The Fifth Witness - Michael Connelly [66]
It wasn’t until the fourth day of jury selection that yet one more Freeman fastball came whistling at my head. We were nearing completion of the panel and it was one of those rare times when both prosecution and defense were happy with the jury’s makeup, but for different reasons. The panel was well stocked with working-class men and women. Home owners who came from two-income households. Few had college diplomas and none had advanced degrees. Real salt-of-the-earth people and this was a perfect composition for me. I was going for people who lived close to the edge in the tough economy, who felt the threat of foreclosure at all times, and would have a hard time looking at a banker as a sympathetic victim.
On the other hand, the prosecution asked detailed financial questions of each prospective juror and was looking for hard workers who wouldn’t see someone who stopped paying her mortgage as a victim, either. The result, until the morning of the fourth day, was a panel full of jurors neither side objected to and who we each thought we could mold into our own soldiers of justice.
The fastball came when Judge Perry called for the midmorning break. Freeman immediately stood up and asked the judge if counsel could meet in chambers during the break to discuss an evidentiary issue that had just come up. She asked if Detective Kurlen could join the meeting. Perry granted the request and doubled the break time to a half hour. I then followed Freeman, who followed the court reporter and the judge into chambers. Kurlen came in last and I noticed that he was carrying a large manila envelope with red evidence tape on it. It was bulky and appeared to have something heavy inside. The paper envelope was the real giveaway, though. Biological evidence was always wrapped in paper. Plastic evidence bags trapped air and humidity and could damage biologicals. So I knew going in that Freeman was about to drop another DNA bomb on me.
“Here we go again,” I said under my breath as I entered the chambers.
The judge moved behind his desk and sat down, his back to a window that looked south toward the hills over Sherman Oaks. Freeman and I took side-by-side seats opposite the desk. Kurlen pulled a chair over from a nearby table and the court reporter sat on a stool to the judge’s right. Her steno machine was on a tripod in front of her.
“We’re on the record here,” the judge said. “Ms. Freeman?”
“Judge, I wanted to meet with you and counsel for the defense as soon as possible because I am anticipating that once again Mr. Haller will howl at the moon when he hears what I have to say and what I have to show.”
“Then let’s get on with it,” Perry said.
Freeman nodded to Kurlen and he started peeling back the tape on the evidence envelope. I said nothing. I noticed that he had a rubber glove on his right hand.
“The prosecution has come into possession of the murder weapon,” Freeman stated matter-of-factly, “and plans to introduce it as evidence as well as make it available to the defense for examination.”
Kurlen opened the envelope, reached in and brought out a hammer. It was a claw hammer with a brushed steel head and a circular striking surface. It had a polished redwood handle tipped in black rubber at the end. I saw a notch at twelve o’clock on the strike face and knew it likely corresponded with the skull impressions cataloged during the autopsy.
I stood up angrily and walked away from the desk.