A River of Silence

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “And when you hear their stories, when you piece it all together, you will see that the state of Oregon has proven to you, without a reasonable doubt, that Mr. Bryce poisoned Skyler Sterling and then tried to cover it up by calling 9-1-1 and claiming the child seized and stopped breathing.” Marshall paused and sighed, as if to let the jury know he took no joy in doing his job on behalf of the people.

  “If it pleases the court,” Kendra Palmer interrupted the prosecutor. “If counsel may approach the bench.”

  “You may,” Judge Shapiro replied.

  Bryce strained to listen to what was said in front of the judge, but he was unable to make out a single word. His interpreter’s hands were still.

  When they finished, Kendra pivoted and returned to the defense table, her face revealing nothing. She wrote Bryce a note. I asked the judge if Marshall could cut the theatrics—the long sighs and hangdog looks.

  Marshall appeared slightly flustered, but resumed his address.

  “The beginning of this story goes back to Caleb Bryce’s meeting Dana Sterling, the mother of Skyler and Scott Sterling. You will hear testimony regarding the volatile and abusive nature of that relationship.” Marshall removed his horn-rimmed glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then replaced them.

  “On the morning before Skyler Sterling’s death, neighbors overheard Mr. Bryce fighting with his girlfriend. Later, he admitted to Detective Radhauser that he had a rough day with Scott, and hit him harder than he intended. He put both boys to bed early.” Marshall paused, stepped a little closer to the jury box.

  “And you’ll see that Mr. Bryce finally reached his limit—had all he could stand. Dana was about to leave him. She was young, beautiful, and had many friends. Bryce was a loner, on medical leave from his job, and alienated from his family and society. He was a man angry enough to hurt someone. He was jealous and desperate, mad enough to strike out at a four-year-old. He was resentful of his own situation and impotent to change anything. His rage built and built until somebody did die, a nineteen-month-old child. A substitute for Dana.”

  “The state intends to show that Caleb Bryce was so enraged and out of control in the 9-1-1 tape that he says, not once, but five times, “She’s gonna die.” Marshall frowned, and laced his hands together in front of him.

  “She, Dana Sterling, didn’t die. But her baby, Skyler Sterling, did, ladies and gentlemen. And his testimony can only be heard through the medical examiner’s report. When you see the slides of that little boy’s body, hear the extent of his internal injuries—injuries the doctors repaired, but they couldn’t repair the damage caused by the drug overdose—poison given to him in his bottle of apple juice. A bottle the defendant admits to preparing. There is only one conclusion to be drawn in this case and that is this defendant,” he paused, unlaced his hands and turned toward Bryce, “murdered Skyler Sterling in order to get even with his girlfriend, Dana, for threatening to leave him.”

  Marshall took a deep breath. “As for the child abuse accusation, you’ll read the deposition of an elderly neighbor who witnessed the defendant’s attack on a helpless four-year-old boy and heard his threat to murder Scott Sterling. You’ll also hear from Scott himself, who claims the defendant hated him. The evidence presented in the murder case will make it very clear Mr. Bryce was capable of anything.”

  Completing his opening statement, Marshall stood perfectly still for a moment, bowed his head as if he were about to pray for guidance, then walked briskly over to his table and sat down.

  When Judge Shapiro shifted his gaze to Kendra, it was their turn to face the jury. Bryce’s shoulders slumped and again he doubted himself. A little boy was dead, and maybe he wouldn’t be if only Bryce hadn’t entered his life. He straightened his shoulders. What was he thinking? He didn’t lace Skyler’s bottle with Haloperidol. Whatever he might be guilty of, he did not kill Skyler.

  Kendra, poised and self-confident, stood at the end of the defense table, her right hand slipped casually into the pocket of her gray blazer, her left rested on a statute book. She didn’t pace during her statement, but spoke directly to the body of jurors, making eye contact at least once with every one of them.

  After introducing herself, Kendra began. “There is no dispute that a terrible tragedy unfolded in the late evening of October eleventh and the early morning of the twelfth. The defense is not, in any way, trying to diminish that tragedy. A baby is dead. And all the possibilities for Skyler Sterling and what he might have brought into the world are no more.”

  “But think about it. There could be nothing worse for anyone who loved that little boy than to be falsely accused of having killed him. The state is trying to compound the tragedy of Skyler’s death by sending an innocent man, a man who loved that child, to death by lethal injection.” Kendra lifted her left hand to touch Bryce’s shoulder, just as she’d told him she would—showing the jury she believed in him and had no fear.

  “From the beginning, I’ll make it clear that anything you hear in these opening statements from either the prosecution or myself is not evidence.” She paused and moved closer to the jury box. “The evidence comes after the witnesses are sworn in by the clerk, seated in that chair next to the judge, and talking to you, the jurors, who will ultimately decide the fate of Caleb Bryce.” She pointed toward the wooden witness box to the right of Judge Shapiro.

  “Our opening comments are designed to orient you, in a kind of outline form, about the case you will hear. A whole lot of small pieces will come out in this case and it is your responsibility to assemble them, once you have them all, and come to your own conclusion about what happened on the night of October eleventh and the early morning of October twelfth.”

  “The defense intends to show you that Mr. Bryce loved Skyler Sterling. He loved him so much that he offered him a place in his home, and actually took care of him and his older brother during the day while Skyler’s mother slept and again at night when she worked. He made toys and a playhouse for him.”

  Bryce tried hard not to crumple at the memory of the playhouse. The way Scott and Skyler played so peacefully together. He sucked in a craggy breath and forced himself to return his concentration to Kendra’s opening statement.

  “We will review the events leading up to that night. And, while perhaps Mr. Bryce could have acted in a different manner and left Skyler in his crib while he phoned for help, that isn’t what he did, ladies and gentlemen. He picked up the toddler, and, not thinking about anything except the fact the child wasn’t breathing, raced across the room, tripped over a toy, and stumbled into the coffee table in his desperate effort to telephone for help.”

  Kendra was smooth in her presentation, didn’t miss a beat, and the jury listened as if mesmerized.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, when Mr. Bryce walked into that bedroom to check on the boys and discovered Skyler in his crib, blue and not breathing, he simply reacted as any parent would.”

  At this point, Kendra stepped even closer to the jury box, centered herself in front of it and spoke directly into their faces.

  Because he could no longer see her lips, Bryce watched the hands of the young woman who signed for him. “And if that’s a crime, then my client is indeed guilty. But it is our contention that he behaved, not like a murderer, but like a man terrified for the life of a child he considered his own. He behaved, I venture to say, exactly the same way you or I might have behaved in the same petrifying situation.”

  “The prosecution will be hard pressed to find a motive. Because there is none. Mr. Bryce had no reason to kill a child he loved. We subpoenaed his medical records and he is not taking, nor has he ever taken, Haloperidol—the prescription drug that killed Skyler Sterling.”

  “You’ll clearly hear the terror in his voice on the 9-1-1 tape, you’ll hear testimony from the investigating officer and the paramedics who found Mr. Bryce with his index finger clamped between Skyler’s jaws, the toddler’s teeth actually exposing the bone. They found him, despite the pain he must have fel
t from the injury to his hand, frantically trying to administer CPR. And it succeeded. When paramedics arrived, Skyler Sterling was breathing again.”

  “As to the child abuse charge, you’ll hear testimony from the victim’s mother that her older son, Scott, was a handful and that she told Mr. Bryce he was too easy on Scott. Indeed, you’ll hear testimony he never laid a hand on Scott before that day when the boy kicked, bit and finally spat in Bryce’s face. At his wits’ end, he struck Scott on the butt with his open palm. If that’s child abuse, I suspect most every parent in the world is equally guilty.”

  As Kendra completed her opening statement, turned away from the jury and started back toward the defense table, her face turned to stone.

  Bryce followed his attorney’s stare to a well-dressed, dark-haired man with strands of silver at his temples. He stood at the back of the courtroom. As Bryce watched, the man slipped up the center aisle and squeezed into the third row.

  He was over six feet tall, tan and fit, and looked like he should be on the cover of some American Bar Association journal. His gray, pinstriped suit was obviously expensive and an alligator briefcase lay across his lap. The man didn’t look at Kendra, but rather kept his gaze straight ahead, focused on Judge Shapiro as he dismissed the jury for lunch.

  “Oh, shit,” Kendra whispered as she sat down next to Bryce. “What’s he doing here?”

  * * *

  “I can’t believe my father had the balls to just show up. He didn’t even call and tell me he was coming.” Kendra paced the basement holding room, ignoring her lunch tray on the conference table across from Bryce. “Listen to me,” she raged on. “Whining about him not telling me he was coming. He didn’t even ask if I wanted him here. He just assumes…”

  “It’s a public place. He didn’t need your permission. Maybe he wanted to surprise you. Maybe he wanted to see his daughter in action,” Bryce said. “I think you put on a pretty good performance. And who do you think you’re kidding? I thought part of the reason you took on my case was because you wanted him to notice you.”

  Kendra stood in the corner of the windowless room, staring at an ugly painting as if it had something important to tell her. “I took your case because it was assigned to me.”

  “Come on, Kendra. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

  “How would you feel if your father showed up without warning?”

  Bryce locked eyes with Kendra and he tried hard not to smile as he said, “I don’t know, Kendra. The man I thought was my father is dead, but I’d like to think I’d give him another chance, the same way I did my mother.”

  “Give me a break, Bryce, it’s not the same and you know it. Your mother was sick, suffering from alcoholism. The truth is, she had no real idea what she did to you until after she got sober and thought back on it. My father thinks I’m a child and can’t handle a high-profile case. That I need my daddy’s help.”

  “No breaks, Kendra. I can be as ruthless as you when I know I’m right.”

  “You don’t know shit,” Kendra grumbled, unable to stop the smile from spreading across her face.

  “The way I see it, this is your opportunity. Rise to the occasion and show the old man what you’re really made of. Show him the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  * * *

  Her father waited for her on a bench outside the holding cell. He stood and wrapped his arms around her.

  For a moment, she was comforted, taken back to childhood by his clean smell of soap and the evergreen aftershave he wore her entire life.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming,” he said. “I finished my case early and wanted to see where my daughter lived and what she was doing.”

  Kendra wasn’t fooled by his contrived concern for her well-being. He heard about the case and wasn’t sure she could handle it without him. “Where are you staying?”

  “I booked a room at the Mark Anthony on Main Street. You’re right. Ashland is a charming little town. I got in early last night and walked around for a while. I can understand why you like it here.”

  “It’s very different from San Francisco.”

  “I sat in on your opening statement. Looks like you’ve got yourself a tough case right out of the starting gate.”

  She waited for him to compliment her on the opening statement.

  He didn’t.

  “It is going to be hard, but I’m pretty sure I can win it.”

  He looked at her for a minute as if trying to decide whether or not to ask. “Would you like some help?”

  There it was. The truth. “I don’t know, Dad. I’m confident I can poke some serious holes in the prosecution’s case. But probably not enough to guarantee reasonable doubt. My client doesn’t have a motive. I’m one hundred percent certain he’s not guilty. And I keep remembering what you told me about how hard it is to represent someone you know is innocent.”

  “Is the prosecution trying to fabricate motive?”

  “Yes. They’ll say he killed the toddler to get even with Dana, his mother, because she threatened to leave him.”

  “Marshall can speculate your client sought revenge against his girlfriend. But that’s all it would be. Speculation. He’ll need evidence to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “He’s got some witnesses who heard him call her a selfish bitch the morning before Skyler died, but not much more than that.”

  “I’m happy to go over the prosecution’s case and see if I can find any weaknesses that might help you. Do you have other suspects?”

  “The investigating officer, Winston Radhauser, believes my client is innocent, too. He suspects Reggie Sterling, the father—who claims Skyler was not his biological son and has repeatedly told others he couldn’t stand the kid. The mother, Dana Sterling, is another possible suspect. She was hardly mother of the year material. Let’s face it, anyone could have tampered with that bottle. From what I understand, Haloperidol, the murder weapon, is a clear liquid and it would have gone unnoticed in the bottom of that baby bottle.”

  “You told me Detective Radhauser believes Bryce is innocent. If that’s the case, why did he arrest him only eleven days after the murder?”

  “Radhauser went so far as to tell me he was pressured by his boss. Ashland is a small town and the press went crazy. Murders are rare here. And the murder of a toddler is unheard of. There were demonstrations in the streets demanding someone be held accountable.”

  “Look, sweetheart. I know how you feel about wanting to prove yourself and make your own reputation, so I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. But it sounds to me like you need a plausible alternative to Bryce as the murderer.”

  Wow. That was a change. Usually her father just moved in and took over. An innocent man’s life was at stake. Her father was one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the country, maybe even in the world. She couldn’t let her pride get in the way of doing the right thing for Bryce. And the truth was, she needed help.

  “Okay, Dad. Sure, I’d love it if you’d take a look at the case. Maybe I can bring Detective Radhauser in to talk to you as well. I know what a stickler you are for detail, and he’s a good detective who knows more about what happened that night than anyone. There’s a little conference room in our offices you can use. I’ll call Radhauser and set it up.”

  “You want to grab some dinner? I saw some charming little restaurants overlooking the creek.”

  “That sounds great. I’ll meet you in the lobby of your hotel at six.”

  “Let’s celebrate that opening statement you gave today. You made the old man proud.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  When Winston Radhauser was called as the first witness, he hurried up to the stand. He was in a precarious situation—a witness for the prosecution who believed the defendant he had arrested was not guilty of the crime. He needed to find a way to tell the truth without damaging the reputation of either himself, Captain Murphy, or the Ashland Police Department.

  After Radhause
r was sworn in, Marshall asked him the usual identifying questions. Name. Job. Duration of employment.

  “Were you the investigating officer sent to the scene on Pine Street in Ashland after the defendant called 9-1-1?”

  “Yes, I received notification from dispatch about 12:15 a.m. that a small child had been injured. She said the 9-1-1 caller sounded drunk. Felix Murphy, my boss, decided a detective should investigate.”

  “What did you find when you arrived?”

  “I knocked several times, but no one answered. The front door was unlocked. I went inside and yelled out, but still no one answered.” He described the overturned coffee table, the tarot cards scattered about the floor, the broken glass from the oil lamp globe, and the spilled vase of daffodils.

  “Where was the defendant?”

  “At first I didn’t know. I kept calling out, but got no answer. I noticed a trail of blood drops on the tile floor that led into what I believed must be the kitchen. I placed my hand on the Glock in my holster and followed them. I found the defendant in the kitchen administering CPR to a small child. I called out again, but there was no answer. He had his back to me. I soon realized he was hearing impaired.”

  “Was the defendant intoxicated?”

  “Objection,” Kendra said. “Since there were no blood alcohol levels taken, this calls for an opinion.”

  “I’ll allow,” Judge Shapiro said.

  “No, he was not. The 9-1-1 tape sounded garbled because of his speech impediment.”

  “I understand you photographed the scene.”

  “I did.”

  Marshall handed him a stack of photographs. “Are these the photos you took that morning?”

  Radhauser looked at them for a moment. “Yes.” He gave the photos back to Marshall, who handed them to a clerk for delivery to Kendra and then the jury.

  “Did you determine the source of the blood?”

  “It came from the defendant’s finger. The victim clamped his teeth down on it during a seizure when the defendant was attempting to clear the child’s airway.”