evidentiary:alchemy

Last month, I discussed objective correlative, evidence, and audience-as-jury.   But there is no such thing as an uncontestable fact or interpretation.  This is why the United States uses an adversarial justice system - so that every bloodstain, every hair sample, every cracked bone and document and eyewitness account can be wrung for all plausible meanings.  Every time the prosecution strengthens its case, the defense weakens it - and back and forth.

As writers, we can create our own adversarial process, turning evidence over again and again, searching for more connections, complicating our understanding, questioning our own motives and biases.  In fact, I believe this is our main job.  We have the burden of proof, but we also have the burden to destroy our own case.  Like last month, I turn to the case of Michael Peterson.

When state medical and forensics experts examined Kathleen Peterson, they found signs of blunt force trauma - seven lacerations on the scalp, hemmorhaging on the surface of the brain, contusions on the face, as well as evidence that she bled for several hours before dying (especially troubling, since Michael Peterson claimed he only left her alone for twenty minutes, and that she was already dead when he found her, apparently from a fall down the staircase). How could Kathleen suffer seven lacerations from a fall? The staircase was spattered and stained with her blood.  None of this looked like an accident. 

The murder weapon: a missing firepoker.  The motive: insurance money.   

But blood splashes and drips in patterns that aren't easily interpreted. 

Prosecution witness Duane Deaver testified that the blood spatter could only have been produced by a beating. Blood on the inside of Michael Peterson's shorts was particuarly incriminating.  The blood must have been splashed up from below.  He must have stood over his wife's bloody body and beat it.   Or maybe not. 

On cross examination, defense lawyer David Rudolf pressed Duane Deaver to account for one inconsistency: how could the firepoker be swung around inside that cramped stairwell without ever once hitting the door frame?  Deaver had no answer.  (And later, the defense produced its own expert, who said the spatter was completely inconsistent with a beating - but we'll get to case-building later).

And so the case went.   

How does this connect with writing process? Here's an example from my own work:

Once, when I was six or seven, my father burst into the back door, his hands raised, palms facing out, dripping with red liquid.  He had been playing all afternoon with his band saw, drinking beer, ranting about Ronald Reagan.  "I'm bleeding," he yelled.  My mom took one look and passed out, flat on her back on the kitchen floor.  My father laughed.  It turned out he was joking.  No blood.  Only iodine, poured over his palms in an elaborate plot to prank my mother.

Okay.  So I remember all the basic facts.  I know what happened.  It was kind of funny, but also not.  Is that everything?  Is that all there is to know? 

If I were a witness on the stand, what might the defense ask?  What could cast doubt on this memory?  What questions - and answers - will draw out new facts and interpretations? 

That is for part two, coming up in the next post.  Look for it early next week.

When the prosecution questions a state witness, this is direct examination. It is called direct because the testimony is friendly for the prosecution's case. In other words, the witness was called on the prosecution's behalf. The defense has the right to question the witness as well. This is called cross-examination. (And when and if the defense presents its own case, these are reversed - for example, the prosecution cross-examines defense witnesses). In essence, cross-exam is a chance to raise doubts about hostile testimony, and by extension, the entire case.

There are two primary objectives for cross-examination:

1. To call into the question the credibility, knowledge, or memory of a witness.

2. To explain, qualify, or even overcome damaging testimony given on direct examination.

In part one, I wrote the following memory:

Once, when I was six or seven, my father burst into the back door, his hands raised, palms facing out, dripping with red liquid. He had been playing all afternoon with his band saw, drinking beer, ranting about Ronald Reagan. "I'm bleeding," he yelled. My mom took one look and passed out, flat on her back on the kitchen floor. My father laughed. It turned out he was joking. No blood. Only iodine, poured over his palms in an elaborate plot to prank my mother.

Since we are using legal process metaphorically and not literally, I did not write the memory in question-answer form. Direct testimony, in this model, flows from our own memories and writings. But what if I put it through the adversarial wringer? What might emerge if I attempt to raise doubts about my own credibility as a witness? About my capacity for memory? My direct eyewitness knowledge of events? Cross-examination might look something like this (not adhering strictly to law, of course, since this is only metaphor):

You say you were six or seven when you witnessed this?

Yes

Can you remember which age?

No.

So you can't remember when this happened?

No.

Where were you when your father came through the back door?

I think I was playing on the floor, near the front kitchen door.

But you're not certain?

I'm pretty sure, but it was a long time ago.

Could you see the back door?

No. Not from where I was playing. I only saw the door when I stood up, after I heard it open.

(You are probably noticing that cross-examination is sometimes tedious and boring. It can really drive you insane. While I do not recommend avoiding hard labor in the writing process, I am going to fast-forward for the sake of this post.) Later in cross:

When did you first remember this event?

Recently. A few months ago.

How did you come to remember it?

I was freewriting for an essay -

You were freewriting? Can you explain that term?

Yes. I was writing without editing or thinking. Just letting the words come out. A lot of writers do this to prepare for writing.

So you were writing without thinking about what you said?

Yes.

Your sister testified that your dad did cut his hand on the saw, and that he poured iodine on the wounds before coming indoors. Are you aware of this testimony?

Yes, but that is not my recollection. I remember my mother becoming very upset after she woke up from fainting. She yelled at my dad for faking something serious and scaring her.

Are you aware there are medical records from your father's emergency treatment?

No. I never saw those. They could be from another time. He used his saw a lot.

(And fast forward again ... )

Do you have a good relationship with your father?

No. We haven't spoken in years.

I chose this memory because it seems relatively benign and mundane. But even the most simple memories are multi-dimensional, complex, and difficult to reconstruct. Here, I am exposed as a biased, unreliable witness. I can't remember my age, or even whether I was playing by the kitchen door. I couldn't even see my father as he came in from the garage. My sister provided credible, conflicting facts (and thus, credible and conflicting interpretations as well). Worse - my own writing process may not be entirely credible itself.

Memories are not only contestable, they are mercurial. They change to fit our constructions of the world (or rather, we change them in order to construct our realities). Even as I wrote that cross-examination, my memories began to change. The implications for writing and writing process are either disastrous or exhilarating, depending on your epistemological bent.

Of course, there could also be a re-direct and re-cross, but for now, I rest my case.

Next in this series: What is the discovery phase? And how can I use it in my writing process?