Silent Screams - C. E. Lawrence [41]
The prosecutor, a slim, dapper Asian man with slicked-down thinning hair, stood and buttoned his jacket.
“We call Dr. Katherine Azarian to the stand, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded and pulled at his extravagant right eyebrow.
A small, compact woman rose from the gallery and walked to the witness box. Something about the quiet, contained way she moved caught Lee’s eye. She was dressed in a dark green business suit with a fitted jacket, nothing flashy—but on her somehow it looked glamorous. Her hair was dark and wavy, cut close to her head, emphasizing the curve of her cheekbones and firm, pointed chin.
“…the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” The bailiff, a fat, red-faced man, finished his recitation in a monotone.
“I do,” Dr. Azarian replied in a clear, firm voice, removing her hand from the Bible held by the bailiff and turning toward the witness box. Lee watched as she sat, her eyes on the prosecutor, waiting for his first question. Her manner was self-assured and yet entirely lacking in arrogance. He found it hard not to look at her.
The prosecutor approached her, smiling. “Would you please state your profession, Dr. Azarian?”
“I’m a forensic anthropologist.” A tiny dimple danced on the end of her chin when she spoke.
“And what exactly does a forensic anthropologist do?
“I aid in the identification of victims’ bodies and the causes of death through examination of their skeletons.”
“So you’re a bone specialist?”
“Yes.”
The prosecutor plucked a photograph from the exhibit table and held it aloft.
“Exhibit A, Your Honor. If I may, I’d like to show it to the witness and then to the jury.”
The judge nodded, his eyes heavy under the weight of his prodigious eyebrows. The prosecutor presented the photo to Dr. Azarian.
“Do you recognize this?”
“Yes. It’s a photograph of the victim’s skull.”
The prosecutor passed the photo on to the jurors, whose reactions were varied. Some stared at it with fascination, others with detachment, and a few were visibly upset by it. The prosecutor retrieved the photo from the jury foreman and turned to his witness.
“Did you also have an opportunity to study the skull itself?”
“I did.”
“And what conclusion did you reach as to cause of death?”
“Blunt force trauma to the head.”
“And could the damage you observed have been caused by a fall?”
“No. The wounds are inconsistent with a fall. For one thing, they occur on both sides of the skull. For another, the shape and size of the indentations indicate the victim was struck by a heavy object—most probably a horseshoe.”
“Like this one?”
There was a murmur from the courtroom as the prosecutor lifted a large horseshoe from the exhibit table.
“Yes. The curve of the indentations in the skull, as well as the peculiar mark made by the knob here”—she pointed to the raised edge at the crest of the U-shaped curve—“are unique.”
“You might even say unmistakable?”
“Yes.”
“Objection!” The defense counsel yelped, leaping to his feet. “Leading the witness!”
“Very well, Mr. Passiano—your objection is sustained,” the judge replied, but his voice implied what everyone in the courtroom knew: the damage had been done. Kathy Azarian was not just a good witness, she was the prosecution’s star witness, and Lee knew that anyone putting money on the defendant now was making a fool’s bet. He smiled to himself and slipped out the back door of the courtroom.
When he reached the corridor, his cell phone rang. He found a quiet corner by the restrooms before answering it. He hated talking on his phone in public, and thought people who did were “coarse,” as his mother would say.
“Campbell here.”
“Lee?” It was Chuck Morton, and he sounded nervous.
“Yes. Chuck? What’s happened?”
“Now, Lee, don’t get excited, please—”
“What? What is it?”
“Now, don’t call your mother until we know more—”
“It’s about Laura, isn’t it? What’s happened?” Lee heard his own voice rising in pitch and volume, and felt himself starting to hyperventilate.
“Lee, please