by Kenneth Eade
Jack set upon the boring task of following the leads on the neighbors, no matter how cold he thought they were. He had done a background check on each one of them. Gary Goldstein had a minor criminal record back in New York. Seems he had an anger management problem and not only had slapped his wife around a couple of times, he had gotten into it with one of his neighbors in the Queens neighborhood they lived in.
Jack had set up surveillance on Goldstein. It was pretty uneventful during the daytime. He went to his nine to five office job in a Santa Barbara accountancy firm, and had lunch every day with a female co-worker. Maybe he was having an affair with her.
He had a few hours today before Goldstein would come home, so he decided to interview Jean Goldstein. Jean was a housewife. One kid was deceased, the other grown, and since then, she never had transitioned from being a mother/housewife to anything else.
“I told everything to the police, Detective Ruder,” she said to Jack.
“I’m a private detective, ma’am. I work for Brent Marks, the defense counsel for Nancy Haskins.”
“Oh, I heard about that. Isn’t it awful? To think that there’s a murderer living in our own development?”
“Exactly, ma’am. We’re just trying to uncover the truth.”
“Well isn’t it pretty clear? I read that she was charged with murder and the judge found her guilty.”
“No ma’am, that was just a preliminary hearing. There’s going to be a murder trial.”
Jean offered Jack a cup of coffee, something that he found impossible to refuse, since he had been living on it night and day during his stakeouts. He learned the story of the death of their son as well as the battle with the Homeowners Association over his memorial. He learned that Jean’s husband, Gary had had a few scrapes with Densmore, and that he had actually threatened her a couple of times. Suddenly, everything started to make sense to Jack. He gingerly pressed her for what she may know about the Densmore case.
Jean didn’t seem to know much of anything about the Densmore murder. Either she was completely innocent, or a pathological liar. In Jack’s business, you could never be sure. Human nature being what it was, the only time you could really be sure you weren’t being lied to was when you were talking to yourself.
As Jack pulled out to head back to Goldstein’s office to pick up the surveillance trail, he noticed Gary Goldstein pulling up. At least he knew where Goldstein would be for at least the next few hours. To avoid being made, he circled around the block, and parked about half a block away and stopped. He sat in his car and killed the time going over the surveillance files he had compiled on all the neighbors. He was already stoked up by the coffee that Jean had served him during their talk. It would be a long night.
* * *
It didn’t take long for Goldstein to be on the move again. He had developed some late night habits, apparently waiting for his wife to go to sleep so he could pursue his affair. All this late night surveillance had also developed some poor late night habits in Jack as well.
Jack followed Goldstein to an apartment complex in Santa Barbara and was munching on a Wendy’s chicken burger when he noticed Goldstein leaving. Jack set the burger down on the passenger seat and took off after Goldstein. Halfway down Garden Street, Goldstein stopped in the middle of the street.
Shit, he made me! Thought Jack to himself. Sure enough, Goldstein slammed his Ford F-250 into reverse, wheels burning against the asphalt, and screeched to a halt inches away from Jack’s bumper. Leaving the car running, he ran to Jack’s car and pounded against the driver’s side window. His wild, chestnut eyes looked empty and his mouth was open so wide, Jack could have sworn Goldstein’s intention was to take a bite out of him, or his car.
“Come on! Come on!” he screamed, saliva spraying from the side of his mouth. Jack jammed his car in reverse and Goldstein ran after it for a couple of seconds, then got back in his car and took chase. After weaving through a couple of streets, Jack either lost the tail or Goldstein gave up.
When Jack got home, he called Brent right away and left a message on his voice mail.
“Hey Brent, it’s Jack. I know you’re probably asleep already but I think I’ve developed a good lead on Gary Goldstein. Maybe we can get together tomorrow night? Give me a call.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brent had sequestered himself in his office to make the last minute preparations. He had organized the entire trial into notebook binders – binders containing all the exhibits, binders with the briefs and jury instructions, and binders with Brent’s direct and cross examination outlines, opening statements and closing arguments. A criminal trial had a higher standard of proof than a civil trial. The state had to prove every element of its case beyond a reasonable doubt, or Nancy would be acquitted. And the verdict of the jury had to be unanimous. All twelve jurors had to vote for a conviction, or Nancy would be acquitted. The jury system was somewhat of an anomaly, like everything else in the law. A defendant put his or her fate in the hands of twelve strangers, who had no legal training, but who were expected to carefully listen to the evidence from two points of view, get a one hour education on what highly complex principles of law to apply to the evidence, and then make a unanimous decision. The lawyers always had a chance to talk to the jury members after a trial was over. After doing it many times, Brent usually opted out because most of the time, nothing they said made any sense. It was ridiculous for Brent to think that twelve people could “turn off’ all their biases and prejudices and make a logical decision based on the evidence they were allowed to hear in the trial. But, however strange it seemed, Brent knew that sometimes you had a better shot with a jury, that body of ones “peers” who make decisions with their emotional brains; especially if your client was guilty.
Nancy was not obligated to say anything; she had the Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination. But Brent knew that the jury would need to hear her side of the story, even though the judge would instruct them that the burden was entirely on the prosecution to prove 100% of its case. It was human nature. He took extra time to prepare Nancy. It almost didn’t matter what she said. She could say anything at all; the jury just had to get a feel for her as a real person; they had to care about her.
Trials for lawyers are like bills. It seems that you finish paying one, and have that feeling of relief, then it’s time to pay it again. It had been a while since Brent’s last criminal trial, but he was confident. It was like swimming – you never really forget how to do it no matter how long it’s been. No clear cut alternative suspects could be presented to the jury, nor he did have any evidence of a frame to present, the D.A.’s case was all based on circumstantial evidence. Brent’s job was to poke as many holes in their case that he could.
* * *
Brent left the office on foot for his meeting with Jack at Sonny’s on downtown State Street. It wasn’t too long a distance and a walk was better than anything to clear the mind for new thoughts.
Sonny’s was always packed. Being at the end of State Street, the cops had parked several squad cars in the neighborhood, perhaps as a deterrent for drunk drivers, or to give them something to do around closing time.
As Brent rolled into Sonny’s, he felt a nostalgic, melancholic feeling. This was the favorite bar of his good friend, Rick Penn, who had been gone for a couple of years now. Rick was also a private detective and ex-FBI man, and they had spent many a night here going over cases, among other things. So, as sad as it may have been, perhaps it was also a good place to work. A lot of ideas had been thrown back and forth between Brent and Rick through the years, and it happened right there at Sonny’s.
Brent found Jack at the bar, looking pretty worn out. Jack smiled as Brent approached and took a seat next to him.
“Hey Brent,” Jack greeted him.
“What’s up Jack, have you solved my case yet?”
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve been running surveillance on Gary Goldstein. I told you he had a minor criminal record in New Yo
rk.”
Brent waved to the bartender and ordered a margarita, and Jack recounted the incident with Goldstein.
“So, anything promising on Mr. Road Rage?” asked Brent.
“Not yet. We’ve got some pretty vivid descriptions of him threatening Densmore, but that’s about it so far.”
“Yeah, well he is from New York.”
“Right. His idea of saying hello is ‘fuck you.’”
The comment made Brent burst out in laughter, and the funniest part was that Jack said it so straight-faced. Brent couldn’t stop laughing and Jack caught the laugh and belly laughed until tears came to his eyes.
“Damn Jack,” said Brent, taking a generous sip from his Margarita, “I honestly didn’t think you had it in you. What’s that you’re drinking, coffee?”
“Yeah, I’m going back to pick up Goldstein’s trail. Can’t drink and drive.”
“Well, I’m taking a cab home, but I’m going to take it easy too. Trial starts tomorrow.”
“I’ll get something. I never give up.”
“I know, Jack.”
Brent paid the bar tab, they both got up from the bar, and Brent slapped Jack on the back.
“Want a ride, Brent? My car’s out back in the parking lot.”
“No buddy, I think I’ll walk back to the office before I go home. Walking’s a great way to create. The ideas seem to fall from the sky sometimes, and the fresh air is great too.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jack walked out the back door into the parking lot. As Brent started to leave through the front, it didn’t take long for a thought to pop into his head, so he ran out back to see if he could catch Jack to ask him a question.
When Brent ran out the back door, he almost bumped into Jack, who seemed to be in a Mexican standoff with a disheveled and very drunk looking Gary Goldstein. The moonlight danced and gleamed off the shiny blade of a large knife Goldstein was holding in his hand.
“Who hired you?” Goldstein screamed, spittle flying. “My wife?”
“I did Goldstein,” said Brent. “Now drop the knife and back off, unless you want to get arrested for felony assault and spend the next five years in prison.”
“And what if I don’t?” he had the nerve to ask.
“Then I’ll have to take that knife away from you and stick it in your neck,” said Jack, calmly and matter-of-factly, as if it were something he was used to doing.
Goldstein looked at Jack, then at Brent, dropped the knife and ran away.
“Call 911,” said Jack, who ran after him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Santa Barbara Courthouse was a brilliant piece of California Spanish Colonial architecture that had been in place since the days of Clarence Darrow. It was a lovely building with arched corridors and an exquisite courtyard garden. It was so beautiful, that one being forced to jury duty there may actually enjoy it. Brent loved having a trial there because he felt as if he could feel a whole century’s worth of great minds who had tried cases there, like Melvin Belli and F. Lee Bailey. These adobe plastered and wood paneled walls had heard scores of brilliant and eloquent orations throughout the years.
The old wooden benches in the spectator gallery gave the courtroom more of a church feel than a courtroom. Brent and Nancy settled into their chairs at the counsel table just after the doors of the courtroom opened. Brent got out his master trial notebook and turned to the outline for voir dire, a set of questions he had prepared to ask potential jury members. Judge Hanford Curtis, the judge assigned to the trial, had already heard all the preliminary motions in limine. He was a firm but soft-spoken African American jurist, who had been on the bench for over 20 years. There would be no business today except for choosing a jury. Bradley Chernow came in and took his seat. There were only a few observers in the galley.
“Morning Brad,” said Brent.
“Brent.”
“All rise!” said the Clerk. Everyone stood.
“The Superior Court for the State of California for the County of Santa Barbara is now in session, the Honorable Hanford Curtis, Judge presiding.”
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” said the Judge. “Please be seated. We are on the record today in the case of People v. Haskins. Counsel, please state your appearances.”
“Brent Marks for the Defendant, Nancy Haskins, who is present in court, Your Honor.”
“Good morning, Your Honor. Bradley Chernow for the people.”
“Thank you, Mr. Marks and Mr. Chernow. We’ve had a conference and a pretrial hearing and I think we’ve gotten all the preliminaries out of the way. Am I correct?”
All counsel answered yes.
“Alright, it appears there are no further matters for the Court to consider before proceeding to jury selection. Madame Clerk, will you please send in the first panel?”
The gallery filled up with about three dozen prospective jurors, and the Clerk called the first twelve, who had been chosen by random. They filled up the twelve of the fourteen chairs in the jury box; the two extra being for the selection of alternate jurors, in case a juror was sick or could not serve for some other reason. All jurors had filled out questionnaires which were given to Brent and to the D.A. Brent immediately turned a copy of the questionnaire over to Jack, who ran out to perform quick background checks on the entire panel. The Judge read a statement of the case which had been prepared and agreed upon by both counsel during the pretrial conference, and asked the jurors to answer some basic questions that were on display on a chart in front of the jury box, such as age, occupation, and family background. Both counsel would be looking for biases and prejudices. In this game, the Judge wanted each juror to be fair and unbiased, and each attorney wanted a juror that would not be biased against their case, but perhaps have a tinge of bias in favor of it.
* * *
Brent was looking for jurors who had had bad experiences with homeowners associations. He knew that was too ideal, because Chernow would use all of his peremptory challenges to kick off any prospective juror whoever had a problem with an HOA. But Brent would also be looking for jurors who knew someone who had been involved with an HOA. There wasn’t a chance for many because Santa Barbara didn’t have many new real estate developments. Most housing was at least 30 years old, and that was young for Santa Barbara. Brent was also looking for older people, perhaps widows or widowers, who would have sympathy for Nancy due to her age and position in life. Luckily for Brent, most of the people who were sitting in the box would either be retired, unemployed or their employment encouraged jury duty and they were on a kind of “paid vacation” in court.
After the jurors finished answering the Judge’s questions, the Judge turned it over to the attorneys for the voir dire inquiry into the prospective juror’s backgrounds. Because it was a capital case, each side was given a total of 20 peremptory challenges to potential jurors, which allowed the lawyer to kick any juror off the panel without giving a reason. Each lawyer could make a motion to dismiss a juror for cause as well, but it was rarely, if ever, done.
“Mr. Chernow, the people have the floor,” said the Judge.
“Thank you, Your Honor. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’re chosen to serve on this jury, the Judge will instruct you that circumstantial evidence is evidence that does not directly prove a fact to be decided, but is evidence of another fact or group of facts from which you may logically and reasonably conclude the truth of the fact in question. He will also instruct you that facts can be proved by circumstantial evidence, direct evidence or a combination of both. Do any of you feel that you could not make a logical and reasonable conclusion from only circumstantial evidence? If so, please raise your hands.”
Of course, nobody raised their hand. Chernow was not playing dirty, but he was planting seeds in the juror’s minds because he knew that a tremendously big jump had to be made to infer that Nancy was the murderer because the only real evidence against her was the clear plastic wrapping from the flowers that had been found in her garbage c
an.
Chernow went through an exhaustive list of questions with the potential jurors, and it seemed he would never stop. Finally, he came to the most important question.
“Juror number 12, Antonio Jalisco. Mr. Jalisco, as the Court informed you, this is a capital case, where the penalty for guilt may be death. If you thought that someone was guilty of premeditated murder and that it had been proven without a reasonable doubt, would you have any problem voting guilty knowing that the person could be sentenced to death?”
“No, I would not,” replied Mr. Jalisco.
Chernow varied his questions for each juror, but he posed this particular one to every juror. One of them, juror number 6, Helen Wyndam, had very strong religious convictions and could not vote guilty if it meant the defendant could possibly be put to death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jack noticed that the VW van was parked in the driveway at Keith Michel’s, so he knocked on the door. Michel answered the door, dressed in a white tee shirt and shorts, with messy hair and sleepy eyes. It looked like he had either just woken up or had just gone to bed. Typical druggie, thought Jack.
“Mr. Michel?”
“Who wants to know?”
Jack put out his card. “Jack Ruder, private investigator.”
“What’s this about?” Michel asked, wiggling like he had to go to the bathroom.
“I was attacked by one of your roommates the other night.”
“Way I heard it, dude, you were trespassing.”
“Who else lives here with you, Mr. Michel?”
“Well there’s Manny.”
Jack took down the name in his notebook.
“What’s his last name?”
“Dude, I don’t know. I’m not a census taker. All I care about is the rent. Cash is king.”
“So your roommates are your tenants?”
