A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann Page B

newspaper, and you watch television. Tell me, how many hours of coverage do you think have been accorded to the Santoro case since his arrest?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Would it be fair to say it’s been in the news frequently?”
    “I don’t know.” My stomach was churning.
    “Yes or no.”
    “Yes.”
    “Once a month, perhaps? And now, with the trial, even more?”
    “I wouldn’t know.”
    “And in all that time, you haven’t seen one photo or image of Mr. Santoro until last week?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And that one image just happened to spark your memory?”
    “Yes.”
    “Isn’t that convenient?”
    “Objection!”
    “Sustained.”
    Ryan turned toward the jury, making sure they saw the smirk on his face.
    Several jurors exchanged meaningful glances. I caught a glimpse of my father, a defiant glare in his eyes. My cheeks burned. Compared to this, maybe white-water rafting wasn’t so bad.
    Ryan strutted back and forth in front of the jury box. “Now, Miss Foreman, you saw the defendant on a park bench July the twenty-third, is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “How much time did you spend taking his picture?”
    “About ten minutes.”
    “And while you were there, you photographed other things besides the defendant, correct?”
    “We were trying to find the right exposure.”
    “Yes. Now, you arrived in the vicinity at about what time?”
    “About twelve or twelve-thirty.”
    “And you left at what time?”
    “About one.”
    “And when you left, you motored directly out to the intake crib, correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where you spent the next five or six hours, correct?”
    “We wrapped about seven in the morning.”
    “However, after you left the vicinity of Olive Park, you really have no direct knowledge about what transpired, either at the park or onshore?”
    “Objection!”
    “Overruled. The witness may answer the question.”
    I looked at my shoes. “No.”
    Ryan faced the jury and smiled as if he had just revealed an important piece of information. “Now, Miss Foreman, let’s talk a little bit about the damage to the tape for a moment. The alleged RF interference?”
    I swallowed.
    “What evidence do you have that the damage on the tape is indeed radio frequency interference?”
    “I don’t—I’m not sure I understand the question.”
    “Let me clarify. Have you taken the tape in for any kind of technical analysis?”
    “No, but I didn’t—”
    “So you have no independent confirmation that RF interference really is the problem on the tape.”
    “My director agreed that’s what it is. We’ve seen it before.”
    “But you didn’t seek any kind of independent corroboration.”
    “We didn’t need to. We knew what it was.”
    “Based on your experience.”
    “Yes. And that of my director.”
    “All right. Given that you knew what it was, you still never discovered where the problem originated, isn’t that correct?”
    “That’s true.”
    “But it was serious enough that you wouldn’t have been able to use this tape in the final product. If the project hadn’t been canceled.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “So, on this damaged tape, you know what the problem is, yet you can’t adequately explain why it is there or where it’s coming from. Is that right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very professional, Miss Foreman.”
    “Objection!” Brashares yelled.
    “The jurors will disregard that last comment,” the judge said.
    “I apologize,” Ryan smiled, baring his teeth. “Let’s say we went back to Olive Park with a camera and tried to simulate the conditions that you found there. Would we be able to replicate the damage that we saw on your tape?”
    The man was relentless. “I don’t know.”
    “Why not?”
    I hesitated. “RF interference can come from any number of different sources. And the tape didn’t have any damage on it initially.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because I screened it after we shot it, and it was fine.”
    Out of the corner of my eye,