so mournful, Stringfellow always reminded me of a walking raven. He had no hobbies, no wife, no sense of humor. But he was the first assistant district attorney, supervising almost a hundred lesser assistants. When the D.A. wanted a job done right, he gave the case to Stringfellow.
Even though it was Sunday, and the D.A.’s office was virtually deserted, Stringfellow was dressed as always, in his pin-striped suit, white shirt, and out-of-style narrow tie. He greeted us politely, in his dry, precise voice, then gestured us to comfortable leather armchairs. He asked us politely whether we’d like coffee. When we declined, he pulled a legal pad across the desk, clicked his gold ball-point pen and looked at us expectantly.
Occasionally referring to his notebook, Friedman talked for almost a half hour. During his summary, I learned that, yes, the revolver found in the shrubbery beside Guest’s driveway was the murder weapon. I also learned that the gun was apparently wiped clean of fingerprints. However, partial prints had been found on the cartridges in the cylinder. Whether there were sufficient “points” to certify the prints as evidence was doubtful, but they’d been forwarded to both Sacramento and Washington. Sacramento had just reported that the gun wasn’t registered in California, and hadn’t been reported stolen in California. They’d just sent the information on the gun to the FBI, requesting a nationwide ownership and theft check. With luck—a lot of luck—we’d know the results of the check by tomorrow afternoon. First-round computer scans of unclassified latent fingerprints found at the murder scene had revealed nothing. The next phase of the fingerprint comparison process, visual comparison, would take days, weeks, maybe months.
When Friedman had finished talking, Stringfellow lifted his head, primly studying his notes through his bifocals. As he read, he thoughtfully pinched an earlobe. After more than a minute, he nodded, as if to indicate that, for him, the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. From my previous dealings with Stringfellow, I knew what to expect next: a no-nonsense, rapid-fire string of probing questions. He started with me. Did I have any additions to Friedman’s report? Any differences? What was my impression of each of the subjects I’d interrogated? Were they smart? Observant? Truthful? Biased?
As I talked, Stringfellow worked fussily at his notes, allowing one page of his lined yellow pad for each of the subjects I’d interrogated. When I finished my summary, he took another minute or two to study the sheaf of yellow pages. Then he looked up, cleared his throat, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses on his long, pinched nose, tugged down his vest and spoke in his dry, schoolmaster’s voice.
“This seems pretty straightforward. We’ve got Kramer on the scene, by his own admission, corroborated by Alexander Guest. Physical evidence—fingerprints and fibers—will probably confirm his presence. So we’ve got opportunity and we’ve got probable motive. The only reliable witness—Guest—is rock solid. If we get any hard evidence linking Kramer to the murder weapon, I’d say we’ve got a case we can take to the grand jury, no question about it. The unknown quantity, of course, is the boy’s testimony. And, actually, that could be critical, assuming that the judge stipulates that he’s competent and allows him to testify in open court. But, whether or not the boy makes it to open court, his testimony is obviously going to influence everyone: our side, the defense, the judge. At the very least, his testimony could affect the judge’s charge to the jury. So it’s critical, obviously, that we know what that testimony is going to be. Do you understand?” He looked at both of us in turn, waited fussily for us to nod, and then continued.
“To sum up, one way or the other, we’ve got to find out what John Kramer will probably tell the judge. And we’ve also got to
Even though it was Sunday, and the D.A.’s office was virtually deserted, Stringfellow was dressed as always, in his pin-striped suit, white shirt, and out-of-style narrow tie. He greeted us politely, in his dry, precise voice, then gestured us to comfortable leather armchairs. He asked us politely whether we’d like coffee. When we declined, he pulled a legal pad across the desk, clicked his gold ball-point pen and looked at us expectantly.
Occasionally referring to his notebook, Friedman talked for almost a half hour. During his summary, I learned that, yes, the revolver found in the shrubbery beside Guest’s driveway was the murder weapon. I also learned that the gun was apparently wiped clean of fingerprints. However, partial prints had been found on the cartridges in the cylinder. Whether there were sufficient “points” to certify the prints as evidence was doubtful, but they’d been forwarded to both Sacramento and Washington. Sacramento had just reported that the gun wasn’t registered in California, and hadn’t been reported stolen in California. They’d just sent the information on the gun to the FBI, requesting a nationwide ownership and theft check. With luck—a lot of luck—we’d know the results of the check by tomorrow afternoon. First-round computer scans of unclassified latent fingerprints found at the murder scene had revealed nothing. The next phase of the fingerprint comparison process, visual comparison, would take days, weeks, maybe months.
When Friedman had finished talking, Stringfellow lifted his head, primly studying his notes through his bifocals. As he read, he thoughtfully pinched an earlobe. After more than a minute, he nodded, as if to indicate that, for him, the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. From my previous dealings with Stringfellow, I knew what to expect next: a no-nonsense, rapid-fire string of probing questions. He started with me. Did I have any additions to Friedman’s report? Any differences? What was my impression of each of the subjects I’d interrogated? Were they smart? Observant? Truthful? Biased?
As I talked, Stringfellow worked fussily at his notes, allowing one page of his lined yellow pad for each of the subjects I’d interrogated. When I finished my summary, he took another minute or two to study the sheaf of yellow pages. Then he looked up, cleared his throat, adjusted his old-fashioned glasses on his long, pinched nose, tugged down his vest and spoke in his dry, schoolmaster’s voice.
“This seems pretty straightforward. We’ve got Kramer on the scene, by his own admission, corroborated by Alexander Guest. Physical evidence—fingerprints and fibers—will probably confirm his presence. So we’ve got opportunity and we’ve got probable motive. The only reliable witness—Guest—is rock solid. If we get any hard evidence linking Kramer to the murder weapon, I’d say we’ve got a case we can take to the grand jury, no question about it. The unknown quantity, of course, is the boy’s testimony. And, actually, that could be critical, assuming that the judge stipulates that he’s competent and allows him to testify in open court. But, whether or not the boy makes it to open court, his testimony is obviously going to influence everyone: our side, the defense, the judge. At the very least, his testimony could affect the judge’s charge to the jury. So it’s critical, obviously, that we know what that testimony is going to be. Do you understand?” He looked at both of us in turn, waited fussily for us to nod, and then continued.
“To sum up, one way or the other, we’ve got to find out what John Kramer will probably tell the judge. And we’ve also got to
Similar Books
