my counsel table and picked up a copy of the autopsy report.
“You are aware, are you not, of the autopsy report on Carl Richess?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve got a copy there?”
He flipped to a page in his notebook. “Yes.”
“Referring you to page two of the report, under the heading ‘Gunshot Residue Kit Results.’ Do you see that?”
“Yes.”
“Please read to the jury the paragraph below that.”
Zebker looked at the page. “ ‘The chemical elements barium, antimony, and lead are elements of virtually all primer mixes. Trace amounts of antimony were found on the anterior of decedent’s right hand.’ ”
“That is referring to gunshot residue, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Which the report says was found on the back of Carl Richess’s hand.”
“Yes.”
“Consistent with suicide, correct?”
“No.”
I should have stopped right there. I should have known something was coming. But the denial was so stark, so fast, I thought he could only be blowing smoke.
“You’re saying that gunshot residue on the victim’s hand is not consistent with suicide by gun?”
“Not when it’s planted, like this was.”
91
WHEN YOU GET gobsmacked in trial, you have to keep your face from showing it. I call this the Phil Ivey. One of the world’s best poker players, you can never tell what he’s thinking behind those cool eyes.
You use the Ivey to keep the jury from knowing the other side’s drawn blood.
I was bleeding.
And I was mad.
“Your Honor, if we could have a sidebar,” I said.
“Approach,” the judge said. “With the reporter.”
When we were all nicely gathered at the bench—Radavich, the court reporter, the judge, and Ty Buchanan—I made sure my back was to the jury so they couldn’t see my face. I was afraid it might look less like Ivey and more like Sasquatch on a bad hair day.
“I wasn’t given any notice of this,” I said. “There is no basis for saying the residue was planted. I move for a mistrial.”
“It’s news to me,” Radavich said.
“You expect me to believe you didn’t know about this?” I said.
“Gentlemen,” Judge Hughes said, “let’s address the bench, shall we?”
“He sandbagged, Your Honor,” I said. “There is nothing in the autopsy report or anywhere else that suggests planted evidence like this.”
“What about that, Mr. Radavich?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Radavich said. “Mr. Buchanan asked a question and my witness answered it. I didn’t ask him about the residue. Mr. Buchanan did.”
It seemed to me Radavich could hardly contain his glee.
“I am moving for a mistrial,” I said.
The judge looked at the clock. “Let’s send the jury out for an early lunch, and keep the witness here. We’ll have a little hearing and figure out what we’ve got.”
92
AFTER THE JURY cleared, the judge said, “All right, we are on the record. Detective Zebker is still on the stand. I’m going to let Mr. Buchanan take the witness on voir dire. Go ahead, Mr. Buchanan.”
Good. The judge was allowing me to interrupt Radavich’s direct examination to ask questions relating only to my motion for a mistrial. Outside the hearing of the jury, of course.
I faced Zebker. “Sir, where, in any written report, is there anything about a theory of planted evidence?”
“There isn’t,” Zebker said.
“Then what’s the basis of your opinion?”
“I spoke with deputy medical examiner Lyle Schneuder last night. I wanted to go over the autopsy report with him one more time. He said that something had been bothering him, the pattern of the residue on the back of the victim’s hand. It wasn’t spotty, it was streaked. He had an aha moment, he said.”
“An ‘aha moment’? What exactly is an ‘aha moment’?”
“You know, ‘Aha.’ He realized something.”
“And you didn’t share this ‘aha moment’ with the prosecutor?”
“Not yet. I didn’t have the chance.”
“Your Honor,” I said, “this is obviously a move that was planned out by the prosecution.”
The judge looked at me. “You have no proof of that, Mr. Buchanan.”
“I’m having an aha moment,” I said. “Which is why I am moving for a mistrial. I think somebody is lying. I’d like Mr. Radavich to take the stand.”
“Excuse me?” the prosecutor said.
“I want you to swear under oath that you didn’t know about this.”
“Your Honor,” Radavich said, “this is ridiculous.”
“What have you got to hide?” I said.
“I object to that,” Radavich said.
“All right, all right,” the judge said. “That’s enough. Everybody cool off. Be back here at two o’clock sharp. I’ll make my ruling then.”
93
“WHY ARE YOU trying so hard to irritate the DA?” Sister Mary asked me outside the courthouse.
“If your opponent is temperamental,” I said, “seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, so he