Page 132 of Fifty-Fifty

I took a moment. I’d planted some explosives in those questions. Before I hit the detonator, I wanted to see who would be caught in the blast.

Alexandra’s right hand closed over her left fist and she placed both elbows on the defense table, and then her chin on top of her knuckles. I could see the whites of her teeth, biting down tight on her lower lip. Eyebrows creased together, in concentration or concern. Both, maybe. People used to say that the eyes of a murder victim still retain the image of their killer. An old superstition. Yet when I looked into Alexandra’s eyes, I could see a red tinge at the corner, as if her gaze remained tainted with blood.

Sofia’s expression was soft. Her hands on the table in front of her, fingers outstretched, as if she were reaching for something – truth, maybe. Or mercy. I didn’t see a killer in Sofia – only a victim. Someone who had suffered at the hands of others. I guessed that she had been so badly hurt in the past that the pain was almost nostalgic. A comfort, or a reminder that she was still alive. Still hurting. Still bleeding. There are victims who get drowned in their loss. It takes everything away from them – taste, smell, love, security, sanity. Grief is a great thief. It will steal everything unless it is checked. Sofia looked like she couldn’t lose anymore. She knew the journal was a ticket to life imprisonment. I just had to tear it up.

I turned back to Sagrada.

‘You’ve stated, quite fairly, that your view is largely opinion-based, and opinions on authorship may vary. If new information challenged the authenticity of this journal, would you be willing to change your opinion?’

Forensic document analysis isn’t quite reading finger bones in a wooden bowl, but ain’t a kick in the ass away from it either. Sagrada thought about her answer carefully, then said, ‘It would depend on the nature of the new information.’

‘What if the new information revealed this journal has been written purely for the purposes of this trial?’

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ said Sagrada.

‘Let me put it another way – the journal is a forgery.’

Sometimes a line is spoken in court that feels like a blast of cold air. Everyone sits up a little straighter, eyebrows are raised, people exchange surprised looks, as if they’re about to open the popcorn and enjoy a show. It’s the rousing final chords of the overture, and the curtain is about to go up.

‘I’ve already given my opinion on the handwriting,’ said Sagrada.

‘I’m not talking about the handwriting, I’m talking about the contents of the journal itself. The first entry in the journal is dated August thirty-first, and discusses the victim’s recent visit to the doctor and the need to keep this journal for medical purposes. The medical record of that appointment is dated September first. The entry above this reads August thirty-first – DNA. DNA stands for Did Not Attend. Mr. Avellino missed the appointment, rescheduled for the next day – September first. The journal records this appointment on the wrong date, August thirty-first. Maybe someone who knew he had an

appointment that day wrote the entry, but didn’t realize Frank had missed the appointment and gone the day after?’

Sagrada looked at Dreyer, but said nothing.

‘On September fifth the journal entry mentions the victim having breakfast at Jimmy’s restaurant, just as the victim did every morning. However, on September fifth the restaurant was unexpectedly closed due to a gas leak in the neighborhood. There’s no mention of the gas leak, nor is there any mention of having breakfast somewhere else. Only someone who wasn’t there that day would leave out those details and assume Frank had breakfast at Jimmy’s. On September fifteenth the journal mentions the disappearance of the PI, Bedford, mentioned on the news – yet the first media broadcast of this story happened on September eighteenth. Doctor Sagrada, this journal was written by someone who

had knowledge of Frank Avellino’s general movements, but it was not written by Frank Avellino.’

‘I didn’t have this information when I compiled my report. I was not fact-checking the journal.’

‘No, you were not. If you had this information when you were compiling your report, I take it this would’ve better informed your opinion?’

She hesitated. I’d handed her a way out, without affecting her professional judgment. If she was smart, she’d take it.

‘The job of verifying the accuracy of the information in the journal belongs to law enforcement. Not me. With this new information I cannot stand over the veracity of my earlier opinion. With the benefit of this new information, I have to doubt the authorship of this journal.’

Some intakes of breath, low grumbling from the jury. They had a clear shot at one of the defendants in this case, and now it had been taken away. The guilt or innocence of the defendants was now as muddy as it ever was. Until my next question.

‘The District Attorney’s office came into possession of this journal via Hal Cohen. Mr. Cohen is now deceased. We have undertaken some investigations into Mr. Cohen’s financial dealings. Would you be surprised to learn Mr. Cohen

recently had one million dollars paid into his account?’

‘I was not aware of this.’

‘It was transferred from an account in the name of Alexandra Avellino. This begs the question: who would benefit from writing a fake journal, pointing at Sofia Avellino as the one who poisoned the victim?’

‘Objection,’ cried Dreyer, ‘relevance and calls for speculation.’

‘Your Honor, this is an expert witness who is permitted to give her opinion.’

‘I’ll allow the question, but be careful how you answer,’ said Stone.

Sagrada was careful alright. This cross could be professionally damaging to her. She hadn’t been given the time to look at the journal properly, and the NYPD had not investigated it for accuracy. Her only way out of this without a

single blemish on her record was to take a dump on the DA and the police department.