The Reversal

defense’s maneuver. I had expected Royce to take most of the next morning on cross. This had to be a trick. He had a DNA expert on his own witness list but I would never give up a shot at the prosecution’s witness.
    “Ms. Atwater,” Royce said, “did all of the testing and typing and extracting you conducted on the hair specimen from the tow truck tell you how the specimen got inside that truck?”
    To buy time Atwater asked Royce to repeat the question. But even upon hearing it a second time, she did not answer until the judge intervened.
    “Ms. Atwater, can you answer the question?” Breitman asked.
    “Uh, yes, I’m sorry. My answer is no, the lab work I conducted had nothing to do with determining how the hair specimen found its way into the tow truck. That was not my responsibility.”
    “Thank you,” Royce said. “So to make it crystal clear, you cannot tell the jury how that hair—which you have capably identified as belonging to the victim—got inside the truck or who put it there, isn’t that right?”
    I stood.
    “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”
    “Sustained. Would you like to rephrase, Mr. Royce?”
    “Thank you, Your Honor. Ms. Atwater, you have no idea—other than what you were perhaps told—how the hair you tested found its way into the tow truck, correct?”
    “That would be correct, yes.”
    “So you can identify the hair as Melissa Landy’s but you cannot testify with the same sureness as to how it ended up in the tow truck, correct?”
    I stood up again.
    “Objection,” I said. “Asked and answered.”
    “I think I will let the witness answer,” Breitman said. “Ms. Atwater?”
    “Yes, that is correct,” Atwater said. “I cannot testify about anything regarding how the hair happened to end up in the truck.”
    “Then I have no further questions. Thank you.”
    I turned back and looked at the clock. I had two minutes. If I wanted to get the jury back on track I had to think of something quick.
    “Any redirect, Mr. Haller?” the judge asked.
    “One moment, Your Honor.”
    I turned and leaned toward Maggie to whisper.
    “What do I do?”
    “Nothing,” she whispered back. “Let it go or you might make it worse. You made your points. He made his. Yours are more important—you put Melissa inside his truck. Leave it there.”
    Something told me not to leave it as is but my mind was a blank. I couldn’t think of a question derived from Royce’s cross that would get the jury off his point and back onto mine.
    “Mr. Haller?” the judge said impatiently.
    I gave it up.
    “No further questions at this time, Your Honor.”
    “Very well, then, we will adjourn for the day. Court will reconvene at nine A.M. tomorrow and I admonish the jurors not to read newspaper accounts about this trial or view television reports or talk to family or friends about the case. I hope everyone has a good night.”
    With that the jury stood and began to file out of the box. I casually glanced over at the defense table and saw Royce being congratulated by Jessup. They were all smiles. I felt a hollow in my stomach the size of a baseball. It was as though I had played it to near perfection all day long—for almost six hours of testimony—and then in the last five minutes managed to let the last out in the ninth go right between my legs.
    I sat still and waited until Royce and Jessup and everybody else had left the courtroom.
    “You coming?” Maggie said from behind me.
    “In a minute. How about I meet you back at the office?”
    “Let’s walk back together.”
    “I’m not good company, Mags.”
    “Haller, get over it. You had a great day. We had a great day. He was good for five minutes and the jury knows that.”
    “Okay. I’ll meet you there in a little bit.”
    She gave up and I heard her leave. After a few minutes I reached over to the top file on the stack in front of me and opened it up halfway. A school photo of Melissa Landy was clipped inside the folder. Smiling at the camera. She looked nothing like my daughter but she made me think of Hayley.
    I made a silent vow not to let Royce outsmart me again.
    A few moments later, someone turned out the lights.

Thirty-two
    Tuesday, April 6, 10:15 P.M .
    B osch stood by the swing set planted in the sand a quarter mile south of the Santa Monica Pier. The black water of the Pacific to his left was alive with the dancing reflection of light and color from the Ferris wheel at the end of the boardwalk. The amusement