[Jessie Black 01.0] Burnout

by Larry A Winters

  He had the jurors’ complete attention. Several of them—and not just the ones Jessie had identified as tough sells—looked convinced. She ground her teeth.

  “The Commonwealth’s entire case is built around one eyewitness identification. They have presented no other evidence. No murder weapon. No DNA. No fingerprints. Certainly no confession. Just one single eyewitness identification. And this identification—made by a terrified teenager who saw her attacker’s face for a total of five, maybe ten seconds—has been analyzed by Dr. Katherine Moscow, the foremost expert in the field of memory, who concluded that it was very likely tainted by distorting factors such as weapon focus, stress, and unconscious transference caused by exposure to Mr. Ramsey’s photograph prior to the lineup. On the basis of this flawed identification alone, the Commonwealth wants you to convict Frank Ramsey of the most heinous crimes known to man.

  “But you don’t have to. It’s not your job to do what the prosecutors tell you to do, even if they do represent the state of Pennsylvania. In the final analysis, the state is powerless. You, ladies and gentlemen, a jury of Frank Ramsey’s peers, are the ones with the power here. And no matter what you might hear from a certain curmudgeonly trial judge, that’s what makes our criminal justice system the best in the world.”

  Words overheard days ago—it seemed like an eternity—echoed now in Jessie’s mind. Well, Jack, that’s why I get paid the big bucks. Indeed.

  Judge Spatt, probably as surprised as anyone by his own reaction, was smiling.

  “As Judge Spatt told you, nothing I say is evidence. I could stand here and tell you a hundred times in a hundred different ways that I believe my client is innocent, but in the end, I’m just a lawyer advocating for a client. But don’t forget that there is another person who told you that Frank Ramsey is innocent. That person is Frank Ramsey. And what he says, testifying under oath, is evidence. He told you he was at home on the night of the crimes, watching basketball and eating a microwave dinner. In order to convict him, you must be certain, beyond a reasonable doubt, that he lied to you. Are you?

  “Ladies and gentlemen, very soon the time will come for you to decide. Personally, I don’t think the decision will be all that difficult.”

  He returned to his seat and patted Ramsey on the back again. This time, even knowing she was watching a professional manipulator, Jessie found it significantly more difficult to dismiss the gesture as mere showmanship. She could only imagine what the jurors were thinking.

  Luckily for her, the prosecution would have the final word.

  56

  Cross-examining Ramsey had been thrilling, but it was not until he stood before the jury box, facing the twelve jurors and two alternates who looked to him for the final word in the trial, that, for the first time, Elliot actually liked his job.

  Right now, he was the pivotal figure in the biggest criminal trial in the city. Reporters were poised over their notepads, ready to copy down as many of his words as they could for their blogs and the evening news and the next morning’s papers. Others had shown up just to observe his work. There were a few politicians. A handful of cops. Kristen Dillard sat with a nurse and a doctor near the rear of the room—now that she had given her testimony, there was no legal reason to exclude her from the courtroom. And sitting in the front row of the gallery, just behind the prosecution table, were his uncle Warren and the District Attorney himself, Jesus Rivera.

  Now he understood why a showboat like Gil Goldhammer would gravitate to this field, why a disillusioned judge like Martin Spatt would remain on the bench rather than retire, and why Jessie Black would invest herself so personally in these proceedings.

  Here, like nowhere else, Elliot would be listened to.

  “Mr. Goldhammer was very eloquent, I think we would all agree,” he said to the jurors. “But, as Judge Spatt reminded us earlier, this is a courtroom, not a theater. Within these walls, facts and law are all that matter. And the facts prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Frank Ramsey violated the law in the most despicable ways possible.

  “Mr. Goldhammer spent a lot of time during the course of this trial trying to focus your attention on the quantity of the Commonwealth’s evidence. Well, I won’t deny that the quantity is low. We’re dealing with a very smart, calculated, and careful killer. He left no fingerprints at the scene. He disposed of the murder weapon before the police could recover and analyze it. Likewise, he disposed of the costume he wore during the attack—including his ski mask—before it could be examined for trace evidence. And, of course, he killed most of the people who could have identified him.

  “But he didn’t kill all of them, did he? He tried to. But he screwed up. This smart, calculated, careful killer made one mistake. He assumed that the multiple stab wounds he inflicted upon her killed Kristen Dillard. But Kristen Dillard was alive. She saw him when he took off his mask. She saw his face. She identified him to the police. And that’s why we are here today.

  “So when Mr. Goldhammer tells you that the Commonwealth has built its case on only one piece of evidence, he’s right. But as all of you know, quantity is less important than quality. One good steak is worth a hundred hotdogs. And what better evidence could you possibly ask for than the eyewitness testimony of one of Mr. Ramsey’s victims?

  “She was there. She felt that knife punch through her ribcage. She felt his penis thrust into her body. And she saw his face.”

  In the corner of his eye, he saw a group rise from the gallery. Kristen, crying, was rushed out the door by her minders. Elliot paused, gave the jurors time to notice the condition Ramsey’s attack had left her in, and what simply the recollection of that attack could do to her, even now.

  “You listened to the testimony of Dr. Moscow, a hired gun paid by Ramsey’s defense counsel to tell you, basically, that memory is too complicated for you to understand. That everything you think you know about memory is wrong and that you should therefore put no weight in the things Kristen Dillard claims to remember. But Dr. Moscow’s opinions represent a handful of recent and relatively untested theories, not facts. You don’t have to listen to her. You can rely on your own common sense instead.

  “Put yourself in Kristen Dillard’s place. You are lying on that bed, bleeding next to your murdered mother, and looking up at the killer’s face. Even if you see that face for only five seconds, will you forget it?”

  The jurors stared at him with a mixture of horror and ... reverence. There was no other word for it. He was no longer just a lawyer to them—certainly not a government flunky. He had become the voice of the state.

  “There are many crimes that are typically proved by the testimony of one eyewitness. Child abuse, for example. Should we impose Mr. Goldhammer’s heightened standards of evidence on those crimes as well?

  “Our justice system is not based on numbers. One piece of evidence, if sufficiently compelling, is enough. In this case, ladies and gentlemen, one is more than enough.”

  Outside in the hallway, acquaintances from law school pushed through the crowd to shake his hand. Reporters asked him to gauge his likelihood of success (which he declined to do) and how it felt to be part of such a major trial at his age and level of experience.

  “Well, I have an excellent mentor.”

  “Are you referring to Jessica Black?” one of the reporters asked.

  “Yes. She was instrumental—” Before he could finish, he was grabbed and thrust forward. By Warren on his right, Jessie on his left. He knew that Jesus Rivera was behind him only because of the storm of questions the DA’s presence evoked from the crowd.

  They escaped the Criminal Justice Center intact. A private car waited for them outside, a black Lincoln limousine with tinted windows.

  In the limo—Elliot’s second during this trial—Rivera clapped him on the shoulder. “You did good. But you’ve got a lot to learn.”

  Elliot buzzed with the compliment. Jessie must have noticed, because she turned toward the window, stifling a laugh. Warren, too, looked amused.


  Rivera wasn’t laughing. “For one thing, never, ever, speak to the media before you know the outcome of the trial.”

  “But you think we’re going to win, don’t you?” Elliot still could not quite believe this conversation was taking place—that he, less than one year out of law school, was sitting in the back of a limo with the District Attorney of the fifth largest city in the United States discussing a murder trial he had prosecuted.

  “We’ll know soon enough. Why guess?” Rivera looked out the window as the limo cruised through an intersection toward the DA’s office. The building loomed above them a moment later. His eyes moved to Warren. “Have you prepared my statements?”

  “They’re on your desk.”

  Rivera opened the door and climbed out of the car. They watched him disappear inside the building.

  Elliot, at a loss for words, settled for, “That was so cool.”

  Warren smiled. “Well, like the man said, you did good. You’ll have some fond memories to keep your spirits up back in the Appeals Unit.”

  Even this news couldn’t dissipate his buzz. “Fair enough. So what were those statements Rivera asked you about?”

  Warren and Jessie exchanged a bemused glance that made him feel as naïve as a law student attending his first class. In some ways, he supposed, that was exactly what he was.

  “Two statements for the press,” Jessie explained. “One for if we win. One for if we lose.”

  57

  “You got swept away in that limo so fast, I didn’t get a chance to say hi.”

  Jessie stared at the smiling man sitting in the chair behind her desk.

  “You do understand that this is my office, right?” Her eyes moved automatically to her computer screen. A screen-saver program obscured whatever Jack might have been looking at—although, now that the trial was over, further spying seemed unnecessary. “What’s up?”

  He laughed. “Fantastic closing argument. I’m guessing you wrote it.”

  “Not really. I mean, I helped....”

  He nodded, but the mischievous glint in his eyes made it clear that he did not believe her. The smug bastard thought he had her all figured out. “Well, it was excellent,” he said. “You’re going to win for sure.”

  She leaned her hip against the door frame. “Is that what you want, Jack?”

  “Of course. I know how hard you’ve worked on this case.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Jessie, what’s wrong? You should be ecstatic. Ramsey’s cross-examination, the closing argument—you couldn’t ask to be in a better position at the end of a trial.”

  “I don’t like to count my chickens before they hatch.”

  “You’re conservative by nature.” He leaned back in her chair, the smile still on his face. “One of your many endearing qualities.”

  The fact that the trial was out of her hands and he was still playing games infuriated her. “If you don’t mind, Jack, I’d like to work on some other cases while I wait for the jury to finish its deliberation.”

  “And afterward, may I take you somewhere nice for a celebratory dinner? You can celebrate your victory, and I can celebrate the end of the only obstacle to our relationship.”

  “Tell you what, Jack. I’ll answer that question after the verdict. Deal?”

  His smile widened. “Deal.”

  Returning to the courthouse, she thought about her encounter with Jack. She had assumed that once the trial was over, he would drop his act and quickly fade out of her life. Instead, he had invited her to dinner. He wasn’t done with her yet, apparently. Why?

  It was only when she was back in Judge Spatt’s courtroom, trying to ignore Elliot’s trembling body as they waited for the jurors to enter with their verdict, that she thought she’d figured it out.

  The prick wanted to remain close to her even if Ramsey was found guilty, so he could spy on her during the appeals.

  She turned, spotted him seated in the gallery.

  “If we win this,” she said to Elliot, “I want you to do some research into the criminal penalties for tampering with a criminal prosecution.”

  “I thought I was going straight back to the Appeals Unit.”

  She smiled. “I’ll talk to Warren about extending your reprieve. I need your research skills.”

  His face lit up. “Sounds good.”

  A moment later, everyone rose as Judge Spatt entered the courtroom. Sheriff’s deputies escorted Ramsey to his seat next to Goldhammer. The lawyer patted his shoulder and said something Jessie could not hear in a low, encouraging voice. The jurors filed in last. The foreperson, a small-business owner named Nancy Luman, held a folded sheet of paper in her hand.

  The judge summoned a dignified tone for this ceremony. In a bellowing voice, he said, “Madam foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict?”

  “We have, Your Honor.” The charge slip was passed to Spatt, who glanced at it before passing it along to his clerk. His face revealed nothing, even as his eyes settled on Ramsey.

  The clerk read, “In the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Francis Ramsey for the unlawful death of Robert Dillard in violation of Penal Code Section 2502, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  Elliot gasped. Across the aisle, Ramsey looked like he was just as stunned as Jessie felt. She gripped the edge of the table and let herself hope that this part of the verdict had been a fluke, that Ramsey would still be convicted of his other crimes.

  “In the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Francis Ramsey for the unlawful death of Erin Dillard in violation of Penal Code Section 2502, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  Elliot leaned close to her ear. “What the fuck is wrong with these people?”

  “I don’t know. They must have believed Kate Moscow’s testimony about the fallibility of memory.”

  The clerk continued. “In the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Francis Ramsey for the rape of Erin Dillard in violation of Penal Code Section 3121, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  Ramsey’s body had begun to vibrate. Jessie turned to glare at him, no longer concerned with her deportment in front of the jury. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “In the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Francis Ramsey for the attempted murder of Kristen Dillard in violation of Penal Code Sections 901 and 2502, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  Jessie closed her eyes as the clerk continued to the final jury finding, the one she most dreaded—and the one she had never really believed she would ever have to hear.

  “In the case of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus Francis Ramsey for the rape of Kristen Dillard in violation of Penal Code Section 3121, we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty.”

  The court erupted. Politicians, armed with a new scandal, leaped from their seats in the gallery to run to the nearest media outlets. Reporters scurried to gather comments from anyone with anything to say. Lawyers speculated loudly with one another about the verdict. Despite Judge Spatt’s gavel hammering, no one shut up.

  The jurors, watching this scene with the naïve expressions of surprised sheep, were the only people in the courtroom with nothing to say.

  “You did it!” Ramsey was hugging Goldhammer, dragging the lawyer halfway out of his chair in his enthusiasm. “I never thought ... I never thought—”

  Jessie turned to Elliot. “I need to go.”

  “What?”

  “Finish up here. There’s someone I need to talk to.”

  “Jack?” He gaped at her, incredulous.

  She shook her head. The thought of ever again speaking to the man nauseated her. “Kristen. I made—” Elliot watched her sympathetically as she struggled to get the words out. “I made her a promise I couldn’t keep.”

  “Jessie, this is not your fault. Remember what Rivera said? It happens.”

  She knew he meant well, but she didn’t stick around to hear t
he rest. She had spotted Kristen running out the door, leaving her doctors behind. Jessie ran after her.

  She crashed through a mob of reporters in the hallway, tripped, regained her balance, and lurched after the seventeen-year-old girl. The reporters called questions after her, but she barely heard them. Two words rang loudly and clearly in her mind, forming a clarion call only she could hear.

  Suicide watch.

  58

  Jessie caught up with Kristen at the elevator bank. A small host of media people pursued her, but the elevator doors opened—one tiny bit of good luck in an otherwise luckless day—and she pushed Kristen inside with her and got the doors closed before the reporters could catch up.

  “I know you’re upset,” Jessie said. “I am, too.”

  Kristen did not look at her. Tears sparkled in her eyes. Her lips were pressed together. She pushed the button for the ground floor.

  “Kristen?”

  The girl refused to face her. Before the elevator could complete its descent, Jessie pushed the red emergency button. The car lurched to a halt, suspended between floors.

  “Look at me, damn it.”

  The tone of her voice seemed to snap Kristen back to the moment. The tears gathering in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. She turned and fixed Jessie with her watery gaze.

  “This isn’t the end,” Jessie said.

  “He’s free. He ... he can’t be tried twice. You told me that. He’s free. It’s the end.”

  “The end of the trial. Not the end of you.”

  She was shaking her head. Her blonde hair looked stringy, dirty. Her eyes had returned to the blank and distant gaze Jessie had seen when they’d first entered the elevator.

  “Kristen, listen to me. You’ve got your whole life to live. And you will live it. You will finish high school, go to college, find a rewarding job, marry a wonderful man, and raise a family. And Frank Ramsey—Frank Ramsey will die all alone, despised.”