“Could he turn around?” Grimes asked, turning toward the judge. “I only seen him from the back.”
“That’s up to Mr. Nash,” Rosenthal replied.
“Certainly,” David said, and Larry stood up and turned his back to the witness stand.
“I don’t remember it lookin’ like that,” Grimes said decisively.
“How would you describe the driver’s hair?”
“Well, like I said, I only seen it for a second, but it looked brown-colored to me, and he had one of them cuts that came down a ways.”
“Thank you. I have nothing further.”
Monica reread the police report on Grimes rapidly. There was nothing about hair color in the report. She turned to the third page and saw why. The son of a bitch was going back on his statement to the police. This was bad, because Grimes had the appearance of an honest witness. His testimony about the hair color could be crucial in a close case.
“Mr. Grimes,” Monica asked, “how well lit is the parking lot at the Raleigh?”
Grimes tilted his head back and furrowed his brow. “Not too good over by the side near Tacoma Street, but there’s plenty of light from that McDonald’s. Bothers some of the customers sometimes.”
Monica felt her stomach tighten. Damn, she’d just made it worse. She hated surprises in trial, and this was a bad one. She decided to back off on the lighting.
“Was the murderer’s car moving fast when it left the lot?”
“I’ll say. It just come whippin’ around that corner. He screeched his tires when he did that, and that’s why I looked over.”
“So you just had a brief view of him?”
“Right. Like I said, I wasn’t concentratin’ on him much. I was lookin’ up at the room.”
“Do you remember being interviewed by Ronald Crosby, a Portland police detective, on the evening of the murder?”
“Was that the fella that bought me coffee?”
“I wouldn’t know, Mr. Grimes.”
“Nice fella. He even sprung for a doughnut. Not as tight as some a them cops I know.”
Someone laughed in the back of the courtroom, and the judge rapped his gavel. Monica waited for the jury’s attention to return to the witness stand.
“You never told Detective Crosby that the man had long brown hair, did you?”
“He never asked.”
“But he did ask you if there was anything about the man you could remember, did he not?”
“I don’t recollect the whole conversation.”
“Do you remember saying that the man did not make much of an impression on you and Detective Crosby asking you if you remembered his hair, eyes, or anything else about him and your answering ‘No’?”
“That sounds right. Only I was talkin’ about when the girl come in. He never asked about when the fella drove off.”
Monica looked as if she were going to ask another question, then thought better of it.
“Nothing further,” she said.
Judge Rosenthal looked at David, who merely smiled and shook his head.
“Nice going,” Larry whispered.
“That’s what you pay me for. If I do as well with the next witness, we’ll be in good shape.”
“Who’s the next witness?” Stafford asked David.
“The State calls Bertram Ortiz,” Monica said.
Direct examination was easy for Ortiz. The questions were almost identical to the direct examination during the bail hearing, and he had gone over his answers with Monica several times. First he described the stakeout and the beige Mercedes. Then he recounted his surveillance during the drive to the motel. He told the hushed courtroom of his violent encounter with the man who had murdered Darlene Hersch, his reaction when he saw Larry Stafford in the courthouse corridor, and the results of the search at Stafford’s house. Then, as the jurors leaned forward, caught up in the tension of the moment, Ortiz turned toward the defense table and pointed his finger at the defendant. Direct examination was over, and Monica nodded to David.
Ortiz turned toward the defense table and waited for cross-examination to begin. His hand had been steady, and there had been no tremor in his voice when he identified Larry Stafford, because he had learned from dozens of experiences on the witness stand to control his nerves, but the fear of what David might do to him was there.
David did not rush his questions. He smiled at Ortiz and leaned back in his chair. He wanted Ortiz to wait, and he wanted to build on the tension that already permeated the courtroom.
“Officer Ortiz,” he asked finally, “what day was Darlene Hersch killed?”
“June sixteenth,” Ortiz answered tersely. He was determined to answer only what he was asked and to volunteer nothing. The less he said, the less information Nash would have to work with.
“Thank you,” David said politely. “And when did you see Mr. Stafford in the courthouse hallway?”
“Early September.”
“Some three months after the murder?”
“Yes.”
David stood up and walked to an easel that the clerk had placed between the witness stand and the jury box. David flipped the cover page from a large drawing pad over the top of the easel and revealed the diagram of the motel room that Ortiz had drawn at the bail hearing.
“During a prior hearing in this case, I asked you to draw this sketch and to indicate your position and the killer’s position at the moment you saw his face, did I not?”
“Yes.”
“And is this an accurate representation of those positions?”
Ortiz studied the drawing for a moment, then nodded.
“I believe at the hearing you stated that, at the moment you saw the killer’s face, his left arm and leg were inside the room a bit and his body was at a slight angle, with the right arm and leg outside the door?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now, you were struck immediately upon entering the motel room, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“The lights in the room were out?”
“Yes.”
“You fell, twisted, and your head struck the bed?”
“Yes.”
“How long would you say you had a good view of the killer’s face?”
“A few seconds.”
“Five to ten?”
“A little more than that.”
David picked up the transcript of the bail hearing, consulted an index card, and flipped to a page.
“At a prior hearing in this case, did you not testify as follows:
“’Q: So you saw him for a few seconds?
“’A: Yes.
“’Q: Less than a minute?
“‘A: Maybe five, ten seconds. But I saw him.’”
“I think that’s right.”
“So the only time you saw the killer’s face was for five or ten seconds after you had been struck on the head and before you lost consciousness?”
“Yes, but I saw him clearly. It was Stafford,” Ortiz blurted out. Monica expected David to object to the unresponsive answer, but David merely smiled.
“You are certain of that?” David asked. Monica was puzzled. Why was David giving Ortiz a chance to repeat so damaging a statement?
“Positive.”
“Yes. I believe, at the prior hearing, I asked you, ‘You are certain?’ and you replied, ‘I will never forget that face.’”
“Yes, I said that,” Ortiz answered nervously. He had forgotten that he had given that answer at the bail hearing.
“But the impossible happened, did it not?”
“What do you mean?”
David strolled over to the far end of the counsel table and picked up a stack of papers.
“Were you hospitalized after the blow to your head?”
“Yes.”
“Was Dr. Arthur Stewart your treating physician?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you in the hospital, Officer Ortiz?”
“About a week.”
“How long did you continue to see Dr. Stewart for problems relating to the blow to your head?”
Ortiz could feel the sweat forming on his brow. Why didn’t the bastard ask the question Ortiz knew he would ask?
“I stopped two weeks ago.”
“Mid-October? Is that when he released you?”
“Yes.”
“You had a concussion, did you not?”