Presumption of Innocence (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 1)

by Stephen Penner

  Welles was the only person who hadn't looked at Karpati. He was calmly jotting notes on his legal pad, seemingly oblivious to Yamata's words.

  "Emily Montgomery," Yamata turned back to the jury. Her voice modulated perfectly from the righteous indignation to heartbroken empathy. "Emily Montgomery was thirteen years old."

  Yamata didn't meet the father's eyes this time; that would have been obvious. Her words would reach him just fine.

  "She liked to roller-blade and walk her dog. Her favorite flavor of ice cream was vanilla and her favorite color was purple. And even though she never would have told her friends, she still kind of liked Barbie and kept all her dolls and doll clothes hidden in her closet."

  Yamata paused again, as the gravity of the impending description began to settle over the room.

  "And she liked to help people."

  Another pause, this time from an apparent lump in Yamata's throat.

  "And that turned out to be death of her. Her innocence. Her openness. All the things we wish we could be. Good, kind, hopeful, selfless. Noble. The things that we all grew up and learned not to be. Because of people like Arpad Karpati. But Emily was still too young, too pure, too good, to know what fate awaited her when she befriended a troubled girl named Holly Sandholm."

  Yamata picked up a water cup from the spot she had purposefully selected on the prosecution table and took a sip.

  "Holly was a troubled teenager. A young girl who'd had a rough life, made some bad choices, and hung with the wrong crowd. She ended up in juvenile hall. Theft and drugs mostly. Now, juvenile justice is all about rehabilitation. About attempting to save at least some of these kids. To turn them back onto a good path. Maybe not the straight and narrow, but at least away from the highway to prison so many of them are on.

  "So along the way, one of the judges ordered Holly to do some community service work. She could pick any non-profit agency. She picked a church. Emily's church."

  The jurors were all watching Yamata as she stepped again to the well. She wasn't pacing; that would have been distracting. But she took a single step toward the jury box as she started to bring the story together.

  "Holly met Emily at the Westgate Christian Church one Sunday while she was doing her hours and Emily was staying after to help out. They were doing the same work, but for different reasons. Holly, because she had to. Emily, because she wanted to. Emily reached out to the new girl. They talked. Even across the gulf of their life experiences, they had things in common. They saw each other again over the next few weeks. And eventually they became friends.

  "Or so Emily thought.

  "What Emily Montgomery didn't know about—who she didn't know about—was Arpad Karpati. Because when fourteen-year-old Emily Montgomery went home to her pink-painted bedroom in her suburban home, fifteen-year-old Holly Sandholm went home to Arpad Karpati's bedroom in his downtown apartment."

  Brunelle smiled. Perfectly delivered. Don't spell out the child rape allegation, they'll get it.

  "He controlled Holly. Through promises and drugs, sex and fear. The same fear he tried to illicit in everyone else he met. Holly would do anything for him. Anything. And he needed her help to make sure the others in his life would be just as scared of him as she was."

  Yamata had avoided looking at Karpati through this description, but she opened her shoulders just a notch in his direction as she continued.

  "Arpad Karpati ran with a gang. A street gang. But not just any gang. Not Crips and Bloods and 'Gangland' TV specials on digital cable. He ran with a gang that claimed to be vampires."

  This was the hard part. The jurors all either cocked a head, or leaned back, or crossed their arms—signs of disbelief. Signs that Yamata would lose them if she didn't play this just right.

  "Yes, I said vampires. No one would believe that, right? And if no one believes it, no one is scared, right? So there's one thing to do: make them believe it. Drink the blood of a virgin. Drink the blood of Emily Montgomery."

  A sob from Mrs. Montgomery punctuated Yamata's sentence and the crossed arms and cocked heads relaxed. The jury wanted more information. Yamata gave it to them. But not through the eyes of a lawyer, or even a cop. Through the eyes of a parent.

  "When Janet and Roger Montgomery came home from dinner that night, their front door was unlocked. On it was a sticky note. It said, 'Don't go inside. Call 911 and wait for the police.'

  "No parent in the world would have waited outside. But when they opened the door, their world shattered. Their daughter Emily had been murdered. Sweet, young, innocent Emily had been bound and trussed upside down—like a carcass in a meat locker—hanging from the stair railing, pale as the ghost she had become. Had become at the hands of Arpad Karpati."

  She didn't look at him. She didn't have to.

  "The only injury was a small slit to her throat, right into the carotid artery. She bled out, the way butchers kill animals. And like those butchers, Karpati the Butcher collected her blood in a bucket, which he took with him to prove he was who, and what, he said he was."

  Yamata paused again. She sighed a deep, repulsed sigh.

  "Emily Montgomery is dead because of one man. That man." She pointed but didn't look. "Arpad Karpati. And at the end of this trial, at the conclusion of the evidence, we are going to stand up again and ask for justice for Emily, ask for the only just verdict in this case: guilty.

  "Thank you."

  The room took a moment to relax from Yamata's grip. The spectators started breathing again and after a moment a few of the jurors shifted in their seats. It even took a moment for Judge Quinn to move to the next order of business.

  "Mr. Welles." She looked down at him. "Does the defense wish to present its opening statement now, or reserve until the close of the State's case-in-chief?"

  Welles stood up and smiled at the judge. "The jury will remember what the State promised here, Your Honor, and what they will inevitably fail to deliver by way of actual evidence. The defense will reserve its opening statement."

  Quinn held her scowl in check in front of the jury, but Brunelle had more trouble. It wasn't just that Welles had managed to both reserve and give a micro-opening with his comment. It was that, damn him, he was right. Yamata had given a fantastic opening. Now they had better deliver.

  Chapter 32

  "Call your first witness," Judge Quinn instructed Brunelle.

  The first witness. This was always one of the most important decisions in trial practice. Who do you start with? The lead detective, to explain the investigation? The first cop who arrived, to describe the crime scene? The medical examiner, to explain the cause of death? Yamata had suggested all of those, but Brunelle shook his head each time. Every case is different and the facts of each case tell you who to call first. In this case, with these facts, there was really only one person to call first.

  Mom.

  Janet Montgomery looked up at the judge, raised her right hand, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  Brunelle had everything ready. He made sure the box of tissues was not on the witness stand, but rather on his table, so he could get them for her in front of the jury. He had all the photos lined up on the counter in front of the court reporter. He started with the "in life" of a smiling Emily, hugging a puppy in the park on a sunny spring day. He left it up on the projector as Janet told the jury about her wonderful daughter.

  Then a photo of the house. Not on a sunny spring day, though. That night. Dark, lit up by red and blue police car lights.

  That's when he got to give her the tissues.

  Then the photo of the note on the front door. Blown up, nice and big, on the screen. There wasn't a person in that jury box who wouldn't have been terrified to come home to that note on their door.

  The only photo left to show was Emily hanging upside down just inside that door. Dead, thanks to Arpad Karpati.

  Everybody knew that was the next photo.

  And Brunelle didn't show it to her. Because
you don't do that to a mom.

  Mom told the jury who Emily had been. Let the cops tell them who she was now.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery." Brunelle nodded to her, then looked up to the judge. "No further questions."

  He sat down and got a "Great job" whisper from Yamata. It had gone perfectly. He'd extracted all the information he needed, and done so respectfully. His care and discretion just underlined for the jury how terrible the crime was, how unfathomable the loss. The smallest smile crept into the corner of his mouth furthest from the jury box.

  "Let's see what Welles does with that," he whispered back.

  Some defense attorneys start with an apology "for your loss" or something equally transparent. Not Welles. He had one question. One perfect question.

  "You don't really know whether my client killed your daughter, do you?"

  Her hesitation was its own answer. Before she could blurt out the 'Yes!' that she wanted to say, Welles interrupted.

  "I understand, Mrs. Montgomery, that people have told you things, made promises and assurances. The police, the prosecutor. But you yourself, you have no personal knowledge whatsoever that my client is in any way responsible for the death of your daughter, isn't that true?"

  Mrs. Montgomery shifted in her seat, but kept an icy glare locked on Welles. Finally, through gritted teeth, she admitted, "No."

  Welles nodded, but knew enough not to smile. "No further questions."

  ***

  And so it went, all day. Brunelle or Yamata leading the witness through their testimony, admitting photographs, pulling heart-strings. The first cop on scene who found the body, the paramedic who confirmed the death, the forensics guy who dusted for prints. And after every direct examination, one simple question on cross examination:

  "You have uncovered absolutely no evidence that my client was in any way involved in the young lady's death, isn't that right?"

  Brunelle got it. Back in his office at the end of the day, it was clear Yamata didn't.

  "I think it went pretty well today," she said. "I don't think Welles objected even once."

  Brunelle laughed sardonically. "Why should he? He's killing us."

  Yamata cocked her head at her partner. "You mean that little, 'You don't know my client did it' bit? Please. The jury gets what we're doing."

  "Maybe," Brunelle shrugged. "But the judge gets what he's doing. She'll dump this thing at half-time if we don't put on some evidence Karpati is the killer."

  Yamata's incredulous frown deepened. "There's no way she dumps it. We're totally proving that girl was murdered in the most horrific way."

  Brunelle shook his head. "Of course she was, but we've got to prove Karpati's the one who did it. There are judges who would be afraid to dump a murder case, who'd leave it to the jury to acquit. But not Quinn. She'll fuck us. If we put on a hundred witnesses and every one of them ends with, 'But I can't say Karpati did it' we're fucked. Case dismissed."

  Yamata's confident grin was gone. She crossed her arms. "So what do we do?"

  Brunelle drummed his fingers on the table. "We hope Chen does better for us tomorrow than everyone did for us today."

  ***

  "Lawrence Chen," the detective identified himself for the record after being sworn in and sitting on the witness stand.

  Brunelle was standing across the courtroom, behind the last juror. It was an old trial attorney trick. It forced the witness to speak up and look at the jury. "How are you employed, sir?"

  "I'm a detective with the Seattle Police Department."

  Then, after a brief verbal resume, years of experience and commendations received, Brunelle got to what really mattered. "Are you familiar with the investigation into the murder of Emily Montgomery?"

  Chen set his jaw. It was probably meant to seem serious. Brunelle worried it seemed forced. "Yes," Chen answered solemnly.

  "And was part of your job to identify the killer or killers?"

  Chen thought for a moment. "Actually, I would say that was my only job. To identify the guilty party and arrest him."

  "And did you arrest anyone for the murder of Emily Montgomery?"

  "Objection!" Welles stood slowly, a bemused smile on his face. "Objection, Your Honor. This is absolutely outrageous. I'll give Mr. Brunelle credit for his creativity in trying to mislead the jury but—"

  "Well, now I'm going to object," Brunelle interjected. "It's inappropriate for counsel to suggest I'm trying to mislead the jury."

  "If the lie fits," Welles started, but the judge interrupted.

  "Children, children." She looked over to the jurors. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to excuse you to the jury room while counsel and I discuss the objection. Thank you."

  The jurors looked at one another and shrugged, but they did as they were told, standing up and filing into the jury room. When the door closed, Judge Quinn pointed a firm finger at Welles, "You will stop the speaking objections immediately, Mr. Welles. Do you understand me?"

  Welles threw his arms wide and offered his most innocent expression. "I was just trying to articulate the basis for my objection."

  "Don't bullshit me, Mr. Welles. It won't work. You just told the jury that the prosecutor was lying to them. You do that again, you're in contempt. Do you understand?"

  Welles' face traded innocence for understanding. "Of course, Your Honor."

  Before Brunelle could fully form his own 'told ya so' expression, the judge turned her finger to him. "And you. Stop lying to the jury."

  "Lying?" Brunelle stammered. "I'm just—"

  "You just asked the detective what his job was. When he said his job was to arrest the killer, you asked him who he arrested. Tell me that wasn't designed to have the detective tell the jury that Mr. Karpati is guilty."

  "Mr. Karpati is guilty," Brunelle replied.

  "Prove it," Welles laughed.

  "I'm trying," Brunelle answered.

  "Well, you're not going to do it with impermissible opinions as to guilt or hearsay," Quinn instructed. "This detective cannot tell the jury what other people told him happened. That's hearsay. And the law is clear in Washington: no witness, not even the lead detective, can give an opinion as to the defendant's guilt. That's for the jury to decide."

  Brunelle clenched his fists, but didn't say anything. There wasn't any response, and he knew it.

  "I would ask the court," Welles said smugly, "to instruct Mr. Brunelle not to ask about whether my client was arrested. And further to sustain my objection in front of the jury when they return."

  Judge Quinn looked to Brunelle. "I think I should be allowed to tell the jury he was arrested. It's just true."

  The judge nodded. "It is true, but you've set it up that the detective has knowledge the jury won't get and he determined Mr. Karpati is guilty."

  "Again, Your Honor," Brunelle implored, "he does have knowledge the jury won't get, and Mr. Karpati is guilty."

  "And again, Your Honor," Welles said, "I move the court to prohibit any further questions regarding my client's arrest. He requested an attorney and made no statements, so there is no admissible evidence from the arrest."

  Judge Quinn raised an eyebrow at Brunelle, inviting a response, but he just shrugged. "I've made my argument."

  Judge Quinn smiled. "And I'll make my ruling. No more questions about Mr. Karpati's arrest. Is that understood, Mr. Brunelle?"

  Brunelle shrugged. "I'm not Mr. Welles, Your Honor. I disagree with the court's ruling, but I will abide by it."

  Welles opened his mouth to protest, but the judge stopped him. "Ah, ah, ah, children. No more bickering." She looked to the bailiff. "Bring in the jury."

  The jury marched in and retook their seats. Once they were settled in, Judge Quinn announced, "The objection is sustained. Ask a different question, Mr. Brunelle."

  Brunelle forced a smile. "Thank you, Your Honor."

  But the truth was, lead detectives are hugely important outside the courtroom and mostly irrelevant inside. Everything they learned was hearsay
, so they couldn't tell the jury what witness so-and-so said. They sent everything to the crime lab for testing, but only the scientists could testify about the results. So really, about all they could ever say is, 'I was the lead detective. I talked to some people. I sent some stuff to the lab. I wrote some reports.' Brunelle tried to drag it out a bit, make it more interesting than that, but soon enough his direct examination had concluded.

  Brunelle's only hope was that Welles would ask Chen the same type of question. 'You don't have any information that my client committed the murder, do you?' That would open the door to Holly's statement and everything else the investigation had linking Karpati to the murder.

  So of course, Welles stood up and said, "No questions, Your Honor."

  Chen was excused and Brunelle was in serious trouble.

  Chapter 33

  "We're in trouble, aren't we?" Yamata asked when they returned to Brunelle's office at the end of the day. The problems with Chen had been repeated with the patrol and evidence officers who followed. They spoke to people and collected evidence, but they weren't allowed to relate the substance of the conversations or the results of any forensic testing.

  "Yeah, we're in trouble," Brunelle answered as he fell into his chair and raised his fingertips to his lips in thought.

  "Do we have any witness who can put Karpati at the crime scene?" Yamata asked, choosing to pace over sitting.

  Brunelle frowned through his fingers. "I can only think of one."

  Before Yamata could ask, 'Who?' Brunelle hit the speaker button on his phone and dialed a four-digit in-county extension.

  "Juvenile detention center," came the voice over the phone. "Transport desk."

  "This is Dave Brunelle with the prosecutor's office," he said with a shrug to Yamata. "I'm going to need a transport first thing tomorrow morning to the main courthouse."

  "The adult courthouse?" asked the officer.

  "Yes."

  "And what's the name of the juvenile?"

  "Sandholm. Holly Sandholm."

  Chapter 34