Hear No Evil

“You didn’t use Luminol or Florescein to co

“No,” he said, seeming to reach deep for a prepared response. “Chemical reagents can destroy other evidence. So we didn’t use them.”

“Is that the reason you didn’t use them, Lieutenant? Or was it because you knew that the results would only hurt your case against my client?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained,” said the judge. “The witness told you why he didn’t use it. Move on, Mr. Swyteck.”

“What about gunshot residue?” said Jack. “When the gun is fired at such close range, doesn’t gunshot residue often blow back onto the trigger hand?”

“It can, yes. I assume you mean the nitrocellulose powder, which is the propellant that forces the bullet down the barrel.”

“Your investigative team didn’t collect any gunshot residue when it swabbed Lindsey Hart’s hands, did it?”

“No, we didn’t. But again, the weapon involved here is an M9 9 mm Beretta pistol. There’s less residue on the hands with an auto-loader, and it’s much easier to wash off. It might require a couple of scrubbings, but still, all it takes is soap and water.”

Jack went back to his table, and Sofia handed him the investigative report. He flipped through it just long enough to make the prosecutor wonder what he was up to, then he squared himself to the witness and said, “When I read the NCIS final report, Lieutenant, I didn’t see any identification of witnesses who saw the defendant washing her hands.”

“There are none listed.”

“I didn’t see any reference in your report to any abrasions or redness on the defendants’ hands, or any strong soapy odors-anything which might suggest that she’d given her hands a vigorous scrubbing.”

“None were noted.”

“I didn’t see any reference in your report as to whether the basin or tub were even wet, indicating recent usage.”

“The report doesn’t address that,” the lieutenant said, his voice becoming softer.

“I didn’t see any reference in your report to an examination of the plumbing to determine whether blood or other matter had been washed down the drain.”

Again, the lieutenant’s voice dropped. “We didn’t do that.”

“You could have done that, couldn’t you? Your investigative and forensic team could have removed the plumbing and examined the insides of the pipes for traces of blood or gunshot residue.”

“It’s possible.”

“But you didn’t do it?”

“No.”

“So, just to be clear on this. You and your investigative team can’t say one way or the other whether Lindsey Hart was busily scrubbing her hands clean before the police arrived on the scene, can you?”

“No, we can’t.”

“And you and your investigative team can’t say whether any blood or gunshot residue was washed down the drain.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Nonetheless,” he said, his voice rising, his pace quickening, “it’s your position that Lindsey Hart fired a gun into her husband’s head at close range, and then she wiped her hands squeaky clean?”

“Yes.”

“She went to all that trouble-wiped all that blood off her hands, cleaned off every last bit of that gunshot residue-but then she left a big old fat fingerprint on the murder weapon. Is that your testimony, Lieutenant?”

He paused, obviously uncomfortable with Jack’s spin on it. “It happens,” he said.

“It happens,” Jack said with a tinge of sarcasm. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I think we got it.”

Jack turned his back on the witness and returned to his seat. Lindsey gave him a look of approval, though the worry in her eyes was still evident. It was way too premature to start celebrating, but his point had seemed to register with the jury.

“Mr. Torres,” the judge said, “you may reexamine.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He buttoned his coat as he rose, but rather than approaching the witness he remained at his place behind the prosecution’s table. “Very briefly, Lieutenant. You’ve handled a few homicide investigations in your career, have you not?”

“Many, many of them.”

“In your experience as an NCIS investigator, how is it that you’re able to nail those killers who take great pains to cover their tracks?”

“More often than not, it’s because they made just one dumb mistake.”

“Just one?”

“One is all it takes.”

“Like forgetting to wipe a fingerprint off the gun?”

He nodded, then glanced toward the jury and said, “Like forgetting to wipe the gun.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. No further questions.”

The high Jack had felt after his cross-examination had just taken a nosedive. Two of the jurors had even smiled and nodded, as if volunteering to carry the prosecutor’s new mantra all the way back to the deliberations room: One is all it takes.

The judge said, “The witness may step down. Mr. Torres, do you have any more witnesses to call?”

Torres gave his witness a moment to get clear of the witness stand. He was ready to make a major a

“Thank you,” said the judge. All rose as the judge dismissed the jury. When the last of them had filed out of the courtroom, Lindsey, the lawyers, and spectators settled back into their seats.

The judge made some housekeeping a

“All rise!” cried the bailiff.

The judge exited to his side chambers, and the rumble of the crowd filled the courtroom. Jack turned toward Lindsey and said, “Big weekend ahead, Lindsey. It’s decision time.”

“Decision time for what?”

Jack closed his briefcase and said, “Just about everything.”

36

The reception at Mario’s Market was ice cold.

The trial had come between Jack and his biweekly lesson in Cuban culture from his grandmother, so he was determined to take Abuela to the market on Saturday morning. She’d told him ten or eleven times over the telephone that it wasn’t necessary, that it was really okay to skip their little shopping date just this once. Since his return from Cuba, she’d refused to speak about her tearful voice mail message and Jack’s visit to the cemetery. Jack promised not to raise it again, assuring her that this outing was purely for the fun of it. She still seemed wary, but Jack finally persuaded her. After just two minutes inside the store, however, he realized that her reluctance had nothing to do with Jack’s mother and the child she’d lost.

“Do they really have to glare at us like that?” said Jack.

“Not us, mi vida. You.”

The outrage in the Cuban community over the possibility of Castro’s soldier as a witness had seemed to peak with the torching of Jack’s Mustang, but the hate mail and vicious attacks on Cuban talk radio had grown steadily since Jack’s grilling of Alejandro Pintado on the witness stand. Having defended death row inmates for his first four years of practice, Jack could deal with critics. But Saturday morning at Mario’s Market wasn’t the faceless fury of strangers whose acceptance Jack neither sought nor needed. These were good people, regular folks, neighbors who played dominoes with his grandmother in the park. It was the woman behind the deli counter who used to have his coffee ready for him, exactly the way he liked it, before he even asked. It was the cashier selling Lotto tickets who had always insisted that some combination of Jack’s and José Martí’s birthdays was definitely the lucky number. It was the seventy-nine-year-old stock “boy” who would tell Jack about the gunfights on Eighth Street (long before it became “Calle Ocho”) between Batista loyalists and the Castro supporters. And it was the butcher who used to laugh at Jack’s terrible Spanish, tell him that it’s a good thing his mother was from Bejucal because an accent like his wouldn’t even earn him the distinction of “honorary Cuban.” Jack expected the backlash from the Cuban community at large, and he was even getting used to some of it. But rejection from these folks was rejection on a whole different level.