In it, Shafer looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ. In comparison, my clothes were tattered and dirty. I had just come off my crazy marathon run from the zoo, and I had been down in the garage with poor Patsy’s body. My fists were clenched tightly, and I seemed to be roaring out anger at Shafer. Pictures do lie. We know that. The photograph was highly inflammatory, and I felt it could instill prejudice in the minds of the jurors.

“Is this a fair representation of how the two men looked at ten-thirty that evening?” Halpern asked the doorman.

“Yes, sir. It’s very fair. That’s how I remember it.”

Jules Halpern nodded as if he were receiving vital information for the first time. “Would you now describe, in your own words, what Detective Cross looked like at that time?” he asked.

The doorman hesitated and seemed slightly confused by the question. I wasn’t. I knew where Halpern was going now.

“Was he dirty?” Halpern jumped in and asked the simplest possible question.

“Er, dirty … sure. He was a mess.”

“And was he sweaty?” the defense lawyer asked.

“Sweaty … yeah. We all were. From being down in the garage, I guess. It was a real hot night.”

“Nose running?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were Detective Cross’s clothes ripped, Mr. Lopes?”

“Yes, they were. Ripped and dirty.”

Jules Halpern looked at the jury first, then at his witness. “Were Detective Cross’s clothes bloodstained?”

“Yes … they sure were. That’s what I noticed first, the blood.”

“Was the blood anywhere else, Mr. Lopes?”

“On his hands. You couldn’t miss it. I sure didn’t.”

“And Mr. Shafer, how did Mr. Shafer look?”

“He was clean, not mussed at all. He seemed pretty calm and collected.”

“Did you see any blood on Mr. Shafer?”

“No, sir. No blood.”

Halpern nodded, then faced the jury. “Mr. Lopes, which of the two men looked more like someone who might have just committed a murder?”

“Detective Cross,” the doorman said without hesitation.

“Objection!” the district attorney screamed, but not before the damage was done.

Chapter 84

THAT AFTERNOON, the defense was scheduled to call Chief of Detectives George Pittman. The assistant district attorney, Catherine Fitzgibbon, knew that Pittman was on the docket, and she asked me to meet her for lunch. “If you have an appetite before Pittman goes on,” she added.

Catherine was smart, and she was thorough. She had put away nearly as many bad guys as Jules Halpern had set free. We got together over sandwiches at a crowded deli near the courthouse. Neither of us was thrilled about Pittman’s upcoming appearance. My reputation as a detective was being ruined by the defense, and it was a hard thing to watch and do nothing.