A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann

the right exposure.”
    “But since that time, you have since discovered something about those outtakes, haven’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Could you explain it to the court?”
    “The tape with Mr. Santoro’s image on it turns out to have been slightly damaged.”
    “Damaged how?”
    “There appears to be some kind of interference on the tape.”
    “Radio interference?”
    “Objection,” Ryan shot up again. “She’s not an expert on radio frequencies.”
    The judge looked at Brashares, then at me. “Sustained.”
    “Let me rephrase that,” Brashares said smoothly. “Not being an electronics expert, perhaps you could explain the problem from a producer’s perspective.”
    “Objection, Your Honor!” Ryan shouted again.
    “Will both counsel please approach the bench?” The judge rose and stepped to the side of the bar.
    While the lawyers and judge whispered, I looked around. Mary Jo’s parents were sitting behind the prosecution’s table. Next to them was Rhonda Disapio. Mary Jo’s mother sat with her arms crossed, back straight. Her father stared at me with venom in his eyes. Only Disapio’s face seemed to hold open the possibility I wasn’t a lethal adversary.
    I gazed at the row of people behind the defense table, wondering if any family members or friends of Santoro’s had come to the trial, but from their detached expressions and body language, I surmised that wasn’t likely.
    Their side bar apparently now concluded, the two lawyers backed away from the bench.
    “The objection is overruled,” the judge said.
    Brashares smiled at me. “Now, Miss Foreman, how did the problem manifest itself on the tape?”
    I described what RF can do on a tape.
    “And the RF was evident on the shots—excuse me, the outtakes—of my client.”
    “That’s right.” I was beginning to feel more comfortable. The questions were going the way Brashares said they would, and we were talking about subjects about which I had some knowledge.
    Brashares moved to a separate table and picked up a videotape in a plastic sleeve. “Do you recognize this videotape?” He handed it to me.
    “Yes. It’s the original tape that I gave you.”
    “How do you know?”
    I pointed to the label on the spine, which said Foreman Communications. “My label is on the edge of the cassette.”
    “Is this the tape that shows my client on the bench in Olive Park?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does the tape fairly and accurately show how he appeared that day?”
    “Yes.”
    “And to your knowledge, has that tape been tampered with or altered in any way, since it was recorded?”
    “No.”
    Ryan scribbled furiously on his legal pad.
    “Your Honor, I’d like to move this into evidence as defense exhibit number one,” Brashares said. “With your permission, we will play it for the jury.”
    “Objection.” Ryan again. “Chain of custody. Where was the tape from the day it was made until now?”
    Brashares’ eyes narrowed. “Counselor, I thought we worked that all out.” He turned toward the judge. “Approach the bench, Your Honor.”
    The lawyers had another side bar with the judge, after which Brashares asked me a series of questions that elicited the fact that the tape had been in Mac’s tape library since we shot it, and that the tape library was locked and accessible to only two or three people. Ryan seemed satisfied and sat down.
    Brashares wheeled a cart with a video player and monitor to the front of the room. The jurors leaned forward, and the room quieted. Brashares inserted the cassette and pushed Play. The tape was cued to the scene of Santoro on the bench. We heard the buzz on the track, saw the streaks on the picture. The entire scene lasted less than a minute, after which Brashares hit Pause. There wasn’t a sound in the courtroom. Brashares stepped toward the jury.
    “Again, Miss Foreman, who is the man on the videotape?”
    “It’s Johnnie Santoro.”
    “And when was this shot?”
    “July twenty-third of last