75.

Terry gave an opening statement that was as effective as it was brief.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm a 'show me' kind of person. So I'd rather show you than talk at you. After all, as the judge told you, what I say"-Terry pointedly turned her body to include me-"what any of the lawyers say, isn't evidence." She pointed to the witness stand. "Only what comes from that chair up there is. And now you know there's a good reason for that rule." She half turned toward me again and pointed. "This prosecutor told you she would present DNA evidence that would conclusively prove my client's blood was on the trunk of Brian Maher's car. But as you've now seen-"

I couldn't restrain myself. I jumped up. "Objection! Counsel is arguing, not giving an opening-"

"Sustained," Judge Osterman said in an icy tone that made it clear he didn't like having to rule in my favor. "Ms. Fisk, please save the argument for later and get on with what you intend to prove."

Terry nodded. "I apologize, Your Honor. I got carried away." But her smug tone implied she'd gotten all the mileage she wanted. I gritted my teeth to keep from saying what I thought of her. She turned back to the jury. "I really only need to tell you this: Ian Powers did not kill Hayley and Brian. I don't have to make empty promises right now. I'm going to show you that Ian Powers is innocent. And then I'm going to show you who the real murderer is."

Short, sweet, and dramatic, and it had the desired effect. The jurors were energized, their expressions engaged and intrigued. Mine would've been too, except I was busy showing the jury I didn't give a damn-and worrying about the bomb Terry was about to drop. She started, predictably, with the parade of experts.

First up: Dr. Anthony Kandell, a DNA expert who thumped on the LAPD crime lab in general and Gelfer in particular for slipshod practices that ran the serious risk of incriminating an innocent man. My cross was simple.

"You're aware that Gelfer testified he did not make those mistakes on any actual cases, just on one of the blind tests administered to check lab procedures?"

"Yes, but the fact that he-"

I cut off the rest, which I knew would be a repeat of what he'd already said on direct: that Gelfer couldn't be trusted about anything after having made such rookie mistakes on a lab test. "Objection, nonresponsive," I said. "That called for a 'yes' or 'no' only."

Judge Osterman wavered for a moment, but probably because Terry had already hammered the point, he gave me this one. "Sustained."

"Thank you, Your Honor." I turned back to Kandell. "And if Gelfer didn't make those mistakes in this case, then his conclusion that the blood on the trunk was a mixture of the defendant's and Hayley's is correct, isn't it?"

"Well, but the problem is, we can't assume he didn't-"

"Objection, Your Honor, again, nonresponsive-"

I acted irritated, but the truth was, I didn't mind. The more the witness sparred with me like this, the more it showed he wasn't a neutral scientist, he was a defense advocate-something I'd put to good use in closing arguments.

"It is. Sustained. Please just answer the question."

The witness sighed. "Yes, assuming he didn't make those mistakes, the conclusion would be correct."

"Nothing further."

The other experts only pointed out what I'd already conceded: the hair comparison couldn't pinpoint Ian Powers as the source, it could only include him among the group with consistent characteristics, blah, blah, blah; and the soil analysis couldn't prove when Averly's car was on Boney Mountain.

But I got to have a little fun with the defense print expert, Owen Poplar, the particularly obnoxious whore who didn't just take shots at Leo Relinsky's opinion-he also tried to imply that the prints found on the trunk of Brian's car were planted. Poplar didn't try to sell the planting theory too hard, so I decided to leave that subject for my rebuttal. What he did try to sell was that Leo was wrong when he declared that the prints matched Ian Powers's. Knowing what was coming, I'd had Leo prepare separate blowups of the prints from the trunk and Ian's exemplar. Now I flashed them up on the monitor. What had been an abstract concept during testimony was now splashed across the screens in sharp relief. The prints were so identical they were virtually indistinguishable.

"Now, would you please point out the differences you were describing during your testimony for Ms. Fisk?"

Poplar cleared his throat nervously. He obviously hadn't been expecting this. Why, I have no idea. Eventually he pointed to a break in the ridge on the thumbprint found on the trunk. "If you look over here, you see that this break isn't on Mr. Powers's exemplar."

"I do see that. But isn't it true that prints found at a crime scene, especially prints found on an item that's been outdoors for some time, usually do have less detail than an exemplar?"

"Not necessarily."

"Really." I let my expression say what I thought of that answer before continuing. "Then you're saying that prints rolled by an expert under pristine conditions are of no better quality than prints that a murderer leaves at a crime scene by accident?"

He really couldn't say that or he'd get laughed out of court, let alone his own profession.

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm just saying that sometimes the prints found at crime scenes don't have such breaks as are shown here."

"Not breaks, plural, right? There's only one."

Poplar looked at the monitor again, probably hoping to find more, but eventually conceded, "Yes, I only see one at this time."

"At this time? You've had weeks to look at these prints before coming to court today, haven't you?"

"Yes, I looked at the prints before, obviously, and no, I don't see any other breaks."

His tone was now petulant, and I noticed a couple of jurors were frowning.

"But you stand by your conclusion that these prints don't match?"

Saying that, with the prints right there on the monitor in front of everyone, was the death knell for Poplar's credibility. Even laypeople could see the match.

Poplar sat up straighter, and now his tone was downright bitchy. "I'm not saying that, I'm just saying I don't see enough points of identity to declare a match."

"But that's not what you said on direct, Mr. Poplar, is it? You said on direct that these prints didn't match."

"No, you must have misunderstood, Ms. Knight. That is not what I said."

I knew the jury remembered it too, because a couple of them were shaking their heads. So I was gracious.

"Well, if that's true, then I apologize, Mr. Poplar. But I'm sure Ms. Hogan, our talented court reporter, will be able to resolve this for the jury if they have any doubts." I paused and smiled benignly as, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of jurors make notes. "How many points do you need to declare a match, Mr. Poplar?"

"I don't have a specific number. I just have to be convinced that there's enough to dispel any reasonable doubt."

Spoken like a well-coached defense witness. "I see. In other words, you have a sliding scale?"

He narrowed his eyes, looking for the trap he knew was lurking in that question. "Well...yes."

"And that sliding scale means you can always give the defense the opinion they want if they're willing to pay, isn't that true?"

"Objection! Argumentative!" Terry declared.

"Nothing further." I strode back to my seat and tried to act nonchalant. Not easy to do when you want to jump on the table, pound your chest, and do an end zone victory dance.

My triumph was short-lived.

At the five o'clock recess, I told the judge I'd need at least a day to prepare for the remaining experts.

The judge had retreated a few steps since our heated exchange. "I'm inclined to grant that request since Ms. Knight only learned of these witnesses a couple of days ago."

"No need, Your Honor," Terry said. "I'm not going to call any more experts."

"Well, that solves that problem, doesn't it?" the judge said.

Not hardly. I'd counted on using those experts to buy us some time for Parkova-and for me to figure out what those Nevada casino witnesses were going to say. I'd been worried that Terry might rest without putting on a defense. If she had, I might've been screwed. But she'd decided to put on witnesses, and that gave me a fighting chance.

It's what I always called "defense to the rescue." Although the defense doesn't have to prove anything, once they try to, the jury gets to see what they've got. And if what they've got is garbage, the jury sees there's no real defense at all. Basically, the worse their witnesses are, the better my case looks. I can't count the number of times the defense bailed me out by putting on a weak case. And it could work for me here too. If I could show that the defense was a sham, the jury might forgive me for the DNA debacle.

But now, thanks to Terry's move, I'd not only lost the opportunity to trash more defense witnesses, I'd just lost crucial time.

76.

After court, the three of us met in my office and tried to figure out what the Nevada witnesses had to do with the case. I'd turned on my cell phone so I'd hear it if Graden called, but the default ringtone started playing almost immediately, telling me the reporters hadn't given up.

"How long's it been since you answered any of their calls?" Bailey asked.

"Weeks?" I had no idea. "You'd think they'd give up." I shook my head and turned the ringer back off.

"I couldn't come up with anything Powers or Antonovich was doing in Vegas. No film shoots...nada," Bailey said.

"Me either," Declan said. "The only thing I heard was that they were looking into investing in a casino, but that was a while ago."

I hated not knowing what the defense was up to. Because when it comes to a jury trial, what you don't know can and usually will hurt you...badly. The case was a roller coaster, and all I could do was lean out of the car to try and see the tracks a few feet ahead. But when I walked into court the next morning, I stepped into a minefield no one could've anticipated.

Judge Osterman took the bench five minutes early. Jimmy called the court to order, and the loud buzzing and milling in the gallery came to such an abrupt stop, it made my ears ring.

"Juror number four left a message with my clerk," the judge said. "If the parties would come to sidebar, I'll let you all read it."

Juror number four was the black single mother who was my favorite. I looked at Bailey and Declan and shook my head as I rounded counsel table and moved to sidebar. This couldn't be good.

It wasn't. Her mother had been rushed to the hospital last night. The doctors said it was a heart attack and they didn't know if she'd make it. The juror needed to stay with her mother; she was the only family her mother had left. She provided the names of the doctor and the hospital, in case the court needed verification. She apologized and said she deeply regretted causing the inconvenience.

"I did have my clerk verify all the information, and it checks out," the judge said. "Obviously we have to let her go."

"Oh, I agree, Your Honor," Terry quickly replied.

The speed of her response told me she'd figured out that juror number four was probably in our camp. But there was nothing I could do. This was legitimate cause to excuse her.

"Yes," I said, feeling as though I'd been kicked in the gut...again. Every time I started to feel like we were back on our feet, some new disaster fell out of the sky to knock us flat.

The judge called the jurors out, explained that a personal emergency had come up for juror four, and said that the clerk would now draw an alternate at random to replace her. I held my breath as Tricia mixed up the name cards for the five alternates in a glass bowl and pulled one out. She opened the card and read. "Alternate number five."

It was the talent agent. He'd been my big gamble. We could be golden, or we could be totally screwed now. It was anyone's guess.

As I pulled out my legal pad, Terry called her next witness. "The defense calls Suzanne Forester."

A plain-looking, heavyset woman in her forties with steel gray hair and no makeup took the stand. I recognized her as one of the Nevada witnesses.

Bailey leaned over and whispered, "Here we go."

I nodded. Whatever she had to say would give us a good idea of what the rest of the Nevada witnesses had been summoned for. As she raised her right hand and took the oath, I was almost more curious than nervous about what was to come.

Terry established that Ms. Forester lived in Las Vegas and had worked for the past ten years as a hotel maid. "Are you a member of a union?"

"Yes, a hotel workers' union."

"And did you work for the Pink Panther Hotel and Casino approximately five years ago?"

"Yes. I worked there until it got sold."

"What happened when it was sold?"

"The new owners shut down the hotel and laid us all off. They said they were going to renovate, and when they were done, they'd hire us all back."

"Did they renovate?"

"Yeah."

"And did they hire you back?"

"No. They didn't hire none of us back. They went non-union."

"I see. And who were these new owners who refused to hire you back?"

Her eyes scanned the courtroom. "Him," she said, pointing to Ian Powers. "And him." She pointed to Russell in the audience.

"So they broke their word and never rehired you or any of the rest of the employees?"

"No. And then, a little while after they reopened, they sold the place."

"They don't own it anymore?"

"Far as I know, they're out."

"And have you found other work?"