During voir dire, when he got to talk informally to prospective jurors before they were empaneled, he took great care to smile at each and when an opportunity arose during the trial, to wink or smile when he felt he’d made a killing point, even when he just wanted the juror to think he had.
His last birthday was his 55th, though he’d quit celebrating
years before. His celebrations came after each case that he won. He was called an adrenaline junkie and didn’t try to deny it.
After each of his divorces, he vowed to try and focus more energy onto his wives. He never made it.
Chapter 3
He took a mug of coffee to the table and sat down. The smell of BO curled through the smell of coffee and toast and followed him to the table. He only bathed when he wasn’t too depressed, Haunted by ghosts from his past, his moods ranged from very depressed to looking-for-the-razor-blades depressed. The past week, his mood had hovered above the latter.
The woman caught a whiff. “Uh, you mind if I open a window?”
He gestured with his head toward a window. “Not used to having human guests. Cat doesn’t mind,” he said with a gesture in the cat’s direction. He’d finished the breakfast Matt had dished up and was strolling toward a chair in the living room to sleep out his day.
Matt wore his clothes, including pajamas until, he liked to say, “They can stand by themselves.” While that wasn’t entirely accurate, it expressed how he felt. He reminded himself it might be time to take a shower and wash his clothes. Taking initiative was taking responsibility, something he had not done in a long time.
He’d make an exception for the girl though. It seemed the right thing to do.
She opened the window and returned to the table. “The bartender told me your name, Matt Dawson. I thought it sounded familiar. About two this morning, I remembered who you are. You’re the lawyer who handled the Schofield woman’s case.”
Without looking up, he said, “Yeah. I was him. Burned out beyond redemption now. A nobody. If I’d had any guts, I’d have killed myself. Just waiting ’round to die now.”
“That sounds a bit harsh to me.” She wanted to say an “overreaction” but decided on diplomacy instead. “She killed her husband. Nobody expected her to get off. The jurors said you did a masterful job. I read about it in the Union.”
“Yeah. Well, the trial drained me dry, masterful or not.” He’d inexplicably collapsed shortly after the verdict was read and went into an emotional tailspin. He ended up on disability which, with his 401k, he’d been living on since. That was two-and-a-half years ago. Except for the bartender at the Irish Pub, Cat and an old friend, Carter, he’d barely said two words to anybody since.
His old Mercedes sat surrounded by weeds in the front yard. It hadn’t been started in years. It was a hard top convertible but he’d never had the hard top off. He walked wherever he needed to go, which usually involved either the grocery store, liquor store or the pub.
When the woman, who had introduced herself as Cynthia, got up to get another cup of coffee, his thoughts flashed back to the time just before the Schofield trial began, the case that changed his life; destroyed would have been a better description.
*****
His cell phone rang. Only a few people had that number so he answered it right away. “Matt Dawson,” he said.
“Mr. Dawson, I’m Jennifer Schofield, La Jolla-”
Matt interrupted. “Yes, I see your picture in the Light from time to time … with your husband, Dr. Schofield.” Like most, he referred to the La Jolla Light, the local newspaper, as the Light.
Her husband, Aaron Schofield, specialized in cosmetic surgery. He kept all the wealthy people in La Jolla looking beautiful and was in great demand at all the important social functions, especially those seeking donations for causes. She was also a doctor, Internal Medicine, he knew from newspaper reports. And quite good at it from all accounts.
After a pause, she continued, “That’s why I’m calling … about my husband. I shot him last night.”
“You what!” She said it so calmly he could hardly believe he’d heard it correctly.
“I shot him. Killed him. Can I come in to see you? I need a good lawyer.”
An understatement if I ever heard one.
She hadn’t reported it yet. His body was on the living room floor in their home. “He was … he was bleeding. It was all over the floor.” she said, sniffing. “I see lots of blood as a doctor, but seeing Aaron like that…it was ghastly. I didn’t know what to do. I think I panicked. I spent the night with a friend.”
He’d meet her at his office in thirty minutes.
*****
His office was an old Mediterranean-styled residence he’d converted into offices, a couple of streets off Girard Avenue in downtown La Jolla. With alley access and a parking garage at the rear, clients could come and go unobserved to talk about their troubles. Wealthy La Jolla clients didn’t want it known that they had legal problems, especially drinking or drugs; now and then spousal abuse.
It was early May, still cool with enough showers to keep things green. Jacaranda trees, interspersed with taller Torrey Pines, bloomed purple along both sides of the street. A huge ornamental fig grew in the front yard of his office and covered the building in shade most of the day. Its tangled trunk, gnarled roots and hanging vines caught the eyes of people strolling past.
Almost 30 minutes later, she walked in wearing snug-fitting blue jeans and a white pullover blouse. Her long auburn hair was frazzled and looked hastily parted in the middle to frame her milk- white oval face. The strands brushed her shoulders, adding to her youthful look. Her eyes were bloodshot red; her face strained and
tired but she was composed, something he had not expected from her screaming description of her late husband’s body.
He stood to greet her. He was a bit over six foot with the beginnings of a stomach some men got at his age. She was several inches shorter. Probably five eight, kind of tall for a woman, but it doesn’t hurt her at all. Damn good shape. Must exercise.
He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and had barely combed his hair before meeting her. Both were common practices for him and a way for him to relax between trials.
Looks like the girl next door, sweet and innocent and feminine to the core. Soft, ocean blue eyes. Sure as hell fills that blouse!
He realized his jaw had dropped momentarily. It was unconscious. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. The momentary smile on her face told him she had.
Her pictures in the Light didn’t come close to doing her justice. Based on his memory of when he first noticed her professional sign on Girard, he figured she was at least 45 but no one would have argued if she’d claimed 35. He could see why Schofield would have wanted her as a wife.
A trophy with a pedigree. He hadn’t seen many women as appealing as her. In fact, none. I’ve been representing too many drug dealers, he thought ruefully.
“Sit down, please,” he said with a gesture toward a chair in front of his desk. “Mind if I tape this?” The recorder was on his desk.
She didn’t. He turned it on.
She pulled her hair back to show the bruise on the left side of her face, at the hairline above her ear.
“That where he hit you?” He pointed at the bruise. Evidence to support her claim that she felt threatened. Puts self-defense on the table.
“He hit me with his cell phone. It wasn’t the first time either.
I took pictures of the bruises with my phone and downloaded them
to my computer.” Her voice was shrill and verged on tears.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll get a picture of that one. Get the others printed for me.” He pulled a camera from his desk and snapped several from different angles, close up, and dated.
The DA may object since she took them, but I should be able to get them in, Matt thought. Judge’ll give me some latitude in a murder case. They may have some probative value.
“Tell me what happened,” he said
with a hand gesture. “Start anywhere.”
“Well, he’s been sleeping with his assistant for the past year, likely closer to two. She calls herself a physician’s assistant. I’ve never seen her wearing a bra. No wonder he was tempted.”
Matt made notes as she talked, his habit.
Jennifer sighed and continued. “She’s not the first he’s slept with, either. That’s the only kind he hired, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know why he gets married. He uses wives as a convenience when nobody else is available. And, he gets upset, like it’s our fault, if we object. One nurse called me for money to pay for her abortion, like somehow I was in on it. Can you believe that?” She wiped tears from her eyes with a handkerchief.
Matt recalled the gossip around town that Scofield never turned down a carnal invitation from anyone with a “good body and good tits.” And, according to the same gossip, he got plenty of invitations. He was on the short side at five seven, with a surfer’s build which he maintained by regularly surfing the waves off La Jolla’s beaches. The Light described him as suave, sophisticated and, devilishly charming with golden brown eyes that wilted women and intimidated men.
Adding to his charm, were a neatly trimmed mustache and beard and “bushy” sandy brown hair that had a reddish tint in the
bright sun. He kept it cut short and let it flop about where it wanted, unruly and undisciplined. Kind of like the good doctor.
“Did he threaten you when you objected?”
She shook her head. “Not only threatened, he got physical if we really got into it. His ex-wives told me they went through the same thing."
"When did you decide you'd had enough?”
“A few months ago. I told him I wanted a divorce. He shook me by the shoulders and threw me down. Sometimes he would slap me around. When he hit me it was usually on the shoulders, nothing that would show.” She scoffed.
Matt replied, “Hmm,” and gestured for her to continue.
“He choked me a couple of weeks ago. I thought he was going to kill me that time. He said he would if I didn’t move out of ‘his house’.” Her voice had dropped into what was probably her usual pattern, calming, gentle, almost melodic. Matt felt himself being mesmerized by it.
Great for a doctor. And, I’ll sure as hell put her on the stand. If she can mesmerize me, she’ll mesmerize the jurors.
“Is it his?” he asked. “The house?”
It was, although a pre-nuptial agreement gave her an ownership interest in the house and other property depending on how long they were married. After their marriage, she’d sold her condo and used most of the proceeds to pay down his mortgage. She had also put her money into his other investments.
“Did you believe him? About killing you?”
“Goodness yes! I could hardly see patients I was so upset. I took tranquilizers to get through the day. It was the first time I’d ever used anything like that. I hated them. I felt groggy all day.”
“Did you see anyone about it? A psychiatrist?”
“No.”
He wished she had.
“I bought a gun instead. It made me feel safer. A twenty-five automatic. That’s what I shot him with.” She touched her handbag to indicate she’d brought it.
“I don’t remember pulling the trigger. But I saw him on the
floor and the gun was in my hand.”
He couldn’t help but wonder if that was the truth or a recitation of her research. But, as her lawyer, I know she’s telling the truth! Absolutely!
“Why’d he come to the house? Were you expecting him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know why he did. Most likely he came to argue about the divorce settlement our lawyers had been working on. He wanted me to give the house to him and waive alimony and my rights to other properties! I didn’t mind waiving alimony - I make decent money - but nothing else. We’d been going back and forth for weeks. Each time we talked about it, he got more and more angry. It got to where I was afraid to talk to him. My lawyer said we’d let the court decide. He didn’t want to do that.”
“Knew he’d lose.”
“That’s what my lawyer said.”
“What time did he come by?” Matt asked.
“Must have been around ten. I was getting ready for bed.”
“Pretty late.” He made a note.
“He was like that. I heard a noise and went to see what it was. I figured it was him. He had a key and was always barging in. Did what he wanted, when he wanted. I should have changed the locks. I wish I had. I didn’t know for sure it was him, however and went downstairs to check. I was scared.”
“With your gun?”
“Yes.” Her look said, Of course.
“You saw him. Then what?”
“He started cursing me.” She sniffed and wiped more tears from her eyes. “He called me a greedy bitch. I’ve never heard so many curse words. He kept poking his finger at my face. Next thing I knew, I was looking down at him on the floor. He didn’t move. I checked for a pulse. He didn’t have one.”
“You remember nothing? Like, him hitting you?”
“Not really. I just remember being scared when he was cursing me. I was sure he was going to hit me. Then, I saw him dead and had the gun in my hand and felt a throb on the side of my head. I assumed he hit me with his cell phone. He had it in his hand when I first saw him.”
“We’ll have to give the gun to the police. And, you’ll have to surrender. I don’t suppose you’ve called them?”
“No. I figured you’d know what to do.” She pulled the automatic from her handbag and lay it on the edge of his desk. There was a red mark on her index finger. It also looked swollen.
“How’d that happen?” he asked.
She shook her head as if puzzled. “I don’t know. I just noticed it myself. I guess he tried to take the gun away from me.”
“Hmm.” He picked it up with his handkerchief and put it in a desk drawer. “You stayed with a friend, you said?”
She nodded and gave him a name and telephone number.
His first reaction was that it was an insensitive thing to do, let her dead husband stay on the floor all night, but as he let it play through his mind, he thought it went to the state of her mind. She was so upset and distraught by the event, she didn’t know what she was doing. Taken like that, it was normal. That’s how I’ll spin it to the jury. Her defense was beginning to take shape.
*****
He called Carter Nelson, an investigator he used, and asked if he’d check out the house before the police got there. Afterward he could get the “friend’s” story.
Jennifer was released by the judge without having to post a bond pending an investigation. In agreeing to the release without bond, the DA assumed that she had likely acted in self-defense and
would be acquitted for that reason. Not only that, her medical
practice was plenty enough reason for her not to leave town.
Chapter 4
A noise brought Matt back to the present. He suddenly became aware that his house guest, Cynthia, was staring at him. She had gotten herself a fresh mug of coffee. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t seen her get up.
She glanced at the CD player. Shostakovich’s Second Waltz was still playing.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “Just remembering when it started, the case.” He took a sip of coffee and a bite of the roll he’d placed on the bare table beside his mug.
“Do you mind talking about it?” she asked. “I’d love to know the inside story. You refused all interviews after the trial. It was a monumental trial and you won. Most attorneys would have loved to talk about it.”
He shook his head to agree. “I could barely think straight. Worn out tired, frankly. I didn’t have another staged appearance in me. You know, saying the expected.”
She looked at him expectantly.
He saw her face, grimaced and said, “I guess I can talk about it. It’s been awhile.”
She said she understoo
d but from the look on her face, he wondered if she did.
How could she begin to know? Unless she knew, like everybody else in this damned town.
He breathed loudly and began the story. “The DA charged her with murder one. She’d bought a gun and told a friend she would kill Schofield if he barged into the house one more time. That night, someone called Schofield and told him a man was sleeping in his bed with his wife.”
“That’d be enough to make any man mad.”
“The DA said she’d had someone make the call so he’d charge
in and make threats. Lying in wait for him was what the DA was postulating. Premeditation - solid grounds for first degree murder. She testified that she was getting ready for bed with her bedroom lights on but the neighbors said they saw no lights anywhere until after Schofield drove up and they heard the first shot. More evidence, according to the DA, that she was waiting for him. I undercut that testimony some on cross examination - they admitted that they weren’t paying close attention to the lights - but the testimony was there.”
“Sounds like a strong case,” she said.
“He thought so. The second problem I had was that Schofield was shot twice. The first shot was a flesh wound to his arm. Five or six feet away. The shot that killed him, the second shot, was to the back of his head, Closer. The DA said that was proof that she was no longer under a threat, if she ever had been, so no self-defense. That was pretty much his case. I played it as proof that she had lapsed into insanity.”
“I think I remember that. You tore into the friend who said the Schofield woman said she’d kill her husband, got her to admit that she’d slept with Dr. Schofield after he’d lifted her face and breasts. The ex-wives didn’t exactly back her story that Schofield had been violent toward them. But, according to the newspaper reports, you made them admit he was physical and that they often felt threatened.”
That La Jolla Lawyer Page 2
