Once again there's little I can do with this witness, other than to get him to confirm that Laurie's fingerprints were not found anywhere in the apartment. I'm sure the jury would consider Laurie, as a former cop, too savvy to have left any prints, so I don't accomplish much.
The parade continues with Rafael Gomez, a police officer who found the gas can in Laurie's garage and who testifies that the gas/propane residue in it is the same mixture as that used to set Dorsey's body on fire. While that is no doubt true, his testimony at least gives me an opening to score some points.
"Officer Gomez, were there any fingerprints on the gas can?"
"No, sir. Wiped clean."
"Really? So you think she was stupid enough to leave this terribly incriminating piece of evidence in her own garage but smart enough to wipe off the prints?"
"Well …"
He's unsure, so I push the advantage. "Maybe she figured the police wouldn't be able to figure out whose garage it was?"
He thinks for a moment and comes up with a pretty good answer. "Maybe she didn't wipe it. Maybe she was wearing gloves. To keep the gas off her hands."
"Is the gas dangerous to touch?" I ask.
"No, but some people--"
I interrupt, and Dylan doesn't object, even though he should. "Where did you find the gloves?"
"We didn't find any gloves."
"But you said you conducted a full search of the premises," I point out.
"We did, but there were no gloves. Maybe she threw them away so we wouldn't find them."
"Under the theory that Ms. Collins would get rid of the gloves but keep the can of gas?"
"I can't say what she would do" is his fairly lame response.
"Is that what you would do?" I press.
"I wouldn't murder anyone."
"You and Ms. Collins have that in common," I say. "No further questions."
I've done with Officer Gomez exactly what I've done with many of Dylan's witnesses, no more and no less. I've shown that if, after the murder, Laurie had done the things Dylan has alleged, then her behavior was illogical. The problem is that there is no reason a jury should expect someone who has decapitated and set fire to a police officer to act logically. In effect, I am saying, "She couldn't have committed this bizarre crime because if she did, look how strangely she acted afterwards." In this case, strange behavior fits neatly with the crime and could be taken as an indicator of guilt, rather than as exculpatory.
Dylan's last witness is retired Paterson police captain Ron Franks, probably Dylan's best friend on the force. Though Franks retired more than a year before the Internal Affairs investigation that Laurie instigated, Dylan's purpose in calling him is to present the positive side to the victim.
It makes sense. We have been tearing Dorsey down as best we can, and Dylan certainly knows that will be a big part of our defense. The worse Dorsey looks, the less compelled the jury might feel to avenge his murder.
Franks is only on for fifteen minutes, but he talks warmly and admiringly of Dorsey's years of public service, both in the military and especially with the police department.
My cross-examination is brief, honing in on the fact that Franks knows nothing about the Internal Affairs investigation or the facts that caused Dorsey to go on the run. The man seems to sincerely have been a friend of Dorsey's, and it will do me no good to attack him.
Dylan rests his case, I move for a dismissal, and Hatchet denies my motion. Since it's late, and it's Friday afternoon, he excuses the jury and tells me I can start our defense Monday morning. Unfortunately, he means this coming Monday.
As we're about to start one of Laurie's perfectly prepared dinners, a phone call comes in that certainly has the potential to ruin it. It's from Hatchet's office, setting up a conference call between Dylan, Hatchet, and myself. Dylan is already on the line, but I'm not in the mood for chitchat, so I just wait for Hatchet.
After a few minutes His Majesty gets on the line. "Gentlemen, I have made a ruling on the defense motion, and I thought you should hear it immediately so that you can be guided in your preparations for court on Monday."
He pauses, but neither Dylan nor I say a word, so he continues. "I have carefully reviewed the FBI material, and I have determined that it provides no new or relevant information to this case. Lieutenant Dorsey is mentioned only peripherally, and Mr. Cahill, or Stynes, is not mentioned at all. There is also no indication of another police lieutenant that may have been in a conspiracy with Mr. Dorsey.
"Therefore, my ruling is that the probative value of these documents as it relates to our trial is effectively zero and certainly not worth interfering with an FBI investigation. Any questions?"
Dylan, the victor, responds first. "Not from my end, Your Honor. I think you made the right decision."
"That's comforting," Hatchet responds dryly. "Mr. Carpenter?"
"Have a nice weekend, Your Honor."
The loss of this motion does not come as a great surprise. We have no choice but to shrug it off, and Kevin and I work until almost eleven o'clock on our defense strategy. Our plan is to work all day tomorrow and then take Sunday off, resting up before the battle begins.
Laurie is already asleep when I get into bed, and I lean over and kiss her lightly on her forehead. My concern for her is almost overpowering. We're heading into the homestretch, and she doesn't have a hell of a lot of horse under her.
I'm just dozing off when the phone rings, and I jolt upright, immediately alert. The last time I got a call at this hour, it started the chain of events that led to Barry Leiter's death. I have an initial desire to just let the phone ring, but I force myself to pick it up.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end is immediately recognizable, as it should be, since I heard it a number of times earlier today. It is the computer-masked female voice that in the 911 call identified Oscar Garcia as Dorsey's murderer.
"Mr. Carpenter, you're not looking in the right place."
This of course is not exactly shocking news. "Where should I be looking?" I ask.
"Vietnam. That's where it began. That's where you'll find the connection."
"Connection between who? Dorsey and Cahill?"
There is no answer, and I'm desperately afraid she's going to hang up. "Come on, please," I say, "what about Vietnam? I need more to go on."
Again there is no answer; for all I know she may not even be on the phone any longer. Then she answers hesitantly, as if not sure whether to tell me more. "Talk to Terry Murdoch."
"Who is he? Where is he?"
Click.
I don't even put down the phone; I just dial Kevin's number.
"Hello?" he answers with not a trace of sleepiness in his voice.
"What time do lieutenant colonels go to sleep?" I ask.
KEVIN IS OVER BY SIX IN THE MORNING TO JUMP-start our weekend. He informs me that, even though he planned to call his brother-in-law this morning, he couldn't resist and called him last night. It was a great thing to do, because it, has already gotten the ball rolling.