Dog Law (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  Some of the jurors were eyeing Natalie, who was sitting with her hands in her lap and her eyes on the table in front of her, with mingled disbelief and horror. I didn’t have to be a mind-reader to know what they were thinking: She looks so young and innocent. You can never tell, can you?

  “This was about one p.m. December seventh, the day after Natalie checked into that motel room. The police rang the bell at the Stevens’ residence and pounded on the door until the defendant opened it. She admitted that the car in question, the car with the broken headlight and the telltale smear of blood, was hers.”

  Biggs sat down after speaking just forty-five minutes, his opening statement more effective for its brevity, a concept most lawyers can’t seem to get their heads around. It was my turn.

  I stood and moved toward the lectern, but turned in front of it and stood between it and the jury. Rule number one, a speech professor had told me once: Show your body. “Hello, I’m Robin Starling,” I began conversationally. “In case you’ve forgotten. I’m representing Natalie Stevens, the accused in this case.” My mouth twitched, but I got no return smiles. “She shares something in common with you. Do you know what it is? The law presumes her innocent of the crime of murder. It presumes her innocent of any crime. The law does not require her to testify; it does not require her to put on any evidence whatsoever. The entire burden is on the prosecution to peel away, strand by strand, the cocoon of presumed innocence with which the Constitution of the United States surrounds her. If the prosecution fails to remove a single strand, any reasonable doubt, then it is your duty to acquit. You may not find her guilty because you think she probably is. You may not find her guilty because you think it is important to get whoever might have committed such a monstrous crime off the streets. You may only find her guilty if the facts are such that no reasonable person could doubt her guilt.

  “What we have in this case is a great deal of circumstantial evidence. There is no direct evidence. A woman checked into the Best Western using Natalie Stevens’ credit card. A man saw a woman who could have been Natalie Stevens standing over a body outside his home, but nobody has positively identified Natalie Stevens as either of these women. The prosecution is able to prove a number of facts about this crime, and from those facts it wants you to infer Natalie’s guilt. You may do this only if there is no other reasonable interpretation of those facts. If there is another interpretation, then there is reasonable doubt as to Natalie’s guilt. Then you are duty-bound to acquit her of this horrible crime of which she stands accused.

  “This probably seems to you like a good time for me to give you an alternate interpretation of the prosecution’s facts. I wish that I could.” One member of the jury sat up a little straighter, impressed, I hoped, by my unexpected candor. “I will be listening to the testimony of the witnesses with as much attention as you will, because there are certain facts that just don’t add up. They don’t add up to Natalie’s guilt. At the moment, they don’t seem to add up to any kind of coherent story.”

  Standing, Biggs said, “Objection, your honor. She’s arguing her case.”

  “Sustained.”

  I nodded my acquiescence. “The prosecution will offer evidence that a woman calling herself Natalie Stevens—in fact, a woman using Natalie Stevens’ credit card—checked into Room 238. Mr. Biggs has already told you that a woman driving a car registered to Mark Edward Stevens was seen driving away from the body of the deceased. What he has not told you is that on that same Sunday night Mark Edward Stevens was checked into Room 240, the room immediately next door to the room registered to Natalie Stevens.”

  Aubrey Biggs was on his feet again, his face already turning red. A paper disturbed by his braced hands floated from the table to the carpet between our two tables. “Your honor, I…” He stopped, evidently already doubting the wisdom of such a strong reaction. I bent to pick up the paper and, walking to the table, held it out to him.

  “You didn’t know?” I said.

  “Your honor, I’d like a sidebar.”

  Judge Cheatham motioned us forward, pushing a button that turned up the level of white noise in the courtroom.

  “Your honor,” Biggs said. “The opening statement is no place for the defense to be springing surprises on the prosecution. Assuming the facts bear out Ms. Starling’s statement and she’s not making it up out of whole cloth. My understanding is that Mark Stevens is in China.”

  “He may be,” I said. “But someone giving his name rented a room at the Best Western that Sunday night.”

  “Then that fact should have been in the discovery materials turned over to us.”

  I said, “What should have been turned over? I think the witnesses on the prosecution’s list will be sufficient to prove the point, and if it doesn’t come out in the prosecution’s case, those same names are on the defense’s witness list. I am frankly amazed that Mr. Biggs didn’t know who was in the room right next door to where this murder was committed. He’s talked to the same people I have. I assumed he was up to his usual game of hide-the-ball.”

  “That’s enough, Ms. Starling. You will refrain from personal attacks in this courtroom.”

  “Yes, your honor.” Though Biggs had accused me of making up facts out of whole cloth, such an accusation evidently was fair play.

  “If facts don’t bear out your assertions, Ms. Starling, you are going to be in a world of trouble,” the judge said.

  “I would expect the jury to hold it against me, your honor.”

  “You may proceed with your opening statement.”

  I went back to my position midway between the lectern and the jury box. I smiled at the jury. “You no doubt wonder what that was all about. I’m afraid it’s unlikely to be the last sidebar you experience. As I was saying, rooms right next to each other were registered to a Natalie Stevens and a Mark Stevens that Sunday night. No doubt there is some narrative that explains that. At this point, I don’t know what it is. I do know that the facts don’t seem to fit the prosecution’s narrative. During the trial, I will be doing my best to uncover enough facts so that a sensible narrative emerges. I believe that narrative will exonerate Natalie Stevens and make it clear that she had nothing to do with the events of that night. It may not. We may be left with a collection of facts that could fit any number of narratives. If in one of those narratives, Natalie is innocent, then there is a reasonable doubt of her guilt and you must find her not guilty. Listen closely to the witnesses. Keep an open mind. Make the prosecution prove its case.”

  Chapter 20

  “I wanted to stand up and applaud,” Brooke said afterward.

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” She, Paul, and I were standing in the parking lot outside the courthouse, stepping from foot to foot as our breath condensed in front of our faces.

  “When did you decide to drag Natalie’s father into the picture?” Paul asked.

  “When Aubrey Biggs stood up and objected to my arguing the case.”

  “You hadn’t planned it in advance?”

  “I’d like to say yes, but something about that little twerp makes me want to smack him in the face with a large, wet tuna. The main thing I wanted to accomplish was to keep the jury from buying his narrative of what happened so completely that they couldn’t keep open minds. You notice I didn’t say anything about Chloe. I didn’t want to telegraph my next surprise.”

  “I think you achieved your purpose. Where shall we have dinner to celebrate?” Paul asked.

  “Can’t. I’m a family woman now, remember? There’s a little guy at home depending on me.”

  “So we eat at your place. I’ll pick up Italian nachos on the way. You have wine, don’t you?”

  “Does a fish have gills?” Brooke said.

  I got home just after five and retrieved my pup from Dr. McDermott. I changed clothes, opened a bottle of cabernet, then, with Deeks trailing after me, headed back to my bedroom to change clothes.

  It took Paul and Brooke longer to get to my place than I expected.
I found myself drowsing in the big, stuffed chair in my living room, Deeks lying across one foot and gnawing on a flip-flop he had found in my closet. I found myself too lethargic to take it away from him. It was an old flip-flop, I told myself, probably not worth more than a buck or two at a garage sale.

  I must have fallen asleep, because when the doorbell rang, Deeks was in my lap, and his claws racked my thigh through my sweats as he launched himself to the floor. His toenails clicked on the wood floor as he left the area rug, and he yapped when he reached the door and couldn’t get to whoever was on the other side of it. I took a deep breath and exhaled it. The doorbell rang again, and I pulled myself to my feet.

  When I opened the door, Deeks ran out past Paul Soldano, who was on the porch with a big sack that said Carino’s.

  “Whoa,” Paul said. “Hey, buddy.” Brooke Marshall was coming up the sidewalk carrying a gym bag, but Deeks wasn’t interested in her either. He cut onto the grass and began to pee.

  “Does he always do that?” Paul asked. “Do his business outside I mean. Has he had an accident since that first day?”

  “Not that I know of. He’s spending the days with Dr. McDermott, though, and I haven’t asked him.”

  “Hi, Robin,” Brooke said. “Have you done P90X?”

  “The workout video?”

  “I brought it in case you want to try it. I just got it in the mail.”

  “Sorry we’re late,” Paul said. “Have you gone running yet?”

  “No, I’ve got a dog now, and I’m waiting for him to get big enough to keep up. Why? Did you come to work out, too?”

  “You could carry him in a backpack or something,” Brooke said.

  “I’ve done that, but all the bouncing upsets his little tum-tum. He threw up on me.”

  “Oh.” Her face brightened. “This is perfect then. We get our workout, and we don’t have to leave your dog alone or anything.”

  “What about him?” I said, jerking my head at Paul. “He gonna work out with us?”

  “Can we eat first?” Paul asked.

  “So you are going to work out with us?”

  “No, no. Don’t worry about me, though. Deacon and I are content to watch.” He put the Italian nachos on the coffee table. I got the wine and three mugs—wasn’t going to risk stemmed glassware with Deeks around. Paul nested his smartphone in my Rocketfish speakers, and we listed to the eclectic work of Artic Monkeys while we ate.

  “This would be good music to work out to,” Paul said.

  “You thinking about it?”

  “I guess what I meant is that it’s good music to watch you work out to. Good music, a canine companion, sipping wine from a square, white mug—where did you get this anyway?”

  I rolled my eyes and didn’t answer.

  After dinner we watched an episode of Grimm on Netflix while we gave our food time to digest. Then Brooke went to the guest bedroom to change. I already had gym shorts and an exercise bra on underneath my sweats, so I just stripped out of them there in the living room. I should have been able to ignore Paul watching me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Okay, I’m done,” I said. “Striptease is over.”

  “Sorry.” He gave me a smile, but I thought he wasn’t really.

  About thirty minutes later, Brooke and I were in the middle of the plyometrics workout (jump training), slick with sweat, blowing like horses, and bouncing up and down. Paul told Deeks, “This is better than a floor-show in Vegas.”

  I didn’t have the breath to react. Tony Horton was moving us to the next exercise, demonstrating a variation for lower intensity, and I was thinking maybe lower intensity was called for.

  By the time we were done, my clothes were wet enough to wring sweat out of. “Time to hit the showers,” I said to Brooke as I rolled our dumbbells under the coffee table. “You take the guest bath.”

  Paul stood up.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I was going to take Deacon outside,” he said with some dignity. “He might need to piddle.” He looked from me to Brooke. “If, however, either of you needs someone to wash her back, I will do my best to expedite his toilet.”

  Brooke gave him a raspberry, which, I thought, was all the reply he was entitled to. We showered and put on fresh clothes, and Brooke and I talked about how sore we were going to be the next day. Brooke suggested ice cream.

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the workout?” Paul asked. “Not that I’m objecting. I like ice cream.”

  Brooke said, “We need to replenish our glycogen stores.”

  “Burn the fat, feed the muscle,” I said.

  “Hey, whatever. It works for me.” To Deeks he said, “It sounds like gobbledygook, but if it’s a reason to eat ice cream, I’m for it.”

  “You skipped the burn-the-fat part and are skipping straight to the feeding,” Brooke objected.

  “We do what we can.”

  Soon we were sitting around the living room with our ice cream. Actually, as Paul pointed out, it wasn’t ice cream, but a coconut-milk, nondairy frozen dessert. “Which really doesn’t taste too bad,” he said, licking his spoon. “I just don’t see the point of it. If you’re going to eat ice cream, why not eat ice cream?”

  “She’s doing what she can to indulge herself and still eat clean,” Brooke said.

  “Everybody talks about that, but I don’t get it. Eat clean.”

  Brooke started explaining the concept to him. My bowl was empty, so I got up and took Paul’s and Brooke’s, which were also empty. Deeks, who hadn’t gotten any coconut-milk, nondairy frozen dessert, looked up at them longingly, and gave a little whine.

  “Sorry, buddy. I don’t know if coconut milk is good for doggies. I need to look it up.”

  The front window cracked. I felt a tug at my hair, my legs went limp on me, and I fell. I found myself on my side, staring wide-eyed at the front window, wondering how it could still be intact and not shattered after getting smacked so hard with what sounded like a baseball bat.

  “There’s a hole right at the edge,” Brooke said in a voice that sounded unnaturally calm. “See it?”

  The hole in the glass swam into focus just before Paul reached up and turned out the floor lamp. “Get the light in the kitchen,” Paul said. Brooke headed that way in a crouch while he hit a wall switch to kill the light in the hallway. Deeks started barking.

  “Robin? Are you hurt?” He started toward me, but the kitchen light went out just as a pane of glass in the French doors broke inward with another crack, this one with the echo of a gunshot behind it, and Paul fell forward across the sofa. We were fish in a barrel.

  I tried to shout. My mouth was moving, but I wasn’t sure I was actually saying anything.

  Deeks ran at the French doors, driving his head into a pane of glass and falling back. There was a third shot as Paul rose up between me and the sofa and swung his arm in a throwing motion that was followed by the crash of shattering glass and a cry of surprise or pain.

  “Deeks,” I said, or tried to. He was beside me, licking my ear. I reached for him, but missed. I felt my legs move as I tried to get up, but there was no strength in them.

  “Robin.” It was Paul, kneeling over me, his face in shadow. “Oh, God.” His hand felt wet against my face.

  Brooke’s voice in another part of the room: “There’s been a shooting. We need an ambulance.” She recited my address. “I don’t know. Yes. Yes. Please hurry…Is she—”

  Paul: “She’s breathing. Robin?”

  I felt my lips move.

  “Robin?” The front doorknob rattled, and Brooke yelped. Someone pounded on the door.

  “Is everyone all right in there?” Dr. McDermott’s voice. “Is everyone all right?”

  I couldn’t answer. I heard the door open. Dr. McDermott said, “I heard gunshots.” He was gasping.

  “Robin’s hurt.”

  “Turn on the lights.”

  Paul was gone, and Dr. McDermott was in his place. H
is face was a web of fine lines, and wisps of hair stood out from his nearly bald head in high definition clarity. I felt pressure on the side of my head, increasing to the point that it was almost unbearable.

  “Can you get me a washcloth? A clean one. Someone get this dog out of the way.”

  The room began to darken at the edges.

  “Stay with us, Robin. You stay with us.”

  Everything was fading to black. I heard Dr. McDermott say, “I don’t know. It may not have breached the cranium,” then darkness and silence crowded in on me, blocking out everything.

  Chapter 21

  “Help me.” I was trying to raise a hand to my face, but my hand wasn’t moving. I tried to shift my position, to kick my feet, but nothing worked. “Help me.” A drop-tile ceiling was above me. No light shone from the fluorescent panel. My eyelids had moved, I realized. I blinked, and darkness alternated with dim ceiling tiles. I made a heroic effort to sit up, to tug my arms free of the bonds that held them, but gave up, gasping. I could turn my head. A window was on one side of me, a brightly lit hallway on the other. There was a sink on the wall at the foot of my bed. I dropped my head back onto a pillow.

  I could see people in the hallway, a little distance from my bed. One was a middle-aged woman in scrubs. The other looked like… “Dr. McDermott?”

  The two of them were talking, and if they heard me, they gave no sign.

  “Dr. McDermott!”

  There was no reaction, and I didn’t try again. Dr. McDermott said something else, and the nurse nodded, then he turned toward me and opened a door in the glass wall that separated us. He stopped, looking at me.

  “Deacon,” I said.

  He stepped forward and reached for my hand. “Brooke’s got him; he’s all right. How do you feel?”