Hardy took a casual stroll of his own now across to the defense table where Catherine sat. Borrowing from Rosen's bag of tricks, he, too, raised his arm and pointed a finger at his client. "This woman is innocent, completely innocent of these crimes. She is guilty of nothing at all, in fact, except for drawing the attention and incurring the wrath of the lead investigating officer on this case, Sergeant Dan Cuneo, by resisting his inappropriate sexual advances and reporting them to his superior."
Out in the gallery, a low roar erupted. This was what all the reporters had come for! Sex and scandal. Salacious accusations and powder-keg secrets.
Hardy took a beat's quiet pleasure in the sight of Cuneo's startled fury, of Chris Rosen's jaw, visibly drooping. Startled and disconcerted, though he must have known that the issue would arise, he simply didn't seem prepared for the accusation so early in open court. Welcome to the big leagues, Hardy thought. He had drawn first blood.
It got better. Cuneo whispered something to Rosen, who belatedly rose to his feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Argument."
"The objection is overruled. He's not arguing, Mr. Rosen. He's telling his version of events, as you did. That's what opening statements are for. Go on, Mr. Hardy."
Hardy nodded respectfully. This was wholly unexpected. Not only had Braun ruled for him, but she'd thrown Rosen a backhanded rebuke in front of the jury. Hardy had to like it, but couldn't dare show any of it. "Thank you, Your Honor," he said.
He moved to the center of the courtroom. Again he turned and looked back over at the defense table. "I said a minute ago that there was no physical evidence tying Catherine to this crime. But more than that, there is no convincing evidence of any kind, physical or otherwise, that she is guilty." The adrenaline was definitely running now, and he was aware of a keen pleasure-almost a thrill-knowing that he was going to let it take him as far as it would.
"The critical prosecution witnesses are inconsistent and contradict one another. My client's statements have been twisted and taken out of context. The so-called motive has been exaggerated and distorted, and the whole foul-smelling mass has been coaxed into the feeble semblance of a case by an overhasty and careless investigation.
"Two people are dead here. And the evidence will show they were shot to death. The prosecution evidence beyond this is simply not clear enough, clean enough, convincing enough to convict Catherine of murder." He paused for a beat, confident now that he'd be able to slip in a last bit of argument. "At the beginning of your service," he said to the jury, "you swore an oath. As Catherine sits there now under your gaze," he said, "you must presume that what I have told you is the truth. You must presume that she is innocent. That is where this trial begins.
"Mr. Rosen would have you believe that she is not innocent. That she plotted and executed this double murder for financial gain. That she is guilty as charged. But no amount of political ambition, no desire to close a high-profile case can make her so. The law of this country presumes the innocence of the accused. It is on that presumption and upon your oath that we will rely."
He met the eyes of several jurors, every one rapt. Up to now, at least, he had them with him.
17
The only witness before the lunch break was John Strout, an ageless and usually uncontroversial figure at every murder trial that Hardy had ever attended in San Francisco. Prosaic as it might seem, usually one of the first orders of business for the prosecution was to establish that a murder had, in fact, taken place. Or, in this case, two murders.
Hardy had studied the forensics and the autopsy until he'd gone cross-eyed trying to find some wedge to cast doubt on the causes of death or, more specifically, to re-introduce the idea of murder/suicide. It certainly didn't look good, knowing all the facts as he did; in fact, the possibility was so remote as to be an impossibility. Still, he didn't see how it could hurt to give the jury a nugget of doubt about that point.
So when Rosen finished his none-too-rigorous direct on what had been the obvious causes of death of the two
victims, Hardy stood and walked up to where Dr. Strout sat with consummate ease in the witness box. As some people grow to look like their dogs, Strout the coroner had over time come to resemble a cadaver. Nearly six and a half feet tall, gaunt and sallow, Strout's many-lined cheeks were covered with a crepe-paper skin that sank into the hollows of his face. A prominent Adam's apple bobbed with every frequent swallow. But for all that, he somehow managed to retain something of a youthful air-a shock of unruly white hair, pale blue eyes that had seen it all and laughed at a lot of it. When he spoke, a Southern drawl cast much of what he said in a sardonic light. Although here, of course-on the witness stand under oath-he would strive to be nothing but professional.
Hardy had known the man for thirty years and greeted him cordially, then got down to the business at hand. "You've testified that both Mr. Hanover and Missy D'Amiens died from gunshot wounds to the head, is that correct?"
"Yes, it is." Strout was sitting back in his seat, arms resting on the arms of his chair, his long legs crossed in the cramped witness box, an ankle on its opposite knee.
In the kindergarten simplicity of the courtroom, Rosen had presented a drawing, mounted on a portable tripod, of the two victims' heads, showing the entry and exit wounds of the bullets and their trajectories. Hardy went first to the location of the wound on Missy's head-verifying that it was in the upper back. "Let me ask you then, Doctor. Could this wound have been self-inflicted?"
Strout's initial reaction, covered quickly, was a twinkle in those pale eyes. He knew Hardy well, and the question was so stupid on its face that he almost didn't know how to respond except with sarcasm. But it stirred him from his complacent lethargy. He uncrossed his legs and pulled himself up straight. "In my opinion"-"In ma 'pinion"-"it would have been well nigh impossible to inflict this wound on herself."
"Im-possible, you say?"
"That's right."
"All right. And turning now to Mr. Hanover's wound. Same question."
"Could he have shot himself there, over his right ear?"
"Right," Hardy said.
"Well, no. I don't rightly think so."
"But unlike the case with Missy D'Amiens, it might not have been impossible?"
"Well, no. If he'd used his left hand, but even so, the trajectory…" He stopped, shook his head with some decision. "I'd have to say no. No."
"No, Doctor? And why is that?"
"Because he had polio when he'd been younger, and his right arm was useless."
Hardy nodded at this fascinating discovery, brought in the jury with his eyes. "So he couldn't have lifted the gun with his right hand to where it needed to be to have fired the shot that killed him? Is that your testimony?"
Strout's eyes were narrowed down now to slits. He famously did not like his medical opinions challenged, either in or out of court. "That's my understanding. Correct."
"Your understanding, Doctor? I take it then that you did not have a chance to examine Mr. Hanover while he was alive, did you?"
"No. Of course not."
"No. Well, then, in your examination of the body after his death, did you find the muscles in Mr. Hanover's right arm to be atrophied or useless?"
"No, I did not."
"No? Why not?"
"Because there was essentially nothing left of the right arm. It had cooked away."
This macabre recital brought a hum to the gallery that made Braun lift her gavel, but it died away before she could bring it down.
"So, Doctor," Hardy continued, "there is nothing about your examination that precludes the possibility that Mr. Hanover shot Ms. D'Amiens and then himself. Is that correct?"