When Jennifer is finished describing what happened in the office, I retreat to the evidence cart.

First I show her the outer envelope with my name and the words “Personal & Confidential” typed on the address label. This is now encased in a clear plastic evidence bag from the police crime lab.

She identifies it as the envelope found on the office floor Thursday morning.

Next is Scarborough’s copy of the Jefferson Letter, the folded document with the rust-colored blood on one side. For the moment the letter is sealed in a clear plastic bag, though this will be removed later to better preserve the blood evidence on the paper.

Jennifer identifies this as one of the items extracted from the envelope that morning. She still does not know the contents of the letter, nor do any of the other members of our office staff or expert witnesses, who have been instructed not to read it. The reason for this is the need to carefully control the timing of this evidence before the jury. If we slip up and open the door for Tuchio to get into this in his cross-examination of one of our witnesses, it could destroy the entire strategy of our defense.

She then identifies the other item, the small plastic bag, though the hairs that it once contained have now been removed for preservation.

“Now let me ask you, do you have any idea, any information at all, as to who might have placed this envelope under the door to our law office on Coronado?”

“No. I have no idea at all.”

“So the only thing you can tell the jury is that the envelope was not there Wednesday night when you left the office at approximately eleven o’clock and that it was there at approximately seven the following morning when you arrived for work?”

“That’s correct.”

I turn to Tuchio. “Your witness.”

He wastes no time. He goes right for the jugular.

“Lemme get this straight, Ms. Sanchez. You expect this jury to believe that you never saw those items, the bloody letter,” he calls it, “and the little baggie of hair before they magically appeared on your office floor last Thursday morning, is that right?”

“I don’t know what the jury wants to believe. All I can do is tell them the truth.”

Good girl.

“Come. Come now,” he says. “Are you telling us that Mr. Madriani didn’t instruct you on what to say here this morning, that he didn’t dictate it to you line by line so that you would get it straight?”

To Jennifer these are fighting words. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” She looks at the jury now and ignores him. “What I am telling you is what I saw, everyth-”

“You’re telling us you never saw those items-”

“Your Honor, he’s cutting the witness off. If he wants to ask a question, he should allow the witness to answer.”

Tuchio turns to look at me. “I thought she was finished.”

“She wasn’t,” I tell him.

“Gentlemen, direct your comments here, to me, not to one another,” says Quinn. “The witness will be allowed to complete her answers.” The judge gives Jennifer a courtly smile and tells her to go ahead and finish.

She looks directly at the jury once more. “What I’m telling you is what I saw, all of it, everything, nothing added and nothing taken away. It is the truth.” She says this with an earnestness and a fire in her eyes.

When she turns back to him, Tuchio just stands there. For at least six or seven seconds, there is nothing but silence. Then he asks, “Are you finished?”

“Yes.” She looks at him, one of those drop-dead expressions that only a woman can give you.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “Let me ask you another question,” he says. “Did Mr. Madriani prepare you for your testimony here today? Did you spend any time talking with him about it, discussing it?”

“We did.”

“How much time?” he says.

“An hour, maybe a little more.”

“And Mr. Hinds, let’s not leave out Mr. Hinds. Did you spend any time with him preparing for your appearance here in court?”

“Some,” she says.

“How much?”

“About two hours.”

“Was that together with Mr. Madriani or separate?” he says.

“Part of it was together with both of them. Part of it was separate.”

“And where and when did this take place, this preparation?” Tuchio makes it sound like a four-letter word.

“In the office, last night and the night before.”

“So it was all very recent?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense,” he says. “After all, there wasn’t much time to prepare this whole thing, the mystery missive, and the little hairs being dropped on everyone so late and so suddenly,” he says.

“Is there a question in any of that?” says Quinn.

“I was about to frame one, Your Honor.”

“Then get on with it.”

“When this envelope was opened by Mr. Madriani in his office that day, Monday, I believe you testified that there were four people present in the room, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Madriani, Mr. Hinds, yourself, and Mr. Diggs, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Now, I can understand why Mr. Madriani can’t take the stand to testify. He is counsel in the case, as well as is Mr. Hinds. But did they tell you why you were selected to come here and tell us this story?” Tuchio would use the word “fable,” but the judge would jump on him.

“First of all, they didn’t tell me to do it. They asked me, and I said yes.”

“So you were anxious to come here today and testify?”

“No. I can’t say I’m enjoying the experience,” she says.

Some of the members of the jury laugh.

“But if that’s the case, why are you here instead of Mr. Diggs? He saw the same things you did, didn’t he?”

“Not exactly,” she says. “Mr. Diggs didn’t find the envelope on the floor. I’m not a lawyer,” she says, “but I didn’t think he could testify to that. Could he?”

Quinn’s chuckling up on the bench, and then he whispers, “You may not be a lawyer, but you’re doing fine.” He looks at the court reporter and wags a finger. He doesn’t want the comment on the record.

“Well, other than the economy of witnesses,” says Tuchio, “was there any other reason Mr. Diggs couldn’t testify here today? I mean, you certainly could have taken the stand and told the jury how you found the envelope, but the rest of it, why not use Mr. Diggs?”

“Why bother, since I’m here already?” she says.

“Mr. Diggs is the African American investigator in your office, isn’t he?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, wouldn’t it be more natural for an investigator-who sees things, investigates matters, and I assume who testifies regularly in court-to appear here today to tell us what he saw rather than a paralegal? And believe me,” he adds, “I’m not trying to denigrate what you do for a living. We have paralegals in our office, and without them we couldn’t survive. But why you and not the investigator, that’s what I want to know.”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe he was busy.”

“Ah,” he says. “Too busy to testify in the biggest case in their office?” He looks over at our table, then back to the jury box.

“I don’t know,” she says. “All I know is that they asked me if I was willing to do it, and I said yes.”

“Is it possible that they-by ‘they’ I mean Mr. Madriani and Mr. Hinds-may have asked Mr. Diggs to testify here today and that Mr. Diggs declined?”

“What would make you think that?” she says.

“I get to ask the questions. You get to answer them,” says Tuchio. “Is it possible that Mr. Diggs declined to testify?”

“No,” she says.

“Do you know that to be a fact?” he asks.

“Well, no, I don’t know it, but I know Herman-”

“So you haven’t discussed this with Mr. Diggs, whether they asked him to testify here today and what he may have said?”

“No. We’ve been busy,” she says.

Tuchio can be sure that this was a tactical decision made by Harry and me. He could also be certain that we wouldn’t share the rationale for this decision with Jennifer, for the very reason that if he asked her on the stand as he has, she would be able to say truthfully that she didn’t know why she was here instead of Herman. Why force your witness to tell jurors to their face that you’re trying to manipulate them?