high in his cheeks.
“Perhaps I neglected to mention,” he says, mouth still raised, “that in addition to the bloodstains in the back and the hair taken from their hairbrushes at home there were also a number of hair samples found in the car, apparently emanating from two distinct sources: one dark, one blonde, both long. Not Tripp’s. We’ve sent these out for DNA tests as well, and if the hairbrush hair matches the hair found in the car, or if the hairbrush hair matches the bloodstains—well, I think at the very least it would go a good way toward proving their presence in the car.”
“Big fucking deal!” I’m shouting now. “Nobody’s denying their ‘presence in the car.’ Who cares about their ‘presence in the car’? The elements of theoffense of first-degree murder, Mr. Goodwin, involve establishing that a planned and deliberate homicide has occurred. Girls with long hair having nosebleeds or picking scabs in the back of their teacher’s car falls a little short, wouldn’t you say?”
Then Goodwin does something alarming. He sits forward (as far as this is possible), his face a shiny Macintosh, his upper lip dancing in the involuntary way that signals the onset of either frustrated tears or violence. But neither come. Only his voice, struggling for calm.
“Mr. Crane, this is a pre-trial conference. It is meant to assist in defining the issues of trial, thereby to expedite procedure. It’s not an opportunity to practice your closing submissions, nor am I a witness obliged to sit through a test run of your cross-examination strategy. I’m pleased to answer your inquiries, but I find your argumentative tone extremely inappropriate.”
Then he sits back again. The redness (at least the additional redness) drains from his face and his upper lip is released from its seizure.
“Quite right, Mr. Goodwin,” I admit, vaguely impressed by the big man’s performance. “I’m aware that what you call my argumentative tone can sometimes get the better of me. I suppose it just wouldn’t let me sit here, having appreciated what I take to be the full extent of the Crown’s evidence, without pointing out its woeful deficiencies. Sometimes my argumentative tone overwhelms me when a client of mine has been charged with the highest criminal offense known to our law on the basis only of catalog pictures, muddy slacks, a haunted lake and crossed fingers on the outcomeof what will in any event be inconclusive DNA results. For this, I apologize.”
I rise at this point, collecting the stacks of papers left on the table and sticking them randomly into Goodwin’s accordion file, now mine. But I can’t help noticing at the upper extreme of my vision a wet-looking grin moving across the fat man’s mouth.
“You think I don’t wish I had more? I know darn well the limitations of my case, Mr. Crane.”
I direct a mocking snort at his “darn well,” but once again he continues as though he hadn’t noticed.
“There’s a difference between you and me, Mr. Crane. And it’s likely not one of the differences that’s already occurred to you. The thing is, you want to win this case because it would be doing yourself a service. I want to win because I believe Thomas Tripp is guilty. Everyone in this town knows it. He tried to steal his own daughter once, and when he couldn’t do that, he stole someone else’s.”
“Very nice, very—”
“And you know what else?” He raises himself from his chair in a single movement of surprising agility, extending his arm in my direction at the same time. “I believe you know this yourself.”
“You can’t tell me what I believe.”
“No, I can’t. But I’ll ask you this. Next time you have a talk with your client take a good long look into his eyes and tell me he didn’t do it.”
The meeting’s over. His hand, puffy and spotted white, wavers before me. When I finally take it he gives my own hand a long, dry squeeze.
It’s ridiculous how some small,
“Perhaps I neglected to mention,” he says, mouth still raised, “that in addition to the bloodstains in the back and the hair taken from their hairbrushes at home there were also a number of hair samples found in the car, apparently emanating from two distinct sources: one dark, one blonde, both long. Not Tripp’s. We’ve sent these out for DNA tests as well, and if the hairbrush hair matches the hair found in the car, or if the hairbrush hair matches the bloodstains—well, I think at the very least it would go a good way toward proving their presence in the car.”
“Big fucking deal!” I’m shouting now. “Nobody’s denying their ‘presence in the car.’ Who cares about their ‘presence in the car’? The elements of theoffense of first-degree murder, Mr. Goodwin, involve establishing that a planned and deliberate homicide has occurred. Girls with long hair having nosebleeds or picking scabs in the back of their teacher’s car falls a little short, wouldn’t you say?”
Then Goodwin does something alarming. He sits forward (as far as this is possible), his face a shiny Macintosh, his upper lip dancing in the involuntary way that signals the onset of either frustrated tears or violence. But neither come. Only his voice, struggling for calm.
“Mr. Crane, this is a pre-trial conference. It is meant to assist in defining the issues of trial, thereby to expedite procedure. It’s not an opportunity to practice your closing submissions, nor am I a witness obliged to sit through a test run of your cross-examination strategy. I’m pleased to answer your inquiries, but I find your argumentative tone extremely inappropriate.”
Then he sits back again. The redness (at least the additional redness) drains from his face and his upper lip is released from its seizure.
“Quite right, Mr. Goodwin,” I admit, vaguely impressed by the big man’s performance. “I’m aware that what you call my argumentative tone can sometimes get the better of me. I suppose it just wouldn’t let me sit here, having appreciated what I take to be the full extent of the Crown’s evidence, without pointing out its woeful deficiencies. Sometimes my argumentative tone overwhelms me when a client of mine has been charged with the highest criminal offense known to our law on the basis only of catalog pictures, muddy slacks, a haunted lake and crossed fingers on the outcomeof what will in any event be inconclusive DNA results. For this, I apologize.”
I rise at this point, collecting the stacks of papers left on the table and sticking them randomly into Goodwin’s accordion file, now mine. But I can’t help noticing at the upper extreme of my vision a wet-looking grin moving across the fat man’s mouth.
“You think I don’t wish I had more? I know darn well the limitations of my case, Mr. Crane.”
I direct a mocking snort at his “darn well,” but once again he continues as though he hadn’t noticed.
“There’s a difference between you and me, Mr. Crane. And it’s likely not one of the differences that’s already occurred to you. The thing is, you want to win this case because it would be doing yourself a service. I want to win because I believe Thomas Tripp is guilty. Everyone in this town knows it. He tried to steal his own daughter once, and when he couldn’t do that, he stole someone else’s.”
“Very nice, very—”
“And you know what else?” He raises himself from his chair in a single movement of surprising agility, extending his arm in my direction at the same time. “I believe you know this yourself.”
“You can’t tell me what I believe.”
“No, I can’t. But I’ll ask you this. Next time you have a talk with your client take a good long look into his eyes and tell me he didn’t do it.”
The meeting’s over. His hand, puffy and spotted white, wavers before me. When I finally take it he gives my own hand a long, dry squeeze.
It’s ridiculous how some small,
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