direct, cross, re-cross, re-direct: part one
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.