And Justice for Some

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  “Shit!”

  There was an eruption of nervous laughter at her outburst and then a communal exhalation of relief when a moment later Johnson announced, “And that’s everybody for today. If your name was not called, you have completed your service and are free to go. Proof of service will arrive in the mail within two weeks. If you are on a morning panel, please report to this room at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If you are on an afternoon panel, please report back here at one o’clock today to begin your service. If you’re looking to kill some time down here—the one kind of killing that’s not a felony—you might want to explore Chinatown or Little Italy. I hear there’s a sale at Pearl River Mart.”

  Isobel stayed pressed against the wall as waves of discharged jurors jostled to the entrance, eager to put as much distance as possible between themselves and jocular Johnson. Isobel, reeling from her near miss, let them go by.

  The last name picked. How was it possible that she had made it to the bitter end, only to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory?

  “When is my luck going to change?” she groaned aloud. She turned to a willowy redhead who was stuffing a glossy magazine into her bulging messenger bag. “At least there’s a sale, right?”

  “There’s always a sale at Pearl River,” the redhead said, picking her way gingerly over Isobel’s wet umbrella.

  Figures, Isobel thought. Even my luck isn’t luck.

  In the crowded elevator, another juror was loudly singing the praises of a restaurant on Mott Street, so Isobel followed him there and took a table by herself in the corner. The premises trod the line between unprepossessing and ready to be repossessed, but the food was cheap and surprisingly tasty, and Isobel found herself marginally cheered. By the time she returned to the courthouse, the rain was letting up, and she decided to interpret these small omens as incentive to make the best of her situation. After all, she was stuck. No excuse yet invented by man (or presumably woman) would spring her now. Well, as Percival liked to say, she’d either have a great experience or a great story to tell.

  She filed through security and made her way back to the courtroom, which didn’t seem quite as intimidating as it had earlier. The court officers seemed more relaxed, and the jurors resigned to their fate. They rose for the entrance of Judge Charles Alexander Brodhead, a handsome, square-jawed man who reminded Isobel of John Cleese. Judge Brodhead divided the jurors into three panels and swore them in. Isobel found herself assigned to the same group as the snooty redhead (Chloe) and the man with the long eyelashes (Lazaro). They were led away to a new room, and Isobel’s heart sank when she saw the airless, charmless institutional cube she’d be calling home for the next month. She started to sit but was stopped by a court officer.

  “Assigned seats,” he said. “Wait until everyone is here, please.”

  The last few people trickled in, and the court officer called their names and arranged them in the jury box. Isobel found herself in the last row between Chloe and Lazaro.

  “Thank God,” Chloe murmured.

  “Why?”

  “I hear you can sort of read and do stuff if you’re in the last row. But not if you’re up front.”

  Lazaro gave a disapproving frown, but Isobel was happy to hear it. She pulled out her phone and opened her email, but before she could scan her inbox, a short man with a rabbit face stepped forward, introduced himself as the grand jury warden, and explained the ground rules.

  The sessions would be run not by a judge, but by a prosecutor, who would introduce evidence and produce witnesses when possible. The defendant might or might not be present, but in no case would anybody speak for the defense. The only exception was if the accused wanted to speak for him or herself. The job of the jury was to indict if it was determined that the defendant was the right person to be formally accused of the crime.

  “Any questions?” asked the warden.

  Isobel’s hand shot into the air. “If we determine that the defendant should be indicted, how is that different from deciding he or she is guilty? I mean, if we think the person is innocent, we’re not going to indict, and if we think they’re not, we will. So obviously, on some level, we are making a determination about guilt or innocence.”

  The warden smiled indulgently. “No, the burden of proof in the grand jury is the preponderance of the evidence and reasonable cause. In a trial, you’re deciding beyond a reasonable doubt as to guilt.”

  “But if there’s enough evidence to file charges, doesn’t that mean there’s enough evidence to convict?” Isobel asked.

  “There may still be reasonable doubt, but that is different from reasonable cause.”

  “Just don’t,” Chloe warned under her breath.

  Isobel turned to her, affronted. “Why? I want to know.”

  Chloe shook her head in disgust and pulled a magazine from her bag.

  “You don’t have to make a definitive determination,” the warden continued with studied patience. “In a trial, there would be considerably more evidence and, most importantly, a defense presented. Here, you’re only going to hear one side, the prosecutor’s.”

  “Well, that’s totally unfair,” Isobel said. “Why don’t we hear from the defense?”

  “Because that would confuse the issue. The issue is not guilt or innocence—it’s probable cause. Unless you have any further questions…” He glanced at his attendance sheet. “…Ms. Spice, I suggest you trust the system that our founding fathers put in place and just lie back and think of America.”

  “Oh, snap,” Chloe said, idly turning a page.

  Lazaro leaned over to Isobel and whispered, “I am glad you asked that question.”

  Isobel smiled gratefully at him.

  “If you have a question during the proceedings, signal to the assistant district attorney, and she will hear your question privately,” the warden continued. “If she deems it to be relevant, she will query the witness.”

  Isobel’s phone buzzed in her hand. She looked down and saw a text from Delphi.

  Call me asap re judge.

  “There is absolutely no cell phone use while the court is in session,” the warden called out.

  Isobel ignored him and typed furiously: Can’t. Text me.

  “Ms. Spice! I’m talking to you.” The warden loomed over the end of her row. “If you don’t put your phone away right now, the court will confiscate it until the end of your service.”

  “But this is urgent, I—”

  The warden held out his hand.

  “Okay, okay!”

  Isobel stuffed it into her bag.

  “Turn it off, please.”

  Cursing every single thing about her day, she retrieved her phone, powered down, and threw it back in her bag with a force she immediately regretted.

  The warden returned to the front of the room. “We will now bring in the assistant district attorney and the defendant, who, in this case, has elected to appear.”

  Chloe pulled her magazine out from under her. “Get us all in trouble, why don’t you,” she muttered.

  But Isobel didn’t respond. She was staring at the two people who had just entered the courtroom. One was the ADA, a tall, curvaceous woman in a red power suit.

  The other was Peter Catanzaro.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  After the shock wore off, two thoughts wrestled for dominance in Isobel’s mind. The first was that being a witness to the crime had to be the only excuse not yet known to man that could get you off grand jury. How could she possibly render an impartial judgment? She had information none of the other jurors had. Her second thought was that this was luck of a spectacularly different order than the unfortunate annoyances she’d battled since she first pulled the jury duty summons off her door. The temptation to recuse herself vanished as she recognized the gift she’d been handed: a prime seat as the case she’d been trying desperately to solve wrapped itself up right in front of her. Now, that was luck.

  She couldn’t let Peter see her, at least not until she’d ha
d a chance to hear the prosecution’s case. Landing in the back row was another stroke of luck. She slumped down as far as she could in her seat, which, fortunately, was behind a rather wide, grandmotherly black woman. The ADA stepped forward.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Assistant District Attorney Helen Foster.” She gestured to Peter. “Peter Catanzaro stands before you accused of killing Judge Willard Harrison on the night of September fifteenth. The county feels it has sufficient evidence to bring a charge of murder against Mr. Catanzaro. I would like to present the first witness, Detective Paul Vitelli.”

  Vitelli entered the room, and Isobel sank down farther in her seat as he was sworn in.

  “Please explain your involvement in this case,” Foster instructed.

  “I was called to the scene of the crime, and I’ve been running the investigation.”

  “Can you give the jury some background?”

  Vitelli nodded. “Mr. Catanzaro has two careers. He’s a criminal defense attorney, but he’s also a theatrical producer. Relevant to this case, he produces an interactive murder mystery dinner show that he also directs and stars in. If you’re not familiar with this type of entertainment…”

  “Oh, I’m familiar with it,” Isobel muttered. Chloe shot her a curious look.

  “…actors masquerade as guests at an event, until one or more of them are ‘killed.’” He used air quotes for emphasis. “After audience members try to guess whodunit, Mr. Catanzaro reveals the solution. His company was hired to perform at a dinner honoring Judge Willard Harrison at The Hostelry in Central Park on the night in question. He accepted the assignment, because he knew the judge from his years defending juvenile offenders. Knew him and resented him. Hated him, in fact. Why? Because he lost many cases in front of Harrison.”

  Isobel snuck a glance at Peter. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched. She wondered why he was present when he wasn’t required to be.

  Vitelli continued, “His hatred ran so deep that he used Harrison’s son to get hired for the event. Harrison’s son is also an actor, and Catanzaro hired him for two reasons: one, to ensure his company was hired, and two, so he could frame Andrew Harrison for his father’s murder. And it almost worked.”

  Isobel’s fellow jurors were listening keenly, soaking up every word. But so far Vitelli’s case made no sense to Isobel. For one thing, she knew why Peter resented Harrison, and it went far beyond a losing streak. Did Vitelli even know that Harrison had sent his own kid to jail? Did he know about Empire State at all? And, most importantly, did he know about Harrison’s financial interest in it? Besides, she knew how Peter had gotten the gig: Maggie had found him online. Why would she lie about that?

  “On the night in question, Mr. Catanzaro made a very unusual curtain speech,” Vitelli continued. “He announced that if the guests saw someone waving a gun, they should do nothing. They should not alert anybody, and they should not try to disarm the person. He claims that the reason for this announcement was to keep the guests safe, because the only people waving guns would be actors, and furthermore, while the guns were real, they were loaded with blanks.” He paused for effect. “Except one of the guns had a bullet. And Mr. Catanzaro was holding it.”

  Isobel blinked. Was he? Was it as simple as that? Her eyes had been fixed on Delphi so they could time the shot off each other. Isobel suddenly realized she couldn’t picture where Peter had been standing when it happened.

  “The actual murder was very carefully timed with the climactic moment of the show. Just before the pretend murderer’s gun went off, Mr. Catanzaro fired his weapon and hit the judge. With the play going on at the same time, it took a moment before the guests realized that a real murder had taken place.”

  Vitelli cast a satisfied look at the jury. Isobel followed his glance and saw they were riveted. This was clearly going to be a slam dunk.

  “Thank you, Detective Vitelli. You may step down,” said Foster. “I’d like to call the next witness, Officer José Gonzalez.”

  The two policemen didn’t acknowledge each other as they traded places. Foster returned to the prosecution table and picked up a plastic evidence bag. It contained a revolver.

  “Officer Gonzalez, you vouchered this weapon.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You recovered it, sealed it, and sent it to the lab for testing. To whom is this gun registered?”

  “Peter Catanzaro.”

  “Were there fingerprints on it?”

  “There were.”

  “And whose were they?”

  “His—and nobody else’s.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The jurors began to buzz among themselves, but Isobel sat back, stunned into silence. Peter had lied. He’d had another weapon with him all along. Of course he had shot the judge. As Officer Gonzalez read out the lab report, Isobel tried to process what she’d just heard. Who else would have been able to time the murder so exactly? This gun was clearly not a derringer. But where had he hidden it during his interview with the police? He had turned over his weapons bag, and the police had searched it—and him—and found nothing.

  “Please explain how it was recovered,” Foster asked Gonzalez.

  “It was recovered from the home of Andrew Harrison, son of the deceased.”

  “And how did you come to find it?”

  “Harrison had been brought in for questioning. When he returned home, he discovered the gun in his closet. He turned it in immediately.”

  “Thank you.”

  Foster dismissed him and flashed a toothy smile at the warden, who was staring at her with open admiration and a tiny drip of drool starting down the side of his chin. She tugged her tight-fitting suit jacket down and smoothed her hands over her hips as she turned to the jury.

  “Consider that Mr. Catanzaro had motive, means, and opportunity. Even witnesses who may have seen him holding the gun didn’t register it, having been instructed—by him—not to pay any attention. Remember The Wizard of Oz? Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Except just as in the movie, when Toto pulls aside the curtain and reveals the pathetic old man pretending to be the Wizard, one witness did see through the charade. When all other eyes were on the two actors in the scene, one person’s eye was on Mr. Catanzaro and saw him shoot. I am now going to present that witness.”

  Isobel sat up as much as she dared and peeked around the side of the ample grandmother’s head. She wasn’t sure who she was expecting to walk through the door, but it certainly wasn’t Jack.

  “State your name,” said the warden.

  “Jack Haber.”

  “Do you solemnly swear that in the testimony you are about to give before this grand jury, you will speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  “Mr. Haber, please tell us what you saw at The Hostelry on the night of September fifteenth.”

  Jack cleared his throat and looked around. Isobel rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and shaded her face.

  “Um, I’m a musician? And I’ve played a lot of gigs with Peter, um, Mr. Catanzaro?”

  He was speaking in the uncertain uptalk of a nervous teenager. Isobel thought he didn’t sound like himself at all.

  “I was…we, the band, I mean…we were on a break for that part of the play? And, um, the way it worked was that the actors did a scene and then the restaurant served a course of the meal, and we played while they ate. Anyway, during this one part, the others went outside for a smoke, but I stayed to watch the show. The dining room was like a big semicircle, so most people were watching the actors in the middle of the room. One of them was waving a gun and threatening the other, and I think because it was two girls, even people who were kind of bored started paying attention.”

  He paused, and Isobel glanced up. He was staring at his hands, which were writhing in his lap. Then he exhaled heavily and continued with more confidence.

  “I still can’t explain what made me look over at Peter, bu
t I did. He was standing next to a huge plant behind the judge’s table, and he had his gun out. But I’d seen the show before a bunch of times, and I knew that he needed it for the next part, the shoot-out, so I didn’t really think about it.”

  Next to Isobel, Lazaro crossed himself. “Shoot-out? God help us.”

  Jack continued, “But then I saw him squeeze the trigger. And there was that rebound that happens when a gun goes off. He jerked back just a bit. Then he was running toward the middle of the room like everyone else.”

  “Ask him when he told the police what he saw,” Isobel whispered to Lazaro.

  Lazaro looked down at her in surprise. “You ask.”

  “I can’t. Just…please.”

  Lazaro shrugged and put up his hand.

  Foster came over and took Lazaro’s question. “When did you tell the police?” she asked Jack.

  “Um…two days ago.”

  Foster frowned. “Why did you wait so long?”

  “I didn’t register what I’d seen right away. And then…I mean, Peter’s a friend. It was hard, you know? I had to be sure.”

  Lazaro elbowed Isobel, who nodded absently. She was thinking about something Jack had said. She closed her eyes and tried to recreate the moment before the shot. She didn’t remember noticing where Jack was. In fact, the only time she remembered him at all was when he and the drummer were setting up next to the piano. Then she hadn’t laid eyes on him again until the night she and Delphi went to hear Hugh play—

  Her eyes flew open and she gasped. She grabbed Lazaro’s sleeve, and he jumped.

  “Ask what instrument he plays,” she hissed. Lazaro shook his head, bewildered. “Please,” she begged.

  “Is there a problem in the back row?” the warden asked.

  Isobel knocked her bag to the floor, then bent down and addressed the bottom of Lazaro’s chair as forcefully as she dared. “Please! I promise I’ll explain in a minute.”

  “Er…I was wondering what instrument he plays,” Lazaro said sheepishly.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Foster walked away.