Open and Shut - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,40
judge judges, and the prosecution wins.
Five minutes into our conversation I make my decision about the Kelly-Frye: I'm not going to request it. We would lose anyway and it would be a total waste of time, but that's not why I'm not seeking it. If we ultimately lose the trial, and Willie is sentenced to death, I want to give his future lawyer an appeal based on the fact that his idiot lawyer Andy Carpenter never even asked for a Kelly-Frye hearing.
I'm more interested in talking to Dr. Lampley about the evidence collection in this case. It is in this area that DNA can often be attacked, and a case like this provides more opportunity than most. The evidence was collected at a time when DNA was in its relative infancy, and less sophisticated collection techniques were used. If we can show that this collection was faulty, then the results are useless to the prosecution.
Dr. Lampley agrees to study the case and the police work involved. This is not a particularly generous offer, since he's charging us three hundred an hour, but I agree. I don't tell him yet that I'm not going for the Kelly-Frye, since I'm pretty sure that would dampen his enthusiasm. With preparation and presentation, the Kelly-Frye would be worth twenty grand to him. It beats the hell out of grading final exams.
With the boring torture of talking about DNA at least temporarily out of the way, it's time to focus on Willie Miller's story, assuming Willie Miller has a story. I take Kevin and Laurie out to the prison with me, so that they can hear it firsthand.
Willie is already back in the main section, with only a small bandage to show for his fun in the rec room. His eyes almost pop out of his head when he sees Laurie. After I introduce everyone, Willie makes a finger-wagging motion back and forth between Laurie and me and says to me with a lascivious grin, “Uuuhhh … you and her?” When he does this, I become an instant proponent of the death penalty.
“Don't start, Willie. We're here to talk about you.”
Still eyeing Laurie, he says, “Man, your life is a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.”
I finally get him back on track, and we discuss the night of the murder. He thinks he remembers showing up for work that night, but everything after that is an alcohol-induced blank.
“Do you remember when you started to drink?” Laurie asks.
“You mean that night?”
She nods, and he says, “Nope. I wouldn't have, that's what's so weird. But I guess I did, huh?”
“According to the blood tests,” I say. “Have you ever had problems with alcohol?”
“Nope.”
“How long had you been working at that bar?”
“About six months.”
“Any problems before that night? Any incidents? Were you ever reprimanded for anything?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. I did my job and didn't bother nobody.”
“What about the needle marks on your arms?”
Willie reacts to this, tensing and flaring up. “I never took no drugs. Never.”
This, of course, doesn't make any sense. I saw the marks on the police photographs. “Then where did the marks come from?”
“You know what ‘never’ means? I never took no drugs. I don't know nothin’ about no needle marks. Tell them to stop trying to peddle this bullshit, man.”
We question Willie for another hour, but it basically gets us nowhere. He never saw Denise McGregor before, has no idea what happened that night, but can't believe that he could have killed someone. It's not exactly a compelling case to present to a jury.
I arrive at home to something less than a standing ovation. Tara seems happy enough to see me, wagging her tail and graciously accepting her evening biscuit. Nicole is somewhat more reserved, having not yet gotten over the answering machine incident. I have to admit that I'm not quite over it either, and I double-check all the doors and windows to make sure they are locked.
We eat in, since Nicole doesn't seem anxious to go to a restaurant with the most famous pimp in New Jersey. That's fine with me, since I've got a briefcaseful of work to do. I'm still doing it at one o'clock when I fall asleep on the couch, Tara's head on my thigh. A boy and his dog.
I take stock of the situation the next morning, and I'm not pleased. I've learned almost nothing to help Willie Miller, and the trial is fast approaching. I also have no idea what secrets lie