“We can all see what you’re attempting to do,” Judge Horton says. “You’re telling a story. And I’m telling you that this story needs to come to an end now.”
“Understood,” I say.
I know I can call Salzman back to the stand later if I think I need him. But I don’t think that I will—once I’ve got my own expert on the stand.
“Mr. Salzman, let’s approach this from another direction. Is there any way for the science you’re here talking about toknow how long DNA has been present, whether on a hard surface or any article of clothing or on a rug?”
“No,” he says, “there’s not.”
“One more question: Is it possible that DNA, even belonging to the same person, can alter slightly over time, so that while it’s still clearly a match, it’s not an exact match?”
“Yes,” he answers, “it is possible, but it would require a longer explanation.”
“One I’m sure you could give this court, in both chapter and verse,” I say. “But for now, a simple yes or no will do.”
“Yes,” he says. “It can alter.”
“No further questions,” I say, “at least not at this time.”
Katherine Welsh is back on her feet before I’m back in my chair.
“Redirect please, Your Honor,” she says.
“To be clear, Mr. Salzman,” she says, “the defendant’s DNA was only found in close proximity to the three bodies, when it wasn’t in factonthe bodies, right?”
“That’s right.”
“What a coincidence.”
“It would be some coincidence.”
Welsh says, “And there was that one drop of blood on the nightstand in the main bedroom, right?”
“Yes,” Salzman answers.
“And we both know that the Carsons’ housekeeper has testified that she took a scrub brush to all the hard surfaces in that house on the day in question, don’t we?”
“I heard the same testimony you did, Ms. Welsh.”
“So sometime after Ms. Morales thoroughly cleaned that house and before you arrived at the house, somehow a drop of Rob Jacobson’s blood ended up on that table,” Welsh says. “Not something from a test tube, or a toothbrush, or a hairbrush, or a ball cap. Mr. Jacobson’s own blood.”
“Yes.”
“And with blood, you can tell that it’s fresh, can’t you?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Without a reasonable doubt,” Welsh says.
Not a question, not intended to be.
“No further questions,” she says.
In that moment, I do feel a little bit like a boxer.
One who just got cut.
SEVENTY-ONE
