by Leanna Floyd
Alicia: “Do you have all night? Lol…it’s a complicated story! Maybe we save that one for some night over drinks.”
He could tell that she was avoiding the topic of Charlie’s father. He figured it was too early for her to share such personal information, especially information that related to and affected her son. But her diversion worked—he couldn’t resist the opportunity she was offering.
Jacob: “Does that mean I get to meet you in person? Preferably sometime soon? In fact, I could drive down to Miami this weekend if you’re not doing anything…” His heart was pounding fast, and he blushed as he typed his request. How silly—it wasn’t like he was a kid going on a first date or anything.
Alicia: “You’re so sweet, Jacob. I would love that! It’s just…well, I promised Charlie we would spend this weekend doing his favorite things. Sort of his reward for making all A’s this past semester. I would love to meet you, but maybe another time?”
Jacob’s heart sank. Had he come on too strong too fast? His hands started to sweat and a heaviness swelled inside his chest.
Jacob: “I completely understand. Sounds like you’re a great mom to plan such a cool reward. I look forward to another time. Well, better let you go…”
Alicia: “I knew you would understand. Charlie really does come first in my life… hope that won’t be a problem.”
Jacob: “No, not at all. In fact, just the opposite. Seeing what a great mom you are only makes me like you more. Maybe sometime down the line I could take you and Charlie out for pizza or maybe some shaved ice down at South Beach.”
Why did he mention meeting Charlie? She was probably very protective and never let him meet guys she dated. What was he thinking?
Alicia: “Yes, let’s you and I get better acquainted first and we’ll see what happens. Thank you for talking tonight. Have a good night, sweetie.”
Jacob: “You too! Hey—I almost forgot! Can I get your number? I promise not to blow up your phone, lol!”
Alicia: “Sure—here, I’ll send it right after I get Charlie ready for bed. Talk to you soon!”
Jacob sat there and stared at the computer screen for a long time. As strange as it seemed, he was already starting to develop intense feelings for Alicia, unlike any feelings he had ever felt for anyone else. How was that possible? He hadn’t even met her yet?
Rummaging around in his fridge, he continued thinking about what he felt toward her and tried to be more objective. Maybe it was just the mystery, the fantasy, of who Alicia was. Communicating through a computer made her mysterious and unobtainable. Men by nature are hunters. We like the challenge of stalking, luring, and seducing our prey, he thought. Maybe Alicia simply satisfied this primordial caveman desire in him.
He smiled to himself as he looked at Alicia’s status picture again.
His computer pinged with a message from the object of his desire. He acknowledged his receipt with a “Thx!” and thought he would send her a sweet, flirty text the next day and then call her the day after that. Despite his flood of feelings, he didn’t want to come on too strong too fast.
Besides, he loved a good challenge.
Chapter 13
As Brooke stepped into the courtroom, the Judge was addressing the group. She found a seat a few rows from the back and slipped in as quietly as possible. The capacious room already smelled stuffy, the scent of stale perfume lingering in the air.
“Another good morning to you, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, we are here for a murder trial. Jurors are not to be conversing, discussing, or speaking with anyone else in this courtroom, regarding this trial or any other matter. Understood? I know we’ve done it before, but I would like a verbal ‘yes’ from each of my jurors.”
While the bailiff pointed from juror to juror for an affirmative response, Brooke smoothed her white silk blouse and withdrew a small black, bound notebook and pen from the side of her purse. When Dr. Gregory had called the day before and asked her to sit in on the Barton trial, she had searched through her closet to find something conservative and professional looking that would blend in. She chose a navy suit she’d bought on the clearance rack at Ann Taylor last year, her ‘interview’ suit.
Brooke had observed many videos of trial footage but couldn’t recall being in a courtroom since several years ago when she had appealed a speeding ticket (Her mother was in the ER with a gallbladder attack—the officer was a total jerk!). She had gotten her fine reduced that day but already knew she preferred to be an observer, not a participant. Knowing he would likely be called as an expert witness by the State, Dr. Gregory asked if she would mind sitting in this morning and getting a feel for the atmosphere in the courtroom.
“The emotional tone during a trial can change as dramatically as the weather,” he’d told her. “Most of the time, though, it’s controlled by the prosecuting attorney, the defense counsel, and the judge. They each have the most experience with asserting their respective agendas.”
“Do you know much about Judge Ranier?” Brooke had asked.
“Not much,” he said, sounding tired. “I’ve never testified in a case over which she presided. Her reputation is for being fair and no-nonsense. She leans conservative but seems to have a liberal streak that has shown itself a few times. I’ll be curious to hear your impression of her.”
Brooke was determined to do a great job for her mentor by remaining as objective as possible. She hadn’t even called or texted Jacob to let him know she was going to be there—she could just make out the back of his head up toward the front of the courtroom, seated behind the defense counsel’s table. She wrote the date, time, and place on a clean page in her notebook and returned her attention to the front of the room.
“Another long day, so please focus your attention only on the facts of this case. Understood?” said Judge Ranier.
The jurors nodded and the Judge tapped her gavel lightly and said, “This court is now in session. Mr. Carver, you may call your next witness.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Carver. “The State would like to call Mr. James Robert Charles to testify.”
A large man with broad shoulders stood from his seat near the front and made his way onto the witness stand. He didn’t look that old, maybe mid-thirties, but was balding prematurely and appeared to have a five o’clock shadow, although he was clearly clean-shaven. His tan suit looked out of date with wider lapels than was the current fashion, but his white shirt and brown striped tie looked neat and professional. Brooke made a note to herself to do more research on the psychology of appearance and first impressions with participants in trials. She already knew, of course, that projecting a certain look was half the battle when it came to swaying others’ impression of you.
“What is your job title, Mr. Charles?” asked the State’s attorney.
Jacob had already told her how flamboyantly D.A. Carver dressed, and today’s ensemble served as proof. The prosecutor wore a bright cherry-red three-piece suit with a white shirt and deep black foulard tie and pocket square. Brooke thought he looked a bit too much like Santa for her taste and made a mental note to tell Jacob, but then she remembered her agreement with Dr. Gregory not to discuss the trial.
Brooke’s thoughts drifted to her feelings for Jacob, and she wondered if her recent longing to be closer to him could ever take their friendship to another level. The risk seemed too great, though; if Jacob didn’t share the same feelings to grow closer, then initiating a discussion on the topic might sever their relationship forever.
Mr. Charles answered, “I am a scene of crime officer—what’s often called a ‘SOCO’ for the state of Florida. Basically, I gather evidence at crime scenes and then conduct and oversee laboratory analysis.”
“How long have you been in your current role?”
“Over nine years.”
Carver, hands in pockets, sauntered toward the witness. “And about how many trials have you participated in during those nine years?”
“Over fifty trials,” said Charles.
His tone was engaged but showed no trace of emotion.
“Are you considered an expert in your field?”
“Yes, I am.”
Carver paced forward. “Did you retrieve any evidence from the home of Abigail Winters, at the site where her body was recovered this past May?”
“Yes,” Charles said, “Officially, I retrieved four fired cartridges, four lead fragments, four fired bullet jackets, all 9-millimeter, and six unfired ammo, 44-caliber, which came from an open ammo box on a shelf in Ms. Winters’ garage, which apparently spilled when she collapsed.”
The bailiff handed Carver a handful of plastic evidence bags, which the D.A. then held up toward Charles.
“Would you verify that these are the very pieces of evidence you just cited, Mr. Charles?”
“Yes, I will.” He took them from Carver, examined the label on each bag, and returned them. “Yes, my signature is on every piece of evidence presented. I can verify these were all found at the scene of the shooting where Ms. Winters died.”
“Permission to publish?” asked Carver, extending the evidence toward Judge Ranier.
“Permission granted,” she said.
Carver walked slowly toward the jury box, holding the bags at arm’s length as if he were taking out particularly smelly trash. Brooke made a note about Carver’s theatrical gesture, which clearly had an effect on the jurors. He held up each piece of evidence with a grimace of disgust, lingering in front of each juror with the vile artifacts before handing them over to the bailiff once again.
“Mr. Charles, did these pieces of evidence match the bullets Dr. Choung, the medical examiner, recovered from Ms. Winters’ body?”
“Yes, they did.”
Whispers and hushed voices rippled across the audience.
“Order,” demanded the Judge, tapping her gavel. “Observers will maintain silence or be escorted from this courtroom!” The room instantly fell silent again, and Brooke smiled at the way Ranier ran a tight ship.
Carver said, “Did you conduct any test fires, Mr. Charles?”
“Yes, I used the same type of bullets and the firearm belonging to Mr. Barton, recovered at his home, a Heckler and Koch USP9 Expert model. I fired ten 9-millimeter bullets into a water recovery center. This causes no damage to the bullet. These were used to compare with the bullets found at the scene.”
“So,” Carver said, “based on this test, you found that Mr. Barton’s firearm was functional and operable?”
“Yes,” Charles said.
“And what did you find through this test fire, Mr. Charles?”
“Well,” Charles explained, “Every firearm has unique characteristics or imperfections that leave a mark every time the gun is fired. The bullets or jackets that are released after the firearm is discharged leave a kind of imprint.”
Carver nodded. “When you compared the test fire’s fragments to the fragments found in the victim’s skull, were there any similarities?”
“Yes,” Charles said, “the fragments were nearly identical. A perfect match. The bullets that killed Abigail Winters were fired from Zach Barton’s gun.”
Chapter 14
Carver nodded vigorously, and Jacob suspected he had to suppress a smile. The forensic officer’s testimony could not have been any clearer or damning to Barton.
“No further questions, Your Honor.” Carver seated himself and began writing on the legal pad in front of him, either for show or because he wanted to record something that had occurred to him, Jacob couldn’t be sure.
“Ms. DeMato, do you wish to cross examine this witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” replied the defense attorney, already on her feet. Jacob loved the air of confidence his boss projected.
“Mr. Charles, you told us that you have been involved with more than fifty cases that have gone to trial, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right,” the witness said. Brooke had begun to admire his stoic demeanor; Charles was definitely not someone you wanted to play poker with.
“And in how many of those trials was there evidence involving a firearm?”
Charles hesitated as if surprised by the question, the first sign of any emotion that morning. Jacob loved the way DeMato was about to decimate this smug cop and his expert testimony.
“I’d guess around 60 to 65 percent,” said Charles, “more than half.”
“Actually, Mr. Charles,” said DeMato, retrieving and opening a file folder from her table, “only 41 percent of trial cases in which you participated included evidence from a firearm.” She handed over the file folder to Charles who took it without making eye contact with the woman.
“If you say so,” Charles said, flipping pages.
“No, I don’t say so—it’s simply a matter of fact. Do you disagree with any of the trial records there?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Counsel is attempting to intimidate the witness and lead us all on a wild goose chase. The number of cases involving firearms that Mr. Charles has participated in has nothing to do with this case.”
Judge Ranier opened her mouth but DeMato interrupted, “Your Honor, if I may—I believe the court will see that Mr. Charles’ past experiences hardly qualify him as a firearms expert.”
Ranier stared at the attorney for a moment, clearly miffed that DeMato had responded to Carver’s objection first. After a ten-second stare down, the Judge said, “I’ll allow it but get on with it, Counselor.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Back to my question, Mr. Charles. Do those records accurately reflect trials in which you have participated as a forensic analyst?”
“It appears so,” he said, “yes.”
“And considering the trials in which you’ve testified regarding firearms, how many ‘perfect matches’ did you find in those trials?”
Charles shrugged and looked at her as if she had asked him the length of his shoelaces. “I don’t know. Maybe half of them?”
“No, Mr. Charles,” according to the trial transcripts, “only nine of them—well under half. And of those nine that you deemed ‘perfect matches’, do you know how many were later reversed or qualified by your supervisor? Five of them! Which leaves us with considerable evidence that your ‘expert’ testimony isn’t so expert after all. No further questions.”
“But those—”
“No further questions!” DeMato insisted, clearly having anticipated Charles’ attempt to explain away her attack.
“But let me explain,” he said, clearly embarrassed as his face flushed red.
“Mr. Charles,” said the Judge, “you may step down. Thank you for your testimony.”
Jacob could tell Ranier was sympathetic to the poor man but knew there was nothing the judge could really do. DeMato had effectively undermined his credibility as an expert. This round was definitely not the homerun that Carver had expected it to be. The circumstantial evidence against their client was strong but not nearly as airtight as the prosecution assumed it would be. Jacob had already learned one of the most important truths about courtroom strategy: perceptions trump facts every time.
Justice might be blind but she could still be guided.
Chapter 15
When Judge Ranier adjourned the court for a two-hour lunch break, Brooke debated on trying to see if she could talk to Jacob and maybe even take him to lunch. But amidst the throng of observers, reporters, and court employees pouring into the hallway, she didn’t see him, nor any of DeMato’s team for that matter. They probably went out a side door so they could avoid the press, Brooke thought. DeMato would want to use the lunch recess as a time to prepare for the remaining witnesses Carver was likely to call.
Which made her curious: if the prosecution would likely call Dr. Gregory as its expert criminal psychologist, who would DeMato get for her rebuttal? Had Jacob told her? Brooke didn’t think so. She would have surely remembered his mentioning something so directly tied to her field. She would have to ask Dr. G whom he expected the defense team to use.
In the meantime, she wa
nted to type up her notes while the details were still fresh in her mind and email them to him. Her stomach told her, though, that she needed to eat something, too, so Brooke gave in to temptation and bought a spicy chicken burrito and a diet soda from a food truck outside the courthouse. She knew better than to try and eat while driving, so she found a shady park bench down the block, close to where she had parked. Just as she took her first bite, Brooke noticed a young bearded man with a backpack crossing the street toward her. He resembled the many college students, especially upperclassmen and grad students, she routinely saw on campus.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute—just need to send a quick email. Do you know if you can still pick up the courthouse Wi-Fi from here?”
“Uh, sure,” said Brooke, trying not to open her mouth while chewing. “You’re welcome to sit down, but I don’t know about the Wi-Fi.”
“Thanks.” He sat, placed his leather backpack at his feet, and whipped out a small laptop. Balancing it on his lap, he started typing rapidly and said, “Did I see you in the courtroom this morning at the Barton trial?”
Brooke wasn’t sure how to answer, but, when in doubt, she always went with the truth. “Yes, you did.” Then she realized: he wasn’t a college student; he was a reporter. “You were there too?”
“Yep,” he said without taking his eyes off his screen. “Related to the family, I’m guessing, probably the Bartons, by how well you’re dressed.”
Brooke wrapped up the other half of her burrito and set it aside. “No, I’m afraid you’re wrong there.”
She sipped her can of soda but refused to explain her presence to a total stranger. Even if he were cute, and this guy definitely had something that drew her in. Maybe it was the beard, which she noticed was neatly trimmed, or it could be his eyes.
“Not going to tell me, huh?” he said, smiling but still not raising his gaze from his computer. “You must be the competition then—I’m guessing a television reporter. Yes, I should’ve known—the hair, the suit. You’re much too pretty and well-dressed to be anywhere except in front of a camera.”
