Knudson slammed that pitch right out of the park. So much for tactics. Fred was not so much pathetic as pitiful. He stammered and hemmed and hawed and generally fit the craven profile of a lover-eating, murdering shrinkwrapper. When Knudson asked him about the dehydrator, Fred's lame attempt to say he purchased it from Secondhand City while he was in disguise went over like a pregnant pole-vaulter. The same story of Bill's antics and the homophobia of the store's owner that sounded so convincing in Henderson's office sounded like a dog-ate-my-homework dissembling. Or the finger pointing fabrication normally found with he-did-it-no-he-did-it playground fibbery. Much different than the true tale of prejudice and comeuppance that it seemed like when he explained it to me. By the time Knudson was done with him, even trotting out the video rental record that showed how he had recently rented "Silence of the Lambs", Fred was a gibbering example of revolting, and at that point, far from gay, human carnage. Knudson asked him one last question.
"Mr. Costner, could you please tell the court whether your partner in sin..."
"Objection, your honor," shouted Henderson, "counsel is pre-judging the witness."
"Sustained," said the examiner.
"My apologies, your honor," Knudson said smoothly, "whether your partner..." he sneered the word, "had a tattoo?"
"Y-yes," said Fred. "Lots of them."
"And did he have a tattoo on his left arm?"
"Y-yes."
"And did he have a tattoo on the inside of his left wrist?"
"Y-yes!" blurted Fred. And then he did a strange thing. He let out a wail and started to cry. And cry. And cry some more. Much to everyone's horror he was soon reduced to a blubbering, sobbing mess. It didn't look good.
"No further questions your honor," Knudson proclaimed triumphantly.
Henderson wisely chose to defer cross-examination to a later time. Fred was accompanied off the stand and to the side of the room where he was seated next to the bailiff. Knudson then took the stand himself. Under the examiner's scripted questioning, he revealed the anonymous phone call that had originally led him to arrest Fred as a material witness, the new focus on the dehydrator and its subsequent revelation of traces of human blood. He then described how his lab assistant had determined not only the origin and type of blood, but that it also contained Coumadin. Since he couldn't actually reveal that he had used privileged medical information to determine that the victim took Coumadin, he testified that a search of Fred's house had turned up prescription bottles, made out to William Flambeau, for such a drug.
"And what did you do at that time Mr. Knudson?" asked the examiner.
"I watched helplessly while the defendant was released on bail to menace the community." He said righteously. "Since I didn't have a DNA sample to compare the blood to, and since I didn't, for all I knew, even have a dead body, there was nothing else I could do."
There were sighs of understanding from the audience.
"And that's how matters stood till I got a phone call from my sister. Your honor, I'd like to return to my role as prosecutor."
"You are dismissed as a witness, Mr. Knudson. Proceed."
Knudson lifted his bulk from the witness chair and waddled back to his table. He picked up a sheet of paper and studied it for a moment. Then he looked me in the eye and said: "Your honor, the people call Jobe Carson."
I was surprised to say the least. While I expected Knudson to produce the evidence of the severed arm, I didn't dream he would use me to reveal it to the court. I could tell by his smirk that he was really enjoying this. From his twisted point of view, it was poetic justice that he would use me to tie the knot before he slipped the noose around my own client's neck.
"Mr. Carson," he began, "is it true that on last Wednesday evening, November 7th, you were arrested for withholding evidence in a murder case?"
"Yes, but..."
"Fine." He cut me off. "And would you please tell the court what that evidence was?"
"I didn't know it was evidence, and..."
"Please Mr. Carson. Your honor, would you instruct the witness to answer the question directly?"
"Mr. Carson," the examiner said, "though this isn't a court of law in the traditional sense, we nonetheless honor court conventions to maintain the appropriate tenor of justice. Please answer the questions directly."
"Yes your honor," I said. And then to Knudson: "The supposed evidence was a severed arm."
Various people in the courtroom gasped.
"And how did you come to possess that arm, Mr. Carson?"
"It fell out of a truck one day."
"It fell out of a truck?" His sarcasm was thick enough to stop a toilet.
"Yeah," I explained, "One day I was out using moss killer on my lawn, you know how bad moss gets around here, and this lump falls out of this truck -- one of those gypsy trash pickup dealies -- cause it was barreling through our neighborhood and hit this pothole. I don't know why the county can't fix..."
"Enough!" barked Knudson. "What did you do with this `lump'?"
"Nothing. It was wrapped in a green Hefty bag so I threw it over by the garage. Then my dog started gnawing on it, so I shooed him away. Later on I threw it on a trash heap inside the garage."
"You didn't think to unwrap it?"
"No," I lied.
"So when your daughter told a friend of my niece at school that you had a severed human arm in your garage and that you were using it to solve a murder case she was just making it all up?" He sneered.
"Objection!" shouted Henderson, "Counsel is asking the witness to speculate on hearsay."
"Sustained." said the examiner, "But I think the core of the question is sound Mr. Carson. If you please..."
"I have no idea what my daughter said." I equivocated. "Let's just say that at some point I realized it was an arm. But I still wasn't aware of any ongoing murder investigation that I may be obstructing."
"In fact, your honor," Knudson proclaimed and then turned and addressed the courtroom dramatically, "This arm was critical to the investigation into the murder of William Flambeau."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Either they were impressed with the drama of his delivery or his fly was open.
"Mr. Carson," Knudson continued, "When you determined that you actually had a severed human forearm in your possession, did you at any time examine said appendage for identifying characteristics?"
"Only once," I said, "It didn't look too identifiable."
"Why was that?"
"The arm was dehydrated. Shrivelly."
"Like jerky?"
"You might say that."
"And were you able to determine how recently this member had been deprived of its companion body?"
"No," I said, "I didn't want to do all your work for you."
I heard the bright tinkle of Elizabeth's laughter.
"Answer the question," Knudson fumed.
"No. Like I say, it was dehydrated. It was also shrink-wrapped."
"Describe to the court what you mean by shrink-wrapped."
"It was encased in one of those vacu-pack bag things. You know, like on the infomercials. All the air was sucked out of it and it was sealed in plastic."
"And no identifying marks?"
"None that I could tell, the fingertips had been cut off but the callosities on what was left indicated the guy may have been left handed..."
This was obviously a surprise to Knudson. He went back over to his table and checked his notes. He pulled out a folder from his briefcase and thumbed through what looked like some photos. Then he looked around the courtroom till his eyes locked on Fred. He seemed to come to a decision.
"Your honor, I know this is irregular. Is the witness Fred Costner still under oath?"
"He is," the examiner said.
"May I ask him a quick question without bringing him back to the stand?"
"You may."
"Mr. Costner. Could you please tell the court whether your former partner was left handed?"
The courtroom was hushed. Knudson was biting his lip. Fred looked down at his feet. We could barely hear his reply.
"He was," he mumbled, and started to cry.
