Lassiter

54 An Army of Assassins

“Oye, oye, oye. The 11th Judicial Circuit is now in session. Judge Melvia Duckworth presiding.”

Everyone scrambled up, and Her Honor breezed through a back door, robes flying like an untrimmed sail. Judge Melvia Duckworth was an African-American woman in her fifties who had been an army captain, handling court-martials as a JAG lawyer. I liked her, mainly because she let lawyers try their cases without too much interference, and she hadn’t yet said the magic words: “Mr. Lassiter, you are hereby held in contempt.…”

The judge wore a white, filagreed rabat at her neck, giving her the appearance of a member of the clergy. She wished everyone good morning and instructed the bailiff to bring in the jurors.

Next to me, Amy had the pallor common to inmates and barflies but did not seem nervous or agitated. Going on trial for murder apparently agreed with her. She wore a prim little business suit. Charcoal gray. White blouse with a little bow. The outfit shouted “innocent.” I always want my clients well dressed and well groomed. I could have walked Charles Manson if he’d had a haircut and a Band-Aid covering the swastika on his forehead.

Sometimes I use props. Bibles and rosary beads are my old reliables. I’ll put a wedding band on a male client to create the impression that someone loves him. I’ll take a wedding band off a female client if someone on the jury might want to bone her.

It was time for opening statements. The lawyers’ first speech is a window into the way two officers of the court can take the same facts and draw opposite conclusions. If Castiel were trying Goldilocks for burglary, he might tell the jury: “The defendant, with callous disregard for the property rights of others, sneaked into a private home, and, like the gluttonous hooligan she is, ate all the porridge, leaving the rightful owners to go hungry.”

Whereas I might say: “A desperate and hungry little girl, intending no harm, sought refuge and sustenance in an open and inviting house.”

It had taken four days to pick a jury, a dozen citizens, good and true. Castiel gave them his trial smile and intoned, “First, I want to thank all of you for coming down here and devoting your time and effort to your community.”

Because if you ignored the jury summons, I’d have you arrested.

He spent three or four precious minutes waving the flag and telling the jurors how wonderful they were. True blue Americans and all of that.

“What I’m about to say to you is not evidence,” Castiel continued.

A lot of lawyers start that way. I don’t know why. It’s like telling the jurors they don’t have to listen. I wondered if Castiel might be a little rusty. These days, he only prosecuted a couple cases a year, attaching himself to high-publicity trials like a lamprey to a shark.

“The evidence that you will consider,” Castiel was saying, “will come to you from the witness stand and in demonstrative exhibits from the crime scene. What I’m doing now, and what Mr. Lassiter will do when I sit down, is give you a preview of each of our cases.”

Thanks, Alex, but I’m not gonna give them a “preview.” I’m gonna start indoctrinating them with the theme of my case.

What’s a theme? Lawyers used to say it’s a telegram, the short, punchy summary of your case. No one uses telegrams anymore, so I suppose it’s a twitter, or a tweet, or whatever you call it. To construct your theme, you deconstruct your case. Pull it apart brick by brick until you’re left with the barest structure. The marketing whizzes who write movie taglines know how to do this.

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Or … “Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water.”

Castiel stood three feet in front of the jury box. Close enough to demand their attention without spraying the front row with spittle. “This case involves an obsessed woman who stalked a man she wrongly believed had harmed her sister, then in an attempt to kill him, shot and murdered another man.”

“Obsessed.” “Stalked.” “Shot.” The thematic words Castiel would hammer throughout the trial.

I patted Amy on the arm just to let her know nothing Castiel said concerned me. To let the jury know, too. In reality, the State Attorney had everything he needed for conviction. Eyewitness testimony. Fingerprints. Ballistics.

What did Amy have? An ex-jock mouthpiece who didn’t necessarily believe her story.

“You will hear from an eyewitness, Charles Ziegler, a respected businessman and philanthropist.” Castiel was rolling now. “Mr. Ziegler was the intended victim, and he witnessed the shooting. He will tell you under oath that he saw this woman, Amy Larkin, fire the fatal shot.”

Castiel pointed at Amy, as prosecutors are inclined to do. J’ accuse! Amy didn’t blink and she didn’t turn away. She didn’t look angry and she didn’t look scared. She merely stared back at Castiel, her head cocked a bit, as if listening to a fairly interesting discussion that did not involve her personally.

“You will be presented with evidence that the defendant stalked Mr. Ziegler. You will hear from a fingerprint expert who will identify conclusive matches, placing the defendant at the scene of the shooting. You will see cigarette butts bearing the defendant’s DNA that were found on a construction site adjacent to the crime scene. And you will hear from a ballistics expert who will testify that …”

While Castiel pounded away, I took inventory of the jury. I was reasonably happy with our Dirty Dozen. I landed five women, three in their twenties, a pedicurist, a homemaker mother of twins, and a colon hydrotherapist. I didn’t ask the last one any detailed questions about her work.

Another woman, a pharmaceutical rep, was a striking redhead in a short skirt. Drug companies like their salespeople young, female, and pretty. The final woman wore safari khakis and worked as a python wrangler, clearing the snakes out of neighborhood canals.

The seven men included two retirees, a guy who drove a Doritos truck, two wannabe actors, both waiting tables. One man was unemployed, and another said he was a life coach, a term neither Don Shula nor Joe Paterno ever used.

Castiel picked up steam, repeating his key words, “obsessed,” “stalked,” and “shot” a few times. When I got my turn, I would talk about Amy as little as possible and the two pals, Perlow and Ziegler, a lot. My key phrase would be “an army of assassins,” which I hoped would perk up the jurors’ ears.

“Enemies, criminals, and assassins. That’s who could have lurked outside Charlie Ziegler’s windows that fateful night. Max Perlow was a lifelong gangster with deep connections in organized crime. Charles Ziegler spent years as a pornographer, a world crawling with crime and corruption. These men made enemies. Yes, there could have been an army of assassins lurking in those bushes that night.”

Before I could give that spiel, Castiel had to finish, and he seemed to be having too much fun to stop.

“Remember that no one piece of evidence is conclusive of guilt or innocence,” the State Attorney was saying. “Think of your favorite recipe.”

Gin, vermouth, olive … if you’re talking to me.

“Take strawberry shortcake. If you just eat the dry cake, it’s not all that tasty. Add the strawberries and we’re getting there. But it’s the whipped cream that ties it all together. Please wait until the whipped cream is on top before reaching any conclusions.”

Castiel sat down, and the judge said, “This seems like a propitious time for our lunch recess.”