Media Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  “Forget it,” Maddy said emphatically. “No more married doctors,” she continued referring to a bad romance in which she had once been involved.

  “What’s going on with the search for the elusive Bob Olson?” Marc asked.

  Maddy sighed but before she could answer the waitress appeared and took their order. When she left, Marc asked, “Anything?”

  “No, not really. Sorry,” she said looking at Brittany. “I’m down to a couple of girls that worked at Macy’s last summer.” She pulled a steno pad from her purse and flipped through it until she found the page she wanted. “…a Leslie Dungey; twenty-four years old, student at the U, living in Richfield with a boyfriend. I found him. He said they broke up in August, she moved out and he hasn’t seen or talked to her since. He heard she moved east with the guy she had been seeing behind his back. He wasn’t sure where and didn’t care to know.”

  “Is he angry, bitter?” Marc asked.

  “No, and with good reason. His new girlfriend was there when I met with him. Apparently he had found solace in the arms of another as they say.

  “The other one, the other missing girl, is a Julie Makie. Twenty one…”

  “I remember Julie,” Brittany said. “She worked in the jewelry department right next to where I worked. We became friends, sort of. I mean, you know, we’d take lunch together sometimes. Things like that. She was really nice. She had to quit to go home. Her dad got sick and she wanted to go home and help her mom.”

  Brittany pressed the index and middle finger of each hand to her temples, closed her eyes and thought for a moment. “She wasn’t from Minnesota,” Brittany said, her fingers still pressed against her head. “She was from out west. Oh!” she snapped her head up. “I remember, Oregon. She’s from Oregon.”

  “Can you remember where?” Maddy asked.

  “Let me think. I remember it was a man’s name…”

  “Eugene?” Marc and Maddy asked together.

  “Yes, that’s it. Eugene, Oregon.”

  “Good. I’ll see what I can do to find her,” Maddy said.

  Their lunches arrived and the three of them made light, small talk while they ate. They steered clear of the trial since none of them wanted to talk about it anyway. Instead, they conversed mostly about what Minnesotans normally talk about this time of year; the weather.

  The afternoon session started with the notable absence of Lowell Vanderbeck. Marc and Danica Hart met with Judge Connors before court resumed. Danica lied and said something came up in their office that required Vanderbeck’s immediate attention. Hart would finish up the jury selection for the prosecution and promised to speed it up.

  Hart proved to be true to her word. Much less inclined to posture and pontificate, more efficient and with less interest in the jury consultants, she helped move the selection process briskly along. By eleven A.M. Friday, they had their jury. Twelve with four alternates. The first twelve consisted of seven men, including the lone African-American and five women. Of those, two were on Marc’s “Yes” list, two from his “No” list and the rest were from the “Maybe” list. The “Maybes” were spread out on Marc’s one to ten scale evenly; four from one through five and four from six through ten. The four alternates were one from the “Yes” list, two “Maybes” and one “No”.

  Looking over the final list, Marc thought they were not a good jury for either side but not bad either. Marc needed just one to get a hung jury.

  The Rileys’ had returned to court this morning for the final selections. Marc spent a few minutes chatting with them while the gallery emptied after court adjourned. While they chatted, Marc noticed a quiet yet obviously heated exchange between Hart and the lead jury consultant. The consultants left and the Rileys, including Brittany, went out right behind them. Marc’s former client, Butch Koll and his bouncer friend, Andy Whitman were waiting in the hall to escort the Rileys through the crowd.

  Marc and Hart had become, if not friends, at least friendly adversaries. She came over to his table and hoisted herself up to sit on the tabletop.

  “Ever use a consultant team?” she asked.

  “No,” Marc replied looking up at her from his chair. “My clients can never afford them.”

  “Between you and me, I don’t think they add shit to the process. They’re expensive and pompous as hell. They’re know-it-alls who’ve never tried a case. Vanderbeck likes them but I think they’re a waste of money. I’m with you; take the first twelve through the door. Just question them enough to make sure there’s brain activity then get on with it.”

  Marc laughed and said, “I wish I had the balls to try it sometime.”

  Hart chuckled and said, “Me too.” She hopped down from the table and said, “See you Monday morning.”

  Melinda Pace, as she had done all week, was live at four o’clock, then the show was rerun at six-thirty. She had Andrea Briscomb on air discussing the jury selection process and giving her “expert” opinion about it. Of course, Melinda’s show wasn’t the only one doing this. It was a good week for former prosecutors, retired judges and defense lawyers to get face time on TV. The national news outlets, especially the cable networks, were doing the same thing. The consensus opinion from them was decidedly running against Marc. Briscomb was especially critical of him even going so far as to say he may have already lost Brittany’s case.

  FORTY SEVEN

  It was mid-afternoon when Marc trudged up the back staircase to his second floor office. His leather satchel briefcase, one of two he would be using for this trial, hung heavily at his side. The building, as usual, was a little too warm and he removed his winter overcoat before beginning his journey up the stairs. Between a week of not eating right, not sleeping well and overall lack of meaningful exercise, by the time he reached the top, he had to pause to catch his breath. Vowing to himself, again, once this trial was over, he would lose the ten to fifteen pounds he needed to lose and get back in shape.

  He greeted everyone, then Marc and Barry Cline spent two hours going over the jury list. Barry agreed that it could be better, could be worse and was probably all right. About as good as he could have hoped for, all things considered.

  Next he got together with the office paralegal, Jeff Modell. They went over their witness list making sure Marc had interview notes on each one so he knew what their testimony would be. They also made sure that each of them had been issued a subpoena to make sure they would testify. Even cooperative witnesses can get cold feet and it was prudent to drop a subpoena on each of them no matter how friendly they seemed.

  Jeff left and Marc closed his door to work on his opening statement. The opening statement is the lawyer’s opportunity to verbally walk the jury through their case and tell the jury what evidence they will see and what each witness will say. As anyone who owns a television in America should know, the defense is under no obligation to prove anything. It’s the prosecution that has the burden of proof. One of Marc’s primary responsibilities during the prosecution’s opening statement is to keep track of what the prosecution claims they will present to the jury versus what they actually deliver. There are specific elements to any crime and the prosecution must present evidence of each one of those elements or they lose. Additionally, this is another chance for Marc to hammer home the concepts of the burden of proof, of innocent until proven guilty and guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. It would also be his chance to look at them as both a group and as individuals and remind them of the promise they made during jury selection. Marc had elicited a promise under oath from each and every one of them that they would ignore what they had heard from the media and decide the case based strictly on the evidence presented.

  The first thing he did was to go over what he believed the prosecution would say in their opening. He reviewed all of the evidence and laid it out in a logical sequence the way he would present it to the jury. Marc then went over their witness list and made sure his trial notebook had either copies of their statements or typed notes of what their testimony
would be. For most of them, he had both. Also, for each witness, he had detailed notes, even specific questions, written out as to what he wanted to get from each of them on cross-examination.

  Around seven o’clock, tired, hungry and done with his opening preparation, the office phone rang. He mentally debated whether or not to answer it then finally, after five rings, succumbed.

  “I knew you’d still be there,” he heard Madeline say.

  “I’m about done. Just making sure I’m ready for Monday morning. I’d like to take the weekend off to get some rest. What’s up?”

  “I finally tracked down Julie Makie’s parents,” Maddy said.

  “That’s nice. Who’s Julie Makie?” Marc asked.

  “The girl that worked at Macy’s with Brittany, or, at least, she worked by her. Remember?”

  “Oh, sure, yeah. I remember now. Did you talk to her?”

  “No, I talked to her mother. She’s a very nice lady. Julie’s not home. She’s in China.”

  “China! What the hell is she doing in China?”

  “She’s on some kind of Christian missionary thing.”

  “Seriously? Why can’t these people leave everybody alone?”

  “Don’t be so cynical,” Maddy chided him. “They do a lot of good things. Besides, Wendy said Julie isn’t all that religious. She just went with a friend for the experience of going to China.”

  “Who’s Wendy? I’m getting confused.”

  “Wendy’s her mother. Anyway, I explained why I needed to talk to Julie. Wendy said she’s been following the case and admitted Julie told her she knew Brittany but Wendy was a little skeptical. I told her it was true and…”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “You need to go home and go to bed you crab ass. Better yet, go to Margaret’s. Did you sleep at all this week? Let me finish. Wendy was going to call the church and see if she could get a message to Julie. Wendy says they are supposed to be back in the next week or two, she wasn’t exactly sure. Wendy will have Julie call me.”

  “Okay. That still doesn’t mean she can help us.”

  “I realize that! Don’t get cranky with me, buster.”

  “You’re right, I’m sorry,” Marc laughed. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Are you still going out to the Rileys tomorrow and see them, Brittany and their neighbors?”

  “Yeah, about ten o’clock. Why?”

  “Want some company?” she asked.

  “God bless you. Of course,” Marc replied.

  “I’ll come to your place at about 9:30. You can drive. See you then.”

  Marc used two fingers to separate the curtains covering the bay window in the Rileys’ living room. He was watching the protesters across the street as they milled about with their various signs. It was a clear, crisp, sunny winter day and since it was a Saturday morning, the street was almost blocked by the turnout.

  At the end of the block, to Marc’s right, several enterprising young men had set up a coffee and doughnut stand. There were two lines with at least fifteen people in each constantly waiting to be served. Two of the young men did the serving while others ran a shuttle service supplying the coffee and pastries. The deputies had tried to make them move but the crowd reaction caused the cops to back down. Apparently they weren’t causing any trouble so they let them be and the deputies were given coffee and doughnuts gratis from the guys.

  Marc turned back to the interior of the house. Maddy, Barbara and Brittany were seated at the dining room table and Floyd was downstairs.

  “I’m going to run next door and talk to the Wilsons. When I get back, we’ll go,” he said to Madeline.

  He went out the back and trudged through the almost knee deep snow in the backyards. Marty Wilson was expecting him and let him in through the patio door after he brushed himself off. Inside he was greeted by Marty’s wife, Elaine, their two friendly Golden Labs, Zeus and Ike and Marc noticed the pleasant aroma of a wood burning fireplace.

  The Wilson’s were a retired couple who had lived next door to the Rileys since the Rileys moved in. Marty was seventy four, quite bald but liked to brag except in front of Elaine, that he still weighed what he did in high school. Elaine was white haired, a little bit on the plump side after raising four kids and the polar opposite of Barbara Riley who neither of them particularly cared for.

  “I have a little task for you two if you don’t mind,” Marc began. Both of them, sitting opposite the fireplace from Marc and sweetly holding hands, assured them they would help any way they could. They had watched Brittany grow up since the day she was brought home from the hospital. Brittany told Marc the Wilson home was a warmer, more comfortable place for her than her real home. Elaine could get teary-eyed just thinking about what Brittany was going through. Neither of them believed for an instant that Brittany could do such a thing and their hearts ached terribly over what had happened to Becky. Obviously, they would do anything to help her.

  Marc took about three minutes explaining what he needed. It was a simple task but one that could be crucial to Brittany’s defense. It may even be decisive, he told them.

  “Remember, do it separately and then when you’re done, check with each other’s results. If they don’t match, do it again. I need you to be careful and accurate. Okay?”

  They both confirmed that they understood him and would do it that very day. Elaine, the more computer literate one of the two, would email him their results later that afternoon.

  FORTY EIGHT

  Marc spent the weekend before the trial with his love, Margaret Tennant. The stress of a long vacation together was gone and they were back together having slipped right into their comfort zone with each other.

  The two days were about as relaxing as Marc could make them. Never leaving his head was the realization that serious business was going to start first thing Monday morning. The stress was always there even when he wasn’t thinking about it. Just below the surface constantly tugging at him, was the question of if he was as prepared as he could be or as he should be. The two of them talked about it. Margaret was a trial judge and knew exactly what he was going through having been there as a lawyer herself, although not with the stakes Marc played with. A first degree murder case was at the top of the critical meter. A young woman’s life was literally in his hands. At the same time, despite the angst he constantly felt, he felt pretty good about their chances. A strong circumstantial case can be more difficult to find reasonable doubt than an eyewitness case. Except the more Marc prepared for the trial, the more he came to believe this was not a strong circumstantial case.

  The warmth, comfort and security he felt in bed, naked with Margaret helped him sleep like a baby. By Monday morning he was rested, refreshed and ready to go.

  Marc arrived at the courthouse in Hastings before 7:30 A.M. believing he would be early enough to find good parking. He drove around through the front lot without finding a space and found out why. In front of the main doors, spilling beyond the sidewalks and blocking the circular drive in front of the building, was a crowd of well over two hundred people. On top of that, the sheriff had blocked off at least a quarter of the lot, closest to the building, for media vehicles.

  Marc parked his car in the back lot and walked quickly toward the building. Keeping his head down as much as he could to avoid being recognized, he hurried past at least six TV reporters. Each of them, along with their camera operators, were conducting interviews of the crowd.

  Standing at the back of the mob, hoping not to be recognized, he casually asked an older man, “Why isn’t anyone moving?”

  “They’re not letting anyone in until 8:00 o’clock, leastwise, that’s the rumor going around,” the man told him. He stared at Marc with a quizzical expression and said, “You look familiar. Are you a lawyer or something?”

  At that moment Marc spotted a deputy he recognized standing inside the exit door. “No, I’m nobody,” he answered the man then hurried off toward the exit doorway. The crowd on this sid
e of the building was fairly thin and he almost made it. A few feet before he got to the door, he heard a familiar voice and footsteps hurrying up behind him.

  “Marc! Mr. Kadella,” Gabriella Shriqui was almost shouting.

  If it was anyone else he would have ignored her. Marc genuinely liked Gabriella. He had been interviewed by her many times for this case and a couple of others and always found her to be polite, respectful and professional.

  “Hey, Gabriella,” he said as he turned to her. Before she could ask him a question, he said, “You look lovely this fine brisk winter morning.”

  “Oh, stuff that,” she whispered after covering her microphone. “I’m freezing my ass off out here. Would you mind…?”

  “What’s that scent you’re wearing? It smells great,” Marc said.

  “Never mind that,” Gabriella said trying not to laugh. “I have a few questions…”

  “And you still have those temptation eyes…”

  “Stop trying to deflect this by flirting with me,” she laughed.

  “Gabriella,” Marc said turning serious. “You people always do this. Try to get people to say something they shouldn’t. Do you want a quote?”

  “Yes, sure,” she answered.

  “Here it is. Ready?” he said looking at her cameraman. “My client maintains her innocence. Other than that, I have no comment.”

  During all of this Marc had been slowly backing up toward the door. By the time he got there, everyone in the vicinity was watching. Someone in the crowd recognized him and shouts of “It’s her lawyer!” were starting up. Fortunately, the deputy at the door recognized him and opened the door to let him in.

  Having arrived as early as he did, Marc went into the courtroom and staked his claim to the table he wanted. The deputy guarding the courtroom door had let him in. Marc placed his briefcase and overcoat on the table closest to the jury box. He wanted Brittany to be as close to the jurors as possible. He wanted them to see her every day. He wanted them to look at her, watch her and humanize her as much as possible and to get them wondering: “How could this demure, pretty, wholesome girl-next-door possibly do what the prosecution says she did?” At least, that was his theory.