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Carmody tried to twist on the stretcher but managed only to take in a strangled breath. Someone, presumably an EMT, said, “Wrap it up, Detective.”
Degano leaned over and took Carmody’s hand. “Vicky. Squeeze my fingers for yes. Can you do that? Good. Was your assailant a stranger?”
She gasped out, “No.”
“Your neighbor gave me this picture of you and a man you may have had a date with tonight.”
The camera image jiggled as Degano took a photo from his inside jacket pocket, showed it to Carmody, then flashed it in front of his phone. “Is this the man who hurt you?”
Carmody’s one good eye opened a fraction of an inch. She said, “Rick.”
Degano said, “Ms. Carmody, I want to be sure. Is this the man who hurt you? Rick Del Rio?”
Two EMTs got between the camera and the patient. We could hear Carmody say “Rick” again. Degano’s voice was heard thanking Ms. Carmody, saying that he would be in touch. Then the picture went dark.
Caine had told me that I was the only person who could persuade the jury that Rick Del Rio, this tough, former U.S. Marine, was innocent of beating his ex-girlfriend nearly to death.
Now this.
What in God’s name could I say to counteract Carmody’s heartrending testimony?
Chapter 60
CAINE MADE SOME notes on his tablet, then got to his feet and approached the witness.
“Sergeant Degano, you saw that Ms. Carmody had suffered grave injuries to her head. You testified that she was going in and out of consciousness. And yet you trusted the veracity of her testimony?”
“I had no choice. For all I knew, this was her last hour on earth.”
“I understand. But when you showed her the picture of my client and asked if he was the one who hurt her, is it possible she didn’t understand your question?”
“I don’t understand yours.”
“Let me rephrase it, then,” said Caine. “Ms. Carmody had been physically and emotionally traumatized and had lost a lot of blood. Isn’t it possible that when you asked her who hurt her and showed her the picture of Rick Del Rio, she said ‘Rick’ because it was his picture?”
“I asked. She answered.”
“Detective, how long have you been a police officer?”
“Eighteen years.”
“When you ask a person to make an identification, isn’t it standard practice to show them a lineup, or a photo array?”
“There was no time to pull one together.”
“So you violated procedure, and now we cannot be sure what kind of ID the victim made, can we?”
“I had the man’s picture in my jacket pocket.”
“Just answer the question, please, Detective. If you could have, you would have shown her an array, yes or no?”
“Yeah. In a perfect world. A world I don’t happen to live in.”
“Thanks, Detective. I have no further questions.”
Chapter 61
ADA LEWIS CALLED his next witness, Dr. William Triebel, a neurosurgeon of note at Cedars-Sinai. Triebel was clean-cut, fifty, his face lined from the sun. He looked confident and competent, and when he spoke, his testimony was delivered in a crisp, no-bull way.
