by Jeanne Winer
“Mr. Seaman,” she began, “you were charged with first-degree murder for the death of Sam Donnelly?”
“Yes.” His voice was unexpectedly loud. A couple of jurors squirmed in their front row seats.
“Did you end up making a deal with the DA?”
“Yes.”
“What were the terms of the deal?”
“Forty-eight years for my truthful testimony in the case against Jeremy Matthews.” The best answer she could have hoped for. He was smiling again, waiting for her next few questions, the ones he might deign to answer honestly, depending on his mood.
“All right, good. So first of all, do you know my client Jeremy Matthews? And if so, how?”
“Well, I don’t mean to be difficult, but is your client sitting at the defense table? I’m having a hard time seeing him. Could you possibly move the podium?”
“Sure,” she said, pretending to believe him. “If it’s blocking your view, I can move it.”
Before she could, she heard a chair scrape back from the defense table. As she turned, she saw Jeremy slowly rising to his feet. For the first time ever, he didn’t slouch. His face was expressionless. If he was frightened, he didn’t show it.
“Ah,” Rab said, rubbing his jaw. “Now I can see him. He’s put on weight, but yes that’s Jeremy. He lived with me and my roommates from the end of February 2011 until early October, when we were all arrested.”
“All right then,” the judge said. “The record will reflect that the witness has identified the defendant. You can sit down now, Mr. Matthews.”
“Would that be okay?” Lee asked her witness.
“Of course. Thank you for asking.”
“Not at all.” She nodded toward Jeremy, who immediately sat down.
There was no sense procrastinating any longer. It was show time.
“Mr. Seaman, is my client Jeremy Matthews innocent of murdering Sam Donnelly?”
“Hmm,” he said, scratching his ear.
Everyone in the courtroom waited as the seconds ticked by. Lee felt a trickle of sweat drip down the side of her blouse.
Finally, he stopped scratching.
“Actually, he is.”
Lee moved quickly to the next question.
“Was my client at the party where you planned the murder?”
“No.”
“Did he know beforehand that you and the others were planning to kill Sam?”
“No, he was very surprised. And dismayed.” Lee was almost rushing now.
“During the murder, did my client do anything to help kill Sam?”
“No.”
“Did he act as the lookout?”
“Hardly. He couldn’t even stand up. All he did was bawl and puke.”
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Seaman. Did you tell the others he was acting as the lookout?”
Rab sighed and leaned back as if he were sitting in the most comfortable chair in the world.
“Casey and Johnny were beginning to think he wasn’t down with it. I had to tell them something to chill them out.”
“Why did you help him?”
“Hmm. That’s an excellent question. Your client was so ridiculously unsuited for the street.” He smiled at the jury. “Someone had to either help him or put him out of his misery. I decided to take him under my wing.” And then he yawned, which meant he was getting bored and perhaps tired of being nice.
There were plenty of other questions she could have asked, but she had what she needed.
“Thank you, Mr. Seaman. No further questions.”
Lee sat down, careful not to show how relieved she was. During the last ten minutes, the scene around her had gone from black and white to Technicolor. The jurors’ faces and their clothing were suddenly red, orange, yellow, green, and blue. There was plenty of air to breathe, a future to contemplate.
On cross, Dan was careful not to ask any open-ended questions. He spent an hour on Rab’s extensive criminal history, which was long and concerning, then spent an equal amount of time reviewing the offer of proof that Rab and his attorney had submitted to the prosecution. It was a textbook cross, which allowed no spontaneous comments from the witness. For his part, Rab betrayed little emotion and never lost his cool. Suddenly, at a quarter to eleven, Dan stopped. There was nothing more to be gained and the jurors were getting restless.
After Dan sat down, Lee rose to her feet and glanced at the jury.
“The defense rests, Your Honor.”
There was a short recess and then Dan called Detective Roberts—a/k/a the Marlboro Man, although he’d left his big white hat at home today—to testify concerning the defendant’s statements. Dan gave his witness a number of chances to elaborate on the defendant’s admissions, but the detective refused. He remained scrupulously neutral, just as he had at the motions hearing. On cross, he answered all of Lee’s questions exactly the way he did in April. At the end of his testimony, he winked at her, stood up, and stretched. A few of the female jurors watched him make his way out of the courtroom.
And then it was time for lunch. As Lee was leaving, one of the guards who’d escorted Rab in and out of the courtroom asked if she’d have a word with his prisoner. Lee immediately agreed. She took the elevator down to the basement holding cell, wondering what Rab wanted to tell her. She hoped his mood hadn’t changed and that he wasn’t already regretting his decision to help.
After being locked into a small glass cell with him, she waited. Rab was studying her closely and smiling.
“You’re still not afraid of me.”
“No.” Then she waited some more.
After a number of seconds, he said, “You owe me.”
“Big time. Is there something you want from me?” She hoped he’d be reasonable, that he’d ask for something she could ethically agree to do.
He began to pace, careful never to get too close to her.
“I thought about this all weekend.”
“So you knew I’d call you?”
“Please, I challenged you.” Finally, he stopped pacing and faced her. “I want a letter every month for the first ten years I’m in prison. I won’t be writing back to you. I don’t want a pen pal.” He paused. “Make it from Ms. Lee Isaacs so the inmates will know you’re a lady. Don’t put anything on the envelope about being an attorney.”
“Is there anything in particular you’d like me to write about?”
“Not really.” He thought for a moment. “I’m interested in politics, current events, who’s bombing who, and changes in the law. I did a huge amount of legal research on my cases and liked figuring out how the courts would rule.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Really? I thought you’d balk.”
“Why would I? You saved my client’s life.” And mine too, she thought.
He put out his hand to shake. Without any hesitation, she took it.
“I can’t make you keep it up if you get tired of it,” he said. His expression was inscrutable.
“That’s true, but I honor my agreements.”
A guard knocked hard on the glass.
“We gotta take you, Rab.”
“No problem,” Rab answered. “We’re done.” He turned to Lee. “A paragraph or two is fine.”
After unlocking the door, the guards watched their prisoner carefully while Lee exited the cell.
Before the door closed, she said, “You could have easily screwed me, but you didn’t. Thank you.” And then headed down a narrow hallway to the elevator.
Upstairs, she found a corner table in the cafeteria where, although she wasn’t hungry, she forced herself to eat a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. She ate with her head down to discourage any would-be visitors. When she finished, she found an empty conference room to practice her closing argument, the one with the best scenario in which Rab ignored his demons and acted like a mensch.
Toward the end of every jury trial, the parties and the judge confer in private about the instructions to be given to the j
ury. Usually, the conference is contentious, with both sides arguing about the admissibility of the others’ proposed instructions. But the conference after lunch was remarkably civil, with no real disagreements. Given Rab’s testimony, Lee’s theory of defense instruction, which had seemed wildly speculative a few weeks earlier, was included without major revisions. Dan’s face, for the first time, showed signs of fatigue.
As they headed back into the courtroom, Dan said, “You’ve done a remarkable job, Lee.”
“Thank you.”
“But even if they don’t convict him, not everyone might agree to acquit him.”
She pretended she’d never thought of this.
“And if they hang,” she said, “things might not go so swimmingly for the defense the next time?”
“Exactly.” Letting her know that if there was a hung jury, he intended to retry the case.
Suddenly, she wanted to poke his eyes out.
“Thanks for the warning, Dan, but absent a gross miscarriage of justice, I’m going to win.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The closing arguments were tight, clear, and professional. Neither side resorted to passion, hyperbole, or begging. Dan’s first argument coolly reviewed the elements of the offense and the evidence that supported a conviction. He reminded the jurors that the majority of the eyewitnesses including the snitch had testified under oath that Jeremy was guilty. He omitted any mention of Jeremy’s confession and its implications, saving it for his second argument—the one Lee couldn’t respond to.
Lee began her argument by saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, if there was ever a reasonable doubt case, this is it.” And then, for the next hour and a half, went through the trial pointing out all the testimony that, taken together, necessitated a finding of “not guilty.” She ended by recalling her opening statement in the case.
“So who is Jeremy Matthews? Is he a seventeen-year old monster who aided and abetted the brutal murder of the victim, or is he a boy who got in over his head and was unable to stop a group of older men from killing his beloved Sam? After listening to all of the evidence, the answer should be clear to you. But even if it isn’t, the instructions still require you to acquit him. Why? Because, after hearing from all of the witnesses, it would be impossible not to have at least a reasonable doubt concerning his guilt.” She paused, took a drink of water, and then as she almost always did, pulled out the instruction that defined a reasonable doubt and read it slowly to the jurors, making eye contact with as many of them as possible.
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, when you go back into the jury room to deliberate, that’s the time to admit your doubts and vote for acquittal. If, out of fear or some other misplaced emotion, you vote to convict and then only later acknowledge your doubts, it will be too late. Jeremy Matthews will have been wrongfully convicted of a heinous crime and suffer the lifelong consequences. So please have the courage to fulfill your sworn duties and to find my client not guilty. Thank you.”
In his second closing, Dan ended by reminding the jurors that their verdict had to be unanimous.
“Which doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t take your time, or that you shouldn’t listen to everyone’s point of view. Each person’s judgment should be respected, and no one should be forced to surrender a strongly-held opinion just to satisfy the majority. Ultimately, however, because the defendant voluntarily confessed to the crime, the People of the State of Colorado expect a unanimous verdict of guilt. Thanks for your considerable time and attention. The American system of justice depends on people like you.”
After nodding at each of the jurors, he finally sat down.
Lee closed her last manila file in the case and slipped it into her briefcase. As the jurors filed out of the room, Jeremy turned to her.
“So now what?”
“So now comes my least favorite part, the waiting.”
“How long could it take?”
“Not that long. Tomorrow afternoon, I think, at the latest.”
His knees started bouncing again.
“What if they can’t agree on a verdict? The DA said it had to be unanimous.”
I’ll shoot myself, Lee thought.
“If they can’t agree, the judge will urge them to try harder. If there are only one or two holdouts, the others can usually persuade them.”
“And if they can’t?”
“Then we do it all over again.”
Lee spent the next morning pacing back and forth in her large, expensive office, past her classy furnishings, her ageless silk tree, and the Fritz Scholder painting of the purple horse whose expression continued to elude her. Yesterday, the jury had deliberated for an hour before being released. They’d returned this morning at eight. When the phone rang at a quarter past eleven, Lee stopped pacing and picked it up. The call was from Judge Samuel’s bailiff.
“Do they have a verdict?” she asked.
“They have a question.”
Lee groaned, then hung up and phoned Phil and Carla, who were sitting vigil in a Vic’s coffee house on Broadway. Twenty minutes later, she and Dan were sitting across from Judge Samuels in his chambers. The court reporter had set up her machine behind them. Neither the jury nor the defendant was present.
The judge cleared his throat.
“At eleven-ten, the jury sent out this question: ‘Can the defendant be convicted if he failed to contact the police after the murder occurred?’ ”
“The answer should be a simple no,” Lee stated.
“I’m inclined to agree,” the judge said. “Mr. Andrews?”
“No opposition from the People.”
“In which case,” the judge said, “I will write ‘no’ and send it back to the jury.”
As soon as the conference ended, Lee walked out into the hallway where Phil and Carla were waiting.
“How bad is it?” they asked.
“Not very.” She filled them in.
“Someone doesn’t want to acquit him,” Phil stated. “I bet it’s one of the men.”
“I hope it’s not the bank manager,” Lee said, “the one whose brother is gay.”
Phil ripped off his tie and stuffed it into his pocket.
“More coffee and Tums?” he asked.
“Sure,” Carla said. “Lee, why don’t you come with us?”
Lee hesitated. The truth was, she was tired of pacing alone in her office.
“Oh come on,” Phil said, grabbing her arm and making her rib hurt.
“I have work to do,” she whined.
“Not today,” Carla said, and grabbed her other arm.
She could have resisted, of course, but decided not to. The two people dragging her down the hallway had worked as hard as they could to help her win the case. The least she could do was be gracious. Besides, she was almost sixty. When older people acted churlish, the young rolled their eyes and pitied them, as if hardening of the arteries were to blame. Lee, of course, had been grumpy since the day she was born and forced to breathe on her own. Her parents hadn’t minded and neither, thank God, had Paul. Well, to be honest, sometimes he did, but not often.
As they exited the building, the judge’s bailiff caught up to them. His face was flushed from running.
“Lee, they have a verdict.”
It was finally over.
“Have they called the detention center?” she asked.
“They’ll be here in fifteen minutes.”
The courtroom was filled with spectators who’d been waiting all morning. A number of them were now wearing rainbow pins in support of the defendant. As Lee and her team settled in, the media people were setting up cameras and crowding into any available seats. Mrs. Weissmann, whom Carla had picked up at seven, was sitting between Peggy and Mr. Clean in the row behind Phil and Carla. As soon as Jeremy arrived, the judge took his seat and everyone stopped talking. After both parties identified themselves for the record, the judge ordered the jurors brought in again.
A few minutes later, the jurors filed
in, looking tired but satisfied.
“Do you have a verdict?” the judge asked.
The bank manager stood up, holding the verdict form.
“We do,” he said.
The judge then motioned the bailiff to bring him the form. After glancing at it, the judge ordered the defendant to stand. The room was quiet. Lee and Jeremy rose to their feet and stood with their shoulders touching. Jeremy was breathing hard, so Lee took his hand and held onto it firmly.
“Concerning the charge of murder in the first degree,” the judge intoned, “the jury finds the defendant—” He paused to smile. “Not guilty. Congratulations, Mr. Matthews.”
“Thank you,” Jeremy whispered, releasing her hand and kissing her cheek.
“You’re welcome.”
And then the room erupted. Peggy and Mr. Clean were hugging Jeremy. Carla and Mrs. Weissmann were crying. Phil was jumping up and down making strange hooting sounds. And a crowd of people had swarmed around Lee, trying to shake her hand. Her rib was killing her, but she didn’t care. Eventually, the jury was dismissed with the admonition that they could talk to the parties if they wished but they certainly didn’t have to. Without being told to, Carla slipped out to interview anyone who might be willing. And finally, the judge advised Jeremy that as soon as the detention center processed the verdict, he would be free to go. Peggy had to be pried away from her nephew.
“I’ll be waiting at the bottom of the stairs,” she told him. “And then we’re going home.”
Jeremy seemed the least fazed of everyone around him. Dry-eyed and calm, he thanked both Lee and Phil.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” he told them.
It took a couple of seconds to register.
“What’s tomorrow night?” Lee asked.
“Your birthday party,” Jeremy answered.
“Oops,” Phil murmured. “That was supposed to be a surprise.”
Before Lee could respond, Leroy walked up, grinning broadly.
“Come on,” he told Jeremy. “The sooner we get back, the sooner you can be released. No handcuffs this time.”
After Jeremy left the courtroom, Lee searched for Dan, but he’d already gone. She’d give him a week to digest the loss before calling him. Maybe two weeks. While she and Phil were packing up, Carla returned and told them what Lee had feared, that the foreman had been the holdout.
