you ever thought about writing lyrics?”