Beyond A Reasonable Doubt: A David Brunelle Legal Thriller Short Story (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series)

by Stephen Penner

  “What’s the matter, David? Don’t like liver?”

  Before he could think of a witty response, she lifted the organ from his repulsed palm and set it into the freezer compartment.

  “So what was your question again?” she asked as she rubbed her cold hands on her thighs.

  Brunelle was more distracted by the thought of her thighs than any harvested cadaver organ. He shook the thoughts out of his head—for now—and managed to recall the question he’d interrupted her with.

  “Could the injuries in the Hastings homicide have been caused by someone smaller than the victim?”

  “Sure,” Kat shrugged as they walked into her small office off the examining room. “Anything’s possible. Like if she was sleeping or something.”

  That would have been a terrible answer in front of a jury, Brunelle knew. That’s why he always interviewed witnesses before trial.

  “What if she was wide awake?” Brunelle countered. “And able to resist?”

  Kat considered, then shrugged. “Seems less likely. It was a clean incision, no ancillary injuries. With a struggle I would have expected additional lacerations to the throat and neck, as well as defensive injuries on her hands.”

  Brunelle just stared at her.

  “But like I said,” the medical examiner finished, “anything’s possible.”

  “Wow,” Brunelle laughed. “I’m not sure I should call you as a witness. You could really screw my case.”

  Kat smiled. The way she used to smile at him before they agreed to call it off and put their careers first. “Oh, David. You know it’s not your case I can screw.”

  Brunelle could feel himself blush. He hated that she could still do that to him. But it made him remember what else she used to do to him. Lately he’d been wondering why they had ever called it off in the first place.

  All that thinking led to another non-response by him.

  “Pretty quiet for a lawyer,” Kat teased. “Just send me a subpoena and I’ll be there for you.”

  “Great, Kat,” Brunelle managed to say. “Will do. I guess I better get going. I’ll make sure I ask my questions carefully so you can tell what answer I’m looking for.”

  “Don’t worry, David,” Kat felt bad for the teasing. “I won’t screw you in court.”

  Brunelle figured he’d better at least try to keep up. “Where will you screw me then?”

  A deep laugh escaped from Kat’s throat. Then she patted the metal examining table with a clank-clank. “Sturdy.”

  Brunelle laughed too, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. So he kissed her on the cheek and left with a quick, “Thanks.”

  Kat watched after him. She waited until he was out the door before touching her cheek and chuckling, “See you in court, counselor.”

  *

  “You may call your next witness, Mr. Brunelle,” boomed the judge in that officious voice all the lawyers knew was fake, but the jurors were supposed to take as solemnity.

  The trial had gone well so far for Brunelle. His opening statement seemed to be well received. He’d told the jury about the confession, then explained why Flowers would have claimed a black-out, namely to avoid reliving the crime and give herself wiggle room for later. The only tricky part was motive. Brunelle knew he didn’t have to prove motive—why someone commits a given crime is never an element of that crime—but he also knew the jury would want a motive anyway. So he went with drug-fueled rage following a drug-fueled argument that escalated into a drug-fueled fight. The apartment was in enough disarray to support a fight scenario. He didn’t have to tell the jury that drug addicts live like that all the time.

  “Mr. Brunelle?” the judge prodded.

  Brunelle swallowed. “The State calls Lawrence Carrington to the stand,” he announced calmly. No one could tell he was scared to death of the homicidal maniac.

  Unfortunately, Edwards’ opening had been pretty good too. And she was going squarely with the S.O.D.D.I defense: “some other dude did it.” And the some other dude was Carrington. So even though Chen had been able to place Carrington at home across town based on his cell phone records and cell-tower pings, Brunelle had been forced to call him anyway, just so the jury could hear him actually deny the murder.

  Not just proof, but proof beyond any reasonable doubt. Pretty damn high standard. The ironic thing was that Carrington knew all about that high standard. It had saved his murderous ass from life in prison.

  Carrington stepped into the courtroom. One look at him and Brunelle had to suppress a smile. Carrington knew the game too. Rather than the latest in urban hoodlum fashion, Carrington was decked out in a new suit. A cheap suit, but still, a suit. And he was a good looking guy, so even the cheap suit looked sharp. More importantly though, he looked sad. Mournful even. He and Brunelle knew he’d just used Curly for drugs and sex, but to the jury he was The Grieving Boyfriend.

  After the initial introductions—name, rank and department of corrections number—Brunelle got right to it.

  “Did you know Theresa Hastings?”

  Carrington hesitated, the words apparently caught in his throat. “Yes,” he rasped.

  “How did you know her?”

  “She,” he paused at the tense of the verb, “was my girlfriend.”

  “When was the last time you saw her—” Brunelle gave a dramatic pause himself before adding, “—alive?”

  Carrington nodded and bit his lip. He looked down. Brunelle was even starting to believe he might actually have cared for her. “The day she was—” But he stopped. “The day it happened.”

  “The day she was murdered?” Brunelle offered. He wanted the jury to hear the word ‘murder’ in all its variations as many times as possible.

  Carrington nodded, and then raised his chin. Stiff upper lip and all that. “Yes, sir. The day she was… murdered.”

  So Brunelle took him through the day. They had separate apartments, but sometimes he stayed overnight at her place, sometimes she stayed over with him. The night before the murder they’d stayed separate because they had different plans.

  Then Carrington knocked it out of the park when he admitted his plans were to hang out with some homies and smoke crack.

  Regular people think you shouldn’t tell a jury bad things about you, but Brunelle had learned that the best thing a witness can do is admit the stuff he shouldn’t have been doing. When Carrington told that jury he smoked crack the night before his girlfriend was murdered, they knew he wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true. And if that was true, then everything else was Gospel too.

  As a result of this rule, Edwards’ cross examination fell flat.

  “Where were you when Theresa was murdered?” she demanded as soon as she stood up.

  ‘Theresa,’ like they’d been friends or something.

  “I was hanging with some homies,” Carrington answered calmly.

  “Who?” Edwards’ voice was mixed schoolteacher and angry wife.

  “Torch and Lil Maxie.”

  Edwards narrowed her eyes. “Are those street names?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carrington answered with a polite nod.

  “What are their real names?”

  “Don’t know their real names,” Carrington explained. “That why we got street names.”

  Edwards smiled just a bit. “Do you have a street name, Mr. Carrington?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is it?”

  “Rifle, ma’am.”

  “Rifle?” Edwards repeated slowly. Nice and violent. She thought she had him. She didn’t. “Why Rifle?”

  This time it was Carrington who smiled. “Because I shoot straight, ma’am.”

  Brunelle bit back a smile. One of the jurors actually laughed.

  Edwards narrowed her eyes again and tossed her hair over her shoulder. She only did that when she got frustrated.

  “All right, Mr. Rifle—” she started.

  “Just Rifle,” Carrington corrected.

  “All right, Ri
fle—”

  “Objection,” Brunelle complained.

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “Use the witness’s correct name, Ms. Edwards. This isn’t the street.”

  “Fine.” She was flustered now. That was never good for a trial lawyer. “What were you doing with ‘Torch’ and ‘Lil Maxie’?”

  Carrington hesitated. He looked up at the judge. “Do I have answer that?”

  She looked down from the bench. “Yes, Mr. Carrington.”

  Carrington pursed his lips and nodded. “I was selling them some weed.”

  And it was all over. Carrington had just admitted to a class B felony. No way the jury didn’t believe him now. Edwards tried to push him around some more but she got nowhere. When he started to tear up at not even getting a chance to say goodbye, Edwards decided to cut her losses and sit down.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Brunelle,” the judge inquired, “any redirect examination?”

  “No, Your Honor. Thank you.”

  Carrington stepped down from the witness stand and started for the door, right past Brunelle’s counsel table. He couldn’t wait for that murderous—but helpful—thug to be out the door.

  “May the witness be permanently excused?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Brunelle answered.

  “No objection,” Edwards huffed without looking up from her papers.

  Carrington stopped and leaned onto Brunelle’s table. “What does that mean?” he whispered.

  “Uh, it means you won’t be recalled as a witness,” Brunelle explained. He was pleased with how the testimony had gone, but that didn’t mean they were friends. Or homies. Or whatever. “So, you can leave now.”

  Carrington thought for a moment. “Can I stay? Can I watch the rest of the trial?”

  Not a question Brunelle wanted to hear, and not one he’d expected. But then—as his desire to win the case overcame his fear of Carrington—he was delighted. There was nothing quite like grieving family attending the trial day after day to put the pressure on the jury. “Sure,” Brunelle said. “Of course.”

  Carrington thanked Brunelle and took a seat in the back of the courtroom for the rest of the afternoon.

  However, the rest of the afternoon was just a couple of cops. Officer First-On-The-Scene and his friend, Sergeant Put-Up-The-Crime-Tape. Brunelle had actually forgotten Carrington was still there as the judge excused the jury and the guards took Flowers back to the jail. But as Brunelle headed for the door, Carrington jumped up from the otherwise empty gallery and stopped him.

  “Mr. Brunelle?” Carrington extended a hand. “You probably don’t remember me, but you prosecuted me a few years back. Uh, for, well… homicide.”

  Brunelle hesitated, but then took Carrington’s hand. He tried to squeeze it forcefully. “Oh, I remember, Mr. Carrington.”

  Carrington laughed just a bit as they released hands. “Yeah, I guess you would.” He didn’t need to say why; they both remembered his outburst. “Sorry about that. But now, well, I just wanted to thank you.”

  Brunelle nodded, still hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “Just trying to get justice for Curly—” he started.

  Carrington smiled again, this time wide enough to see the silver crowns he had on most of his teeth. “No, Mr. Brunelle. Thank you for prosecuting me. For sending me to prison.”

  Brunelle’s eyebrows shot up. He wasn’t sure what to say.

  “I learned a lot in the last ten years,” Carrington explained. “Not everybody changes in prison. Hell, most of them don’t. But it opened my eyes. I used to be a thug, always carrying, looking for a fight, trying to show everybody how bad I was. But that ain’t no way to live. It’s a way to die.”

  “Ah. Well. Glad to hear that,” Brunelle stammered.

  “Yeah, that road’s only got one end,” Carrington went on. “And I’m too old for that shit now. Ten years is a long time. I ain’t a kid no more. Now, out on the street, I get respect. I did time for murder—”

  “Manslaughter,” Brunelle corrected with a grimace.

  Carrington laughed right out loud. “Yeah, manslaughter. Damn, I almost beat it, didn’t I?”

  Brunelle smiled tightly. “Yeah, almost.”

  Carrington slapped Brunelle on the shoulder. “You all right man,” he laughed. “But yeah, I got rep now and no one hassle me. Sure, I sling some dope on the side, but no more guns, no more thugging, no more looking for a fight to prove I’m the biggest and baddest.”

  Carrington looked down and shook his head. “You almost got me, man. Life without. But I got lucky. God wants me to do more. So I did my time, and I ain’t going back to that lifestyle.” He looked up. “And I owe it all to you, Mr. Brunelle.”

  Carrington stuck his hand out again.

  There were times when Brunelle wondered why he did what he did. When he looked at his classmates from law school at the big firms, with their gold watches and luxury SUVs and golf course homes, and he wondered why he spent his days looking at autopsy reports for half the money. Okay, a third of the money.

  And then there were times like this. When he remembered why gold watches and luxury SUVs and golf course homes were for suckers.

  “Glad to hear it, Mr. Carrington,” Brunelle shook Carrington’s hand, this time gladly. “It’s nice to know the system actually works sometimes.”

  Carrington smiled again. “Sometimes,” he repeated. Then he shook his head and laughed again. “See you tomorrow Mr. Brunelle.”

  Brunelle smiled at his former adversary. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Carrington.”

  *

  “Please state your name and title for the record,” the judge instructed.

  “Catherine Anderson. Medical Examiner.”

  And Brunelle’s date for that night’s fundraiser. As he approached the witness stand to question her, he offered her the smallest twitch of a near-wink—with the eye opposite the jury box of course. Kat reacted by raising a ‘don’t do that again’ eyebrow and the direct examination commenced.

  The last two days of testimony had gone exceedingly well. A parade of shiny polished patrol officers, followed by Chen, who was perfect as the gruff but admirably competent detective. Now Brunelle was down to his last witness. The medical examiner. Cause of death equals slit throat and rest the case.

  The final nail in Flowers’ coffin, so to speak.

  Brunelle started with her credentials, education and experience. Then a general description of what an autopsy entails. Then, ever so gently, the specific autopsy of Theresa Hastings. After so many years prosecuting violent crimes, Brunelle had gotten used to photographs that most normal people would never, ever want to see. But there were twelve normal people directly to his right who would rather never, ever see the photos that Brunelle was about to introduce. But he had to admit them to make the conviction stick on appeal.

  Usually he flashed his visual exhibits on the wall with the projector. Maps, charts, photos, those kinds of things. But close-ups of a neck sliced so deep you could see the windpipe inside—those weren’t getting blown up on the screen. And if Brunelle had even considered it, Carrington’s presence in the courtroom made sure he didn’t do it. The jurors didn’t want to see it, but they had to—it came with the job. But grieving family in the courtroom meant just a verbal description of the wound, admission of the photos, holding up an eight-by-ten image for the jurors to squint at—or look away from—and then move on to the payoff question.

  “And following the autopsy, Dr. Anderson,” Brunelle asked almost absently as he set the gruesome photos aside, “were you able to determine a manner of death?”

  Brunelle awaited the standard ‘homicide’ response, then he’d sit down and let Edwards try to do something with it. But Kat squirmed a bit in her seat. Suddenly Brunelle regretted not having talked to Kat since flirting over the metal examining table.

  “Uh,” she paused. The jurors may not have noticed, but Edwards sure did. Her head sh
ot up from her notepad. Brunelle could hear his heart pound in his ears.

  “Non-natural,” Kat answered.

  Brunelle knew that was a bullshit answer. There were four manners of death: natural, accidental, suicide and homicide. The jury didn’t know that, but Edwards did, and she’d make sure they understood when she’d finished her cross exam. Brunelle didn’t know why Kat hadn’t just said homicide, but he couldn’t leave it at just that. Edwards would kill him on cross if it looked like he was hiding something.

  “Let me phrase it a little differently.” Brunelle handed Anderson the autopsy photograph of the slit throat. “Did Theresa Hastings die from having her throat slit?”

  Kat paused again. She didn’t bother to look at the photo. Even the jurors were starting to get it. “That would certainly be a possibility,” she finally said.

  Brunelle should have waited to think about his next question, but he was letting himself get flustered. Kat could always do that to him. “A possibility? Well, were there any other possibilities?”

  Kat nodded. “When the blood toxicology report came back from the lab, she had potentially lethal levels of opiates in her system.”

  “Opiates?” Brunelle repeated. He hadn’t bothered to review the toxicology. She’d had her fucking throat slit.

  “Yes,” Kat answered. “Heroin, most likely. I can’t rule that out as a possible cause of death, given the level.”

  “Her throat was slit from ear to ear,” Brunelle argued.

  “I can’t rule that out either,” Kat answered. “Clearly that would be a fatal wound. If that hadn’t killed her, the drugs would have.”

  Brunelle stared at his ex for a few seconds. He considered pressing her, but she wasn’t going to change her testimony. She wasn’t going to lie. He decided that last sentence would have to be good enough.

  “No further questions.”

  Brunelle sat down and prayed Edwards didn’t skewer his case too badly. He was afraid she’d spend an hour dragging Kat up and down that damn toxicology report and every last incision of the autopsy.

  But it was a million times worse.

  She only asked one question.

  “So doctor,” she stood up and posed the question from way back at counsel table, “you can’t say with any degree of medical certainty that Ms. Hastings necessarily died from the injury to her throat, can you?”