The Letter Of The Law

by Tim Green

  Casey paid no outward attention to the judge. She simply stared right back at Sales without blinking, then abruptly switched tracks. "You didn't like for your daughter to have boyfriends, did you, Mr. Sales?"

  "Objection," Hopewood said. "Marcia Sales's boyfriends are irrelevant. The presumption that Professor Lipton fit that description is just that, a presumption."

  "I'm allowing it," Rawlins said.

  "He wasn't her boyfriend, you…" Sales muttered a rancid word under his breath. Casey looked pointedly at Rawlins. The judge's pride in having total control of the courtroom superseded even his animosity toward her.

  "You will answer the questions, Mr. Sales," he said firmly. "And I've already told you that I will not allow another outburst from you in my courtroom."

  "You didn't want her to have boyfriends, did you?" Casey repeated.

  "I didn't care," Sales muttered sullenly.

  "Oh no?" Casey said, raising one eyebrow. "But you didn't like Professor Lipton, did you?"

  "No."

  "In fact, you hated him, didn't you?"

  "Of course," Sales sneered.

  "And isn't it true that you hated your daughter's last boyfriend as well?"

  "No."

  "No? I'm referring to Frank Castle. Isn't it true that you attacked Mr. Castle one night when you found him alone with your daughter in her apartment?"

  "I didn't attack him. We got into it a little, but I didn't attack him," Sales said.

  "Because isn't it true that you used to sneak around your daughter's apartment looking through her windows at night?"

  "I never did that, not like that, no."

  "No? But you're familiar with Mr. Castle's deposition to the contrary, aren't you?"

  "I saw what he said," Sales said contemptuously. "He was mad when Marcia dumped him. You can't believe what he says. Maybe he was scared because I kept an eye on him."

  "Yes, you did," Casey said triumphantly. "You kept an eye on him and he was afraid. And the same was true with your daughter, wasn't it? You kept an eye on her, too, and she was afraid, wasn't she?"

  "No. She was not. She was never afraid of me."

  Casey looked at him with disbelief, then said, "Isn't it true that on the night you attacked Mr. Castle at your daughter's apartment that you threatened her as well?"

  "That's a lie!"

  "You were mad, isn't that true?" Casey spoke swiftly now, increasing the pace of the examination, hurrying him along.

  "Yes, I was mad."

  "In fact, you were enraged because you didn't want her to have a boyfriend, isn't that right?"

  "That's not true. It was him I didn't like. He was a little, lying, conniving smart-ass."

  "Because he tried to take her away from you, isn't that true?"

  "No. He, he was a bad kid, too smart for his own good."

  "You don't like smart people do you, Mr. Sales? People like Frank Castle and Professor Lipton, they threaten you, isn't that right?"

  "No. They don't threaten me."

  "But you don't like them."

  "Them, those two I don't like, no."

  "So you found your daughter and Mr. Castle alone in her apartment at school," Casey said, pulling up short with her pace, getting him off balance before the final push. "There they were, on the couch. They were kissing and fondling each other, and you burst in on them uninvited. You were enraged at him, and you were enraged at her, too, weren't you, Mr. Sales?"

  "No."

  "Didn't you say, in your rage"-here Casey paused dramatically, returned to her table, and picked up Castle's deposition, flipping the pages and reading to give it even more credibility with the jury-"after you shoved Frank Castle to the floor, didn't you in your rage tell her that if she didn't stop seeing him that you would kill her?"

  Casey glanced at the jury and watched her arrow hit home.

  "I never would have hurt my daughter," Sales growled. "Never."

  "But you said you would kill her, didn't you? Didn't you?" she said quickly.

  Sales hesitated too long before answering, "No."

  Casey let the silence reign. She could feel the jury's eyes boring into Sales.

  "Mr. Sales, let me remind you that you are under oath," Casey said venomously.

  "Objection, Your Honor!" Hopewood barked. "Counsel is badgering the witness. The question has been asked and answered."

  "Sustained. Move on, Ms. Jordan," Rawlins told her.

  Casey paused, again using the silence and allowing the intensity to build before she said clearly, "Mr. Sales, did you ever have sex with your daughter?"

  Sales's face went crimson with rage and he sprang from his seat, cursing Casey in every way he knew how. His own cries were nearly lost in the din of Hopewood screaming his objections and Rawlins bawling for order. The entire courtroom, right down to the jury, had erupted.

  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.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bob Bolinger farmed out two burglaries, an assault, and an arson before he dug into some paperwork on a fifteen-year-old kid who'd been killed execution-style in what appeared to be a drug deal gone bad. It was an uninspiring case because the killer was a kid himself and wouldn't do more than a few years in juvenile lockup before he was out doing it again. He closed the door, opened the window, and smoked his way through it. By the time he was finished, the big clock on the squad room wall told him it was almost time for lunch.

  Bolinger spotted Farnhorst at a desk near the door and invited him for a hot dog on the street. It was a pleasant day outside, and armed with a couple of cans of Pepsi and their dogs, the two detectives found a bench in the green area across the street. The small park was milling with businesspeople who had the same idea.

  "How's your boy?" Bolinger asked.
/>   Farnhorst grinned widely and reeled off his sixteen-year-old's latest accomplishments on his way to the state shot put championship. By the time he finished, the only thing left of Bolinger's dog was a mustard skid on his chin.

  "How about you, Bob?" Farnhorst asked.

  Bolinger lit a cigarette and squinted through the smoke in the direction of the courthouse, where only yesterday Lipton had walked free.

  After a pause during which he'd followed his sergeant's gaze, Farnhorst solemnly said, "You don't want to think about that shit, Bob. You gotta forget about it. You told me that same thing yourself. We set 'em up and the DA's gotta knock ' em down. Sometimes they get a strike, sometimes they roll a gutter ball."

  Bolinger looked at Farnhorst, then back toward the courthouse before speaking. "I know that. I know what I'm supposed to do and what I'm supposed to think, but the more I try not to think about it, the more it's on my mind."

  "But what can you do?"

  Bolinger crushed out his smoke and slapped his hands on his knees, then rose from the bench.

  "I can call Dean Wentworth."

  "From the FBI?" Farnhorst asked, standing as well and jump-shooting his trash into the barrel at the other end of the bench.

  "Yeah, I know Dean pretty well," Bolinger said. "The guys in Atlanta hit a wall. Their crime scene was as clean as ours. I spoke to my brother's brother-in-law this morning, and after what happened here, the DA in Atlanta told them to leave it alone. But the FBI, now they could do something about it…"

  Farnhorst shook his head doubtfully and said, "With all those bank robberies in the news, I doubt they're gonna pull someone away to chase this. It was a loser. That's just the way it is. It happens. Come on, Bob, you gotta let it go. It ain't healthy."

  Bolinger squinted up into Farnhorst's eyes and saw real concern. He smiled and patted the big man on the back.

  "Don't worry about me," he said. "I don't have a bunch of kids like you. I need something to worry about… It keeps me going."