“Can you tell us anything else about that particular hammer? Its size, shape…?”

“According to our investigation, it’s a thirteen-ounce, smooth, octagon-face, straight-claw fiberglass hammer with a rubber grip and a twelve-and-a-half-inch-long handle.”

“When you say fiberglass, what part of it is fiberglass?”

“The handle, which is covered by rubber at the grip.”

He has Detrick point to the hammer’s claws. “And straight claw,” says Tuchio. “As opposed to what?”

“Rounded or curved claw,” says Detrick.

“It sounds like you’ve become an expert on hammers,” says Tuchio.

“No, we made inquiries, mostly telephone calls, based on the manufacturer’s information stamped into the metal regarding model numbers, and that’s the information we got back.”

“Can you tell us who owns that particular hammer?”

“Based on a mark painted on the handle and a number stamped on the head of the hammer, it’s part of the tool inventory belonging to the Presidential Regis Hotel in San Diego.”

“Is that the hotel where the victim, Terry Scarborough, was staying on the morning he was killed?”

“It is.”

Tuchio has the witness put the hammer back in the bag, then has it marked for identification and returns it to the evidence cart. He won’t move it into evidence, not yet, not until other witnesses from the crime lab and the coroner’s office identify trace evidence that was found on it, hair and tissue along with blood, tying it directly to the victim. Instead he reaches underneath to the second shelf on the cart and finds the next item. This is in a manila file.

“Before we move on, let me ask you,” says Tuchio. “Besides the hammer you’ve just identified and the blood and spatter evidence that you’ve testified to earlier, did you find anything else unusual in the immediate area around the victim?”

There is some confusion here. Detrick is not precisely sure where Tuchio is trying to take him.

“In the tiled area of the entry hall,” prompts the prosecutor.

“You’re talking about the shoe impressions?”

Tuchio doesn’t say it but nods.

“Yes. We found shoe prints, impressions from the soles of two shoes, as well as what appeared to be a partial human palm print and three separate fingerprints.”

“Where did you find these?”

“They were quite obvious. They were on the surface of the tile floor in the entry. They were imposed in the partially dried blood on the tile.”

Detrick comes off the stand long enough to locate on the room diagram the general area where these were found. He has trouble marking the area of finger-and palm prints, as it is almost on top of where he placed the hammer.

Detrick is back on the stand.

“Let me ask you, Detective, as the lead investigator on the scene, did you have occasion to have photographs taken of the crime scene and the area around it that morning?”

“I did.”

Tuchio now hands him the file from the evidence cart that he has been holding and asks him to look at the photographs inside. “We have provided copies of all these items to the court and to the defense,” says Tuchio.

The judge nods and opens a file in front of him on the bench.

Tuchio and I argued over these for the better part of two days in front of the judge in chambers, during and just after jury selection. There were nearly two hundred photographs of the scene taken that day by police from various angles and distances. We have culled them down to twenty-eight photographs, close-ups and distance shots showing the layout of the room, the scene from different angles. There are close-ups of the television set and a leather briefcase, a kind of thin zippered portfolio on a table next to it, both showing signs of a light film, which we know to be the fine spray of blood flung out by the centrifugal force of the hammer as it was swung to strike Scarborough’s head. There are a few distance shots showing the body on the floor, a few papers scattered under and around him, shots of the hammer and the location where it lay on the floor in the entry, pictures of the shoe impressions with rulers for scale and two of the palm and fingerprints, again with a ruler for scale. There is one showing what we believe to be the elongated skid mark in the blood, the comma that comes to an end at the wall.

There are only four shots that show close-ups of the victim, close enough to see the gaping wounds with clotted blood and brain tissue at the back of his head. One of these, a shot from above showing not only the wounds but Scarborough’s left eye wide open, pupil dilated like a fired camera lens, is the most startling. Tuchio fought for this photograph to come in as if it were the Holy Grail. I argued that the graphic nature was so shocking as to be prejudicial in the extreme. It was the end of a long day, and the prosecutor’s tactic of holding this for last worked. Quinn was tired, worn down by too many arguments. He swept mine away with the comment that “after all, there was a murder.”

Detrick looks at the photos, identifies each of them as having been taken at the scene. Under questioning he identifies photographs of the hammer, the shoe prints, and the single palm print and fingerprints.

Tuchio has each of the photographs marked for identification and immediately moves them into evidence.

“Any objection?” says Quinn.

We both know he will swat down anything I say, since we have argued this already, but for the record, possible appeal, it is necessary. “As to People’s Thirteen, the one photograph we object to based on Evidence Code section 352. That the prejudicial content so clearly outweighs any probative value.”

“Overruled,” says Quinn. “The items are admitted into evidence.”

Tuchio immediately moves that the jury be allowed to see them.

“So ordered,” says the judge.

The photos begin to circulate through the box. While this is happening, Tuchio poses a number of bland questions to Detrick-whether he or any of his officers searched other rooms in the suite, whether they found anything in those rooms, if he or any of his officers collected witness statements from any of the hotel employees-this without getting into any real details, nothing that might cause any juror to listen or take notes. He would read the phone book to them if he could. Tuchio wants nothing here that might distract from the photographs circulating through the jury box at this moment. Some of the jurors are looking at them wide-eyed and slack-jawed, the thought never having entered their minds that a hammer, a tool so common that most of them have at least one in their own homes, could do this to a human head. They will be looking at their toolboxes in the future with the same cautious glance they now aim over the top of the eight-by-ten glossies toward Carl, sitting next to me.

Finally, when he can’t dawdle any longer, Tuchio starts another line of questioning.

“Detective Detrick, have you ever had occasion to meet or personally talk to the defendant, Carl Arnsberg?”

“I have.”

“When was the first time you met him, if you can remember?”

“It was the day after the murder. The following morning, I believe.”

“Can you tell the jury why you met with the defendant?”

“In order to interview him.”

“Why?”

“We were in the process of questioning all the employees who were on duty at the Presidential Regis Hotel on the day of the murder, and information came to us that the defendant, Mr. Arnsberg-”

“Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

Quinn looks up.

“We don’t even know what the witness is going to say, Your Honor.” Tuchio tries to edge in.

“May we approach the bench?” I want to get it away from the jury.

The judge waves us forward. He pushes the little button on the bench. This creates a tone barely audible to the human ear, but if we were to shout, people in the jury box as well as those in the audience would never hear a word.