Move to Strike

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘True,’ said Phyll. ‘But if the ADA manages to convince them that the kids’ motive for murder was not just one of self-preservation but of greed, then those big-hearted moms won’t blink an eye before committing your junior jackals to a life behind bars. And even if they do feel sorry for them, that doesn’t mean they won’t vote to have them committed to a mental facility for long-term treatment. And is that what you want for your clients? A life in a loony bin filled with psychos who kill for fun?’

  David let out a sigh, pausing to collect his thoughts as the waiter placed their meals in front of them. The past few days had been exasperating. While he was confident the children were now stronger, united, as prepared as they could be for the tough weeks that followed, they still had no concrete evidence against Jeffrey Logan, nor any word on the whereabouts of the missing Deirdre McCall. Nora’s enquires at the Chatham Bars Inn had come up blank, and Sara had had no luck with reaching the increasingly evasive Katherine de Castro.

  ‘I see what you are saying, Phyll,’ said David after a time. ‘But aiming for a jury of close to all male jurors . . . isn’t that a little extreme?’

  ‘Let me help you out here,’ she said, leaning into the table, the strength of her perfume now filling the space between them. ‘You think any woman with half a heart is gonna wanna see those kids walk after Miss Barbie Doll ADA holds up pictures of the crime scene? You think any woman is gonna look at J.T., no matter how cute the kid happens to be, and let him skip happily into the sunset after she sees how he turned his mom into a bona fide carcass?’ Phyll took a breath. ‘No, David, it will be the violence that disturbs them, and given you will not be arguing that they acted in self-defence then . . .’

  And there they were, Phyll’s true feelings on the matter. The woman was a realist and made it very clear that she thought they were mad for not going with self-defence. She understood that Jeffrey Logan might be the abuser from hell but she did not think they had a chance of proving it.

  ‘Bottom line, kiddo,’ she said, perhaps reading the despondency on David’s face, ‘you’ve made your bed on this one – and don’t get me wrong, I certainly admire your chutzpah. But not everything they teach you in law school is correct, my friend.’ She took his hand and patted it. ‘And Clarence Darrow was lying when he said the truth will set you free.’

  57

  Deirdre McCall popped another two super-strength Advil into her cracked, parched mouth and swallowed. She had run out of water hours ago, being careful to ration her money considering all she had was the $287 that she had luckily left in her faux leather purse.

  She was on a Greyhound, travelling east. The bus had just passed Denver, which meant there were still two days to go on this close to three-day trip. The idea had come to her a few days ago, when she was staying at a filthy roadside inn just outside of Boulder City. And once she thought about it – once she felt, in her gut, that what she was guessing was correct – she used her ATM card to purchase the $204 ticket and worked out a $15 a day budget to tide her over. Even if the police or whoever else might be looking for her traced the transaction, she would be a long way from Nevada when they finally ‘came to collect’.

  When she hit Boston she would immediately jump a ferry to take her within shouting distance of her final destination and then . . . well then, she would sit down and wait.

  He would come, she thought to herself, as the pain in her head throbbed to the beat of some dull, persistent drum. It had been a long time since she had seen him, but something told her, something way down deep inside, that if he ever found himself in trouble that he would not be able to stop himself from seeking out the one thing that he had always loved the most.

  He would go for the guns. He would take leave from his new identity – if just for a little while – so that he might go to them, feel them, and make a decision as to which weapon would suit his purpose best. And considering she guessed she was the only living person who knew where they were stored, she would seek them out also, so that she might do what she should have done all those years ago, and finally put an end to the bloodshed.

  58

  Prospective juror number 51 was a forty-one-year-old from Brookline. Her name was Betty Baker and she looked like something directly out of an episode of Desperate Housewives. She had listed her employment as ‘home-maker’ and her interests as baking and charity work, and she was president of the local elementary school PTA.

  ‘So you have two children, Mrs Baker?’ asked Amanda Carmichael, as she read from the woman’s questionnaire and moved towards her with the prettiest of smiles on her face.

  ‘Yes,’ smiled Baker. ‘Sheldon and Kiara – Sheldon is eleven and Kiara is eight – and they are both absolute delights.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘Bob is managing director of an office works company called The Golden Staple. They sell everything from rubber bands to computer ink.’ Another smile.

  ‘And do you watch a lot of TV, Mrs Baker?’

  ‘Well,’ said Baker with a guilty little smile. ‘I must admit I do like that Dancing with the Stars and I supervise the children’s viewing, of course.’

  Carmichael smiled. ‘And what about daytime TV, Mrs Baker. Have you seen The Doctor Jeff Show?’

  ‘Well, of course I have seen it.’ Baker smiled again. ‘And I do like Oprah. But my time during the day is limited, Ms Carmichael, especially on Thursdays when the housekeeper has a day off.’

  At this last comment David bent to whisper in Phyll’s ear. ‘You want me to strike her?’

  ‘Does a bear shit in the woods?’ returned Phyll. But then Phyll shook her head. ‘Try to get rid of her without using one of our challenges,’ she whispered. ‘There are several June Cleavers left in the pool,’ she said, gesturing at the remaining, mainly female group behind them, ‘. . . and we only have one challenge to play with.’

  David nodded.

  ‘Finally, Mrs Baker,’ Carmichael went on, ‘do you think that, despite your knowledge of Doctor Logan’s program, you could make unbiased decisions when it came to assessing the facts presented to you in proceedings involving the activities of his two children?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Baker. ‘That would be my moral obligation, Ms Carmichael.’

  Carmichael smiled again. ‘I have no objection to this juror, Your Honour,’ she said, before moving to resume her seat.

  ‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ called Kessler then, and David noted the judge had attempted some ‘self-renovation’ for her debut in the Suffolk County Superior Court – her usual brown ‘nest’ of hair having been coiffed into a bowl-like helmet which sat awkwardly on top of her head.

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said David, getting to his feet. ‘While we do not wish to use one of our challenges, we feel that Mrs Baker may have some sort of affinity with the victim given Stephanie Tyler was also a PTA representative when her children were younger.’

  ‘You want to strike Mrs Baker because she is a mom?’

  ‘No, Your Honour,’ said David, knowing very well that his argument was weak.

  ‘Because if that is the case we will have to strike half the female population of Massachusetts.’

  Kessler was right – but David was desperate to find a way around it. ‘But Your Honour, Mrs Baker, like the victim, has a son and a daughter and . . .’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Kessler, shaking her head before turning to Mrs Baker. ‘Mrs Baker, I am pleased to inform you, you shall be joining us as juror number thirteen in the total group of sixteen. Please be aware that you will not know whether you will be named as one of the four alternates until the end of the trial.’

  Kessler was referring to the ‘lottery’ system employed when whittling down a jury to the final dozen. It was believed that if the alternates were named in advance of the proceedings then they would not listen as intently as the original ‘chosen twelve’. But if each of the sixteen did not know whether or not they would be literally pulled out of the barrel as an alternate, they
would all concentrate on the evidence equally.

  ‘Well, you made a dog’s breakfast out of that one,’ said Phyll, as David returned to his seat.

  ‘Thanks for the encouragement, Phyll,’ said David.

  ‘I’m not here to stroke your ego, pretty boy,’ she returned as Kessler called their next prospective juror – another of the group Phyll had nicknamed the ‘Macy’s Sale Parade’.

  Two hours later, as the clock struck five, the sixteenth and final juror – a single father by the name of Nick Mandel – joined the mostly female group now sitting in the jury box at the far right-hand side of the room. And as Judge Kessler proceeded to swear them in – briefing them on what to expect during the course of a trial, reviewing their responsibilities and thanking them in advance for the role they were about to play – David looked at Phyll who met his eye to say: ‘You’re fucked.’

  ‘Well at least you’re consistent, Phyll,’ said a now exhausted David.

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ said Phyll, collecting her things as the judge began to rise. ‘Yesterday you were fucked but today you got screwed over big time.’

  ‘Jesus, Phyll,’ he said, collecting his briefcase at his feet before glancing across at Amanda Carmichael who could barely contain a smile.

  Then he saw it – what Phyll was referring to. And he realised just exactly how ‘fucked’ he was.

  ‘She chose our jurors,’ said David as he stormed into Arthur’s office, an equally as fired-up Phyll behind him.

  ‘What?’ asked an obviously confused Arthur, rising from his desk.

  ‘Carmichael – she gave preference to the type of juror we would have been favouring if we didn’t know what we did.’

  ‘Slow down, son,’ said Arthur, gesturing for them both to join him on the sofa and accompanying armchairs as Nora entered the room. But David was set on pacing.

  ‘We know what Logan is up to,’ he said. ‘But if we didn’t, if we thought he had his children’s best interests at heart, we would have done everything we could have to make sure that jury was filled with women sympathetic to the Logans’ cause. We would have wanted Logan fans – women who watch his show every day and, as Phyll rightly pointed out, live and die by his advice. Because that way they would have voted for his camp – or our camp – the one that was determined to set those children free.

  ‘But we do know what he is up to. We know he wants his kids incarcerated and we also know that eventually we are going to go after him. So we can’t favour Doctor Jeff fans because they are the ones who are going to hate us for turning the tables and gunning for him.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Arthur. ‘I follow you so far.’

  David nodded. ‘Then why is Carmichael favouring the jurors who can only hinder her case? She should be choosing the ones who don’t give a crap about the famous psychotherapist, because they are less likely to be swayed by sympathy to Jeffrey Logan, and as a flow-on, to his two kids.’

  ‘Carmichael has spent the entire day favouring stay-at-home moms?’ asked Arthur, now truly confused.

  ‘Think Carol Brady times sixteen,’ said Phyll, before pointing towards Arthur’s corner fridge. She had worked with Arthur and David long enough to know the fridge was always stocked with cold Australian beers. Arthur nodded.

  ‘The ADA was sucking up to those housewives like there was no tomorrow,’ Phyll went on. ‘And sadly she got what she obviously wanted – sixteen jurors of which ten are women and seven of those with kids. It was like a Tupperware party in there today, Arthur, except the only thing they were selling was their devotion to your favourite celebrity shrink.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Arthur. ‘Why the hell would a savvy young prosecutor like Carmichael be filling the jury box with Logan sympathisers?’

  ‘Because he is going to sell out those poor children in public.’ It was Nora, from just inside the door.

  David nodded as Arthur met his eye.

  ‘You think Logan has offered to be a witness for the prosecution?’ asked Arthur, not believing what he was hearing.

  ‘It certainly explains Carmichael’s strategy,’ said David.

  ‘But why would he? Surely any desertion of his children will be professional suicide on his part.’

  ‘Not if he paints his actions as a hard decision for their benefit,’ said David, ‘. . . if he says they need to be incarcerated, so they can be treated and kept safely away from the public while their lengthy psychiatric treatment is carried out.’

  ‘You really think this guy is brave enough to go public with a flip like that?’

  ‘I think this guy believes he is invincible – that his masses are so loyal that they will swallow whatever crap he chooses to dish out. And worse, Arthur, I think he might be right.’

  There was silence.

  ‘But how can you be sure, lad?’ asked Nora. ‘Doctor Logan is not on the original witness list Ms Carmichael faxed to us earlier this week.’

  ‘She’s delaying the addition,’ said David. ‘My guess is she’ll want him to come last – play him as the powerful sympathetic back-up to her iron-clad evidentiary case. She will start by submitting the irrefutable facts as presented by the police, the ME, the forensics experts and the FBI and then, just when she has all those loyal Doctor Jeff devotees torn between voting with their sense or their sensibilities, she will clinch their guilty votes by getting the children’s father to tell them it is okay to put his kids away.’

  Arthur shook his head, in part realisation, part disgust. ‘What do you think, Phyll?’ he asked, turning to their savvy jury expert.

  ‘I think your boy is spot on, but you’d be in a much better position if you knew what Doctor Asshole was planning for sure.’

  ‘Well,’ said Arthur, taking a beer from Phyll before moving to the corner cabinet to pour Nora a sherry. ‘I am afraid that is impossible, Phyll. You see, there is no way in hell Logan is going to let us in on his strategy.’

  David stopped pacing, before moving towards Phyll, taking a cold green bottle from her hand and unscrewing the lid so that he might down the bottle’s contents in one almighty swallow.

  ‘We don’t need Logan to confirm it,’ he said, taking a breath before placing the empty bottle on Arthur’s desk.

  ‘Then . . . how . . . who . . . ?’ began Nora.

  ‘Amanda Carmichael,’ he said, before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door. ‘It’s her legal obligation to disclose all witnesses on her list – and if she thinks she can avoid that responsibility . . . well, I think it’s about time I set the woman straight.’

  It was raining when he left the office – a heavy, hot summer downpour that made the air thick with humidity. He decided to walk, knowing that at this hour on a Friday night he would be faster on foot than in his LandCruiser. He had tried Sara at home, but the line was engaged, so he’d left a message saying he was held up (he found himself stopping short before telling her he was on his way to Amanda Carmichael’s apartment), and would be home within the hour.

  He thought the walk might calm him, but if anything it was revving him up – his wet shirt now sticking to his skin as he made his way in and out of the umbrella-toting Friday night crowd. It was as if he existed in his own private cocoon, like a leading character in some high tension movie, locked in a world where the people around him were moving in slow motion, their voices muffled, their footsteps soundless, their smiles blurs as he focused on nothing but the inevitable task ahead.

  He reached the waterfront and saw Amanda’s building soaring like a glass palace before him. Tony had told him months ago that Amanda had bought a condo in the impressive new Residences at the Intercontinental, and as he entered the prestigious Atlantic Avenue address, he immediately tried to find someone who could direct him to her apartment somewhere up above.

  ‘My name is David Cavanaugh and I am here to see Amanda Carmichael,’ he said when he reached the front desk. ‘She owns one of the condos here.’

  Within minutes the helpful staff were escor
ting him to a private elevator – the doorman having made a whispering phone call to Carmichael who, David guessed, was wondering why in the hell her number one opponent was paying her a house call late on a Friday night.

  ‘Well, this is a pleasant surprise,’ she said, standing in the doorway of her tenth floor apartment with a glass of white wine in her hand. She was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans with a ribbed white cotton singlet. Her hair was down and fell in thick blonde layers around her make-up-free face, her feet were bare and David was sure she was braless.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said, meeting her at the door. The carpet was thick beneath his feet, that new hotel smell lingering fresh and sweet in the air.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, flattening her back against the door so that he could enter the dimly lit apartment. She followed him into the living room, allowing the door to squeeze silently shut behind her until the barely audible click of the lock acted as a trigger for David to finally say his piece.

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’ he said, turning from the breathtaking harbour view to face her.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The past two days – in jury selection – why were you choosing jurors perfect for the defence?’

  ‘That’s a good question, Counsellor,’ she said, taking a step towards him, ‘. . . almost as good as the one I could ask you regarding your decision to challenge those very same jurors – the ones any half-assed jury expert would have been advising you to favour. Don’t forget that I know Phyllis Vecchio, David, and there is nothing half-assed about that woman whatsoever.’

  ‘Stop avoiding the question, Amanda,’ David said, taking a step forward himself. ‘I know what the hell you are up to, but I just want to hear it from . . .’

  ‘How dare you,’ she interrupted him then, placing her wine on a side table as she made the final steps to reach him. ‘How dare you come into my home and tell me how I can or cannot run my case. Do you think I am completely stupid, David? Do you think you could come over here and strut your stuff and convince me to give away my entire game plan just because I used to be attracted to you? You may be a good-looking man, David, but . . .’