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Ahearn asks Miller, “Had you ever seen Mr. Jacobson, or his car, in the vicinity of the Gateses’ house before this?”
“No, sir. But that doesn’t mean that he hadn’t been.”
“Objection,” I say, not even bothering to rise this time.
“Sustained,” Prentice says. “Mr. Miller, please try to answer the questions without editorializing.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Miller is still a good soldier.
“So we’re clear, and so the jury is clear,” Ahearn says. “There is no doubt, Mr. Miller, that the man you saw driving that car was Rob Jacobson?”
“None.”
“No further questions,” Ahearn says.
My turn.
In that moment, as someone with cancer, I’m the one not feeling half bad.
Thirty
MILLER IS CLEARLY Asolid guy. A good guy. But he is about to find out what I learned in law school about criminal procedure.In the end, witnesses need to know they’re playing in a hardball league,the professor said.It’s up to them whether or not to wear a helmet.
“Good morning, Mr. Miller,” I say.
“Good morning.”
“Would you care to hazard a guess about just how many black Mercedes there are on the South Fork of eastern Long Island?”
“I wouldn’t, actually. Hazard a guess, I mean.”
“So no editorial opinion about that?”
“Objection,” Ahearn says.
Prentice makes a motion, telling him to sit down. “I’ll allow it. Proceed, Ms. Smith.”
“Well, Mr. Miller, my math might be slightly off, but I’m guessing there are about a million cars exactly like that.” I turn to the jury and grin. “None of which ever allow you to make a left-hand turn, am I right?”
I’m answered with a tiny ripple of laughter.
“But somehow, Mr. Miller, you seem convinced that this one was driven by my client.”
“Because I saw him behind the wheel.”
“In the dark. As you were diving for your life, correct?”
“It was him.”
I turn away from him, and just loudly enough for the jury to hear say, “Sure it was.”
I walk back to my table and sit on the end of it.
“Do you walk the same route every night, Mr. Miller?”
“It varies.”
