"There was blood spatter everywhere." I wish I could take credit for that line, but I can't. One of the more seasoned reporters jokingly said it in the hallway waiting for the Thursday afternoon session to begin. I immediately thought to myself, "Yeah. It was all over the witness stand."
Prosecutor Alan Jackson tore shotgun blast size holes in Dr. DiMaio's testimony and written report, and his assertion that Ms. Clarkson's manner of death was an unbiased opinion. As the cross examination by Mr. Jackson wore on, the witness at times appeared defeated, and often gave up even trying to answer Jackson's questions, adding exaggerated facial expressions, heavy sighs and lifting up his hands and saying, "Oh, never mind."
While waiting for the afternoon session to begin, Mr. Dunne told the reporters sitting around him outside the courtroom (Beth, Harriet, Michael) and myself what Rachelle Short said to him when he exited the men's room this morning. With a gleeful tone to her voice, Rachelle said to him, "Dominick! Did you wash your hands in the toilet?" It was quite bewildering.
UPDATED 7-1-07 11:45am
Finally, we get to enter the courtroom. Before things get started, Bradley Brunon, one of the defense attorneys, comes over to compliment Steven Milkuen, who is covering the trial for the LA Weekly, on the use of the word "Verfremdungseffekt" in one of the pieces he wrote. As Steven goes on to explain the meaning of the word, several of us are scrambling to write down the correct spelling for further research. Ciaran leans in to speak to the family attorney who is sitting right in front of us. A whole group of what appear to be school kids is brought into the courtroom and are sitting right behind me, Dominick, Steven and Ciaran. Several of us wonder, because they don't look anything like the interns or "externs" that we have seen in prior days, who are dressed professionally. I finally turn around and ask why did they come to court today. One replies that they are part of a "mock trial" class at UCLA and this is a class trip. The family attorney in front of me turns and says, "That's got to be a high school class. There's no way those are college kids." I agreed. It must be a summer school class held at UCLA.