"You can always go on the stage, if you get disbarred," Sandy went on, and Nina realized she knew about Matt. She understood what Nina had just done.
"If you keep eavesdropping on me, you’ll get yourself into trouble. Just so you know," she said, "that makes you an accessory." Nina’s mind swirled with the ethical and criminal implications, around and around, complexity upon complexity....
"Fancy words like that don’t mean anything to me," Sandy said. "Somebody has to try to sort this out, and you got elected. People are depending on you. Somebody has to keep you going. That’s me. It’s simple. So let’s get on with it."
Her words were as pure and bracing as icebergs cutting through a frigid sea. Nina actually jerked in her chair as the doubt and confusion abruptly gave way. "Damn, Sandy," she said.
Sandy said, "You don’t have any choice but to be brave. That’s good, because fear bored a hole into you, and this could heal it up." She winked.
A knock came on the outer door and a voice said, "Pizza man."
"They better not have forgotten the extra cheese," Sandy said.
35
ON THE FOLLOWING MONDAY MORNING, MILNE FINALLY said, "we now have a jury of twelve with five alternates."
The jurors, including nine women, a critical mass that meant women would run the deliberations, sighed and shifted in their seats, with Mrs. Bourgogne, stately and stern, solidly in control of the front row middle position. One of those highly paid jury experts should do a study of how often the front row middle seat occupier became jury foreperson. Mrs. Bourgogne had a sharp, impatient eye, the kind of eye that went in after the room cleaning was finished and spotted the tissue still under the bed and the cobweb not swept from the ceiling corner.
Maybe she would think Jerry Kettrick’s eye wasn’t equally sharp.
Kurt sat to Nina’s left, in the shackles, at least wearing his suit. He had hardly spoken to her. His face had a gray cast to it, and his eyes showed hollow from weight loss. Again she remembered what she was doing to him. He didn’t have to go through this. He could be back at his piano, playing Bach, while she spent the next year preparing a defense for her jailbird brother. As the remaining members of the jury pool walked out, she squeezed his hand and whispered, "It’s a good jury. We’ll do fine."
The audience filled the seats, whispering as the people who had not been selected filed out. Barbet Cain of the Mirror was there, and a couple of other reporters. The Sweets sat quietly at the end of a row, Jonathan Sweet parked in his wheelchair in the aisle beside his wife. Doreen Ordway had dressed up, in a pale yellow miniskirted suit, her streaked hair glamorous in a French braid. Michael Ordway wore his usual jeans, his dark tanned face looking out of place.
The police witnesses had been excused and would be back the next morning, except for Frank Fontaine, the criminologist, who would be up first, and who was probably out in the hall reading his notes for the fiftieth time.
No relatives or friends showed up for Terry, unless you included the Kettricks, who seemed to be enjoying Jerry’s privileged position as an eyewitness. Her parents were dead, and Nina hadn’t been able to find anyone who knew her well. Even her associates in the film business could tell little about her. She had faxed her proposals and correspondence from Tahoe, and stayed shadowy as a person.
Kurt’s parents were also dead, but his sister, Becky, had come from Idaho for the duration of the trial. Becky was ten years older than Kurt and had already married and moved to Boise when Tam disappeared. She had heard occasionally from Kurt, and was trying to show support for him, but his years away had attenuated their relationship.
The courthouse cronies had claimed their places in the back, three women and a very old man who tended to fall asleep and snore.
And that was it. No hordes of curiosity seekers, no aisles full of aggrieved family members.
And of course, no Paul. He had called Sandy to say he couldn’t get up there. But she wasn’t going to think about Paul’s withdrawal from her and the case. Sandy was sitting up there at the counsel table with her and Kurt, dressed in black flats and a khaki skirt and a large, ill-fitting black jacket. Nina needed her to keep track of the volumes of paperwork that might be needed for reference at any moment. She would take notes and keep the files straight. Back at the office, Wish would take phone calls and keep the office going.
Collier stood up and moved around the table to the podium that had been set up in front of the jury box. Laying his papers gently down, he then walked to the side of the podium and began speaking. He looked at home in his old gray flannel suit, easy, like he had a story to tell his pals on a park bench.
"This is a homicide case. A woman named Terry London was shot with a Remington rifle at her home studio at about eleven forty-five P.M. on March thirtieth of this year. I’m here to present those facts to you in the clearest, simplest way I can.
"The facts you hear will slowly come together into a story about a man—this man here, Kurt Scott, defendant. You’ll learn that Mr. Scott has a way with women, a way that has led to at least two deaths. You’ll hear how this man seduced a young girl named Tamara Sweet twelve years ago, and carried on a clandestine affair with her. Then, on a mountain trail, he shot her twice and buried her body. You’ll hear how he then, a few months ago, used the same gun to shoot and kill his ex-wife, to cover up the previous crime."
The jury listened with interest as Collier, hardly ever walking back to glance at his notes, detailed in a simple, logical way what he expected to prove. He was at his best, perfectly prepared, workmanlike, showing the jury—by not overstating anything and by not indulging in emotion—that they could trust him and follow him. There were no surprises for Nina in what he said; California had developed an extensive pretrial procedure designed to ensure surprises would be kept to a minimum at trial.
Still, as he summarized the testimony he expected to present, Nina was shocked at how strong the prosecution case sounded. She objected when she should, took notes, watched Mrs. Bourgogne and the other jurors, got to know their expressions, and tried to keep her confidence up.
Collier finished at four-fifteen, and Judge Milne adjourned for the day. Kurt was led away.
Nina and Sandy drove back to the office in a long line of traffic. Once they were inside, Nina pushed aside the phone messages and paperwork, looking for a clean legal pad. "Sandy, you type up the notes of the day, and then go home."
"What are you going to do?" Sandy said from the doorway.
"I’m going to water the plants and think."
"If you go eat dinner, then come back, the typed notes will be finished, and you can think better." Sandy booted up the computer. Nina came out in her flat shoes, brushing her hair.
"Uh, Sandy."
She turned and raised a bushy eyebrow. "Well?" she said.
"Any word from Paul?" Nina said. "I heard you running back to listen to the voicemail messages."
"No word. But Wish wants to know what you want him to do next."
"Oh. Nothing right now."
"Can I give him a few errands to run for the office, then, while you’re in court?"
"Sure. Say, Sandy, is Wish your only son?"
"The only one," Sandy said. "But I have three daughters."
"Where’s his father?"
"Long gone," Sandy said, with a glint in her eye that made Nina decide not to ask any more.
"It’s an incredible thing, having a child," Nina said. "If I’d had to plan to have a child, I don’t think I would have done it, but I’m glad every day he’s in my life. You know, I’m just going to go home. I can stop by the office early and run through my opening statement. I feel like helping Bob with his homework, talking to him a little about court today. He’s pretty anxious."
She stopped at the store to buy spaghetti fixings, made a big supper, spent time with Bob, had a long bath, and slept for nine hours. When the alarm went off at six, she was ready.
Court. Kurt beside her, impassive. A gray dress today, with a
white collar. "Ms. Reilly, you may proceed," Milne said.
She started slowly and kept her words plain, using the phrase, "reasonable doubt" over and over again so it would be branded into the jurors’ brain circuits. "The prosecution will try to convince you that these are cold-blooded murders planned and executed by the defendant. The fact that the Remington rifle used in both murders was purchased by the defendant will be used as a support for that idea.
"But the testimony will show that Terry London had access to this rifle twelve years ago, when Tamara Sweet was killed. Jerry and Ralph Kettrick will both testify that Ms. London kept the rifle in her studio, and it was there not long before she was shot. The defendant is supposed to have shot her on his first visit to the studio where she worked. It won’t add up, ladies and gentlemen.
"We will show you that Kurt Scott is guilty of neither murder, and we will present evidence to indicate that Terry London was an unbalanced and violent person, who may herself have killed Tamara Sweet because she was in love with the defendant and he was dating Miss Sweet. We will show you that the defendant, far from being a cold-blooded killer, is a victim of Terry London as surely as Miss Sweet was.
"We will show you that every bit of the so-called evidence linking the defendant to these murders has an alternate, innocent explanation. We will show you that others had the motive, means, and opportunity to kill Ms. London. And we will show you that Mr. Kettrick’s so-called eyewitness identification is questionable, so questionable you should not accept it.
"As to the video made by Ms. London as she lay dying, there are two questions that we hope you will ask yourselves as you watch it. First, could anyone, even the most highly trained lip-reader, really know what she was saying? And second, did her vindictiveness toward the defendant extend so far that in her last words she may have thought only of him, and damned him, instead of the real killer?
"That may seem unlikely to you now, ladies and gentlemen, because you have not yet met Terry London through the testimony. But as you grow to understand her, and the sickness in her soul that made her want to destroy the defendant if he would not love her, which grew stronger rather than weaker with the passing of years, you will understand that Terry London, whatever her exact words, lied as she lay there dying.
"And I ask you to examine the evidence sharply and with the proper measure of skepticism. Don’t accept things at their face value. Look deep, and I am confident you will find doubt in your minds as to whether the scenario the prosecution would have you believe is true."
She wound her way through the points in the prosecution case she felt were weakest. Mrs. Bourgogne’s eyes never left her. What was she thinking?
Nina paused. She was about to begin the conclusion she had prepared, when someone coughed. Behind her, she heard the steel chain on Kurt’s feet clanking as he shifted his weight.
She put her notes down, came rapidly around from the podium, and held her hand toward Kurt. "You’ve probably been looking at Kurt Scott’s feet," she said, holding her hand out toward the shackles. "I know I would. Maybe you’ve been trying not to look. But I’d like to suggest that you think about these shackles. Look at this man. He is brought to you humble and degraded, in chains. He’s been made to look like some kind of savage—"
"Your Honor!" Collier said.
"Please remember, no matter what they’ve done to make him look bad—"
"Ms. Reilly," Milne boomed. "Step up here..."
"He’s an innocent man, until proven guilty. An innocent man!"
"Ms. Reilly! Step up here!"
She went. But she knew the jury had heard the conviction in her voice.
He was an innocent man. She ought to know.
36
THE COURTROOM BECAME NINA’S WORLD AGAIN. The eyes of some of the woman jurors seemed permanently stuck on Kurt.
On Tuesday, Terry’s letter to Kurt, found in his Wiesbaden apartment and dated 1990, was introduced. As it circulated, Nina reread her own copy:
Dear Cowardly Lion, A little elf told me you were in London and I came to visit. But you had run away again, and I have to go home. So maybe you will get this, maybe you won’t.
I’m going to find you someday. It’s not right for you to be enjoying your life while I suffer. You made me this way. I think about you every day. I remember your lies about loving me, and what you made me do. You have to be punished, if there is any justice in this world.
Do you really think I can stop now? Or ever? I’m the kind of woman who only loves once.
Kurt—how long can you run? I am steadfast. I am stronger than you. I am your Wife, Kurt. I have my rights, do you understand?
The note was signed "Terry."
Collier followed that letter with Kurt’s response, which Terry had kept, in which he told Terry he would make her sorry if she kept up the harassment— and she knew exactly what he meant.
On Wednesday, Collier brought in Jason Joyce, the South Lake Tahoe patrolman who had pulled Kurt over at dawn. Officer Joyce wore his bristly brown hair very short. He sat at attention like an army recruit.
"He was weaving back and forth across the center line on Pioneer Trail," he said in answer to Collier’s question, consulting his notes. "This was at five-forty in the morning. I drove up alongside him. His head was hanging like he was very tired or sick. When he saw me, he looked scared. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, either.
"I pulled him over on the shoulder just past Jicarillo. I asked him to get out his driver’s license, and there was blood on his hand, running down from his sleeve. I held my flashlight on him and had him get out and lean against the car. There was a lot of what looked like dried blood on his clothes, down the left side. I said, ’What is that?’ He answered, ’Blood.’ I said, ’You hurt?’ He nodded, so I said, ’You been in a fight?’ And he answered, ’A shooting. She’s been shot.’ "
"He said those words? ’She’s been shot?’ " Collier said, raising his eyebrows at the jury to register the importance of this statement.
"Yes, that’s the note I made here."
"What happened at that point?"
"I called for backup and an ambulance, and he was checked into Boulder Hospital at six-twelve. He’d been shot in the left arm, a soft-tissue wound. He told me on the way in where this woman lived. He said he’d been driving around for the whole night, parked somewhere and went to sleep for a while, and had decided to go to the police station and report it and get some medical attention, when I pulled him over."
"What did you do next?" Collier said.
"Officer Booth and I went to the address and we went directly to the studio next to the main house."
"Why did you do that?
"Two reasons. There were dark-colored droplets on the path to the studio. And the door was wide open. The temperature was in the forties. If anyone was in there she was in trouble. So we announced ourselves at the doorway. It was dark inside but I could see a lot of equipment. Then I saw what looked like the butt of a rifle. We pulled our weapons and went in."
"What did you find inside?"
"Female lying on the floor about ten feet in from the entrance. She wasn’t breathing. The body was covered with blood that had partially dried and was stiff and cold. I called for another ambulance, but it was clear to me she was dead."
Joyce continued with the long story outlined in detail in the police reports: the Remington on the floor beside Terry, the signs of struggle, the video camera propped between her legs. A homicide investigation team, which consisted of a photographer, two criminalists, and a detective, Lieutenant Julian Oskel, had arrived within an hour and started their work.
"What did you do at that point?"
"I returned to the station and worked on my report."
"Thank you, Officer Joyce. Your witness."
Nina took the patrolman back over his conversation with Kurt.
"No tape was made of these statements?" she asked.
"No. I filmed the stop from the recorder in my vehicle. That’
s standard procedure. The sound was out."
"Let’s see that film," Nina said. Once again the courtroom lights went down. They watched the film, Joyce pulling Kurt over, walking over to the car with his flashlight, Kurt opening the car door and leaning over the hood. On a crystal clear Tahoe morning, with the camera carefully set to capture anyone in the car in front, Kurt’s unmistakable face turned toward the camera, talking earnestly.
"Stop right there," Nina said. "What exactly did he say at that point?"
"Okay," Joyce said patiently. "This is according to my notes. I said, ’What is that?’ He answered, ’Blood.’ I said, ’You hurt?’ He nodded, so I said, ’You been in a fight?’ And he answered, ’A shooting. She’s been shot.’ "
"Do you have any independent recollection of what he said? Without your notes?"
"Vague. It was several months ago. I rely on my notes."
"And what is the precise time that these notes were made?"
"It says right here, at the top, 0730 hours. Seven-thirty A.M."
"And what time, again, did the defendant actually say these words?"
"That would have been—you can see the time on the film tape on the frame where you’ve stopped it. 0544 hours."
"Did you discuss the defendant’s exact words with anyone prior to making those notes?"
"The exact words? No."
"So between the time the statements were made and the time you made your notes one hour and forty-six minutes intervened?"
"Yes."
"And during this time you were involved in the grisly discovery of a body covered with blood, with all that entailed."
"Yes."
"Isn’t it possible you forgot the exact words the defendant said during that intervening period?"
"No. I’m trained to retain things like that."
"Your memory has been trained to recall the exact words of statements that have been made to you."
"Yes." The young patrolman looked at her with a self-satisfied smile. He knew all he had to do was hold the line. "She’s been shot." It was almost as good as a confession.
Invasion of Privacy Page 33
