Miracle Creek(40)

“Detective,” Shannon continued in the guttural voice that made Elizabeth want to clear her throat, “let’s talk about you a bit. As we heard, you’re an expert in criminal investigation, with twenty years of experience, and the lead investigator here. In fact, I heard a rumor that you teach a seminar on evidence gathering.” She turned to the jurors and said, like a proud mother bragging about her son, “A required class for all incoming detectives, apparently.” She turned to him. “Is that right?”

“Um, yes.” This was clearly not what he’d expected.

“Is it true the seminar’s called Criminal Investigation for Dummies?” Shannon said and—could it be true?—giggled. Shannon, the serious, professional, slightly overweight lawyer who wore unfitted plaid suits and opaque pantyhose, giggling like a four-year-old.

“That’s not the official name, but yes, that’s what some call it.”

“And I hear you created such a good chart, that’s all you use to teach the class. Just one page, is that right?”

Pierson looked bewildered. He looked over to Abe like a schoolboy asking a friend for the answer. Abe shrugged slightly. “Yes, I have a one-page chart to teach the seminar.”

“I’m sure you tried to ensure that the chart reflects your experience, not just the textbook stuff but your real-world knowledge about what evidence is the most reliable, most relevant. Is that fair?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful.” Shannon put a poster on the easel.




“Detective, is this your chart?” Shannon asked. The sweetness in her voice seemed saccharine, with a touch of mockery sprinkled in.

Simultaneously, Pierson said, “How the hell did you get this?” and Abe said, “Objection. That’s misleading. Ms. Haug knows very well that Virginia law doesn’t differentiate direct and circumstantial evidence.”

Shannon said, “Your Honor, we can fight about legal technicalities when we’re hashing out jury instructions. Right now, I’m questioning the lead investigator about his investigation methods. This document is not confidential, and it’s his own words, not mine.”

“Overruled,” the judge said.

Abe opened his mouth in disbelief. He shook his head as he took his seat.

“Detective, I’ll ask again,” Shannon said, her voice back to her serious tone now, the saccharine layer stripped away like a banana peel. “This is your chart, the one you use to instruct other investigators, including those on this case?”

Detective Pierson glared at Shannon before muttering, “Yes.”

“So this chart tells us that in your experience, direct evidence is better and more reliable than circumstantial evidence. Correct?”

Pierson looked at Abe, who frowned and raised his eyebrows as if to say, I know, but what the hell can I do about this crazy judge? “Yes,” Pierson said.

“What’s the difference between those types of evidence? You use the runner example in your seminar, correct?”

A jumble of surprised awe and annoyance distorted Pierson’s face. For sure, he was working out who’d squealed, imagining what he’d do to the traitor. He shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and said, “Direct evidence of a person running is someone seeing him actually running. Circumstantial evidence is someone seeing him in a running suit and shoes near a track, his face red and sweaty.”

“So the circumstantial evidence could be wrong. The sweaty person could’ve been planning to run later, and could’ve simply been in a hot car, for example. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s turn to our case. The all-important direct evidence first, per your expert instruction. The first type of direct evidence you list is ‘eyewitness.’ Did anyone witness Elizabeth setting a fire?”

“No.”

“Anyone witness her smoking or lighting a match near the barn?”

“No.”

Shannon took a fat marker and crossed out the first bullet-point item under DIRECT EVIDENCE, Eyewitness. “Next, any recordings or pictures of Elizabeth setting the fire?”

“No.” She crossed out Audio/video recordings of commission of crime and Photos of suspect committing crime.

“Next, we have ‘Documentation of crime by suspect, witness, or accomplice.’ Anything?”

“No.” Another slash.

“So that leaves us with your ‘holy grail’—a confession. Elizabeth has never confessed to setting the fire, correct?”

His lips clenched into a pink line. “Correct.” Slash.

“So there’s no direct proof that Elizabeth committed a crime here, none of what you regard as the, quote, ‘better, reliable’ type of evidence against her, correct?”

Pierson took in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring like a horse. “Yes, but—”

“Thank you, Detective. No direct evidence at all.” Shannon slashed a thick line through the words DIRECT EVIDENCE on the chart.




Shannon stepped back and smiled. It was an unbridled smile, the triumph of winning reflected in every facet of her face—eyes, cheeks, lips, jaws, even her ears upturned. It was funny how invested she was even though the trial’s outcome wouldn’t affect her life, not really. Win or lose, she’d still have the same billable earnings, same house, same family, whereas for Elizabeth, the trial’s outcome meant the difference between suburbia and death row. So why was she feeling none of Shannon’s excitement?