Defending Jacob(89)
“Yes.”
“And it’s fair to say that, as a general rule, at a murder scene when the body is disturbed or moved, evidence is often lost.”
“Generally true, yes. In this case, there’s no way of knowing if anything was actually lost.”
“Was the murder weapon found?”
“Not that day, no.”
“Was it ever found?”
“No.”
“And besides the single fingerprint on the victim’s sweatshirt, there was nothing at all that pointed to a particular defendant?”
“Correct.”
“And of course the fingerprint was not identified until much later, right?”
“Yes.”
“So the crime scene itself, on that first day, did not yield any evidence that pointed to a particular suspect?”
“No. Just the unidentified fingerprint.”
“So it’s fair to say that at the beginning of the investigation you didn’t have any obvious suspects?”
“Yes.”
“So in that situation, as an investigator, wouldn’t you want to know, wouldn’t it be relevant information that a known, convicted pedophile lived adjacent to that park? A man with a record of sexual assaults on young boys of about the victim’s age?”
“It would.”
I could feel the jury’s eyes on me as they seemed to understand, finally, where Jonathan was going—that he was not simply settling for a series of small hits.
“So it didn’t seem improper or unusual or the slightest bit odd to you when Andy Barber, the defendant’s father, focused his attention on this man, this Leonard Patz?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“In fact, based on what you knew at the time, he wouldn’t be doing his job if he didn’t check out this man, would he?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“And, in fact, you learned in your subsequent investigation that Patz was indeed known to walk in that park in the mornings, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“Objection.” There was not much conviction in Logiudice’s voice.
“Overruled.” Plenty of conviction in the judge’s voice. “You opened the door, Counselor.”
I had always disliked Judge French’s tendency to let his sympathies show. He was a ham, and generally his emoting favored the defense. His courtroom always felt like a home game for the defendant. Now that I was on the defendant’s side, of course, I was delighted to see the judge so openly cheerleading for us. It was an easy ruling, anyway. Logiudice had opened this subject. He could not now prevent the defense from exploring it.
I gestured to Jonathan and he came over to accept a piece of paper from me. When he read it, his eyebrows rose. I had written three questions on the paper. He folded the paper neatly and moved closer to the witness stand.
“Detective, did you ever disagree with any of the decisions Andy Barber made when he was leading the investigation?”
“No.”
“And, in fact, isn’t it true that you also wanted to pursue the investigation against this man, Patz, at the beginning of the investigation?”
“Yes.”
A juror—Fat Somerville Guy, in chair number seven—actually snorted and shook his head.
Jonathan heard that guffaw over his shoulder from the jury box, and he looked like he was about to sit down.
I gave him a look that said, Go on.
He frowned. Outside of TV shows, you do not go for the kill on cross-examination. You land a few shots then sit your ass down. The witness, remember, has all the power, not you. Plus, the third line on that page was the archetypal Question You Never Ask On Cross: open-ended, subjective, the sort of question that invites a long, unpredictable answer. To a veteran lawyer, the feeling was like the moment in a horror movie when the babysitter hears a noise in the basement and opens the creaky door to go down and investigate. Don’t do it! the audience says.
Do it, my expression insisted.
“Detective,” he began, “I know this is awkward for you. I’m not asking you to express any opinion about the defendant himself. I understand you have a job to do on that score. But limiting our discussion to the defendant’s father, Andy Barber, whose judgment and integrity has been called into question here—”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“How long have you known the older Mr. Barber?”
“A long time.”
“How long?”
“Twenty years. More, probably.”
“And having known him over twenty years, what is your opinion of him as a prosecutor, with respect to his ability, his integrity, his judgment?”
“We’re not talking about the son? Only the father?”
“That’s right.”
Peterson looked directly at me. “He’s the best they’ve got. The best they used to have, anyway.”
“No further questions.”
No further questions meaning Fuck you. Logiudice would never again focus quite so explicitly on my role in the investigation, though it was a note he touched on a few times in the course of the trial. No doubt, that first day he successfully planted the idea in the jurors’ minds. For the time being, that may have been all he needed to accomplish.