by John Bowers
“If you don’t mind telling us, who did you lose, and how?”
“My son was in the Colonial Defense Force. He was killed in action.”’
“My brother was killed by artillery in Three Rivers. He was a civilian.”
“I lost two cousins in Monroe Falls. They were civilians, too.”
When all seven had answered the question, Victoria turned to those still seated in the gallery.
“How many of you lost someone in the war? Raise your hands, please.”
Nine more hands went up. Victoria stared at them as if they were covered with mold. She turned and addressed the bench.
“Your Honor…sidebar?”
“Approach.”
Victoria and Crawford met in front of the bench. Van Wert turned off her microphone and leaned over so she could hear them.
“Your Honor, I had no idea the response would be this big. If we excuse all these people, it’ll take us a month to seat a jury.”
“What do you propose?”
“I think we don’t tell them what Mr. Frie was smuggling. Let them think it was drugs or some other illegal commodity. If we mention weapons, we may prejudice the whole lot against the defendant.”
“Mr. Crawford?”
Crawford grinned.
“What she said.”
“Very well. Step back.”
Victoria returned to the jury box and made a show of inspecting her notes. She raised her chin and scanned them with her gaze. She debated continuing, but decided against it. She took a step back, then turned.
“Nothing further right now, your Honor.”
“Mr. Crawford?”
Crawford spent another half-hour interrogating the jurors, then sat down. At that point, twelve potential jurors sat in the box, but the voir dire was far from over. Each attorney now asked specific questions designed to weed out the unwanted. Some of the questions were merely to trigger a response, such as sadness or rage, anything that might uncover a hidden prejudice or emotion that might be harmful to one side or the other. Victoria kept her questions to a minimum, but exercised about half her peremptory challenges—excusing a juror without cause—before the process was complete. When it was done, in midafternoon, the jury had been empaneled. Ten men and two women, plus one man and one woman as alternates. Crawford had loaded it with mostly working people, including a cargo pilot, a utility employee, two spaceport workers, a restaurant manager, a schoolteacher, and two day laborers.
Victoria knew what he was up to—Crawford hoped that working class jurors would be more sympathetic to a working man like Frie than white-collar workers would. In most cases, she would have fought to keep the jury more balanced, but in view of her own doubts about the case, she let it ride. Maybe not the most professional course to take, nor the wisest, but…she had a feeling it would work out for the best.
Van Wert called a break at three o’clock. Court resumed twenty minutes later.
“Miss Cross, we have a couple of hours to go. Are you ready for opening?”
“Yes, your Honor. Thank you.”
She stood up again and approached the jury box. She left her notes on the table and gave her opening without them.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury…” She pointed at Wallace Frie. “The defendant, Wallace Frie, stands accused of the murder of a law enforcement officer. On January 24 of this year, Mr. Frie went to the home of Lloyd Randal, an investigator for the Alpha Centauri Bureau of Investigation, lay in wait in the bushes beside the driveway, and when Mr. Randal arrived home, shot him four times in the back with a 9mm Sharps automatic handgun.
“Why did Mr. Frie murder Mr. Randal? Because twelve years ago, in 0432, Mr. Randal arrested Mr. Frie for smuggling contraband cargo. Mr. Frie stood trial for that crime and was convicted. He subsequently spent twelve years in prison for smuggling, but was paroled last October. While in jail, Mr. Frie made threats against Mr. Randal’s life, and when he got his parole, he acted on those threats. It has been Mr. Frie’s contention that Lloyd Randal set him up, framed him on the smuggling charge.
“Whether Mr. Randal did or not is outside the scope of this trial; we are here to deal with the murder and nothing else. I told you the rest only because it provides the motive for this killing.”
She turned and strolled a dozen feet, then turned back.
“The evidence will show that Mr. Frie was arrested at a halfway house where he was assigned to live upon his release from prison. Upon his arrest, a 9mm Sharps automatic was found in his possession. His fingerprints were found on the shell casings found at the scene.
“And finally, the evidence will show that Mr. Frie, as a condition of his parole, was working for a sanitation company collecting garbage…and Mr. Randal’s house was on his route. You will hear testimony that Mr. Frie knew where Mr. Randal lived and mentioned it to a coworker.”
She approached the jury box and studied each face for a moment. All fourteen of them gazed back.
“Finally, a word about my opponent. Mr. Crawford and I have faced off in court before, and I can tell you from personal experience that he is a force of nature in the courtroom. He’s going to try to snow you with personality, and he can be quite engaging. Just keep in mind that this trial is not about the prosecution or defense counsel—it is about the man seated next to Mr. Crawford, the defendant. Regardless of what you may think of me or Mr. Crawford, the only person you should be concerned with is Wallace Frie. Everything else, everyone else, is irrelevant. Don’t be swayed by personality.
“Thank you.”
She returned to her table and sat down, mildly surprised that neither Crawford nor van Wert had challenged her over the personal remarks. In van Wert’s case, she hated lawyers anyway, so she probably didn’t care. Crawford probably thought she’d been complimenting him. Either way, she had gotten away with it.
Crawford’s opening consumed the rest of the afternoon. He broke out the violins and told the jury what a tough life his defendant had had, how he’d lost his family after being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit, and how Frie merely wanted to pick up his life and move on as best as he could. Frie himself sat silent, staring at the jury while Crawford talked about him.
When Crawford finished, it was almost five-thirty. Van Wert adjourned court for the afternoon and admonished the jurors to neither form an opinion nor discuss the case among themselves.
Victoria picked up her laptop and materials. She turned to Nancy.
“I know you have a lot of work to do, but you have nothing pending that won’t keep. Go home. Let’s get here in the morning ready to rock.”
Nancy smiled.
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
“See you tomorrow.”
As she walked out of the courtroom, Victoria was still torn. Everything she had learned about Frie through her own investigation suggested that he was an innocent man, that he just didn’t have it in him to commit murder, or even smuggling. But the physical evidence couldn’t be ignored, and it pointed a guilty finger at him.
The real trial would begin tomorrow morning. Win or lose, it promised to be unforgettable.
Chapter 26
Tuesday, February 16, 0444 (CC)
75th Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2
The office was buzzing when Victoria arrived on Tuesday morning. As she came off the lift, she saw Gary Fraites and Anderson Gabel standing in the corridor talking. Both seemed in a jovial mood. They turned when she approached and offered her big grins.
“Openings are out of the way, so today’s the day, huh?” Fraites said. “Ready to go get ‘em?”
“Ready,” she said, and smiled.
“Mind if I sit in?” Gabel asked her. “I love to watch you work, and I really want this guy put away.”
“Sure. Do you want to second-chair me?”
“No, nothing like that. I just want to watch the show.”
“You’re welcome to join me at the table.”
“Okay, I’ll
do that. Thanks.”
Several other people greeted her with good wishes and high-fives. Brian Godney looked almost as excited as if he were trying the case himself.
“You want me to second-chair?” he asked.
“Sure, if you want to. Andy is joining us at the table, but he’s only observing.”
“Okay, I will. See you downstairs.”
Victoria slugged down a cup of coffee and reviewed her notes for the morning. With jury selection and opening statements taken care of, now she could begin to enjoy herself. There was something about starting a new trial that was always exciting, sort of like the face-off in a solarball game. She could feel adrenaline coursing through her blood.
At eight forty-five, she headed for the lift. Godney joined her and Anderson Gabel followed. Except for a bailiff and Judge van Wert’s clerk, the courtroom was empty when they arrived. Court would begin at nine and people began to trickle in. Gary Fraites entered through the main courtroom door and selected a chair along the back wall. Victoria, Godney, Gabel, and Nancy took their places at the prosecution table. Reporters and holo V crews filled most of the gallery. Witnesses were sequestered elsewhere in the building.
At five minutes to nine, Hayes Crawford strolled into the courtroom as if he owned it, his big grin bathing anyone who looked in his direction. He wore the air of a man in complete control, supremely confident in his case and his ability. An associate from his firm sat as second chair and they waited at the defense table until the defendant was brought in.
Like the day before, Wallace Frie was dressed in a rather threadbare suit the defense had provided for him. Victoria suspected the man didn’t have a suit of his own, and it was customary for the defense to dress up their clients to make the best possible impression on the jury. In this case, it looked as if Crawford wanted the jury to see his guy as poor, underprivileged, and downtrodden.
Nothing more compelling than a sympathy defense.
Van Wert entered the courtroom precisely at nine, as if she had been waiting behind the door waiting for the clock to strike. She gaveled the session to order, verified that all parties were present, and called for the jury. A bailiff opened a door and the jury filed in, took their seats, and arranged themselves for comfort.
At five minutes after nine, van Wert turned to Victoria.
“Miss Cross, is the Federation ready?”
“Ready, your Honor.”
“Call your first witness.”
“Yes, your Honor. The Federation calls Danielle Randal.”
A deputy stepped outside the courtroom and returned thirty seconds later with the witness. Danielle Randal, the victim’s wife, walked into the courtroom dressed in black. Without looking to either side, she walked steadily down the aisle to the wing gate, through the gate, and up to the witness stand. Her face looked frozen, as if she had just now discovered that her husband was dead. When the bailiff approached to swear her in, she raised her right hand and recited the oath as instructed.
Then she sat down in the witness chair.
Victoria approached.
“Good morning, Mrs. Randal.”
“Good morning.”
“Can you state your name for the record, please?”
“Danielle Randal.”
“And where do you live, Mrs. Randal?”
“You want my street address?”
“Not if you don’t want to give it. Just tell us what city you live in.”
“I live here in Lucaston, in the Topper Hill Estates.”
“And how long have you lived there?”
“Eleven years.”
Victoria nodded.
“Does the name Lloyd Randal mean anything to you?”
“Yes. Lloyd Randal was my husband.”
“How long were you married?”
“Twenty-eight years.”
“And where is your husband now?”
“He’s dead.”
“He’s dead. In fact, your husband was murdered, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband is the victim in the case we’re trying?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. First of all, I am very sorry for your loss, as, I’m sure, is everyone in this courtroom.”
“Thank you.”
“Can you tell the jury the circumstances surrounding your husband’s death? How did you first learn of it?”
The woman took a deep, slow breath, as if she had dreaded the question. It took her a moment to begin.
“I found his body on January 25th. He often worked late, and sometimes worked around the clock, but he usually called to tell me. That night, the 24th, he didn’t call, and he didn’t come home. I went to bed around eleven and when I woke up he still hadn’t returned.”
“What did you do?”
“I went and looked out the window to see if his hovercar was there.”
“Was it?”
“Yes. The car was there, and so was Lloyd. He was lying face down in the driveway. There was blood all around him.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran outside to see if I could help him…”
“But?”
“His body was cold. Like he’d been dead for hours.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I called the police.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Randal, what was the weather like that night? Was it especially cold?”
“Not really. It was a tiny bit chilly, but not unusually cold.”
“You said your husband’s body was surrounded by blood. How did the blood get there, if you know?”
“He’d been shot four times in the back.”
“During the night, did you hear any gunshots?”
“No. But our house is soundproofed, and I sleep with a headset on, so the music would probably have drowned out the sounds.”
“Did any of your neighbors report hearing gunshots in the night?”
“Not to me.”
“What kind of work did your husband do, Mrs. Randal?”
“He was an investigator for the ACBI.”
“ACBI. The Alpha Centauri Bureau of Investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. If you know, had your husband been working on any sensitive cases that might have put him in danger?”
“He did that every day. His job always came with a risk. We knew that from the beginning.”
“Of course. But some cases were more dangerous than others, weren’t they?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Can you think of any cases in particular that might have resulted in his death?”
“Objection. Calls for speculation and is potentially prejudicial.”
“Your Honor, she was married to a lawman; she likely has knowledge of what cases her husband worked on.”
“That would be hearsay, your Honor. The witness is not a law enforcement official and therefore cannot have first-hand knowledge of her husband’s cases.”
Van Wert listened to them both, then nodded.
“Sustained.”
Victoria didn’t fight it. She hadn’t expected to get away with the question, but saw no harm in trying.
She returned to her witness.
“Mrs. Randal, is your house paid for?”
“Not quite. We have three more years on the mortgage.”
“Now that your husband is gone, will you be able to make those payments?”
“Objection. Relevance?”
Van Wert’s cold blue gaze swung in Victoria’s direction.
“Miss Cross?”
Victoria held both hands out to her sides.
“Just trying to show what hardship this crime has placed on the victim’s family, your Honor.”
“That’s prejudicial!” Crawford declared.
Van Wert nodded.
“Objection sustained.”
Victoria returned to the witness.
“Mrs. Randal, are you acquainted with the defendant, Wallace Frie?”
>
“No.”
“Before your husband’s death, had you ever heard of Wallace Frie?”
“Yes. Years ago.”
“What did you hear about him, if you recall?”
“I don’t—”
”Objection. Where is counsel going with this line of questioning?”
Victoria pivoted and stared at Crawford, who was standing behind the defense table.
“If counsel would like to stand still for a minute, he might find out where I’m going with it.”
“Cut the crap, Miss Cross.” Van Wert scowled at her. “I told you, no shenanigans in my courtroom!”
“Shenanigans? Your Honor, I’m just asking questions.”
“Then move it along. Objection sustained.”
Victoria stood there a moment, then smiled.
“Thank you, Mrs. Randal. Nothing further at the moment. Your Honor, reserve the right to redirect.”
“Mr. Crawford? Your witness.”
Victoria took her seat and typed a few notes into her laptop. She listened with half an ear as Crawford cross-examined.
Hayes Crawford, showman that he was, began his cross with a profuse apology for Mrs. Randal’s loss. He was so dramatic about it that Victoria half expected him to burst into tears.
With that out of the way, Crawford began a tentative line of questioning, walking on eggs to avoid the appearance of bullying the witness.
“Mrs. Randal, did your husband have any enemies?”
“Yes, I suppose he did. In his line of work, enemies were inevitable.”
“I understand. Do you know who any of those enemies might be?”
“No. Lloyd never told me things like that. He didn’t want me to worry.”
“Did he ever mention any conflicts at work? With other agents, maybe, or perhaps people he arrested?”
“Like I said, he never told me those things.”
“I see. In spite of the fact that he never told you those things, did you perhaps intuit that he had things on his mind? That he might be in danger?”
“He always had things on his mind. When he was working a tough case, he was often distant. That was normal for us.”
“I understand. But during those last weeks before his death, did you sense that he was more worried than usual?”
