Here, Dana paused deliberately, and Allison Ackerman smiled to herself, thinking that the defense attorney’s sense of timing was sheer perfection.
“Now, on the surface, finding those trace materials, reputedly from the bomb, in Corey’s car and in his garage might seem significant,” she acknowledged, “except that, when you look a little deeper, you find a reasonable and corroborative explanation for every single one of them. What I find significant here are the ingredients they didn’t find. No traces of methyl, no wax, no Vaseline. Are they trying to suggest that Corey was sloppy, or that he was very selective in how he cleaned up after himself?”
She shook her head. In the jury box, Stuart Dunn frowned. “The prosecutor refers to all these coincidences as reasons to convict, when in reality, coincidences are all they are,” she continued. “Cliché or not, Corey just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. And when there’s an avalanche coming down on top of you, there’s not a whole lot you can do to get out of the way.”
Dana paced up and down a few steps and then stopped.
“And look what they did to Joshua Clune,” she declared. “They grabbed him off the street, locked him up in a cell, and scared him half to death. I wouldn’t be surprised if they threatened to throw away the key if he didn’t do what they wanted him to do. So Joshua, who couldn’t identify my client from either the newspaper or the television just six weeks after the crime, eight months later positively picks him out as the person he saw bring the bomb to Hill House.”
She nodded thoughtfully, and noted Rose Gregory nodding as well.
“Now, did Elise Latham have an abortion?” Dana continued. “Yes, she did. No one contests that. Was Corey angry about it? Yes, he was, and understandably so. Because she didn’t just kill his baby, she tried to deceive him about it. When he found out, he got angry, very angry, justifiably angry. But by everyone’s account, he went to counseling, he forgave his wife, and he came to terms with his grief. And the prosecution offered absolutely no evidence to the contrary. Not a single witness suggested that he was still dealing with anger in January, much less by February. And speaking of Elise, she was sleeping right beside Corey on the night the bomb was planted. She told you herself that she was a light sleeper, and that she would have awakened if he’d gotten out of bed. And what did the police do? They ignored her, because to accept her word would have destroyed their flimsy case, and they couldn’t allow that to happen. In desperation, the prosecutor even tried to suggest, without a shred of evidence to back it up, that Corey had somehow managed to drug her cocoa. But the plain fact is, she didn’t wake up, because Corey never got up. It’s just that simple.”
For a moment, Dana seemed to debate with herself over something and then come to a decision.
“I could keep on going,” she suggested, “and detail all the flaws in the state’s case. But this trial has already lasted long enough. It’s time for you to do your job. And as you go into the jury room to debate the fate of Corey Latham, I ask you to remember that the prosecution was unable to produce a single piece of reliable evidence that ties my client to this crime. Not one. Everything they gave you was coincidental, speculative, or just plain fabricated. And you can’t simply say it doesn’t matter because you think he did it, or you want him to have done it, or if the police say he did it, then he must have done it. It has to be ’I have listened carefully to all the evidence presented, and I have determined, past any reasonable doubt, that he is guilty.’ If you cannot do that, then Corey Latham is not guilty.”
She stopped for a moment then, and looked at each juror in turn.
“The bombing of Hill House was a terrible crime,” she told them. “A great many people died for no rational reason, and the anguish we all feel about that is as valid now as it was the day it happened. But you must find a way to set aside that anguish, to shut out public opinion, and to avoid outside pressure. Most of all, you must resist the urge to convict Corey Latham out of hand, simply because you believe someone should pay for what happened, because that would be just as terrible a crime.”
At this point, Dana seemed to square her shoulders for what was to come next.
“I have to say a word now about the messenger.” she said with quiet dignity. “We usually say, if you don’t like the message, don’t shoot the messenger. But in this case, given all the recent publicity which I’m sure you could not have avoided seeing and hearing about, I would ask you not to discount the message because of what you may think about the messenger. Whatever I may have done in my personal life has no bearing on the matter before you. In the final analysis, trials aren’t about judging the attorneys, they’re about judging defendants.”
She sighed.
“I’ve come to know Corey pretty well since this all began, and to know him is to understand that he could never have committed this crime. Not just because it goes against everything he believes in, but because it goes against everything he is. Now I realize that you don’t know him as I do Rather, you know what the witnesses told you about him, you know what the attorneys told you about him, you even know what Corey’s told you about himself. But you don’t really know him. So you must judge him based solely on the information you’ve been given, and on your instincts. I’ve sat here watching you for the past six weeks, probably just as closely as you’ve been watching us. And you know what I think? I think Corey can trust your instincts. I think he can trust them with his life.”
Thoroughly drained, Dana sank into her chair because this was what it had always been about—pushing everything else in her life aside to pull out the best that was within her in defense of her client. It was what she had always been about. She wondered why it felt so hollow.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Allison Ackerman arranged for a neighbor to take care of her animals. Then she packed her suitcase, as she had been instructed, although she had no idea how many days she would be away. Since it was the first time she had actually served on a jury, she had no idea about a lot of things. For example, how disturbing it was to have an actual person’s life in her hands.
Her mystery novels usually ended with the apprehension of the guilty party. They rarely got to trial. They never dealt with the issues or the emotions of jurors. And neither had she. She wished now that she could make some kind of an excuse, or get sick perhaps, or just plain quit. But of course she couldn’t. She was stuck in this mess for the duration, whatever that meant, and she would have to make the best of it.
Stuart Dunn could barely contain his excitement as he packed his bag. This was the American justice system in action, and he was a part of it. What a tale he would have to tell his students.
His wife brought him fresh underwear. “How many days are you packing for?” she asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” he replied happily. “But I can fit enough for three days in here, so I guess that’s as good a place to start as any.”
She shook her head and smiled. “You’re just like one of the kids,” she told him.
The history teacher shrugged. “I guess some people would consider this a burden,” he said. “I consider it a privilege.”
Rose Gregory’s granddaughter packed the suitcase for her grandmother, while Rose sat on the edge of the bed and directed.
“No dear, not that dress, it’ll get too wrinkled. Not that one, either,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It isn’t flattering.”
“And just who are you trying to impress?” her granddaughter asked with a mock frown.
“Well, there’s a nice gentleman named Ralph, who’s a barber,” Rose replied with a little giggle. “And I’ve noticed he has an eye for the ladies.”
“Oh now, you stop,” her granddaughter chided. “This isn’t any church supper you’re going to, you know.”
Rose sighed. “I certainly do know that,” she said. “And I don’t mind telling you, it’s been keeping me up nights.”
“I’m not surprised,” her granddaughter said.
“I know it’
s my civic duty to serve on this jury, and I’ll see it through. But between you and me, I’d really rather be someplace else.”
Karleen McKay’s idea of packing for the weekend did not include spending the better part of it in a courthouse jury room. It had more to do with sun and sea. Nevertheless, she dutifully ironed a selection of blouses, and matched them up with skirts and sweaters, and then added a slinky negligee, just to satisfy her own sense of humor.
She had no idea how the rest of the jurors felt about this trial, but she was tired of it all. There had been too many witnesses, saying too many things, for the defendant, against the defendant, and now it was all a muddle in her mind. It wasn’t that she didn’t take jury duty seriously. She knew how important it was to put away the bad guys and exonerate the good guys. It was just that she didn’t want to be the one to make the decision.
John Quinn’s wife was nervous as her husband packed his battered suitcase. Although there had been no further harassment after the grisly photograph incident, she didn’t like the idea of him being gone from home overnight.
“I can talk to you every day on the telephone,” he assured her. “If anything’s wrong, you can tell me, and I’ll report it. You and the kids will be fine.” As if to underscore his words, the family dog bounded into the bedroom and began to wag his tail. “See,” Quinn said, “you have Mutt to protect you.”
“Do you really think serving on this jury is going to help your business?” his wife asked.
“It can’t hurt,” he told her with a shrug, “unless we come out with the wrong verdict.”
“What’s the wrong verdict?” she asked.
Quinn shrugged. “I guess we won’t know that until we come out with it.”
It took the judge most of Friday morning to charge the jury, explaining to them what they could and could not consider, and what they could and could not do, and how they had to do it. As soon as he finished, court was adjourned. The four alternates were excused but asked to stand by. Robert Niera then led the group of twelve into the jury room, where the smell of fresh coffee wafted from a large percolator, and two big platters of sandwiches sat on the table, along with twelve pads and twelve pens. The luggage they had brought with them had already been tagged and removed to the nearby hotel where they would stay as many nights as necessary.
Robert made sure the door leading into the corridor was properly secured and then turned to leave. “I’ll be locking this door behind me,” he said, referring to the courtroom entry. “If you need anything, just press the button here on the wall.”
With that, he was gone, and the jurors heard the sound of a dead bolt sliding into place.
“I hope none of us is claustrophobic,” David Reminger, the computer programmer, worried. “It could get pretty tight in here.”
“At least we won’t go hungry,” Allison observed.
“It’s a good thing we all sort of like each other,” Ralph Bergquist, the barber, said tentatively.
Eliot Wickstine grinned. “So far, anyway,” the pilot said.
“I guess the first thing we should do is pick a foreperson, shouldn’t we?” Elizabeth Kwan, the technical writer, reasoned.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Aaron Sapp, the community college professor, suggested.
Glad to have a starting point, they pulled their chairs up around the table.
“How do we pick a foreperson?” Kitty Dodson, the cosmetician, asked.
“We elect one,” Stuart Dunn told her. He glanced around the table. “Any nominations?”
“I nominate you,” Karleen McKay said.
“Why me?” Stuart asked.
“Because you’re levelheaded,” Karleen told him, “and because you already know how to work with kids.”
“I agree,” Allison said.
“Then let’s make it unanimous,” Ralph declared. There was no dissent, and the barber promptly vacated his seat. “The foreman gets to sit at the head of the table,” he said, and exchanged places with the history teacher.
“What do we do now?” Kitty asked.
“Have a sandwich?” Eliot offered, helping himself to a ham and cheese on rye.
“Maybe we should take a preliminary vote,” Stuart suggested. “Sort of get a feel for where we stand.”
Kitty looked at the pad and pen in front of her. “Should we write it or just say it?” she asked.
“Write it, I think,” Stuart said.
“What do we write?” Elizabeth wondered. “Guilty or not guilty?”
Stuart nodded. “I’m pretty sure that’s how it’s done.”
There was a general murmur of assent, and each of them proceeded to write something down, and then tear the page off the pad, fold it in half, and pass it down the line. Eleven pairs of eyes fastened on the foreman as he read each vote.
“We have seven votes for guilty,” Stuart summarized, “four votes for not guilty, and one vote for undecided.”
“Undecided?” Eliot Wickstine complained. “Who said undecided?”
“I did,” Allison replied mildly.
“That wasn’t an option.”
“Maybe not, but it’s how I voted.”
“Now what do we do?” David Reminger asked.
“I guess we talk,” Stuart told him.
“Where do we start?”
“I have an idea,” Eliot said. “Why don’t each of us—if we want to, that is—just say how we feel, and why.”
Stuart looked around the table. “Any objections?” he asked. There was no response. “Okay, Eliot, you want to begin?”
“Sure,” the pilot said. “He’s guilty. I think the prosecution proved its case.”
“Beyond reasonable doubt?” Aaron Sapp asked.
“Beyond any of my doubts,” Eliot replied. “He had the motive, his wife’s abortion. He had the means, he knew how to make a bomb. And I figure he found the opportunity, even if his wife was a light sleeper. I think they even showed he was one of those religious nuts who thought he was answering the call of God.”
“I voted guilty, too,” Karleen said. “I think the prosecutor pretty much did his job. Some of the testimony may have been a little flaky, but most of it was solid. And I think he did it.”
“So do I,” Ralph Bergquist declared, “for the same reason as Karleen just said. I think he had some good answers when he got on the stand, but it didn’t change my mind. Certainly not after listening to the medical examiner’s testimony.”
“I voted guilty,” Elizabeth Kwan said. “I have questions about some of the testimony we heard, and about what his real motivation was, but on whole, I think he probably did it.”
“I voted not guilty,” Kitty Dodson said. “I listened very hard to what the defendant said, and I believed him. I believed what he said about the aspirin and the battery acid, and stuff. I thought about all the products I use in my work. I know some of them must be deadly, and I’m sure there are traces of them all around my apartment and in my car, and I don’t even realize it. So what he said made sense to me.”
“I voted not guilty as well,” Rose Gregory said. “I liked the defendant, and I didn’t like the police detective. I think he coerced the testimony from that poor homeless man, and that makes me wonder what else he did that was wrong.”
“I voted guilty,” John Quinn said. “When I added it all up, there were just too many things that pointed at the defendant, circumstantial or not. And I think he could’ve drugged his wife’s cocoa.”
“We’re not allowed to consider that,” Stuart reminded him.
“Why not?” John asked.
“Because the prosecutor can’t make a statement that he has no evidence to back up.”
“Well maybe not,” John grumbled. “But I heard it anyway.”
“I liked the prosecutor,” David Reminger said. “But I didn’t like the way he tried to slip that in. I didn’t think that was fair. I could tell the judge didn’t like it, either. And I had questions about some of the other evidence he presented
, too. Like the anonymous letter just showing up like that. It seemed awfully convenient to me, and no one could explain where it came from. So I voted not guilty.”
“I also voted not guilty,” Aaron said. “It’s not that I don’t think he did it. To be honest, I actually think he did do it. But I’m not sure the state proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Well, I voted guilty,” Bill Jorgenson, the Boeing worker, said. “I thought that defense attorney was a little too slick, like she wanted us to think she had all the answers. Whatever the prosecution witnesses had to say, she always had a comeback ready to trip them up, make them seem stupid or dishonest. When the prosecutor finally had the chance to lay out all the evidence at the end, I realized just how overwhelming it was.”
“And I voted guilty,” Stuart said. “I think the defense attorney did a good job trying to refute the evidence, but there was just too much of it. Too many coincidences, as the prosecutor said. I listened very closely when the defendant was testifying. I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have, but a lot of what he said sounded a little too rehearsed to me.”
Eleven pairs of eyes turned to Allison.
“I think he may be guilty,” she said. “Or maybe it’s just that I want him to be guilty, because it was a monstrous crime, and I feel that somebody ought to be held responsible for it. But I can’t vote to convict unless I’m certain he’s guilty. And I’m not yet. The medical examiner’s testimony was powerful, yes, but he couldn’t implicate the defendant in any of those deaths. The bomb expert’s testimony was also effective, but he couldn’t connect the defendant to that bomb. I believe the eyewitness saw something, but it’s not clear to me what he saw. And as for all the trace evidence, I thought the defendant had reasonable answers for a lot of it. On the other hand, I feel as some of you do—how many coincidences do you pile up before it isn’t coincidence anymore?”
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