[Jessie Black 01.0] Burnout

by Larry A Winters

  Goldhammer glanced at the jury, then asked Ramsey, “Did you rape and kill Erin Dillard?”

  “No.”

  “Did you rape and attempt to kill Kristen Dillard?”

  “I never even saw her before my arrest.”

  “Who arrested you?”

  Ramsey’s face seemed to darken as he recalled the experience. “A homicide detective named Mark Leary. He and a bunch of cops showed up at my apartment early in the morning. Around six in the morning.”

  “On the day after the murders were committed, correct?”

  Ramsey shrugged. “That’s what I’m told.”

  “But you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know anything about those crimes except what I’ve been told by the cops and lawyers, and what I read.”

  Elliot pushed his legal pad in front of her. Scrawled on the first line was a thought that had occurred to her seconds before: Scripted. Goldhammer’s direct examination felt rehearsed. Judging by the dubious looks of several of the jurors, the canned nature of Ramsey’s testimony had not escaped their notice either.

  “What happened?” Goldhammer said.

  “There was a knock on my door. I opened it. Leary and some cops were standing in the hallway with my landlord, Mrs. Samsel. She and I had always gotten along—she thought I was a hero ever since learning what I did for a living—but now she was looking at me like I was some kind of monster. That’s what scared me, more than the cops at my door. The look on Mrs. Samsel’s face.”

  “What happened next?”

  “They put me in a car, no handcuffs or anything, and took me to the police station. Said they needed to ask me some questions. I agreed. Then they took me to an interrogation room. Put me in a metal chair. And the detective, Leary, reads me my rights.”

  “Did you invoke your right to an attorney?”

  Ramsey shook his head. “I didn’t think I needed one. I hadn’t done anything.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Leary wanted to know where I was the night before.”

  “And by the way, Mr. Ramsey, where were you during the time the crimes were committed?”

  “I was at home in my apartment watching TV.”

  “Not a very good alibi.”

  Ramsey nodded grimly. “If I could go back in time, I would try to get a better social life.”

  A few of the jurors smiled at this, giving Jessie a moment of unease. She had been fighting him in the legal system for almost two years, and in that time she had never known Frank Ramsey to be charming. Had Goldhammer scripted his jokes, too? No, more likely that had been Jack’s touch—he was the master of the self-deprecating one-liner.

  “I worked a day shift at the fire station. Then I went home. I microwaved a Swanson Hungry-Man sirloin steak dinner and ate it out of the tray while I watched basketball. Then I went to sleep.”

  “And yet, you were sitting right there next to me”—Goldhammer pointed to the vacant defense table—“when Kristen Dillard identified you to the jury as the man who terrorized her family. Can you explain that?”

  Ramsey shook his head. If the look of misery on his face was phony, it was certainly convincing. “I can’t explain it, other than maybe Dr. Moscow’s theories. All I know is I never saw Kristen Dillard or her parents before the morning I was arrested. I did not rape or kill anybody.”

  “What was your job, before your arrest?”

  “I was a firefighter.”

  Jessie rose. “Objection. Relevance.”

  Judge Spatt shook his head. “I’m going to allow Mr. Ramsey some leeway, considering the stakes.”

  “That’s a very noble profession,” Goldhammer said. “Very brave. You must have faced some dangerous situations.”

  Ramsey nodded. “I did.”

  “Did you save any lives as a firefighter?”

  “I rescued seven women in a nursing home fire once. I pulled twin six-year-old girls from a fire in an apartment building just a few months before my arrest. I’ve saved lots of lives.”

  “Before your arrest, had you ever had any trouble with the police?”

  “No.”

  “Not even as a kid?”

  “No. I’ve always respected the law.”

  “After what you’ve been through for the last two years, it must be getting pretty hard to do that.”

  Ramsey shook his head. “I have faith that the system will work and I will be acquitted.”

  Jessie wanted to groan. If Ramsey’s testimony continued in this melodramatic vein she could sell the transcript as a movie-of-the-week. But a few of the jurors were watching Ramsey with less antagonistic expressions. Elliot would have his work cut out for him.

  54

  Goldhammer took his seat, and Elliot rose to face Ramsey. As he strode to the center of the courtroom, the jurors watched him with expectant gazes. Jessie pulled her legal pad close to her and gripped her pen.

  “Hello, Mr. Ramsey.” Elliot’s words, loud and clear, flowed without the “ums” and “ahs” that had plagued it during his previous bouts of lawyering. His eyes maintained contact with the killer’s, devoid of fear. Jessie relaxed, her hand unclenching from around her pen, the tension flowing out of her shoulders. She allowed herself a quiet sigh.

  Ramsey must have heard her. His eyes flicked in her direction. The hatred she saw in them was nothing new, no different than the hundreds of other angry glares launched at her from defendants and witnesses throughout her career. She didn’t let it faze her. Seconds later, jolted by Elliot’s first question, his eyes snapped away.

  “Mr. Ramsey, you have not produced one single witness to corroborate your alibi. I suppose you expect the jury to take your word for it?” Elliot said.

  “You never watched TV alone? It’s a crime to be single? To not have a lot of friends?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, I hope the jury will take my word for it.” Ramsey looked at the jury box. “I was home, alone, all night during—”

  “You mentioned that you’re single, Mr. Ramsey?”

  “You know I am.”

  “But you were married once, weren’t you?”

  Ramsey’s jaw twitched. “Yes.”

  “You were married to Coral Anne Ramsey?”

  “Lennon. She remarried.”

  “I see. And did she leave you? Or did you leave her?”

  Goldhammer lunged from his seat. “Mr. Ramsey has been divorced for ten years. How is this relevant, Your Honor?”

  “It’s not,” Spatt said. “The jury will please disregard the line of questioning—”

  “She left me,” Ramsey said.

  Spatt’s mouth clamped shut. He turned to Ramsey, looked as if he might chastise him, then seemed to think better of it. Apparently his scorn was reserved for members of the bar.

  “Why?” Elliot said.

  “Sidebar, Your Honor!” Goldhammer said.

  Jessie had to suppress a grin watching the defense attorney’s puffy face redden. She understood his dilemma. By prying into the details of Ramsey’s marriage, Elliot was attempting to introduce damning character evidence that would put Ramsey in a bad light.

  Trusting Elliot, she did not attempt to join the lawyers at Judge Spatt’s podium. She could easily imagine the exchange anyway. Goldhammer would argue that Elliot’s questions were improper and would unfairly bias the jury. Elliot would respond that Goldhammer had opened the door to such evidence by introducing evidence of Ramsey’s good character when he’d explored Ramsey’s heroic actions as a firefighter. Unless Spatt was in a particularly sour mood, Elliot would prevail.

  She watched the lawyers huddle in front of the judge. The court reporter leaned toward them, straining to hear so she could record their whispered colloquy in the transcript. After less than a minute, Goldhammer thanked the judge in a gruff tone, but Elliot was the one smiling.

  Elliot faced the witness again. “Why did your wife leave you, Mr. Ramsey?”

  Rams
ey shook his head, the pride in his eyes fading. “She said I didn’t show her enough affection.”

  Elliot nodded. Jessie might have used the opportunity to make a comment about sociopaths having difficulty feeling emotion—a comment that would have earned an objection but might have sparked the jurors imaginations—but Elliot simply moved on.

  “You testified that you were friendly with your landlady, correct?”

  Ramsey looked almost relieved by the change of topic. “Mrs. Samsel. Yes.”

  “In addition to owning it, Mrs. Samsel lived in the building, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the first floor?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a view of the entrance?”

  “Through her living room window, yes.”

  “Would you call Mrs. Samsel nosy?”

  “Nosy?”

  “A busybody? A woman who liked to keep tabs on her tenants’ whereabouts?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call her a busy—”

  Ramsey’s words died as Elliot walked to the prosecution table and retrieved a sheet of paper from a folder. Leaning forward, Elliot’s face came close to Jessie’s. He winked at her.

  “Don’t get cocky,” she whispered. But she did not feel worried. His newfound confidence was infectious.

  He took his time returning to his place in front of Ramsey. Ramsey had no more hateful stares to spare on Jessie. All of his attention was now riveted to Elliot.

  “At the time of your arrest, when you gave your statement to Detective Leary, did you argue to him that you couldn’t have left your apartment that night because Mrs. Samsel would have seen you leave the building?”

  “I might have.”

  “Did you, in fact, urge him to question her on the subject?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Elliot placed the sheet of paper in front of him. “You did. But by your own logic, shouldn’t Mrs. Samsel have seen you when, as you testified, you returned home from work several hours before the killings? And shouldn’t she have observed that you did not leave the building after that?”

  “Objection,” Goldhammer said. “How would my client know what Mrs. Samsel should or shouldn’t have seen?”

  “I’ll withdraw the question. Mr. Ramsey, don’t you think that Mrs. Samsel is a witness who should have been able to corroborate your alibi?”

  “Objection! Any defense strategy regarding the selection of witnesses is privileged attorney-client communication and work product!”

  “I agree,” Spatt said. “Move on, Mr. Williams.”

  Elliot, looking bemused, turned from the judge to the flustered defense attorney to the defendant. “Just a few more questions, Mr. Ramsey, and then I’ll be finished. Do you ski?”

  “What?”

  “Do you ski?”

  “I used to. Before all this ... trouble.”

  Elliot returned to the prosecution table, grabbed another sheet of paper. “When the police searched your apartment, they found a pair of skis. Does that surprise you?”

  “No. I just told you I used to ski.”

  “They also found a pair of ski poles. Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  Elliot looked at the document in his hands. “They found a Gore-Tex ski jacket. Snow pants. Boots. Gloves. A hat. But they didn’t find a ski mask. Does that surprise you?”

  “No.”

  “Because you didn’t use a ski mask when you used to ski?”

  Ramsey shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I.... No, I didn’t ski with a mask. Just a hat.”

  “Really?” Elliot returned to the prosecution table again, opened the file, and withdrew a stack of photographs. Jessie recognized them as the photos the police had taken at the crime scene, but before anyone else could see them, Elliot turned them over so that the pictures were hidden. He approached the witness stand with the blank sides facing Ramsey. “Mr. Ramsey, are you sure you never skied with a mask?”

  Ramsey’s face paled. “I might have worn a ski mask sometimes.”

  “You might have?”

  “I did. Sometimes.”

  “You owned a ski mask?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t the police find it in your apartment?”

  “I ... I don’t know.”

  “Did you dispose of it when you disposed of the other evidence of your attack on the Dillard family?”

  “Objection!” Goldhammer said. “Compound question!”

  “Did you dispose of the ski mask?”

  “I don’t remember. I—”

  “Why wasn’t it in your apartment with your other ski equipment?”

  “Objection! Asked and answered! Badgering!”

  “I have no more questions, Your Honor.”

  Judge Spatt watched Elliot return to his seat. The judge’s customary scorn had momentarily been displaced by an expression that looked almost approving—but it vanished before it could fully settle into the grooves of his face. “Mr. Goldhammer, I assume you’d like to redirect?”

  Goldhammer ran a hand through his thinning hair. His enthusiasm for practicing law in Philadelphia, Jessie suspected, had just diminished considerably.

  55

  Jessie tried not to get too confident as she watched Goldhammer attempt some damage control during his brief redirect of Ramsey. She knew they could still lose this trial. Goldhammer knew it, too, and seemed to hurry through his redirect to get closer to the end of the trial, when he would have the opportunity to deliver a closing argument, one of his specialties.

  “Let’s talk about ski masks, since the prosecution seems so interested in your winter sports attire.” Goldhammer showed the jury a smirk, as if to suggest that he found the topic ridiculous. “When was the last time you wore one?”

  Ramsey shook his head. “I don’t know. A long time ago.”

  “Within the last five years?”

  “No.”

  “Do you keep ski masks in your home even though you haven’t worn one in five years or more?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  Judge Spatt leaned forward. “Let’s take a break.”

  After a ten minute recess, the court reconvened. Judge Spatt offered the jurors his most encouraging smile and promised them that their valued contribution to the criminal justice system was at its end. “It’s been a long, grueling process, I know.”

  Several of the jurors nodded in agreement.

  “The good news for you is that it’s almost over. Consider yourselves lucky. After you reach your verdict—or fail to, as the case may be—you will be free. Your state-imposed participation in this process will be over. I, on the other hand, will have to start it all over again the next day, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  The idea of a bright-eyed or bushy-tailed Judge Spatt exceeded the bounds of Jessie’s imagination. Elliot shot her an incredulous sidelong glance, apparently sharing her view. Across the aisle, Goldhammer chuckled under his breath as his client silently brooded.

  “You’ve heard the parties’ opening statements. You’ve seen the evidence, heard the testimony of the witnesses. Now comes the part where the lawyers do what lawyers do best—repeat themselves.”

  Polite laughter rippled through the spectators in the gallery. A few of the jurors joined in. Jessie, Elliot, and Goldhammer sat stone-faced.

  Spatt leaned over his podium to look down at the court reporter. “You getting all this?”

  “Sure am, Your Honor.”

  “All right then. I’d like to remind you folks that nothing the lawyers say constitutes evidence in this case. Evidence consists of witnesses like Ms. Dillard and things like the crime scene photographs and your tour of the Dillard house. You’ve already seen and heard all the evidence in this case. What the lawyers are going to do now, in their closing arguments, is to try to influence your interpretation of that evidence before you go to the jury room to deliberate. And I expect,” he said, turning h
is attention to the defense and prosecution tables, “that they will keep courtroom theatrics to a minimum.”

  It didn’t take the sharpest legal mind to anticipate Judge Spatt’s stance on courtroom theatrics. Jessie and Elliot had taken pains to draft a straightforward, concise closing argument. Jessie assumed that Goldhammer, no fool, had done the same.

  “Mr. Goldhammer, are you ready to present your closing argument to the jury?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Well then.” Spatt waved a hand, gesturing for him to get on with it.

  Goldhammer squeezed his client’s arm and patted his hand before standing up. It was an old defense lawyer routine, one Jessie had seen many times from lawyers who barely gave their clients the time of day until the final moments of the trial, when they wanted to signal to the jurors that this client was different, that this client was innocent, that this client mattered.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Goldhammer said as he approached the jury box, “the Commonwealth has proven nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He spread his arms, as if to demonstrate the enormity of the nothingness.

  Jessie and Elliot exchanged another glance. On his legal pad, Elliot wrote: So much for no courtroom theatrics.

  “Before you go back to the jury room to make your decision, Judge Spatt is going to remind you of your burden of reasonable doubt. You’ve heard the phrase before, in movies, on TV, in novels. It means that unless you are one-hundred percent certain that Frank Ramsey committed the crimes of which he has been accused, you must acquit him.

  “And surely, surely, you have doubts. Do you really believe that Frank Ramsey—a firefighter who risked his life to rescue old women from a burning nursing home, a man who carried twin girls out of the mouth of a fiery high-rise, a man with absolutely no history of criminal activity, not even a traffic ticket—do you really believe Frank Ramsey is capable of these horrific crimes? Stabbing a man? Raping a mother and stabbing her over and over again, viciously, with a knife, in front of her terrified daughter? And then raping and stabbing the daughter, too? Do those sound like the actions of the man you listened to on the witness stand this morning? What possible motive could Frank Ramsey have had? None!”