"I'm not sure I know the answer to that" is the closest she will come to a concession.
"What if you were to hear Lieutenant Dorsey's wife testify that he planned to fake his own death? Would that make it reasonable to believe he could have changed the blood?"
"I suppose that it would."
"Thank you. And just so we're clear: If that blood were changed, if it were not Dorsey's blood, then that would mean that the body was not Dorsey? Correct?" I'm repeating myself for effect.
"Yes."
I let her off the stand while barely stifling my desire to yell out "Game, set, and match." We have had a hugely successful day, and the evidence of that is etched on Dylan's face.
I stop outside long enough to conduct a mini-press conference, during which I allow myself some gloating. The questions demonstrate just how successful a day we have had, as the reporters want to know if I believe Hatchet will dismiss the charges once the prosecution rests. I don't believe that he will, but I certainly do nothing to discourage the speculation.
We have our evening meeting as usual, and I try my best to temper the group enthusiasm. Laurie and Kevin completely understand intellectually that we won a battle today but that victory in the war can only be declared by the jury. Nevertheless, we have become so used to depressing news that it is only natural we overreact on the positive side.
Laurie proposes a toast at dinner to her "wonderful attorneys," and since it is bad luck to refuse to toast an obvious truth, I join in. I throw in a toast to Barry Leiter, partially as a sobering device. Kevin is as happy as I've ever seen him, and it takes me a while to get them both to calm down so we can start planning for tomorrow's witnesses.
Just when I think I have them sufficiently wary and depressed over what lies ahead, Willie Miller shows up. He explains that he was going to call to find out if there's been any counteroffer on his case yet (there hasn't), but when he heard today's good news on the radio about the trial, he decided to come over. And with him is Cash, the Wonder Dog.
Cash goes everywhere with Willie, and Willie has determined that Cash is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe. Since it is a known fact that Tara is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe, I am aware that his claims are overblown, but I let him continue in his blissful ignorance. Besides, Cash is a pretty cool dog, and Tara seems to like him.
Unfortunately, Willie also brings along his infectious enthusiasm. Without the benefit of any knowledge at all, he confidently tells Laurie that she is just days from vindication. In the process, he pretty much eradicates my efforts to get the group back to thinking cautiously. Just when Laurie is about to bring out the party hats, I convince Willie to take Cash and Tara outside in the yard to play, so that we can get back to work inside.
Willie obliges, grabbing a couple of tennis balls and a Frisbee and leading the dogs out to the yard. Kevin and I get started on the files, but after a few minutes I see Laurie looking out the window and shaking her head in disapproval.
"Look what they're doing to my vegetables."
I sigh and go to the window. Cash is out near the back of the yard, digging furiously in Laurie's vegetable garden. I don't think it's such a big deal. "Looks like we're back to buying basil like the city folk," I say.
"Come on, Andy. I put a lot of work into that garden," Laurie complains.
I'm annoyed at the interruption, but I've got little choice but to deal with this vegetable crisis. I tell Kevin that I'll be right back, and go out to the yard.
As I exit the house, I'm surprised to see Willie coming toward me, looking uncharacteristically upset. He's holding on to Cash by the collar, and I can still see the dirt on Cash's nose from his digging.
"Andy," Willie says, "you'd better get your ass over here."
My initial instinct--make that panic--is that something has happened to Tara. But Willie turns and runs back to the garden, and Tara is standing there, looking none the worse for wear.
Willie points down to where Cash was digging, and I see why he is so upset. Something is buried there, in clear plastic and well preserved.
Alex Dorsey's head.
AS LONG AS I LIVE, I WILL NEVER SEE AS DISGUSTING a sight as that severed head in that plastic bag. I only look at it once, but it will forever be etched in my memory.
I turn and walk back to the house, asking Willie to stay by the garden and secure the area. I go in and tell Laurie and Kevin what I've seen, and we basically sit there speechless, waiting for Pete to show up.
Within five minutes, it is as if a police convention has convened on my lawn. Pete is there, as well as Nick Sabonis and just about every other cop of every rank in the department. Dylan shows up as well, acting as if he is in charge. His look is somber and serious, in an attempt to conceal his total glee at this turn of events.
I tell Nick what happened, truthfully disavowing any knowledge of how the head got there. I remember that Tara had barked out the window facing the garden a few nights before, and that might be when the head was buried. They don't believe me, and they don't even attempt to question Laurie, no doubt fully aware that I would not allow it.
The forensics people spend a couple of hours out there, and the detectives fan out to interview my neighbors. The head is actually taken away in an ambulance, though I think it's too late to save it. I can't speak for the EMS people, but I'm certainly not about to give it mouth-to-mouth.
Just before Nick leaves, he tells us that the coroner is going to be examining the severed head tonight, and Kevin goes down to the morgue to get the results of that examination. Once everyone is gone, Laurie and I stay up to wait for his call.
The call from Kevin comes in less than an hour. "We've got a problem," he says. "The official determination is that the head was from the body in the warehouse, and that obviously means the time of death is the same. He also says that the cut was made from the back, so the murderer probably snuck up on him."
That is all the information he has, and I ask very few questions. We are both aware that our case is in shambles. All our success so far has centered on creating a reasonable possibility that Dorsey's death was faked, that the body in the warehouse may not have been his. We staked our credibility with the jury on this, and the resulting loss of that credibility is devastating, and most likely impossible to recover from.
Just as bad is Laurie's claim that Dorsey called her, at a time long after he was dead, as has now been shown. The jury can logically conclude that she lied about this and can thus doubt anything else she or her lawyer has to say.
It is a disaster.
I tell Laurie what we've learned, and she receives the news quietly, almost with a sense of resignation. She's smart enough to know what it means to our case and to know what Dylan will do with the revelation.
It's only as we get into bed that she reveals what she's been thinking about. "Andy, why don't you ask me if I did it?"
"Laurie--," I begin, but she cuts me off.
"You say that everything in the case fits perfectly into our claim that I was framed. Wouldn't it fit even more perfectly if I actually did it?"
"Laurie, this is not a conversation worth having. We need to focus on what's important. I know that you didn't do it."
"How?" Her eyes are boring in on me like a laser beam.
I sigh, a tactic that turns out to be pitifully ineffective against laser beams.
"Andy," she presses, "how do you know I'm not guilty?"
"Because I know you."
She shakes her head. "Not good enough," she says. "I want to hear facts--facts that prove my innocence to you."
I'm not going to put her off, so I might as well play this out. "Okay. Did you send Stynes to hire me?"
I keep going before she can answer; the questions come out in a barrage, and there's no prosecutor to object. "Did you send yourself to find your own bloodstained clothes? Did you ask me to represent Garcia? Did you murder Barry Leiter? The damned facts are on your side, Laurie. I'm just the only one who knows them."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, "Thank you for that. We're going to be okay." She kisses me, rolls over, and goes to sleep.
Women.
I'm not as good at getting to sleep these days as I used to be, and this is a tougher night than most. Instead of counting sheep, I count evidence, and I apply my "nothing is coincidence theory" to the latest developments.
I had always wondered why someone would decapitate a victim and then bother to set the body on fire. In light of today's events, I can now make the assumption that it was done so that we would have reason to doubt that the body was Dorsey at all.
That might not have been accomplished by the decapitation alone, since there may well have been marks on the body capable of identifying Dorsey. Perhaps scars, perhaps a distinctive tattoo--