“How so?”
“Well, tabs A and B, which came from Mr. Elliot’s hands, were where the highest levels of GSR were found. From there we get a steep drop-off in the GSR levels: tabs C, D, E and F with much lower levels, and no GSR reading at all on tabs G and H.”
Again she used the pointer to illustrate.
“What did that tell you, Doctor?”
“That the GSR on Mr. Elliot’s hands and clothes did not come from firing a weapon.”
“Can you illustrate why?”
“First, comparable readings coming from both hands indicate that the weapon was fired in a two-handed grip.”
She went to the mannequin and raised its arms, forming a V by pulling the hands together out front. She bent the hands and fingers around the wooden gun.
“But a two-handed grip would also have to result in higher levels of GSR on the sleeves of the jacket in particular and the rest of the clothes as well.”
“But the tabs processed by the sheriff’s department don’t show that, am I right?”
“You’re right. They show the opposite. While a drop-off from the readings on the hands is expected, it is not expected to be of this rate.”
“So in your expert opinion, what does it mean?”
“A compound-transfer exposure. The first exposure occurred when he was placed with his hands and arms behind his back in the four-alpha car. After that, the material was on his hands and arms, and some of it was then transferred for a second time onto the front panels of his jacket during normal hand and arm movement. This would have occurred continuously until the clothing was collected from him.”
“What about the zero reading on the tabs from the shirt beneath the jacket?”
“We discount that because the jacket could have been zipped closed during the commission of the shooting.”
“In your expert opinion, Doctor, is there any way that Mr. Elliot could have gotten this pattern of GSR on his hands and clothing by discharging a firearm?”
“No, there is not.”
“Thank you, Doctor Arslanian. No further questions.”
I returned to my seat and leaned over to whisper into Walter Elliot’s ear.
“If we didn’t just give them reasonable doubt, then I don’t know what it is.”
Elliot nodded and whispered back to me.
“The best ten thousand dollars I’ve ever spent.”
I didn’t think I had done so badly myself but I let it go. Golantz asked the judge for the midafternoon break before cross-examination of the witness began and the judge agreed. I noticed what I believed to be a higher energy in the verbal buzz of the courtroom after the adjournment. Shami Arslanian had definitely given the defense momentum.
In fifteen minutes I would see what Golantz had in his arsenal for impeaching my witness’s credibility and testimony but I couldn’t imagine he had much. If he had something, he wouldn’t have asked for the break. He would have gotten up and charged right after her.
After the jury and the judge had vacated the courtroom and the observers were pushing out into the hallway, I sauntered over to the prosecutor’s table. Golantz was writing out questions on a legal pad. He didn’t look up at me.
“What?” he said.
“The answer’s no.”
“To what question?”
“The one you were going to ask about my client taking a plea agreement. We’re not interested.”
Golantz smirked.
“You’re funny, Haller. So what, you’ve got an impressive witness. The trial’s a long way from over.”
“And I’ve got a French police captain who’s going to testify tomorrow that Rilz ratted out seven of the most dangerous, vindictive men he’s ever investigated. Two of them happened to get out of prison last year and they disappeared. Nobody knows where they are. Maybe they were in Malibu last spring.”
Golantz put his pen down and finally looked up at me.
“Yeah, I talked to your Inspector Clouseau yesterday. It’s pretty clear he’s saying whatever you want him to say, as long as you fly him first class. At the end of the depo, he pulled out one of those star maps and asked me if I could show him where Angelina Jolie lives. He’s one serious witness you came up with.”
I had told Captain Pepin to cool it with the star map stuff. He apparently hadn’t listened. I needed to change the subject.
“So, where are the Germans?” I asked.
Golantz checked behind him as if to make sure Johan Rilz’s family members weren’t there.
“I told them that they had to be prepared for your strategy of building a defense by shitting all over the memory of their son and brother,” he said. “I told them you were going to take Johan’s problems in France five years ago and use them to try to get his killer off. I told them that you were going to depict him as a German gigolo who seduced rich clients, men and women, all over Malibu and the west side. You know what the father said to me?”
“No, but you’ll tell me.”
“He said that they’d had enough of American justice and were going back home.”
I tried to retort with a clever and cynical comeback line. But I came up empty.
“Don’t worry,” Golantz said. “Up or down, I’ll call them and tell them the verdict.”
“Good.”
