Chapter 17

“PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME,” Broyles said to a petite brunette woman in her early thirties.

“Betty D’Angelo.”

Her dark eyes behind her large horn-rimmed glasses darted quickly over to me, then back to Broyles again. I looked at Mickey Sherman and shrugged. To the best of my knowledge, I’d never seen this woman before.

“And what is your position?”

“I’m a registered nurse at San Francisco General.”

“Were you on duty in the ER on the evening and night of May tenth?”

“I was.”

“Did you have occasion to take blood from the defendant, Lindsay Boxer?”

“Yes.”

“And why was blood drawn?”

“We were prepping her for surgery, for extraction of the bullets and so on. It was a life-threatening situation. She was losing a lot of blood.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Broyles said, batting away her comment like a housefly. “Tell us about the blood test.”

“It’s normal procedure to take blood. We had to match her up for transfusions.”

“Ms. D’Angelo, I’m looking at Lieutenant Boxer’s medical report from that night. It’s quite a voluminous report.” Broyles plopped a fat stack of paper on the witness stand and stabbed at it with a forefinger. “Is this your signature?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to look at this highlighted line right here.”

The witness tossed her head as if she smelled something bad. Emergency room staff often felt part of the cop team and would try to protect us. I didn’t get it, but this nurse plainly wanted to duck Broyles’s questions.