Sometimes "Is" Isn't by Jim Newell Page B

He handed the sheet to the clerk with the slightest hint of a smile. Then he turned back to his witness. “Sheriff, did you fingerprint the victim at any time?”
    “No. I didn’t feel it necessary, because I knew him.”
    “Did you ever fingerprint his brother, Arthur?”
    “Yes. Arthur was arrested for DUI some years back.”
    “So his fingerprints are available at your office.”
    “They should be.”
    Gifford turned to the judge.
    “Your Honour, it is very important that the court see these fingerprints purported to be of Arthur Nelson. They may change the entire course of this trial. I respectfully request that you send to the sheriff’s office and have them brought to court this afternoon.”
    “Objection, Your Honour. This is just fishing. The Sheriff has testified that he has known the victim Hansford Nelson since they were boys.”
    “I’m going to overrule you, Mr. Copeland. I am very interested in where this is all going.” He turned to one of the two bailiffs and asked him to fetch the requested fingerprints.
    “Thank you, Your Honour,” said Gifford. “I guarantee that you will not be sorry.” He turned back to the witness.
    “Sheriff, I have another test for you while we wait for the fingerprints. Perhaps you will do better this time.”
    “Objection. Your Honour, I have been very patient, so far, but this is going too far.” Gerald Copeland had risen from his State Attorney’s table, his face flushed with anger. “I have not heard that any of this so-called evidence was to be brought forward, and Your Honour knows that evidence is to be shared for examination by each side before a trial begins.”
    “Mr. Gifford?” Judge Holman inquired of the calm and obviously composed defence attorney.
    “Your Honour, I only received this information early last evening. I called my secretary about ten o’clock last evening. She went to my office and remained there until the early hours of the morning typing a message fully informing my opponent of the document, the testimony of my witness, and this next test I have for the sheriff. She personally left the message she had typed on his desk before eight o’clock this morning when his secretary arrived.”
    “Well, Mr. Copeland, it would seem as though you might have to begin getting to work a bit earlier, since the court was opened at ten o’clock this morning. Maybe you should also have returned to your office during the lunch break instead of eating with the crowd at the Greenburg Diner.” He paused and stared at the state attorney. “Objection overruled.” The judge may have sounded reasonably jovial, but the look in his eyes convinced Gerald Copeland to resume his seat.
    “Thank you, Your Honour.” Gifford turned to the remaining bailiff. “Bailiff, would you bring in the large box marked ‘exhibit’ from the witness room? I warn you that it is quite heavy and may require two people to carry it.”
    An audible stir of curiosity rippled through the courtroom as the bailiff and the court clerk brought in a large carton and at Gifford’s direction placed it on the floor in front of the witness chair. Gifford reached down and quickly tore off the tape that kept the box closed. He pulled out a rifle.
    “Sheriff Turner, can you tell me the make of this rifle?”
    Turner took the rifle and quickly replied, “It’s a Winchester 30-30.”
    “Thank you. Can you tell me who it belongs to?”
    “Of course not,” snorted the sheriff in disgust. “There are thousands of them.”
    “Could it be the rifle that killed Hansford Nelson?”
    The sheriff snorted again. “No it could not, sir. That gun is locked up in the evidence room at the jail.”
    “Thank you. Would you point it at the ceiling and carefully break it open?”
    The sheriff did so and on opening the breach said in some alarm, “There’s a live bullet in the breach.”
    “Is the safety catch on?”
    The sheriff checked. “Yes, it is.”
    Then that rifle is relatively harmless