One Dog Night (23 page)

I start by opening a package under the defense table, and I take out a can that is identical to the one that Rouse tested. “Is this the can you were given to test?” I ask, mimicking Dylan’s question.

Rouse looks confused, and points to the previously introduced can, now resting on a side table. “No, that one is.”

“How do you know that?” I ask. “Don’t they look identical?”

“I assumed Mr. Campbell was showing me the correct can.”

I nod as if this makes perfect sense. “So you said you were certain that was the can, even though it just looked like it, because you just believed whatever Mr. Campbell said?”

“I tested the can that he gave me,” Rouse says, finding apparent refuge in a non sequitur.

“Good for you. How long was Mr. Galloway’s DNA on that can?”

“At least six years,” he says.

“You can tell that from your tests?”

“No. But as I said, my results matched the police tests.”

“The results that Mr. Campbell showed you, and you accepted at face value.”

“Yes.” He manages to sound slightly indignant at my inference.

“Agent Rouse, you are here as a supposedly independent expert witness. The court members and I would appreciate it if you would limit your answers to what you know independent of what Mr. Campbell or the police told you. Can you do that?”

Dylan objects, but De Luca overrules him, and Rouse agrees to my request.

“Thank you,” I say, acting as if I have triumphed, when in fact I haven’t. Rouse’s test results are still staring me in the face, and the jury will believe them.

In situations like this, I feel it’s important that I do more than just attack the witness; I need to present an at least somewhat plausible theory of my own. It’s tough in this case, because I truly have no idea how Noah’s burned skin got on that can.

“So, based on your own tests, that DNA could have been left on that can three years ago?”

“It’s possible.”

“Three months ago?” I ask.

“Possibly.”

“Was he conscious when he touched the can?” I ask.

“I can’t say that from my testing.”

“Did he touch it willingly?” I ask.

“I don’t know. That is not within the scope of my work.”

“Was his skin on the other cans as well?”

“I only tested the one can. I was told that it was the only can recovered.”

I show Rouse a page of the report by the fire department, which estimated that seventeen gallons of the napalmlike substance was used. “This can couldn’t hold seventeen gallons, could it?”

“No.”

“It would take five such cans to hold that much, would it not?” I ask.

He nods. “It would.”

“So the theory is that Mr. Galloway fled the scene, but for some reason decided to leave one can to be found, while taking the others with him?”

“That is not part of my testing.” I knew that, but I don’t really care what he says. I’m doing the testifying now; I’m just using Rouse as a foil to get my words out.

“You’d have to ask someone else that.”

“Thank you, Agent Rouse. You can be sure I will.”

The birth certificate of Roger Briggs is on file in the Paterson Hall of Records.

It shows that he was born to Natasha Briggs at Paterson General Hospital. There is no father listed on the certificate, and no explanation for the omission.

Tragically, the death certificate for Roger Briggs is also on file, and it is dated slightly more than eight months after his birth. Cause of death is asphyxiation by fire; which is standard procedure in cases of these types, though an incinerated body can yield no such evidence. Even the bureaucracy can’t seem to stomach the concept of a human being, in this case a baby, being consumed by flames while alive.

There is good reason to doubt that Roger Briggs died in that fire, and it is not just that the coroner found no traces of a body that small. My doubt more strongly stems from the fact that a young officer named Kyle Holmes seems to have had the same doubt, and I believe he died because of it. And if he was in fact murdered by someone threatened by those doubts, then they move up a step toward certainty.

Our investigation outside of the trial is moving very slowly, and at this point is mostly dependent on Sam Willis and the “over the hill gang.” I’m also anxiously waiting for Pete and especially Cindy to come through with missing persons information, but that is pretty much a shot in the dark.

Our situation within the trial is considerably more dire, and unfortunately moving at a faster pace. Dylan has maybe four days’ worth of witnesses still to call, and then it’s our turn to present our case, such as it is.

I believe in being completely honest with my clients, except when I think it is in their best interest to conceal things or flat-out lie to them. My moral compass pretty much always points south.

But in Noah’s case there’s no reason not to be straight, so in our daily meeting before court I lay things out as best I can. As he always does, he listens respectfully, with no apparent emotion, and then asks intelligent questions when I finish.

Once I’ve answered everything completely, if not to either of our satisfactions, he says, “It’s funny in a way; the longer this has gone on, the more I’ve believed in my own innocence. And the more I’ve wanted to win.”

“That’s only natural,” I say.

He nods. “I suppose. But there was something very comforting in not caring. The worst had happened; that was as bad as it was going to get.”

I know exactly what he’s saying, and I’m feeling very guilty about it. I gave him a reason to hope, I gave him actual hope, and to this point I’m not delivering on it. I’ve built him up for a fall, and we both know it.

But he’s going to try and let me down easy. “On the other hand, Andy, the relief that I feel that I didn’t kill those people makes anything that happens worthwhile. I had to live with that horror for a long time, but it’s gone. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t hate myself.”

I just nod my understanding.

“Instead I hate you,” he says, and laughs to let me know he’s kidding.

Before we head into court, Noah tells me that he heard from Becky and Adam this morning, and that they’re doing well.

“She wanted me to ask you if she can come back to attend any of the trial,” he says. “She wants to support me, and she wants the jury to see her supporting me.”

It’s actually a good point, and one I’ve thought about. The jury may be wondering why she’s not here, and I’m going to answer that question for them in our case.

“But I told her no,” Noah says. “I want her where it’s safe, and I sure don’t want her here when the jury tells us their verdict.”

The truth is, I’m not that anxious to be here for that either.

Dylan doesn’t have much more to say, so he’s going to keep saying it.

His first witness today is Randall Henderson, a forensic scientist with the New Jersey State Police. He is the person who did the original testing on the paint can in the days after the fire, and whose work has since been confirmed by the FBI’s lab.

If I play my cards right, he will be the only witness today. One of the jurors has a doctor’s appointment that has been deemed necessary, so court will not be in session this afternoon. Since it’s Friday, that will give me two and half days out of this courtroom, which will feel like a three-month world cruise.

Henderson is a very competent professional, and there is little doubt that his testing was done correctly. Though I made the FBI scientist look bad on cross-examination, the fact that the test results of both labs were identical makes it impossible to effectively challenge the results. They know that, Dylan and I know that, and the jury sure as hell knows it.

Dylan does me a favor by dragging out his testimony for two hours. I just have to keep Henderson on the stand for a few more minutes, and it’s hello, weekend.

“Mr. Henderson, in examining the can, did you weigh it?”

“No, there was no reason to, not for my purposes.”

I take the can and ask De Luca if I can hand it to him. When he says that I can, I ask Henderson to hold it and guess its weight. “Maybe six pounds,” he says.

“And it’s empty?”

“Yes.”

I walk back to the defense table, and Hike hands me the second can, which I give to him. “What about this one, which is now two-thirds filled with liquid?”

Henderson is a pretty big guy, maybe six feet, a hundred and eighty pounds, and he has no trouble lifting it. “I don’t know … fifteen pounds.”

“I weighed it earlier, and it totaled thirteen and a half pounds. Does that seem about right?”

“I would think so,” he says.

“There was earlier testimony that the amount of flammable liquid used would have required between four and five of those cans. That would mean between fifty-four and sixty-seven pounds, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Would it not be incredibly difficult to carry four or five of these rather unwieldy cans, weighing sixty or so pounds?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

I receive permission from De Luca to ask him to step down from the witness stand. Hike reaches under the table and starts handing me additional cans, one at a time. I pretend that I’m having a little difficulty carrying them, and I make four trips over to Henderson, each time carrying one can.

“Mr. Henderson, each of these cans is identical to the original, wouldn’t you say?”

“They look the same,” is his grudging reply.

“And they all are filled with fluid, and each weighs thirteen and a half pounds. You don’t have a bad back, or anything like that, do you?”

“No,” he says.

“Great. Then would you please carry them to the back of the courtroom? All at once, please.”

Dylan stands. “Your Honor, please…”

De Luca stares him down. “Your Honor, please?” he mimics. “Is that an official objection?”

De Luca instructs Henderson to carry the cans as I asked, providing he is not afraid he will injure himself. It’s a fairly impossible task, because there is no way two hands can grip all the various handles at the same time.

Henderson gives it his best try, and much to my delight drops one of the cans after walking only a few feet.

“Pretty tough, huh?” I ask. “And remember, this fire was set on the third floor, so these cans were carried up the steps.”

“It’s difficult, but not impossible,” Henderson says.

“You want to try it again? We’ve got time.”

He doesn’t want to, so I let him get back onto the stand.

“Mr. Henderson, let’s say for argument’s sake, all evidence to the contrary, that one person could do what you just failed to do. If you saw someone doing it, just walking down the street, do you think you would notice him?”

“I suppose I would, depending on what I was doing at the time.”

“Yet no one reported seeing Mr. Galloway doing that.”

Dylan finally makes the correct objection that these questions have nothing to do with Henderson’s lab work, and De Luca sustains.

“When you were testing this can in your lab, did you ever have trouble finding it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Ever misplace it?”

He shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“It stands out, doesn’t it? Be pretty tough to lose.”

“I certainly would not lose it, or misplace it.”

“Yet no other cans were found, not in Mr. Galloway’s apartment or anywhere else. Does it seem strange to you that he would leave the can with his charred skin on it right out on the street, but would hide the other cans so carefully that an entire police department could not find them?”

Before he can answer, Dylan objects, and De Luca tells him not to answer the question.

I try another one. “Did you have occasion to test any items from the actual house itself?”

He nods. “I did.”

“Any significant results?”

“Depends what you mean by significant,” he says. “But basically no. Everything in that house was pretty much incinerated.”

“Do you think that was the plan, and that’s why napalm was used?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, would whoever used the napalm have been likely to know that incineration would be the result?”

He nods. “I would certainly think so.”

“Then why not leave the cans behind to be incinerated along with everything else?” I ask. “Why take one can that he burned himself on, and carry it three blocks?”

“I can’t say.”

“That’s too bad.”

“We got something, Andy. Hilda found it.”

It’s the first message on my answering machine when I get home, and as I’m listening to it, Laurie walks into the room.

“Sam found something,” I say.

“I know; I spoke to him. They’re on the way over.”

“They?”

She laughs. “Apparently they travel as a group.” When I grimace, she adds, “They’re nice people, Andy. This is an adventure for them.”

“Do you know what they found?”

“No, Sam wouldn’t say; he wants Hilda to have the honor.”

“The State of New Jersey, the prosecutor’s office, and the FBI versus Hilda Mandlebaum. It’s a steel-cage fight to the finish.”

“My money’s on Hilda.”

Before they arrive, Marcus shows up. Laurie had called him in case whatever it was that Sam’s gang came up with needed following up.

Tara practically lights up when she sees Marcus, who never fails to pet her. She follows him as he heads straight for the kitchen and the refrigerator, giving me time to ask Laurie, “How many of Sam’s five interns are going to have a coronary when they see Marcus? I would make the over-under number three.”

“I think they’re probably tougher than you think,” she says.

Sam and his gang walk in about fifteen minutes later, four hundred and twenty-seven years of hard-nosed investigators, not including Sam. Each of them carries a briefcase; they look like an army of aged accountants.

If they are intimidated by Marcus, they don’t show it, and Morris Fishman mentions that Marcus looks like somebody he knew in Korea.

“You fought in Korea?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I bought fabric there. I was in the dress business … shmatas.”

Marcus nods knowingly, as if he’s spent the weekend shmata-shopping with Hilda. I feel like I’m on the planet Goofball.