The Letter Of The Law

CHAPTER 14

Lipton's quiet little chuckle spilled into the sterile room and Casey jerked around in her seat. She was momentarily gripped with panic, so strange was the sound. She was alone with Lipton after having sent Patti for her car while she debriefed the professor before the weekend.

"It was a masterpiece, my dear," Lipton chortled as he strode into the tiny room. "A masterpiece."

Casey only looked back down at her notes and nodded. Whereas before she had felt pride in Lipton's praise, she now felt strangely ashamed. She was a good lawyer, but there was no lasting pleasure in tearing someone apart on the witness stand.

Lipton sat down across from her and folded his long hands neatly on the battered table. He was beaming.

"I saw it in their faces," he said, referring to the jury. "They believe in you. You turned them. It was a brilliant stroke, asking if he'd ever had sex with her. It was even better when Rawlins instructed them to strike it from their minds, a perfect punctuation. I thought he was going to boil over…"

"Well, he did boil over," she told him.

"But you go for the jugular," Lipton said excitedly. "Really. It was brilliant, and you know I'm not one for flattery. It's your gift. I said so from the start. I daresay you could win a pardon for even the deadliest criminal…"

Casey looked up at him. His delight in her skills seemed inappropriate.

"A pardon suggests a level of guilt that requires forgiveness," she said solemnly.

Lipton smiled at her in a funny way before saying, "I think your skills go beyond guilt and innocence. I think your skills supersede justice…"

Casey frowned.

"It's true. If I were guilty of killing the girl," he continued, still smiling enigmatically, "I would still be set free, therefore pardoned by the judicial system. I see that look on your face. But have no fear. I am as innocent as a… as a lamb…"

His words brought little comfort, but maybe it was her own nagging sense of guilt that was weighing Casey down. Not that she had to feel guilty. She knew dozens of defense lawyers who didn't feel a thing when they ripped someone apart on the stand. She had had an arguable right to pose her final question to Sales. Based on the theory of their defense, Sales was jealous of anyone who enjoyed his daughter's attentions. The possibility of his having a relationship that went beyond the normal paternal affections was a logical conclusion. That was how she had argued her position to Rawlins when he sternly ordered her to approach the bench for a conference. To ask such a question for the sole purpose of fostering the jury's prejudice toward the witness was unethical. But, based on her theory, Casey had a legitimate reason to ask it; therefore it was ethical.

"You still have my computer?" Lipton asked abruptly.

"Of course."

"Good," Lipton said softly. "I want you to deliver it to the office of Simon Huff."

"Simon Huff?" Casey asked, confused. Huff was the kind of lawyer who offered cash to potential clients in his TV ads.

"He's handling my civil action against the county for failing to adequately protect me when I was shot," Lipton said with a sniff. "I want him to have the computer and I want you to deliver it over the weekend. The trial will be over by the middle of next week, and I want it in his hands."

Casey stopped herself from asking why. It was none of her business. Whatever was on the computer was obviously personal and private.

"Of course," she said. "I'll have Patti deliver it first thing Monday morning."

"Very good," Lipton said coolly.

Then, in a more pleasant tone, Lipton asked, "Do you really think Castle will make a good witness?" He was intimately familiar with the old boyfriend's deposition but had never actually seen him.

"I said I did," Casey said. "He's afraid of Sales, and I think that will come out on the stand. He's a smart kid, and credible. I think when they hear his version of what happened that night, they'll believe him."

"It was brilliant to find him!" Lipton exclaimed. "Sales will be undermined completely."

"Yes," Casey replied with a hesitant nod, "he will."

First thing Monday morning, Frank Castle did more than undermine Donald Sales. He undermined his daughter. In a quiet, sincere voice, Castle described the girl as a loner, someone with few social contacts and those few nothing more than casual. From his description, it was quite likely that Marcia Sales could have had an affair with her professor without anyone knowing.

When Hopewood cross-examined the young student, he did a poor job. Castle was too smart and too well prepared by Casey to be baited by the rotund prosecutor. He simply stared with his big, baleful brown eyes at the prosecutor's implied insults, and Hopewood came across as a bully. Neither did the jury miss the unspoken dynamics between Sales and Castle. The younger man couldn't contain an occasional furtive glance at the father. Sales, for his part, never took his eyes off the tall, thin Ph.D student, and his cold hatred was as plain to the jury as if it had been printed on a billboard.

After Castle, Casey called a retired Dallas homicide detective as an expert witness to further emphasize what she considered to be Bolinger's error in not thoroughly investigating Sales. Next was a patrolman who reluctantly testified as to Sales's maniacal state at the scene of the crime, as well as a second officer who had arrested Sales years before for brutally assaulting another man in a bar fight.

On Tuesday, she called the VA psychiatrist who had treated Sales, an expert on PTSD who testified as to the volatile and violent nature of the disorder and how it could lie dormant for years only to spring suddenly into a critical state. Casey's final witness was Curtis Mulholland, a distinguished-looking former DA from San Antonio. While Mulholland couldn't express an opinion on this specific case, Casey was able to re-create a matching hypothetical case for him to tear down. In the final minutes of his testimony, the former DA stated his own unwillingness to proceed in a case in which there were so many unanswered questions about a second likely suspect.

"Mr. Mulholland," Casey said in conclusion, "would you tell the jury why you would not want to proceed in such a case?"

"I think," Mulholland said in his low, booming voice, "that given the circumstances, it would be impossible to prove such a case beyond a reasonable doubt…"

"Objection!" cried the incensed Hopewood.

"Sustained," Rawlins barked angrily. Only procedural requirements had persuaded him to allow another DA into his courtroom as an expert witness. "The jury will disregard the witness's last statement!"

"I have no more questions, Your Honor," Casey said.

Rawlins banged his gavel. "Court will adjourn for lunch. We'll hear final arguments at one-thirty."

Hopewood's close was like a bad sermon. He meandered endlessly. Over and over, he rehashed his argument in barely disguised alterations, losing the jury halfway through. For her part, Casey was crisp and to the point. She bludgeoned the prosecution for its lack of concrete evidence against Lipton and chastised the police for letting the best suspect go uninvestigated.

"Beyond a reasonable doubt?" she scoffed, recalling her final witness's words to their minds. "Ladies and gentlemen, as you have seen, the doubts in this case are so numerous and so large that I'm sure you feel almost as indignant as I do that Professor Lipton was even brought to trial. This case has been a misguided sham and a travesty, and I am confident that you will do the right thing by exonerating Professor Lipton."

Rawlins gave a creditable set of instructions to the jury, and they left the courtroom for deliberations. Lipton excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving Casey alone with Patti in their small consultation room.

"This is the worst part," she told her understudy.

"I know," Patti said. "But you pretty much always win."

Casey rapped her knuckles lightly on the wooden table. "Let's hope. You never know with a jury."

"But you rarely lose," Patti reminded her. She had cut her strawberry-blond hair blunt just above her collar, and the glasses she wore were austere but did very little to hide either her bubbling youth or her unmitigated admiration of Casey.

"No, you're right," Casey admitted flatly, staring aimlessly into her jumble of notes. "I rarely lose…"

The jury was back in just under an hour, a good sign. Lipton stood by Casey's side as they handed their verdict to the bailiff, who in turn delivered it to the judge. Casey felt the blood pound in her heart. She was lightheaded. It was always the same. Rawlins frowned and nodded his head. As the bailiff crossed the court, Lipton dipped his head down toward Casey until his lips lightly brushed her ear.

With a shiver, she heard his words just as the judge directed the foreman of the jury to read their verdict on the count of first-degree murder.

Lipton's voice was charged with delight, his words were sickeningly sweet. "I really killed her."

Casey's mind swam. Shock and horror contorted her face. She looked at Lipton. His incandescent eyes were wild with amusement. A greedy smirk shone from his handsome face.

"We find the defendant, Eric Lipton"-uncomfortable with being the focus of attention, the middle-aged foreman's voice quavered-"not guilty."

Patti grabbed Casey, hugging her with delight. In the confusion, Casey gently separated herself from the younger lawyer and stood alone in a kind of personal fog. From the bench, Rawlins shot her a begrudging frown, then in a flourish of robes, he was gone. She looked to Hopewood.

The DA picked up his papers with a sour look and, without acknowledgment of any kind, left the courtroom, surrounded by a small pack of sympathetic underlings. Only Donald Sales gave Casey her due. She caught his eye from across the room. In the row of seats immediately behind the prosecutor's table, he remained standing like a great, dark rock in the ebbing sea of spectators. His pale green eyes, so full of loathing, made her start. Still, she seemed unable to look away, and for several moments his malice was something she could actually feel pressing against her face.

When she turned away, the professor was gone. There was only one last glimpse of his wavy hair and his orange prison suit as he passed through the side door between two guards like a moving flame. There were no congratulations, no thanks, only the resonating words from his diabolical confession, which she prayed was nothing more than a demented joke.