The Jury (13 page)

"I assume they can make these cable ties in high volume?"

"One press," says Warnake, "has as many as twenty or thirty individual molds.

They can produce several thousand cable ties in an hour."

"Is every one of them the same?"

"Only to the naked eye," says the witness.

"They look the same."

"But they aren't?"

"Not under a microscope."

"Perhaps you can explain to the jury?" says Tannery.

"By examining the individual ties under a microscope it's possible to identify what are called tool marks says Warnake.

"In the manufacture of anything involving molds, where uniform pressure is applied, and where metal comes into contact with the item being made, the surface of the metal will impart tiny microscopic marks on the surface of the product. No two molds are exactly the same. No matter how highly polished or how uniformly made, the surface of the metal will impart its own individual surface characteristics on the item in question."

"Like fingerprints?" asks Tannery.

"That's a good analogy."

"In this case, on the nylon cable tie?"

"That's correct."

"Dr. Warnake, did you have occasion to examine the cable tie in this evidence bag, the one used to kill Kalista Jordan?"

"I did."

"And did you find individual tool marks on the surface of that cable tie?"

"I did."

"And were you able to locate the mold used to make that cable tie?"

"By process of elimination and some research, I was."

"Can you tell the jury where that cable tie was made?"

"It was made by a firm in New Jersey called Qualitex Plastics."

"Do you know when it was made?"

"No. That I cannot tell you."

"But you're certain it was made by this company, Qualitex."

"I am. I was able, by examining other cable ties produced by that firm, to identify ties that had the same identical pattern of tool marks as the tie in that evidence bag."

"And that would indicate that the sample ties you examined were made by the same mold as the cable tie that killed Kalista Jordan?"

"That's correct."

"And you're certain about this? To the exclusion of all other manufacturing molds that might be used in this process, that this particular mold at Qualitex made the tie used to strangle the victim in this case?"

"I am."

"Thank you." Tannery retreats to the evidence cart and fishes through a couple of cardboard boxes until he finds what he's looking for. He asks permission to approach the witness.

"Doctor, I would ask you to examine the cable ties in this bag."

Warnake takes it and looks at the ties through the plastic bag.

"Do you recognize them?"

"I recognize the tag tied to them."

"Are those your initials on the tag in question?"

"They are."

"And did you examine the ties in that bag?"

"I did."

"Your Honor, for the record, the ties in question are the cable ties found and previously identified by Lieutenant de Angelo during his search of the defendant's house," says Tannery.

"They were marked

for identification, and the record will reflect that they were discovered in the pocket of Dr. Crones sport coat hanging in the hall closet."

Coats doesn't even look up. Instead he nods his assent as he makes a note on the pad in front of him on the bench.

"Dr. Warnake, can you tell the jury what you did to examine the cable ties in this bag, the ones found in the defendant's coat pocket?"

"I examined them separately, placing each of them under a stereo microscope. I looked for tool marks on the surface at specific locations along each of the ties."

"And what did you discover?"

"I determined that they were made by the same manufacturer as the cable tie used to strangle the victim, Kalista Jordan."

There are noticeable murmurs in the courtroom. Whispering by people beyond the bar, some press types and the media sensing blood in the water.

"Were they produced by the same molds that produced that cable tie? The one used to kill Kalista Jordan?"

"No. They were made by other molds in the same production run. Molds in the possession of that same manufacturer."

"Let me get this straight." Tannery starts motioning with his hands as if drawing a picture for the jury.

"There's a whole line of these molds at the factory where they're made? Not just one."

"That's correct."

"And each one of these molds is giving off different tool marks as they're injected with molten plastic?"

"That's right."

"And after the ties are injected and cooled, what happens to them?"

"They're packaged and shipped to distribution points around the country, wholesalers in some cases, retailers in others."

"So if you went to the store and bought one of these packages of cable ties, you'd get ties that could be traced back to a whole line of manufacturing molds, probably in the same plant?"

"Yes. I believe that's true."

"And that's what you found here?"

"Yes."

"You were able to trace the production mold that made the tie used to kill Kalista Jordan?"

"Yes."

"And in that same manufacturing plant you were able to identify molds that produced the two cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant"--Tannery points with an outstretched arm and an accusing finger--"the coat belonging to Dr. David Crone?"

"That's right."

Coats is now sitting up straight, looking down at the witness for the first time, his dark robe and gleaming bald head like an inverted judicial exclamation point to this evidence.

"Were you able to conclude from this that the tie used to kill the victim, Kalista Jordan, and the cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant had been purchased at the same time, from the same location?"

"Objection." I'm on my feet.

"Calls for speculation."

"I'm only asking as to the probability," says Tannery.

"The witness has surveyed manufacturers and points of sale. He should be allowed to testify on the issue."

Coats is not sure about this. He wants to talk to us. He calls the lawyers up to the side of the bench.

"Mr. Madriani, it seems as though the witness has already testified to this."

"Then it's been asked and answered, Your Honor. There should be no need for the question."

"No, it's not quite the same." Tannery wades in.

"I asked him about production runs, and shipping practices. I'm only trying to tie it all together," he says.

"There's no way this witness can know whether the tie used to kill

the victim and the ties found in the defendant's pocket were from the same store." I am red out to the tips of my ears.

"This exceeds any issue of expertise. It raises questions of factual knowledge."

"It raises issues of probabilities," says Tannery.

"We know all the ties came from the same factory. They came from the same press run of machines. Is it not probable they were purchased at the same store?"

"That calls for speculation."

The judge is shaking his head. I can't believe it.

"You'll have your chance to cross-examine him, Mr. Madriani. I'm going to allow it."

We step back from the bench. Harry's looking at me, like What gives? I simply shake my head. It's how you feel when you've lost a call that you know is wrong.

"Is there not a good probability, Doctor, that the tie used to kill Kalista Jordan and the cable ties found in the coat pocket of the defendant, David Crone, were purchased at the same point of sale?"

"I believe so." Warnake is actually smiling. He knows there is no way he can prove this. Tannery has pressed it too far. It is just the kind of error that can lead to reversal on appeal.

"Perhaps they were part of the same package?" says Tannery.

"Your Honor, I have to object."

"Sustained." I can see it in the judge's face. He has made a mistake, and he knows it.

"Let me ask you this, Doctor Warnake. From what you now know, can you exclude the possibility that all of these cable ties came from the same package in the same store?" says Tannery.

He has turned it around so that there is no basis to object, though I do it anyway.

"I'll allow that," says Coats.

"No, I cannot exclude that possibility."

Crone is looking up at me from the counsel table. His hand comes no

over on my arm as if he is actually consoling me. His expression says he is not surprised, the scientist accepting the conclusions of science.

From Harry I get a different look: one that says, I told you so.

Within seconds of the judges gavel coming down, a phalanx of county jail guards moves in to escort Crone back to the holding cell. There he will change from his suit and tie back to jail togs and rubber flip flops for the shackled walk across the bridge that links the criminal courts building to the jail.

Harry and I collect our papers as the courtroom empties. A few bystanders, court hangers-on, chew on the events of the day. Most of the reporters have headed back to the pressroom where they will file their stories by e-mail, driving one more spike into our client's reputation, and tallying one more brick on the scales for the state.

Tannery's evidence is beginning to come in cleanly, the outline of a case taking shape like a Polaroid print developing in front of our eyes. Lawyers can sense when an opponent hits his stride. It's a feeling that brings on heart-pounding panic, even as you are pulling all the legal levers in court with simulated confidence and spinning a web of lies to the media outside.

The challenge, as always, is to lie to yourself and to do so convincingly. That is the art of a true believer, who will accept every deceit, even his own, on faith. Neither Harry nor I am of this religion. We are cockeyed pessimists with a cynical twist. I have my own unspoken doubts about the case. I am convinced that at the heart of it lies some corrosive deception, though I still cannot accept that my client killed Kalista Jordan.

It isn't until I turn to stash my copy of West's soft cover Penal Code in my brief box that I see him, sitting alone, forlorn in the back of the courtroom.

Frank Boyd has been watching our case unravel from the shadows of the last row.

ill

He is wearing a pair of white painters overalls, bits of sawdust on one shoulder that he has missed in brushing off. Some splotches of what look like dried glue on one pant leg.

Frank is a finish carpenter. He is an artist with wood. He has shoulders like a linebacker and forearms like Popeye. The man can move beams the size of tree trunks, notch and carve them into place single-handedly, with nothing but a hand-cranked come-along to hold the weight while he dangles from a ladder: the kind of guy you would want on your side if you had to go to war.

In another life, he'd been a teacher until he learned he couldn't stand the confinement of the classroom. Frank took a job as a woodworker's apprentice in a shipyard and over six years he mastered the skills of a shipwright, finishing the interiors of yachts, until the federal luxury tax crushed the industry and threw him out of work. Ever resilient, he started his own business, and for the past fourteen years has worked by hiring himself out to contractors on large homes that require an artist to finish the wood.

It runs in his blood, independence and art. I have seen charcoal and pencil drawings of his children framed in the hallway of their modest home. Doris tells me that these are Frank's work. He had taken anatomy courses to better understand the articulation of the human body, how it moved and functioned. He now produces drawings-drawings with such a flourish of confidence one might think they were ripped from the sketch pad of da Vinci. It causes me to wonder what might have been, had he turned to oils or other media. Doubtless he would have been no more affluent. Unfortunately for Frank, he is also hobbled by the mercantile tin ear of the artist. He has no sense of his own worth.

Like a vagabond he now travels in his beat-up Volkswagen van, a sixties-vintage van, working on its third engine and for which the only spare parts can be found in wrecking yards. The rear springs sag under the load, tools of his trade assembled and collected over thirty years. Chisels and power saws, miters for angles and small curved handsaws

of Japanese steel mail-ordered from Asia. He uses these for cuts of microscopic precision. I am told that he has assembled whole staircases in homes that might qualify as castles, only to dismantle the entire structure, risers, treads and railings, just to shave a little more wood until the pieces fit like the parts in a puzzle. Frank's signature in wood is perfection.

He is an addict when it comes to to his craft. He will drive a thousand miles in the broken-down van with his ladders on top to labor for a month on a log mansion in the wilds of Montana, for some eastern investment broker with the palace appetite of the Medicis. For Frank, it is the work, not the client, that is critical. It is not difficult for a man like this to find himself laboring at art for which he will not be paid. The fact that contractors will hunt Frank down for these special jobs is a testament to his skill, even if what he receives barely covers his gas. He is to days equivalent of the ancient metal smith hammering gold on a pharaohs mask. No one will ever know his name, even as they marvel at his craft.

Today the dust on his work clothes reflects the dull pallor of his face, which is lined with deep furrows as if some gnome had pulled a plowshare through the gullies under his eyes. I would bet he hasn't shaved in three days, five-o'clock shadow gone to seed. He has lost forty pounds in the months since our last meeting, so that I have to recalibrate the register of my recognition before I am sure I have the right person.

What passes for a smile these days edges across his face and then is gone just as quickly. He gets out of the chair and moves forward slowly, down the center aisle, then sidles sideways across the front row of chairs on the other side of the bar railing to approach.

"Frank. I haven't seen you in a while."