The mass of a mountain, had said Roylynn Prouix, in a million millionth of an inch. With each cross, with each question, it seemed ever more present, ever more frightening, ever more true.
“OFFICER JENKINS, you testified that you found People’s Exhibit Seven, which is a portable CD player with headphones, by the Jacuzzi in the master bathroom.”
“That’s right.”
“Did this Jacuzzi have water jets built in?”
“Yes, there was a timer switch on the wall.”
“Did you try the switch to see if the jets worked?”
“I did.”
“Pretty loud, weren’t they?”
“I suppose. In that small room, sure.”
“Now, the headphones you found, are they the normal lightweight things that usually come with such players?”
“I don’t know what usually comes with players, but these were pretty good headphones. If I can look at the exhibit, I could tell you more.”
I brought People’s Exhibit Seven to the witness stand. “Those are your initials on the bag, isn’t that right?”
“My initials are first. The other initials are from the technicians who examined it in the lab.”
“Fine. Now, if you could open the bag, take out the exhibit, and look at the headphones. Those are the same headphones you found by the tub, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They are made by a company called Koss. They’re the kind with padding that covers the ear.”
“Pretty high quality?”
“I don’t know for sure, but better than usual, I would suppose.”
“And the disc inside was Louis Armstrong’s Greatest Hits?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And it’s still inside?”
The officer opened the case.”Yes.”
“Now, Officer, did you happen to check the settings on the disc player before you put it into that evidence bag?”
“What do you mean?”
“The player has a little digital readout, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“And that readout gives all kinds of information. It tells the track number of the song being played. It tells the state of the battery. It tells the volume it is being played at.”
“I suppose so.”
“And did you determine those numbers when you found the disc player and put it into that nice plastic bag you wrote your initials on?”
“I didn’t want smear any fingerprints, so, no, I didn’t play around with it. Can I check my notes and see if I took down anything else?”
“Please,” I said, having already reviewed the notes and knowing that he did not.
“No, I suppose not,” he said finally. “I did make sure it played, though. I listened a bit to the disc.”
“And it played pretty loudly, didn’t it?”
“I suppose, with the headphones on.”
“Now, I wonder if you might help us get a little more specific. May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”
Judge Tifaro gave me a skeptical look, which grew more strained when I smiled and waved two AA batteries at her. She glanced at Troy Jefferson, who stood and thought about it before sitting down again without raising an objection. “Go ahead, Mr. Carl,” she said.
“I’m going to put in some fresh batteries and play the same CD that was in the player when you found it, and I’d like you to tell me whether or not it was this loud when you listened to it on the night of the murder.”
When the new batteries were in and the player was set to a track called “Basin Street Blues,” I asked Officer Jenkins to put on the headphones.
“Do you think it might have been louder than this?”
“Excuse me?” he said loudly.
I gestured for him to take off the headphones.
“How are those headphones, Officer? Comfortable?”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
“Do you think that the volume it was set at the night of the murder when you checked the sound might have been louder than this?”
“Yes, I think so. Yes, it was pretty loud.”
“Okay, now, what I’d like to do is for you to put the headphones back on, and slowly I’ll raise the volume. I’d like you to look at the little digital readout and when you’re absolutely sure that it is at least as loud as or louder than it was that night, I’d like you to raise your hand to let us know. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re looking for the outer boundary of volume.”
“I understand.”
“All right, let’s try it.”
He put the headphones back on and stared down at the digital monitor, as did I. Slowly I pressed the volume button at the bottom of the player. I had started it very low, at two, and was raising it now to three, to three and a half, to four, to four and a half. I was watching not just the volume readout but also the time of the track. When it was at a volume of six and a half and the time into the track was 4:35, when Armstrong’s brilliant horn is added to the mix in a roaring finale, I scratched my back.
A shot rang out, or something very much like a shot.
The whole courtroom jumped, the jury, the judge, the bailiff reached for his gun, all looked around crazily for the source of the shot, all but myself and Officer Jenkins, whose eyes were focused still on the little digital readout.
Beth, standing now, picked up the large legal volume she had dropped flat onto the defense table and apologized for the disturbance.
Troy Jefferson leaped to his feet and objected.
Judge Tifaro was starting to launch into a brutal admonishment aimed at Beth when Officer Jenkins raised his hand.
The judge stopped midsentence and, her mouth still open to speak, turned to stare at the witness.
Officer Jenkins took off his earphones. “It’s hard to tell for certain, but my best guess,” he said, still looking at the player, “is that the volume at the time was somewhere here between seven and eight, if that’s helpful.”
Officer Jenkins looked around at the quiet laughter, wondering what he had said that was so funny.
“Thank you, Officer,” I said. “That’s very helpful.”
AND SO it continued, the trial of Guy Forrest, and so I continued with my witch’s brew of cross-examination to bring to light a gap in time and space big enough for a murderer to walk through. And as I worked, as carefully and methodically as Troy Jefferson, and as that primordial black hole became a presence ever more real, something strange happened that made me wonder if indeed the entire space-time continuum had shifted.
A friend of Hailey’s was testifying, which was strange, because I didn’t know Hailey had any friends, and she was talking about the woman she knew. It wasn’t such a flattering portrait, of a woman materialistic, casually cruel – I use the term “friend’‘ broadly here – but as she spoke, I could detect something slight in the air about me, so slight I almost missed it, something shimmering in the courtroom. I had maybe noticed something before, some small distortion as, bit by bit, the testimony of the neighbors, of the crime-scene officers, of the witnesses who one by one linked together suspect and murderer, began to paint a portrait through their words. But in the testimony of this witness, this friend, it became clearer and clearer, word by word. I looked around to see if anyone else had spotted it, but, no, it had come only for me, with its sharp cheekbones and pursed lips and the sadness in its eyes.
The friend testified at one time to being in Hailey’s office and hearing her speak, over the speakerphone, to a man she didn’t recognize. She had met Guy before, this friend, and so she knew it wasn’t he, but no names were used, and Hailey didn’t tell her who it was. Something about the Stallone matter was all she could get, but she could tell, this friend, that there was something going on between Hailey and the man, something intimate and strong. And, no, they hadn’t been fighting. And, no, there were no intimations of problems. And, no, she couldn’t imagine that the man on the other side of that phone conversation, the way he spoke so sweetly to her, could have been her murderer.