Three To Get Deadly (30 page)

The judge shrugged. "Abe, you gotta call Riggs. I'll let you get this in now, subject to tying it up with Riggs's testimony."

That was okay with me. I wanted Charlie on the stand as much as possible. Make him their witness for purpose of chain of custody. Let the state vouch for his credibility before I call him.

Socolow went through it with MacKenzie, the finding of succinic acid and choline—two of the components of succinylcholine—in Corrigan's liver and brain. The buttock dissection showed a needle track. His expert opinion on cause of death, cardiac arrest following the injection of succinylcholine. The aneurysm? In the throes of death, quite possibly the stress on the system caused the aorta to rupture. But the instigating cause, succinylcholine, no doubt about it. The whole dance took ten minutes. Socolow moved to admit the toxicological report into evidence, and the judge accepted it, subject to Charlie Riggs tying up chain of custody. Then it was my turn.

I grabbed the report and pretended to read it, furrowing my brow.

"Now, Dr. Blumberg—"

"Dr. MacKenzie," he corrected me.

"Oh," I said, feigning surprise, "there must be some mistake. A Dr. Blumberg signed this report."

Hilton MacKenzie smeared me with his exasperated look. "Milton Blumberg is the toxicologist who analyzed the tissue samples."

"Oh," I said again, looking around the courtroom for the toxicologist.

"Blumberg works under my supervision and I am responsible for his actions," MacKenzie piped up, getting the drift.

I turned toward the judge. "Your Honor, I move to strike all of Dr. MacKenzie's direct testimony as hearsay. Further, he's not capable of responding to my cross-examination of the report, so it too must be stricken."

Before Socolow could rise and offer me Blumberg, a guy I didn't want, MacKenzie chimed in, "Your Honor, I am intimately familiar with toxicology methods and the preparation of this report based on the chromatography tests."

Ah, vanity.

"Very well," I said, "as long as we have the expert here, objection withdrawn."

He settled back into his chair. Before he could get too comfortable, I asked, "How much succinic acid was found in the brain?"

"How much?" he repeated.

"Yes, your report—Milton Blumberg's report—says there was succinic acid in the brain. How much?"

He seemed startled. "I don't know," he said.

"In the liver?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter—"

"And how much choline?"

"Objection!" Socolow stomped toward the bench. "Judge, he's not letting the witness finish his answer."

The judge looked toward the press gallery. Helen Buchman from the
Herald
was nodding. Or maybe just chewing her gum. No matter. "Sustained. Doctor, you were saying …"

MacKenzie was silent. Gathering his thoughts. He shook his head, confused. "We didn't measure the amount."

My face registered shock. I spun on my heel in front of the jury box and waved the toxicology report at the witness, a toreador taunting the bull. "So it could have been ten milligrams, twenty milligrams, a quart, a gallon?"

"You don't understand," Dr. MacKenzie said, scowling. Exasperated.

"I'm sure I don't. That's why I ask questions. Now, how much choline was found in the brain tissue?"

"I don't know. Again, we didn't test for amount, only presence. It was a qualitative test, not a quantitative one."

Fancy doctor words.

"Then how did you differentiate the substances you allegedly found from the choline and succinic acid already there?"

The doctor stared at me.

I moved closer to the witness stand. "Those two substances are normally present in the body, correct?"

"Yes, of course."

"So your test may have picked up the succinic acid and choline normally found in the body, correct?"

He was silent a moment. He looked toward Socolow for help. None came. He stole a sideways glance at the jury, brushed the forelock of hair out of his eyes and said, somewhat testily, "There is insufficient choline and succinic acid normally in the body to show up in these tests."

"How much is there, normally?"

"A trace. Nothing more."

"And it doesn't show up on your tests?"

"No sir."

"Then how do you know it's there?"

"Because I know! That's all."

"Now, in your training as a chemist—"

"I never said I was a chemist," he whined. Defensive now, hunching his long, well-bred body into a corner of the witness stand.

"But you know how to do the gas chromatograph tests?"

"No." Then he added quickly, "I supervise."

"Ah," I said. I liked that. Jurors know all about supervisors, leaning against the side of the truck, drinking coffee while other guys dig the ditches.

"And of course you found succinic acid and choline near the needle track in the buttock?"

"No, I never said that. You know we didn't."

"What do you make of that?"

"I would have expected to find it, if that's what you mean."

I nodded with approval and paused to emphasize the point. "You expected to find succinic acid and choline near the needle track because the concentration of the drug should be greatest near the injection, correct?"

Again he looked toward Socolow. "Ordinarily."

"Then how do you explain the lack of the two substances near the track where the drug was supposedly injected?"

He paused. One beat, another beat. Then, very softly, a murmur barely above the whir of the air-conditioning, "Sometimes, in science, we don't have an explanation for everything."

"Quite so," I said, and sat down.

Abe Socolow had been around long enough to know how to rehabilitate a witness.

"Just a few questions on redirect," he said with perfect calm. Never let the jury sense your fear. "Now, Dr. MacKenzie. Besides looking for the presence of succinic acid and choline, what else did your tests do, and I direct your attention to page seven of the report."

MacKenzie warmed to the friendly face and followed the coaching. He flipped through Blumberg's report, got to page seven, and smiled. "We scanned for other toxins. Those tests were negative. The tests were positive only for the components of succinylcholine."

Socolow nodded. "To exclude the remote possibility of picking up traces of succinic acid and choline occurring naturally in the body, what did you do?"

Dr. MacKenzie read some more, his eyes brightening. "We tested three other bodies that recently arrived in the morgue. We performed the same chromatographic tests on brain and liver samples. None showed any evidence of succinic acid or choline."

Abe Socolow smiled too. His jury smile. To carry the message, no harm done, just clearing the confusion caused by that wily defense lawyer.

"No further questions," Socolow said, easing himself into his chair.

The judge was ready to bang his gavel and call it a day. But I had one or two more questions. Recross.

"Dr. MacKenzie, these three other bodies you tested. How many had died during or just after surgery?"

He didn't know where I was heading. But Abe Socolow did. He stood up. Tried to think of an objection but couldn't. The question was relevant and within the scope of his redirect.

"None," the doctor said, looking at the report. "Two were gunshot victims, one died in an auto accident. All DOA."

"So none had received succinylcholine within the last twelve hours before death?"

There was an inaudible mumble from the witness stand. He shook his head from side to side. Now he knew.

"You must speak up for the court reporter," I advised him.

"No, none received succinylcholine."

"You're familiar with the records of Philip Corrigan's back surgery on the day of his death?"

A quiet "Yes."

"And the anesthetics included, did they not, succinylcholine?"

"Fifty milligrams, IV drip," he said, softer than the rumble of voices from the gallery.

I told Roger not to start celebrating but he was slapping me on the back. Brilliant again.

"You destroyed MacKenzie." He was jubilant. "Maybe," I told him. "But they still have time to test someone who dies during surgery and Charlie Riggs doesn't know what it'll show. Nobody seems to know."

"Still," Roger insisted, "we won the day."

"Sure," I said, "but tomorrow is Melanie Corrigan. And the jury will convict if they believe her, acquit if they don't. Expert witnesses are just icing on the cake."

That was hard for his scientific mind to accept. "Then the trial is just showmanship," he complained, "if whoever has the best looking, most likable witness wins."

"It sometimes works like that," I said. "My job is to get the jury to dislike her or Sergio or both."

"How do you do that?"

I winked at him. Like it was a great secret. Which it was. Especially from me.

* * *

I slept well. I had prepared. I lowered my pace a bit. Tried to forget just who she was and what she had done to Susan. My first responsibility was to Roger Stanton. Time for the rest later.

She still turned heads walking into a courtroom. Unlike the civil trial, she could not sit at counsel table. The witness rule was in effect. No witnesses present except when testifying. So the jurors hadn't seen Melanie Corrigan yet. It made her appearance more dramatic. She didn't let them down. Poised, confident, a beautiful walk to the witness stand.

Still in his black suit, the Grim Reaper asked when she first met Roger Stanton.

She was well prepared. "I was just a kid, really. I looked up to him. He was a doctor, and I was training to be a professional dancer. We became involved. He pursued me. He was, in a way, obsessed with me. He wanted to possess me, and I gave in to him."

Then she blushed. Really blushed. It came out well, set off nicely by a navy blue, dress-for-success skirt-suit. She had the whole shtick, white silk blouse and frilly bow, hair tied back in a ponytail. Little Bo-peep. Where was the slinky temptress of the videotape? I shouldn't have been surprised. Usually, it's the defendants who do the changeovers. Street hoods shave their beards, shower, and cover their tattoos with discount store suits. A crack dealer shows up for trial looking like an investment banker. And here was Melanie Corrigan, ex-stripper, semi-pro hooker, up from the streets, blushing on cue, Abe Socolow leading off Day Two with his strength.

He took her through it all, just as he had promised in opening statement. Roger Stanton chased her long after the relationship was over, showed her the drug, wanted her to kill her husband. She thought he was joking or half crazy, would never do it. Then Philip died, darling Philip. The beginning of a tear, tastefully done. No gushers that would interrupt the timing of the questions. After the malpractice trial, Roger asked her over, and she found the drug and the black valise in his house.

It took less time than I had anticipated. Socolow got her up there, fulfilled his prophecy, then sat down. I stood up. And the worst thing that could happen to my cross-examination happened.

Nothing.

It was uneventful.

Flat, dull.

I had worked so hard to stay in control, to bury the hatred inside of me that I buried everything else. No spark, no inspiration, no edge. Flabby questions, brief denials, no follow-up.

"Were you intimate with Roger Stanton after your marriage?"

"No, of course not."

I had no way of disproving it. The tape was shot before the marriage, and Judge Crane wouldn't let it into evidence anyway. Roger would contradict her statement, of course, but there is something unchivalrous about that. The jury will not like him.

"Were you intimate with your employee, a Mr. Sergio Machado-Alvarez?"

"Objection," Socolow yelled out. "Irrelevant."

The judge's eyes darted across the gallery. Helen Buchman had gone to the restroom. He took a stab at it. "Granted. Same ruling as on Mr. Socolow's motion
in limine
. Mr. Lassiter, I remind you that Mrs. Corrigan is not on trial."

"Thank you, Your Honor," I said, to confuse the jury. "Mrs. Corrigan, the black valise you testified about, was it ever in your possession?"

"No."

Again, nothing to disprove her. If Susan were alive, she could ID the valise in Melanie's underwear drawer. Destroy her testimony. I needed Susan for this and a thousand other reasons. I blinked and saw her face, nuzzling me on the way to Granny's house. I blinked again, and she was facedown in the pool. I was reeling, losing control.

"What do you know about the break-in at Susan Corrigan's cabana?"

An inane question. A preordained answer. Floundering.

"Nothing. Poor thing, to die so young."

I choked on my own incompetence, unable to muster anger or rage. I caught sight of Roger at the defense table. Catatonic. He knew I was blowing it. I improvised.

"You thought Dr. Stanton cold-bloodedly murdered your husband and yet you went to his house after the civil trial?"

"Yes."

"You weren't afraid of him?"

"No, but … maybe I should have been."

I am not a mind reader. I have trouble enough understanding what people mean when they
speak
their thoughts. If I had known where she was going, I would have shut up. Instead I chomped at the bait.

"And why should you have been?"

An open-ended
why
on cross, invitation to disaster.

"He attacked me earlier at my home. He struck me right here because I would not … I refused to make love with him."

She was pointing to a spot below her left eye. Two female jurors looked upset. The cad. Killing a guy may be okay. But hitting a woman?