The Jury

by Steve Martini

  “Just to keep the record straight,” says Crone, “I wasn’t lying to them. No matter what you think, Harry. I honestly forgot. It’s the simple truth and that’s all we can say about it.”

  “It’s simple, all right.” Harry isn’t buying, but in the straightforward tones in which Crones delivers, the jury just might.

  Crone is a bag of surprises. It is the second time our client has either forgotten details or forgotten to tell us about them.

  Kalista Jordan attempted to obtain a restraining order against Crone three months before she was killed. That she failed was not for want of effort. She claimed that he was stalking her. Crone admits that he was after her, but that it had nothing to do with unwarranted advances. Jordan had taken working papers from his office, and he wanted them back.

  Ultimately, Jordan’s claim became grounds for a sexual harassment complaint that was pending when she died. The claim died with her. Since there was no investigation and no findings, Dr. Crone made the bold assumption that this was not relevant. He viewed the entire episode as personally distasteful, and since it was untrue in his eyes, he declined to inform us.

  We managed to ferret out the harassment claim as part of our investigation. The fact that the jury might see this as a motive for murder still has not dented that great brain.

  Crone tells us that people do not kill other human beings over such matters. The fact is, people do and have killed for much less. When we remind him that his career is at stake, he offers only a sobering nod and a grudging admission that this might be true.

  I get back to the argument he had with her that evening in the faculty dining room. “Did you put your hands on her in any way?”

  “I might have touched her arm.”

  “Did you grab her?” asks Harry.

  “Maybe I held her arm.” This is not something coming from the deep recesses of his memory. “She tried to walk away from me. We weren’t finished talking.”

  “You mean you weren’t finished,” says Harry.

  “Perhaps.”

  “So she wanted to end this conversation?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “And you stopped her?”

  “She refused to return the documents. The working papers I told you about.”

  We’re back to the mysterious working papers, documents that Crone manifestly refuses to describe in any detail, saying only that they pertained to the project on which he and Jordan were working before their falling out.

  “And you wanted these papers badly enough to get physical with her?” asks Harry.

  “I wasn’t getting physical.”

  “Show me how you grabbed her,” says Harry.

  Crone gets out of the chair and Harry plays Jordan, turning his back and feigning a step as if walking away. Crone takes his arm, and Harry pulls away.

  “If that’s all you did, the argument would have ended pretty quickly,” says Harry.

  “Maybe I was a little more forceful,” says Crone.

  “Did you grab one arm or both?”

  “I don’t remember. It happened so quickly.”

  “Did you forcibly turn her around?”

  “Probably. I think I held both arms above the elbows, like this,” he says. He takes Harry at both biceps.

  “Did you shake her? The witness says you shook her.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “You can’t remember, or it didn’t happen?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember it.”

  “How long did this conversation last?”

  “A minute, maybe two.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told her I wanted the documents back.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She became abusive. She told me to screw myself.”

  “In those words?”

  “As I recall. Yes.”

  “Did she say anything more?”

  “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. I think she called me a ‘control freak,’ something like that.”

  “What did she mean?”

  “She had a problem with authority. It was one of Kali’s least endearing qualities. She wouldn’t follow directions. If you disagreed with her, you became a control freak. She wanted things her way.”

  “But she worked for you. You were her boss,” says Harry.

  “Perhaps you should have been around to remind her of that. She was a difficult person to manage. She was often doing things you didn’t know about. Things relating to work.”

  “That’s why you canceled her trip. The one to Geneva.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Still you call her Kali,” I say. “Not Dr. Jordan, or Kalista.”

  “We worked together for almost two years, on a first-name basis.”

  “What did she call you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Dave?”

  “No.”

  “David?”

  “I don’t think so. She usually referred to me as Dr. Crone.”

  “So why didn’t you call her Dr. Jordan?” says Harry.

  “Why? Is it important?”

  “The D.A.’s likely to make it sound important.”

  “Did you ever show any favoritism toward her over other employees?” I ask. Office jealousies could present a lot of problems for us, and add fuel to the issue of harassment.

  “No. I told you, our disagreement had nothing to do with personal relations. It had to do with differences over professional matters. Matters of judgment relating to the project.”

  The fact that Crone won’t tell us anything more about their falling out is a continuing theme. He says it relates to the documents that Jordan took from his office, documents that Crone insists contain highly confidential information pertaining to the study they were working on. To my knowledge, these documents have never been found. They were not among the items inventoried by the cops when they searched the victim’s apartment or her office at the center. They checked her apartment for evidence of foul play, indications of violence, but found nothing. Nor did they find the missing papers among Crone’s documents when they searched.

  Trying to sort out what a jury will do with all of this is like rolling dice—a kind of sidewalk crap game in which we may end up throwing snake eyes while the judge holds the stakes: Crone’s life.

  “During the argument in the dining room that night, did you yell at Jordan? The witness says you yelled in the victim’s face several times.” Harry is now leaning on the table.

  “I don’t know. I may have raised my voice.”

  “Opera singers raise their voices,” says Harry. “People in an argument yell. Sometimes other people hear what they say.”

  “Nobody heard what was said except Kali and myself. Ms. Jordan.” He catches himself. “Dr. Jordan, if you like.” He’s now becoming self-conscious. If we put him on the stand, it’s going to take a month to prep him.

  “For a man who couldn’t remember the event an hour ago you seem pretty sure that nobody heard you,” says Harry. “Let me ask you, did you threaten her?”

  According to the witness she could not hear what was being said, only voices raised in anger. What others might have heard we can’t be sure.

  “It’s an important point,” I tell him. “If you threatened her, if you said anything that could even be misconstrued as a threat, we need to know that now.”

  “I didn’t threaten her. I would never do that.”

  The problem is that we are hearing all this for the first time from their witness. The prosecution has blindsided us with this.

  Crone apologizes for what he calls an “oversight.” He’s been under a lot of stress. According to him, this explains why he can’t remember every detail.

  “The damage is done,” I tell him. “But make no mistake, it is damage. Maybe it’s time we talked about other matters, so that there are no more surprises.”

  He looks at me quizzically.

  “I know
we’ve talked about this before. It’s the question of these documents, the ones you say Jordan took from your office. I think it’s time you told us what these papers were. Specifically what they deal with.”

  Crone looks pained, exasperated. “We’ve been over all that,” he says.

  This has been taboo from the start. The specifics of his work have been placed out-of-bounds since we took the case.

  “If I told you the details of what I was working on, I might as well tender my resignation from the university. They would fire me, in a minute, in a heartbeat. Even with tenure I would not survive,” he tells us. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “That’s becoming difficult,” says Harry.

  “If you want me to get another lawyer . . .” says Crone.

  “That’s not necessary.” I cut him off.

  “You don’t think they’re gonna fire you if you’re convicted of murder?” asks Harry.

  “I’ll have to take my chances.”

  “And if we put you on the stand? What are you going to tell the prosecutor when he asks you about these papers?” I ask.

  “We’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  I was afraid of that.

  chapter

  two

  monday, and Crone’s case is off-calendar for the day. The court has scheduled downtime so that the judge can clear some other matters from his docket.

  Harry is at his desk working on a motion in a civil case, trying to save a client from bankruptcy. It is a small manufacturer in San Diego, a third-generation company that employs thirty-two people. For almost fifty years Hammond Ltd. has made custom hunting rifles—elephant guns, for want of a better term. These are rare big-bore double-barreled rifles, pieces of art engraved and tooled, some of them inlaid with precious metals by skilled artisans who mastered their craft in Europe.

  Hammond’s cheapest rifle runs twelve grand, with models ranging up to eighty-five thousand dollars. They are not your average Saturday-night special. Only a fool would fire one. They are collectors’ pieces out of the box, works of art, fashioned to be polished and displayed in cases on a wall against a background of green felt like a finely crafted clock.

  Despite this, the company has been caught up in a class-action lawsuit inspired by politicians mining for antigun votes. The high priests of polling have told them that with just a little more flailing, the hysteria among soccer moms will put women on the liberal plantation permanently. It is now easy to believe that there are politicians who go to bed each night praying for just one more good school shooting to put them over the top.

  Harry is no lover of guns or those who make them. He is an old-line Democrat, a believer in the workingman and the underdog. He has never cared much for the tyranny of any majority, whether silent or otherwise. And when it is coupled with a scent of hypocrisy, it tends to get his attention.

  He has taken a loser of a case and is now financing it out of our pocket. The price you pay for Harry as a partner is his tilting at a few windmills. It’s well worth the cost.

  Twenty states and an equal number of municipalities have now joined the feds in the firearms litigation. A score of small companies around the country whose guns have never been used in a crime are now being driven out of business by the cost of government litigation.

  Harry puts his pencil down. “I think maybe I should come with you,” he says. He is looking up from the pile of papers spread on the desk in front of him.

  I have a meeting with the prosecutor in the Crone case. We may be in trial, but Harry smells an offer in the making.

  “Even if they do make it,” I tell him, “you’ll never sell it to Crone. He won’t cop a plea to anything. Besides, are you sure you can take the time?”

  “I’ll make the time.” He turns off the lamp on his desk and grabs his coat.

  “You know he could do worse than voluntary manslaughter,” says Harry.

  “Tannery wasn’t saying much on the phone,” I tell him. “Only that it would be worth my while to come over and talk.” Tannery called this morning out of the blue and invited me to his office, said it would be wise if we had a conversation before things went any further. You could read anything into that. Harry is ever the optimist.

  I remind him that Crone has already turned down even the hint of such a deal.

  “That was before he saw some of the evidence play out,” says Harry.

  “He didn’t seem particularly rattled by Hodges and her revelations.”

  “They’re just getting warmed up,” says Harry. “I can smell it. I’ve got a bad feeling on this one.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like there’s a lot we haven’t been told by our own client.”

  Tannery had dangled a deal before the trial opened, though it was never formally offered. He hinted at a single count of voluntary manslaughter on condition that Crone could provide credible evidence that the murder was committed in sudden rage or heat of passion. He said he would have to sell it to his boss. At the time, he was not able to do that. Crone exploded when I ran even the hint of an offer by him. Harry tried a hard sell. It ended up with Crone questioning Harry’s manhood and his willingness to go to trial. Since then, relations have not been smooth between the two of them.

  “If they actually make the offer,” says Harry, “I hope this time you’ll lay heavy hands on him. Last time, as I recall, you did a lot of listening while I got my butt kicked around the cell.”

  “I told him the risks. That he could do life if convicted. What more can I say?”

  “You might remind him they don’t do a lot of genetics research at the infirmary up in Folsom. Not on any life forms he’d recognize, anyway. The man may be a Phi Beta Kappa, but he’s not too bright,” says Harry. “With voluntary man, he could be out in six years, maybe less.”

  “I don’t think he’ll budge.”

  “Why not?”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it.”

  “Then there’ll be one more innocent lifer in the joint,” says Harry. “Whether you think he did it or not, we’d be remiss not to tell him the facts. His chances in front of that jury are not good. The demographics are all wrong. We tried for college-educated and missed.” Harry is right. We have three secretaries and a receptionist, a lineman for the electric company who probably wants to know why the state’s not using “Old Sparky” to do our client. The jury foreman never finished high school and probably thinks a geneticist is somebody who performs genocide. These are people who are likely to be more confused than dazzled by Crone’s credentials.

  “I’ve looked at their faces, studied their eyes while you were cross-examining witnesses,” says Harry. “Screw the evidence. They’re ready to convict Crone based on first-degree arrogance.”

  We head for the door, Harry right behind me. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.” He says it again like he’s scratching an itch he can’t quite reach, not exactly sure why, but to Harry something is out of place.

  It takes us twenty minutes to bounce over the bridge in my Jeep. With the window panels pulled open, the wind keeps me from hearing Harry’s homilies all the way to Tannery’s office near the courthouse. We park in one of the lots behind the building and enter through the courthouse. We take the escalator and cross over to the D.A.’s office on the fourth-story bridge. Tannery’s office is upstairs, executive heaven where the floors are carpeted, space is abundant and the desks and chairs are mahogany. Evan Tannery is on his way to becoming chief deputy, in charge of all felonies. He has been dubbed successor-in-waiting and groomed by Dan Edelstein, the outgoing chief who is scheduled to retire in September. For this reason, the Crone case is taking on added visibility in terms of Tannery’s career, at least within the inner sanctum of the office. Everybody is watching to see if he drops the ball. Harry thinks this is why Evan may be anxious to deal on the case. Why take chances when you can get a guarantee?

  We wait in the outer office, a vast reception area with two fl
at desks the size of aircraft carriers in opposite corners. A secretary behind each guards her boss’s office door like a Roman sentry. Behind one of these, in the large corner office, sits the big kahuna, Jim Tate. Tate has been D.A. in this county since before God chiseled the Ten Commandments in stone with a hot finger and gave them to Moses. Tate will tell those willing to listen that he was master of ceremonies for the event. A blustery Irishman with a shocking bush of white hair and a ruddy complexion, Tate spends more time on his boat fishing and on the links playing golf than he does in his office. If they sublet the place, Tate would be last to notice. No one can remember the last time he tried a case. But he is a fixture among the county’s political set. His name shows up at the top of everybody’s list of the usual endorsers when elections roll around.

  For all intents the office is run by Tate’s number two, his chief deputy for the last twenty years, Daniel Edelstein. Stein, as he is called by those who know him (Edsel by those who don’t like him), is a steely-eyed survivor of the bureaucracy. He is a man who doesn’t say much at meetings. Instead, he watches the ebb and flow and has a keen knack of always ending up on the winning side of any controversy. He is a master of the subtle illusion of influence. Everybody in town wants his ear, even if one often senses that speaking into it has the same effect as talking to a brick. Anyone seeking success in the prosecutor’s office can never stand too close to Edelstein.

  At the moment, Tannery is right in his shadow. In fact, I am surprised when the two men come out of Edelstein’s office together. We get the once-over from Stein, who smiles the kind of simpering grin that tells me we and our case have been the subject of recent conversation. Tannery peels off and comes our way.

  “Mr. Madriani . . .”

  “Make it Paul,” I tell him. “And you know Harry Hinds.”

  “Oh, sure.” They shake hands. He is a felicitous soul, particularly for a prosecutor. Tannery doesn’t seem to bear grudges or take himself too seriously, a rare quality for someone in his position.

  “I think it is important that we have this conversation,” he says. “In order to clear the air, before we go too much further.”

  “Trust you’ll make it worth our while.” Harry’s smiling, as much as to suggest that Tannery owes us something for crossing town and meeting on his turf.