“Brevity is the soul of wit,” the judge said, a rare smile on his lips as if he had thought it up all on his own. “Please proceed.”
An opening statement is like a menu. A lawyer isn’t supposed to do any arguing. The idea is just to state the case you expect to prove. Of course, any lawyer worth his salt tries to slip in a little venom here and there.
Evola really didn’t need to. And, he was brief.
He stood in front of the jury and waited until he had their absolute attention. Then he held one of his big long-fingered hands up in front of him.
“The people will prove the following,” he said, taking hold of his thumb. “Harrison Harwell and his daughter on the night of June fourth engaged in a nasty, screaming dog-dirty verbal fight.”
“Objection,” I snapped, rising in pretended outrage. “This is argumentative, prejudicial, and basically unfair, and Mr. Evola knows it is.”
“So is your objection,” the judge growled. “Both of you cut this kind of business out right now. Sustained. Stick to matters of proof, Mr. Prosecutor.”
Evola nodded but was unruffled. “They had a fight,” he said, gesturing with that long thumb. “Then, later, Harrison Harwell was found dead, a long knife thrust into his chest, clean into the heart.” He held his forefinger, showing he had just stated another essential element of his case.
With each succeeding finger he made another point, adding that Angel had been found covered in her father’s blood, that her fingerprints were found on the blood-soaked handle of the knife, and, last finger, she had said she thought she might have been responsible for her father’s death. He called that a confession.
He held those long extended fingers before the jury, then he slowly closed them into a huge fist.
“When you put it all together,” he said slowly, “it proves beyond all reasonable doubt that Angel Harwell murdered her father. And the People will ask you for justice. We will ask you to find her guilty of that cruel, unnatural murder.”
He was done. It was pretty good.
The judge glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s late and —”
I jumped up. I couldn’t let the jury go home for the night with Evola’s words echoing in their ears. Evola had planned just that.
“If the court please,” I said. “I do not choose to reserve my opening statement until after the people rest. I wish to make it now.”
“Mr. Sloan, the hour is late. First thing in the —”
“Your honor, Mr. Evola has misstated the case and the evidence, and it would be manifestly unfair if I was deprived of a chance to talk to the jury after what I consider to be a very prejudicial and unfair statement.”
I heard Evola jump up behind me and object.
“Mr. Sloan, you know better than to use such reckless language,” the judge snapped. “I will not sit here and let you people run wild in my courtroom. You will —”
“Judge, I apologize, but please let me make my opening statement. I, too, will be brief.”
He scowled. I think if the television camera hadn’t been recording everything he would have banged the gavel and sent everyone home.
But, as the protesters used to shout, the whole world was watching.
“Go on,” he growled. “But make it short.”
*
EVOLA had used his hand like a blackboard. The jury would remember those long fingers. It was an effective device. So effective, I thought I had better use it myself.
My hand is small compared to that of the former basketball star, and my fingers are sort of stubby, but they would have to do.
I held out my hand, imitating Evola. “This is our side of things.”
I saw a couple of the jurors smile.
“Fathers and daughter argue. If that’s become a felony, then many of us, probably most of us, are guilty. Angel Harwell and her father had an argument that night. Nothing more, a normal family spat. We will show you just that.”
“This is the big finger,” I said, wiggling my index finger.
One of the jurors snickered. Smiles were good, snickers meant I was going too far.
“Harrison Harwell was indeed found with a Japanese ceremonial short sword stuck in his chest. We will show you that Harrison Harwell’s business had collapsed. We will show that everything he had ever valued in life was crashing around him. We will show you that he went home that night an embittered man. We will show you that he planned suicide, even talked about it. We will show you that Harrison Harwell, a man who all his life had imitated Japanese warrior values, that night performed the ritual suicide of a samurai. We will show you this was no murder. We will show you he committed suicide.”
I held that finger aloft as if it had taken on a life of its own.
There were no snickers this time.
“We will show you that Angel Harwell discovered her father’s bloody body after he killed himself. We will show you that she tried to pull the grotesque sword from his chest, but could not. We will show you that she is as fragile as she is beautiful. She was deeply in shock at the horrible sight.”
I was working my other fingers, just as Evola had. “Finally, we’ll demonstrate that the so-called confession came after she had been mentally abused for hours and brainwashed, and although she continuously denied hurting her father they kept after her until she gave them something one might expect from a brutalized prisoner.”
“Objection,” Evola shouted. “This is argument, pure and simple, and it’s also baloney.”
“I will sustain the objection, and I will caution you both to conduct yourselves like lawyers. I will begin to keep a scorecard, gentlemen, and I will note the number of times my orders are disregarded. At the conclusion of this trial, you will both be held accountable. I trust I make myself clear?”
I thought that responding would weaken the effect of my words, so I continued as if I hadn’t heard him.
“We will show that the prosecution has manufactured a case.”
I had worked my way through my last finger. It was time for my fist. I held it up and waited for dramatic effect before I continued. I took a step closer to the jury so I could lower my voice a bit, also for effect.
“You had to walk past literally hundreds of reporters and camera operators to get into this courtroom this morning,” I said, holding my fist up. “This is international news. It produces headlines all over the world, as I’m sure you know.
“So if my client is innocent, why charge murder?”
I waited for just a second.
“For fame, for fortune, God knows what. This is a trumped-up charge and we will show you —”
Evola was up and shouting, but I continued.
“Angel Harwell is innocent, absolutely innocent!”
The judge banged his gavel, and I could feel his eyes on me as I walked back to the counsel table.
“You’ve just earned a few points on my scorecard, Mr. Sloan,” he said. “I instruct the jury to ignore everything but the facts they will hear from the witness stand.” He looked at me for a moment, then said, “You may not remember all this, Mr. Sloan, but I shall.”
The gavel rapped again.
“We are adjourned until nine tomorrow morning,” the judge said. “And when I say nine o’clock, I mean nine o’clock.”
He stomped off the bench. Then the court officer escorted the jury out of the courtroom.
I sat down and turned to Angel. “Well, what did you think?”
“Sort of cornball, weren’t you?”
24
POOR EVOLA, THEY IGNORED HIM COMPLETELY. I was the story. If I had produced Elvis in person, alive and well, I wouldn’t have gotten any more media attention.
As I stood on the courthouse steps I couldn’t begin to count the number of cameras pointed at me or the forest of microphones clustered just in front of my face.
And mouths, there were a lot of those, too. All shouting questions, all of the voices melding together in a kind of chaotic chant. Except for the distinctive vo
ice of a French newsman who was so excited he was shouting his questions in French, which amused me.
I couldn’t look amused, however. That was the wrong image to project. I was trying one lawsuit inside. And I was trying another out here in the public eye. The one out here would intrude on the other, no matter how many cautions might be given by the judge, so what I said and the way I said it were of real importance.
It was the suicide claim that got them.
It was Monday, the summer news was slow, and suddenly they got the gift of a lead story, not only for the television news, but one that would command dramatic headlines in all the world’s newspapers. It was a lot sexier than the drought in Kansas.
Looking as coolly outraged as I could I told the world that the charges against Angel Harwell had been trumped up by ambitious public officials. A suicide, a family tragedy, had been perverted into a murder charge. I was careful not to say too much since I knew Evola’s people would be listening and I didn’t want to telegraph any of the punches I intended to throw later in the courtroom.
I thanked them, ignored the continuous shouted questions, and pushed my way through to the parking lot, driving away in my battered old car.
Back at my empty office my energy level dropped to zero as I felt the emotional letdown from the hectic events of the day. The mail contained nothing of importance. The answering machine blinked with messages but I didn’t feel like listening.
I was tired. It had been a long day, climaxing in a flurry of expended energy. In the quiet of my office, thoughts of failure began to creep into my mind. Like Sandburg’s fog, they came on cat feet.
Maybe Angel had been right, maybe I had been cornball. Maybe I had been cornball right from the beginning. It had been a long time since I had faced a jury.
I needed a drink. This time it was more an intellectual urge than a physical one. I began to rationalize what a drink would do for me. It would raise my flagging spirits. It would relax me, and I needed that badly. It would restore me and I would be able to think clearly. One drink, maybe two. It couldn’t hurt.
If only I could be that persuasive with the jury.
One or two drinks wouldn’t hurt me, they would destroy me. That didn’t make me want them any less.
*
I DROVE home, took a shower, and tossed down several root beers, pretending they were something stronger.
Although I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially about the case, I called the Harwell house. It had been a very long day for Angel, too. I thought she might need some encouragement.
I asked for Angel but Robin came to the phone.
“Charley, are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Nate Golden worries that you might start drinking again.”
He wasn’t alone.
“Tell him I’m touched by his thoughtful concern.”
“Don’t be difficult, Charley. He’s only trying to be helpful.”
“Yeah, the way Hitler was helpful to the Jews. How’s Angel doing?”
“All right. She’s sleeping now. All this is very taxing, as you can imagine.”
“I’m home,” I said. “If Angel wakes up and wants to talk she can call me here.”
“Charley, I’m very worried. About the case.”
“In what way?”
“I think we should have another lawyer come in. I’m sorry, I know I’m the one who got you involved in all this, but I really think this isn’t going very well. In the beginning you wanted us to get someone else, and now I think you were right. Nate says that he can have someone up here tomorrow morning to take over, if that’s agreeable.”
“Is that what Angel wants?”
“No. But I think we have to do what is right for her. I’m sure you agree. We never should have pushed you into this.”
“Did Golden tell you what would happen if you try to substitute lawyers now that the case is underway?”
“He said several things might happen.”
“I’ll tell you what is the most probable. A new lawyer would need time to prepare. The court, if substitution was permitted, would declare a mistrial and this would all have to be done over again, right from scratch.”
“But much later, according to Nate. Months, he said. And he said we would probably get another judge, a better one.”
“And do you think all that would really benefit Angel?” I asked.
“Nate thinks he might be able to work out something, a plea or something, if he had more time.”
“Time would only give the prosecution an opportunity to fine-tune their case now that they know the line of defense. What you suggest would only damage Angel’s chances. I’m not withdrawing, Robin. If Angel wants to fire me that’s up to her. Until then I’m her lawyer. And if the select committee out there, you and Nate, feel otherwise, that’s just too goddamned bad.”
I slammed the phone down.
I told myself I shouldn’t even think about what she said. Tomorrow was an important day, the first real day of trial, and I needed to be relaxed and calm.
That fog seemed thicker now. I didn’t get much sleep.
*
THE media army was again out in force. Just getting into the courtroom was like running a gauntlet. But I made it.
When I got there I didn’t know what to expect.
Angel was there, seated at the counsel table. I looked around, wondering if another trial lawyer might be there, my replacement, looking on me with pity or triumph. I didn’t see anyone who matched that description. But Nate Golden was there, scowling as usual, with Robin, who avoided eye contact.
“Are you okay?” I asked Angel.
She nodded. “Yes.”
I debated asking if she would prefer another lawyer. It was probably the fair thing to do, given the circumstances. But if she did get another attorney at this point, I was doomed. The judge and the bar association under the guidance of Nate Golden would dive on me like hawks. Unfair or not, I didn’t ask her.
The judge stalked out of his chambers at nine o’clock precisely. The jury was brought in, and we began.
My old mentor, Gabriel Aaron, said trying a lawsuit is like telling a story in a theater. The lawyer is the playwright, but he cannot invent his characters — they already exist, and the lawyer is stuck with them. The play is written by fate and the lawyer must craft his story in a logical sequence by using witnesses, who function as actors. He must also obey the rules of evidence and traditions of the court. He tells the story to a small select audience, all seated in the jury box. If the story is told well, the lawyer wins. If not ...
Also out front during this judicial production is another lawyer-playwright, who is going to do everything possible to screw up the drama being presented.
There are easier ways to make a living. But in this case, at least the beginning, everything began very smoothly and proceeded with surprising speed.
Evola marched the witnesses to the stand, and I was surprised at how quickly and skillfully he drew the necessary facts from each of them. He was a much better workman than I had anticipated. As if things weren’t already bad enough.
The uniformed officers began the story with that pleasant June evening when they had been called to the Harwell house. They briefly described what they saw and what time they saw it. Evola had a large drawing of Harwell’s office, a diagram with the outline of a body drawn in red. It was reasonably accurate and I thought I could use it later myself, so I made no objection when he offered it as an exhibit.
Each of the uniformed officers admitted to me that Angel had denied stabbing her father. I established the time when Angel was first taken into custody to show just how long she had been held and questioned.
So far, no fireworks from either side. I thought the media people looked disappointed. A few seemed outright bored.
Dennis Bernard and his wife testified that they had identified the body as being that of Harrison Harwell. They were just procedural witnesses, real
ly. But they provided the first skirmish in our little legal war.
I asked if either had heard a verbal fight between father and daughter that night. They hadn’t, although they were at home then.
They both admitted that from time to time there were spats between father and daughter. Nothing unusual, they said in answer to my questions.
Evola attacked with vigor. I threw him off by objecting. I said he couldn’t cross-examine his own witnesses. He got angry at that and lost it for a minute. I thought the jury looked entertained. The judge ruled, as I expected, that since Evola had to call the identification witnesses he was allowed wide latitude.
Evola couldn’t shake the Bernards, although he tried. It was a very small victory, but I gloated anyway.
Evola thought I’d be the one to explode when he called the police photographer to the stand. In a murder case, the cops take dozens of gory photographs, the bloodier the better. And in color. Every prosecutor tries to introduce the photos, usually wearing a saintly expression such as you might find on old, kindly preachers. This kind of photo can so inflame a jury they are eager to punish someone. Ah, and there’s the defendant, just sitting there. It’s so convenient.
Defense lawyers are equally predictable. They demand the jury be excused, then they go into an emotional tirade about how the pictures will poison the minds of the jury and deny their client a fair trial. It’s accepted practice to toss in the Constitution, the Magna Carta, and the Code of Hammurabi if things really look bad.
The whole procedure is as predictable as an old morality play. You know exactly what each actor will say and do. But this time, I didn’t follow the script.
I looked at the photos as if I was seeing them for the first time. Taken at different angles, they showed Harrison Harwell lying on his back, his shirt all bloody, his eyes open and staring. The short sword stuck obscenely out of his chest. It was the kind of thing that makes you look quickly away. There were other photos, taken on the autopsy table. In those the body had been stripped of clothing.
Evola waited, mentally preparing for the fight.
I didn’t ask that the jury be excused, which was my first surprise.
Shadow of A Doubt Page 36
