Page 78 of The Accomplice
EDDIE
When a skilled player really nails something, when all of their training, experience, craft and natural talent combines in a perfect moment of execution – there’s a sound. It makes a noise. It’s the sound of the nine-ball beinggulpedinto the throat of the corner pocket ; theschnickof the perfectly timed gear change ; thewhisperfrom a leather basketball kissing the polyester netting as it drops for three points ; thesmackof cowhide colliding with a maple bat for a home run that goes all the way out of the park.
Soon as you hear that sound you know something special happened.
It’s different in court.
In fact, it’s the opposite.
When something special happens – when an attorney commands direct examination of a witness, and everything goes perfectly – it’s a goddamn symphony.
But one with no sound.
Courtrooms, especially those with a large public presence in the gallery, always carry noise. Someone is always coughing, whispering, shuffling their feet, or there’s the ordinary court business of lawyers walking around, talking, shouting, chair legs scraping the floor – and all in a room designed to carry and amplify sound.
When that something special happens in court – there is silence.
Only it’s a silence like you’ve never heard before. It’s as if the entire thing was on TV and someone muted the volume. It happens that suddenly. It’s not justnosound. It’sminussound. Like a cosmic vacuum sucked every acoustic particle right out of the room. It’s so quiet, the silence itself has a weight.
If this majestic silence happens in a trial, there’s only one thing to do – sit your ass down and enjoy it while it lasts, because it usually means you just won your case.
Harry wrote the word ‘shit’ on his legal pad.
We were toast.
‘Professor, you described the bloodstains as splashes, early in your testimony. What did you mean by the wordsplashes?’ asked White.
‘The size and shape of the stains,’ said the professor, ‘they look like splashes of blood.’
‘Thank you, Professor Johnson. No further questions.’
I got up slowly, my gaze focused on Harry’s notes in front of him on the desk. I glanced once at Professor Johnson, then said, ‘Your Honor, I just need one moment with my colleague.’
I leaned over, whispered to Harry.
‘That went well for White.’
‘How do you want to play it ? You could grind this guy for hours,’ said Harry.
One defense attorney tactic when it comes to DNA testimony is to grind out the details. To spend hours, going into every specific process of their work and examination of the evidence, checking that they are applying proper quarantine and cleanliness routines on biological evidence, making sure they use new or sterilized equipment, seeking to pick tiny holes in their recipe, which arrived at a one-in-a-billion shot that the blood didn’t belong to Stacy Nielsen. It’s a good tactic, and after the second hour the jury begins to hate the expert because they’re bored and confused and some of them might even dismiss the testimony completely. But it’s risky – the jury might turn on the defense attorney instead.
‘We don’t have time,’ I said. ‘We need to get this done as fast as possible, for Kate.’
Eddie Felson, a pool shark in the movieThe Hustler, played best when he didn’t grind out the percentages. When he played fast and loose, no one could beat him.
‘Can I take a piece of paper and borrow your pen ?’
Harry tore off a sheet, handed me his pen. I wrote down four words. Turned the sheet toward Harry. He read it, smiled.
Here we go. Fast and loose.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
EDDIE
When I got up to cross-examine Johnson I still had Harry’s pen in my hand. It was a beautiful thing. A bright green barrel and a gold nib. A German fountain pen, renowned for its reliability. It was durable, too. It needed to be. Because I was holding on to it for dear life.
‘Professor Johnson, you head up the crime lab in the Southern District, correct ?’ I asked.
