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“Not how we address the court, Ms. Smith. At least not this one.”
Ahearn turns to me. “There’s no secrets being kept. I’m just about to introduce some new evidence that came into Officer Murphy’s possession over the weekend.”
But I’m back up.
“Your Honor, whatever this evidence is, I need to see it before we proceed.”
Ahearn comes over and hands me the photograph and the piece of paper. The photo is of a BMW SUV, New York plates, parked out in front of what looks very much to me like one of the chop shops across the street from Citi Field, where my Mets play. The piece of paper is the car’s registration, for a two-year-old Beemer.
Owned by Rob Jacobson.
My one and only.
I hand the photograph and the registration back to Ahearn.
“Relevance, Your Honor?”
“Mr. Ahearn believes the witness will be able to explain,” Prentice says. “I’ll allow this.”
Ahearn walks back to the witness stand.
“Officer Murphy, could you please explain the circumstances of this car ending up in the possession of the police,” Ahearn says.
“I got a call on Saturday morning from R&D Metals, which is a, uh, car warehouse on 126th Street in Queens, across from where the Mets play,” Murphy says. “The car had been dropped off there last week by a, uh, anonymous third party, and sold for cash. Apparently transactions like this happen that way all the time. No names. Just money. But before they stripped the car and attempted to sell it for parts, someone at R&D decided to check the VIN and discovered that the car was once owned by the defendant.”
“Objection,” I say. “This is a fascinating tutorial on chop shops. But what does it possibly have to do with this case?”
“If the court will allow me to continue,” Ahearn says, “I believe I can establish the relevance Ms. Smith is seeking.”
“Overruled,” Prentice says to me. To Ahearn he says, “Continue.”
And now I am helpless, and defenseless, knowing that I am about to learn what the jury is going to learn, in real time. Any lawyer worth anything will tell you the value of discovery, and what a useful tool it can be. Right up until it smacks you upside your head.
“Please explain to the court the findings from your forensic analysis after the car was towed out to Southampton,” Ahearn says.
I’m watching Murphy. Some cops like having a spotlight on them. Some, but not all. Murphy isn’t one of them. He looks like he wants this to be over.
“Well, we found a lot,” Murphy says, “fingerprints and such, even though there was no way for us to know how long the automobilehadn’tbeen in the defendant’s possession.”
“It was stolen two years ago,” Jacobson whispers.
I write this down on my legal pad. “Shut up.Now.”
“Were you able to identifyanyof the fingerprints?” Ahearn asks Officer Murphy.
“Yes, sir, we were.”
Crew cut. Square jaw. Pale blue eyes. Central casting for today’s role of honest, earnest cop. Serving and protecting.
“And can you please tell the court who they belonged to?”
“The defendant,” Murphy says, “which was no surprise because it was his car.”
“And who else?”
“Laurel Gates,” Officer Liam Murphy says.
I’m out of my chair and objecting, not even sure what I’m about to objectto.But before I do Ahearn quickly asks, “And where did you find Miss Gates’s fingerprints?”
