Cruel Justice

45

WHEN THE COURT RECONVENED after lunch, Bullock jumped to his feet and strode confidently to the jury box, like Babe Ruth approaching the plate. Strong, commanding, self-assured. He leaned across the railing that separated the attorneys from the jury, getting closer to them than Ben would’ve thought possible, much less desirable.

Bullock made eye contact with each of the jurors in turn. His head was nodding subtly, and his smile bore the mark of one who knew the truth and was confident they would believe him. In his own way, Bullock was enlisting their support, engaging their confidence, before he had spoken a word.

“No tricks,” Bullock said, and then nothing. He let his words resonate and linger till the courtroom was once again awash in silence. A skillful ploy. In a matter of moments the stultifying banality of jury selection was washed away. They were mesmerized, eagerly anticipating his next word.

“No tricks,” Bullock repeated. “Well, not from me, anyway. I don’t need them, and I wouldn’t use them if I did. Now the gentleman on the other side”—he jerked his head in Ben’s direction—“that’s another matter. I’ve seen him resort to all sorts of shenanigans. He’ll make you laugh, he’ll make you cry. He’ll play on your emotions, your sympathy. He’ll break the rules. He’ll do whatever it takes to accomplish his goal. Which is to thwart justice, and put his man back on the streets.”

“Objection!” With great trepidation, Ben violated one of the traditional courtesies of trial practice: no objections during opening statement. But this was too much—this wasn’t a preview of the evidence; it was a personal attack.

“Your honor, this is not relevant, and furthermore, it’s grossly prejudicial.”

The judge nodded. “Sustained.”

Bullock smiled. He leaned even closer to the jury and whispered. “See?”

That underhanded son of a—In a matter of moments, Bullock had set the stage, casting Ben as the shyster trickster, someone who obviously was trying to hide the truth—because he objected to Bullock’s improper tactics. This put Ben in an impossible position. If he made future objections, the jury would suspect he was trying to pull some underhanded trick. If he didn’t object, Bullock would walk all over him. And Leeman.

“Here’s what happened,” Bullock continued. “No embroidering, no huffing or puffing, no dramatic flourishes. Just the facts.” He paused again, then lowered his voice. “Ten years ago, on a hot August night, a female immigrant named Maria Alvarez was killed in the caddyshack at the Utica Greens Country Club. ‘How was she killed?’ you may ask. With a golf club. And how could a golf club become a deadly weapon?”

Bullock held them in suspense for a protracted moment. “Someone brought it down on her head, at least once, maybe several times. The last blow broke the club in two. Then the assailant took the broken shaft”—he leaned in closer, acting it out—“and rammed it through her throat.”

He pivoted and walked away from the jury while continuing to talk. “Shoved it clean through her neck. Came out the other side. Pinned her against the wall.” He rubbed his hands together as if washing them clean. “Needless to say, she died.”

He placed one hand on the defendant’s table and leaned in to face Leeman Hayes. He was forcing the jury to look at the defendant as they listened to the description of this grisly event. Forcing them to make a connection between the defendant and the crime.

“There’s no dispute about anything you’ve heard so far. They’re all facts, all a matter of record. There’s actually only one question remaining unanswered: Who killed her?”

He walked around the far end of the defendant’s table, doing a little dance around Leeman. “The prosecution has a good deal of evidence that will help you answer that question. Frankly, I’ve been prosecuting for years, and this is the strongest case I’ve ever seen.”

“Obj—” No. Ben clamped his lips together and sat back down. This personal testimonial about the weight of the evidence was grossly improper, but he feared the prejudice created by another objection would be the greater evil.

“A police officer found Leeman Hayes, the defendant, at the scene of the crime, not long after the woman was killed. The defendant was a caddy at the country club. You might think it perfectly natural for a caddy to be at the caddyshack—until I tell you that the murder took place after midnight on a Tuesday morning. None of the other caddies were there at that time of night. Only the defendant.”

An ironic half smile played upon his lips. “You know, normally when I talk about the defendant having blood on his hands, I’m speaking metaphorically. Not this time. This time it’s the literal truth. When Leeman Hayes was apprehended, he had blood on his hands. Caked under his fingernails. Smeared on his face. And the forensic testimony in this courtroom will verify that it was the blood of Maria Alvarez.

“ ‘What other evidence is there?’ you might ask, as if any more was really required. Well, the golf bag from which the murder weapon was taken was found in the defendant’s locker; it had been stolen that day from the club pro shop. In that locker we also found jewelry belonging to the murdered woman. But the best evidence of all, I would have to say”—he held them near breathless in anticipation—“is the defendant’s confession.”

Several of the jurors’ heads rose. They looked back at Leeman, and this time their expressions were more exacting, more suspicious. A confession, after all, changed everything.

“Objection!” Ben rose to his feet. He couldn’t let this one go by, no matter what prejudice might arise. “I object to counsel’s characterization of the wordless videotape reenactment as a confession. That is a question of fact to be determined by the jury—”

“The prosecutor is permitted to describe the evidence he will present, isn’t he?” Judge Hawkins frowned. “They haven’t changed the rules while I was eating lunch, have they?”

The jury tittered.

“Your honor, opening statement is not supposed to be argumentative. He’s prejudicing the jury’s interpretation of the evidence before they’ve even had an opportunity to see it!”

“Objection is overruled. Please continue, Mr. Prosecutor. And I instruct the bailiff to add five minutes to the prosecutor’s time to compensate for this outburst.”

Gritting his teeth, Ben retook his seat.

“Now, as some of you may have guessed from the questions I asked earlier,” Bullock continued, “Leeman Hayes is considered to suffer from some mental retardation.” He jerked his thumb back at Ben. “At least, that’s what the defense’s paid witnesses will say. Our docs say he’s capable of distinguishing right from wrong. It is true that his language skills are not very advanced. But as you will see, he confessed nonetheless, and his confession was recorded on videotape.”

Bullock waved his hands. “I’m sure defense counsel will try everything he can think of to keep you from seeing the tape, or he’ll try to suggest that the confession isn’t what any fool can see it is. Don’t be tricked. You’re smart people. You can see the truth for yourselves. And once you witness the defendant’s confession, how can there be any doubt about what happened that hot August night?”

Slowly, Bullock returned to the jury box. “I wish I could tell you why Leeman Hayes murdered that woman, but I can’t. Not with certainty. Maybe it was robbery—he did take her jewelry. Maybe it was a sudden fit of frenzy. Or maybe it was something … sexual. …” He pronounced the word as if it had eight syllables. “We’ve all heard … stories about men with Leeman’s condition and their … appetites. …”

Ben was clenching his fists so tightly he almost drew blood. This was beyond the pale.

“But the truth is, I don’t really know. I do know that for whatever reason, Leeman Hayes did kill her. Fortunately, the state does not require you to determine a motive. It’s nice, it makes for a good story, but it’s not required. All you have to determine is whether the defendant killed the woman.”

Bullock leaned over the rail. “And I’m confident that by the end of this trial you will be convinced, as I am, that he did kill Maria Alvarez. In cold blood. In the most grisly fashion imaginable.”

Bullock slowly drew away from the jury box. “I have every confidence that you will do the right thing, that you will find Leeman Hayes guilty as charged, and assess the maximum sentence for this heinous deed. Thank you.”

The judge waited until Bullock was seated, giving him a nice dramatic close to his oration. “Mr. Kincaid, would you care to—”

“Yes.” Ben walked around the table and approached the jury. He wanted to get at them while Bullock’s words were still ringing in their ears.

“Actually, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, trying to determine what you personally think occurred ten years ago in the Utica Greens caddyshack is not, as Mr. Bullock says, ‘all you have to do.’ As the judge will later instruct you, forming a mere opinion as to guilt or innocence is not your job. Your job is infinitely more difficult. You must determine whether the prosecution has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of murder. The burden of proof is entirely on them. If they do not prove his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, you have no choice. Regardless of what your personal suspicions may be, if the prosecution does not meet this high standard, you must find Leeman Hayes not guilty.”

Ben took a deep breath. He hoped it sank in, and that when they heard it later from the judge, they would understand what it meant.

“There are two kinds of evidence,” Ben continued. “There’s what we call real evidence, and there’s circumstantial evidence. All of the evidence the prosecution will present today is circumstantial evidence. No one saw Leeman do it, no one heard him do it. They’re all guessing, just guessing, based upon alleged evidence discovered after the fact.

“Moreover, none of this evidence excludes other suspects. In other words, the prosecution’s evidence, at best, shows that Leeman Hayes could have killed Maria Alvarez. It does not prove that he did. Remember, in order to convict this man, the prosecution must prove that he did in fact commit the murder. Beyond a reasonable doubt. No lingering suspicions, no nagging questions. Nothing. No reasonable doubt.”

No objection? Ben wondered. To his detailed, not to mention argumentative, elucidation of the phrase beyond a reasonable doubt? Bullock must’ve decided he wasn’t going to make any objections for a while, to prove to the jury that Ben was the only one trying to hide anything from them.

“After the prosecution completes its evidence, assuming the judge doesn’t throw the case out of court”—Ben almost laughed himself; wishful thinking—“then we will have a chance to put on our evidence. Let me assure you we don’t plan any tricks or shenanigans. We’re just going to help you understand what transpired that night ten years ago.”

Ben wished he could be more specific about the evidence they would put on, but the truth of the matter was, he still didn’t know. So far, they had no strong affirmative defense. All he could do was impeach the prosecution’s evidence, and hope that Loving came up with a witness or Jones discovered something of value in the Peruvian records.

“It’s true, as the evidence will show, that Leeman has been repeatedly diagnosed, since birth, as mentally retarded. It is also true that it is very difficult for him to communicate. He will not take the stand in this trial, not because he has anything to hide, but because it would simply be impossible for him to answer the questions. Imagine, if you will, how vulnerable that makes him. Imagine how easily he could be manipulated by policemen, lawyers. Imagine how difficult it would be to defend himself against those determined to see him pay for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“Objection,” Bullock said. “This is argumentative.”

“Sustained. Be careful, counsel.”

Believe me, Ben thought, I was. I carefully made sure Bullock would have to object so the jury could see I’m not the only trickster in the courtroom.

“All I ask is that you be fair. It’s true, my client Leeman has some special problems. He has lived with those all his life. But we’re not asking for sympathy, and we’re not asking for any special favors. All we’re asking is that you be fair. To everyone. And that you remember those all-important words—beyond a reasonable doubt. Thank you very much.”

Ben took his seat. He glanced at Leeman. His eyes were focused on Ben, watching, considering.

“Well, it’s late,” the judge said. “Let’s call it a day. We’ll start tomorrow at nine with the prosecution’s first witness. The jury is cautioned not to discuss the case with anyone”—he glanced out into the gallery—“including the press. Court is adjourned.”

The sheriff’s men escorted Leeman back into custody. Even before the judge was out of the courtroom, Ben found minicams and microphones shoved in his face.

“Mr. Kincaid, what’s your reaction to the prosecution’s claim that they have a videotaped confession?”

“It isn’t true,” Ben replied.

“And what about the blood on his hands?”

“That’s not conclusive—”

“And the jewelry? What about the jewel—”

Ben pushed the reporters out of his face. “Look, let’s let the case be tried in the courtroom, and you guys figure out some other way to beat Wheel of Fortune in the ratings, okay?”

Idiot, he muttered to himself as he plowed through the mob. Now he would undoubtedly be painted as the obstructionist in the evening-news reports. Ben wanted to kick himself. Reporters could be so annoying, it was easy to forget how easily they could manipulate public opinion.

Ben saw Christina waving to him from the back. She had a getaway car waiting, thank goodness. The sooner they were out of this madhouse, the better.