Under the circumstances he doesn’t have much choice. With the jury sequestered, locked up in a hotel downtown with bailiffs and sheriff’s deputies to act as chaperones, the court is caught between a rock and a hard place. Gilcrest can’t allow them to go home, not with the state’s evidence now rooted firmly in their brains. There is no telling who they would talk to, what news programs they might watch, or what newspapers they could read.
If he were to keep them camped in a hotel for days while he delayed the trial to give us more time, he would likely have a mob on his hands when they returned. The fallout of their displeasure would splash all over the defendant, since he’s the only one the jury can punish. Either way, the court is likely to run headlong into a mistrial or end up on the rocks following an appeal.
“Next time I see Templeton, I’m gonna stuff the little shit in a shoe box and ship him to Mongolia bulk mail.” Harry is bent over one of the boxes, rifling through paper, sniffing for anything that smells as if it might be useable in our case.
This morning we have pulled in the entire staff: both secretaries, the receptionist, and two clerks, including Jamie, our law grad–cum–computer tech, to sift through reams of paper. The chances of us even touching every page, much less reading them all, are remote.
Harry and I are under no illusion. The last-minute timing on the evidence drop from Isotenics was arranged courtesy of the prosecution. Templeton knows that if the evidence from Isotenics were withheld from us entirely, there is a good chance that any conviction or death sentence would be overturned on appeal. If that were to happen, the courts would remand Ruiz for a new trial. Templeton wants to take that arrow out of our quiver. As usual, his timing is impeccable. Having rested his own case on a mountain peak on Friday afternoon, he has buried us in a paper blizzard over the weekend before we open our own case for the defense.
“I think they call this marshaling the evidence,” says Harry. “If this is organization, I’d hate to see what chaos looks like.”
The only silver seam in this dark cloud is on the front page of today’s paper. Next to the three-column headline announcing DOUBLE TAP DEFENDANT, MEMBER OF DELTA FORCE is a boxed sidebar. The story has a wire service byline reporting that an appeal filed by the victim’s company, Isotenics, Inc., which had managed to bottle up evidence being sought by the defense, was withdrawn late yesterday afternoon. Attorneys for the company would not say why. According to the story, as a consequence, at least fifty-eight boxes of documents, enough to fill a small moving van, were expected to be released to the trial court within hours.
Given the fact that the court had not made a decision delivering an opinion, I knew that it would not issue a press release. It would take two or three days before somebody in the press stumbled over the news that Sims had withdrawn his appeal. By then it would be too late. If I am correct, my audience for this story will be up all night, burning the midnight oil in the lamps at the Pentagon and the offices of the Justice Department in downtown D.C.
I put the newspaper down and go to work. We are looking for anything that sheds light on Chapman’s dealings with the Pentagon: printouts of e-mails between her and Satz, internal memos, letters, and copies of telephone messages and phone logs. Anything addressed to Defense or the Pentagon is being organized in separate stacks on the table in the conference room under the watchful eye of Janice, my secretary.
One thing that I know with certainty at this point: if the case goes to the jury for a verdict, Ruiz is dead.
I finish a box of documents, check it with a red marker and write my initials, and set it in a separate stack outside in the hallway of the office. Out in reception there are boxes stacked halfway up the wall and three deep against it, a new delivery by Herman, who has gone back to the courthouse for more. I paw through them, turning a few of the cardboard transfer boxes to check for labels or notations.
“Think I found something.” It’s Jamie, working at one of the secretaries’ desks behind me.
“What is it?” I’m still feeling my way around the cubes of cardboard.
“The box I picked up. There’s a note on the side. Says M. Chapman—desk on it.”
“Let me see it.”
The note on the side is in black marker and dated. Jamie lifts the lid.
Inside are copies of the contents from Chapman’s desk the day she died. Most of these are materials we already have from noticed motions served on the cops. There are handwritten notes, copies of telephone slips, full-page copies of single yellow stickers that were stuck to the glass surface of her desk. A reduction from a computer spreadsheet on letter-size paper, the words 42nd Cong in pencil on the front. These are the dizzying numbers Harold Klepp told me about that night at the bar, the ones Chapman took from him and threw in her in-basket before she told him to get out. Klepp was right: she never got to it. I have seen all of this before. It was scooped up by the homicide investigators who descended on Chapman’s office that night, before Havlitz and Isotenics could get their lawyers to lock the doors in order to filter the stuff that was leaving.
I’m nearing the bottom of the box when I see something that catches my eye. It’s a gray-toned black-and-white copy of a telephone message slip. I pluck it out. On the lines under the boxes, on the one marked Please call, is the neatly penned note Needs to talk about “Looking Glass.” On the From line the name Gerald Satz is written elegantly in the same hand, and a phone number with a 703 area code. The note is directed to M.C., Madelyn Chapman, and initialed at the bottom by the message taker, K.R.—Karen Rogan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday morning. I am snarled in traffic on the Coronado Bridge heading to court to make my opening statement in People v. Ruiz. The cell phone on my belt rings. It is Janice, calling from the office.
“I just got a phone call,” she says. “I thought you’d want to know. Jim Kaprosky died last night. His wife called. She said to thank you for coming by, and that he went quietly in his sleep.”
I don’t remember the rest of the trip. It’s as if I am on autopilot. I end up in the quiet car, in the parking lot a block from the courthouse, the engine off, not knowing how I got there, my mind deep in thought.
I have seen much of death, of both friends and family. The fact that a man I spoke with barely three nights ago now rests in that place, beyond reach, seems to affect me in ways I had not expected.
It seems I have reached that point in life, much nearer to the end than the beginning, so that of late I have been thinking a great deal about what lies beyond the arc of this life. Will we find friends there, those we have loved and lost? In that moment, does some part of our being, unhampered by brain or body, slip from this form into an infinite realm unaffected by the limits of time or physics? These are questions that cannot be answered by tasting fruit from the tree of knowledge. It is the lasting lesson, the ultimate unknowable, man’s legacy from Adam’s fall. It is a bridge to be crossed only by belief, the intimate and secluded secret that lies between us and our maker.
As I lock the car and head for the courthouse, I hope and pray and choose to believe that one day we will find the light and love of a transcendent God. And that if peace may be had, that Jim Kaprosky, having finally been freed from the furies of this world, is there now.
When I arrive, the courtroom is filling fast. The hallway outside is a scene out of Gandhi, a sea of heads swimming on shoulders, all of them moving, trying to get through the bottleneck of the open double doors to their seats inside. Nathan is here again today, moving his way up in terms of seniority. Today he has worked his way up to the middle of the courtroom.
Harry is already set up at the table, Jamie with the laptop, though we have precious little to put in it at this point.
Emiliano has not been brought in yet. The guards won’t do that until the crowd is seated and the doors at the rear are closed and guarded, inside and out.
Templeton is at the table with the detective Mike Argust and his computer tech. He is introducing A
rgust to three other men, all inside the railing. I have not seen them before. Two of them are younger, I would say in their early thirties; the other is older, his gray hair finely groomed. In pinstripes, all carrying bell-shaped leather briefcases, they have the look of government about them. Over the hum of voices in the room I can’t hear what Templeton is saying to them.
The two younger guys are smiling; the older one has a more serious expression. His suit is a bit wrinkled and he looks tired, as if he’s been on an airplane all night.
As I approach the bar railing at the main aisle, Templeton nods in my direction but doesn’t look at me as he continues talking to them. The older man turns and looks at me, the kind of expression you might get from a hired gun who is sizing you up. Even with the wrinkles and tired eyes, he is dapper and fit, in the prime of litigation life. I am guessing that he has a fairly high GS rating, as if Justice probably saves him for Sundays and going-to-trial-use only.
The other two are gofers. One of them looks like he might be military by the way the civilian suit fits him, as if he hasn’t had it on in a while.
As I lay my briefcase on the table and sit, Harry comes over and says into my ear, “I think you got their attention.”
“We’ll know shortly,” I tell him.
A minute later they lock up the back doors, one sheriff’s guard posted inside and one out. By now they have it down to a routine. Two minutes later, almost on the dot, the holding-cell door opens and they bring in Emiliano. As he traverses the area in front of the prosecution table, the lawyer from Washington gives him a hard look. He watches Ruiz as he walks the distance to our table flanked by guards. The lawyer doesn’t look away until he notices me watching him.
Emiliano sits down in the chair and leans toward me. “Who the hell are they?” Like a dog sniffing for dominance, Ruiz can smell them.
“I think they work for your former masters,” I tell him.
“What do they want?”
“That’s what we’re hoping to find out.”
Gilcrest comes in, takes the bench, and slaps the gavel down. The bailiff intones, “Court is in session. The Right Honorable Samuel Gilcrest presiding.”
“Be seated,” says Gilcrest. This happens before the lawyers and some in the audience can get halfway out of their chairs.
The judge arranges some papers on the blotter up on the bench, then looks over and sees the mob sitting in the chairs inside the railing, behind the prosecution table. “Who do we have here, Mr. Templeton?”
The gray-haired man starts to rise from his chair, the fingers of one hand gently touching the closed center button on his jacket, all the gestures of a Renaissance courtier.
“Just visiting counsel, Your Honor.” Templeton doesn’t offer any introductions beyond that.
“Very well, take your seats, gentlemen.”
The gray hair sits down.
“Any motions or documents?” says the judge.
“Yes, Your Honor.” Harry is on his feet. “We would move at this time for a directed verdict, and move that the court dismiss the case against Emiliano Ruiz inasmuch as the state has failed to meet its burden of establishing evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. I have points and authorities, Your Honor.”
“You can have the bailiff bring them forward,” says Gilcrest.
“Your Honor, if I might …” Templeton has his hand up. He would like to go to the podium and get up on the stool to argue the matter.
“That won’t be necessary,” says the judge. “I’m going to take the motion under submission at this time and allow the defense to put on its case—unless, of course, the defendant wishes to have me make a ruling on the motion at this time.”
The motion for a directed verdict is a mere formality. It must be made at the close of the state’s case or else it is deemed waived. If Gilcrest had granted it and cut Ruiz free, both Harry and I would have needed cardiac shock therapy to bring us back. As it is, we don’t require that the judge embarrass us in front of the audience. We allow him to sit on the motion until the end of the trial, when he can use it to make confetti.
“Mr. Madriani, are you ready to proceed?” he says.
“I am, Your Honor.”
“You can bring in the jury,” says Gilcrest.
A few seconds later they begin to file in. They take their seats in the box. The alternates march around to the front and take the six chairs in the corner of the courtroom up front. Several of the jurors are looking toward Templeton’s table. They’ve noticed that there are extras here today. Lawyering must be slow.
The judge greets them and gives them a moment to settle in, then looks at me. “Mr. Madriani, you may begin.”
I stand, walk over, and take up position directly in front of the jury box. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
A few of them smile. Most, having been here long enough by now, are no longer charmed by the social pleasantries. They have seen too many pictures of brain matter and blood, watered down with spinal fluid, to be entertained by a smile and a greeting.
It is common practice for the defense in a criminal case to reserve its opening statement until after the prosecution has laid out all of its evidence for the jury. That way you have a chance to tailor your response and see where you stand.
The fact that we have been pushed off a cliff leaves me floating in air, and while I’m squarely in front of the jury box, I will be making my statement to a different audience, and for an entirely different purpose.
I begin slowly, deliberately. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” I acknowledge the presence of Madelyn Chapman’s mother and sister sitting in the front row. I gesture toward them but I don’t look. I know that this would only bring expressions of rebuke, which I would rather avoid.
Using their names, I tell the jury, “They have suffered greatly. They have a right to our respect as well as our sympathy. But most of all”—I bring my voice up in volume, so that several of the jurors look startled—“they deserve to have the real killer, the person who perpetrated this crime—the person who actually murdered their daughter, their sister—caught, convicted, and punished. What greater travesty could occur not only to the defendant but to those who loved Madelyn Chapman than to convict the wrong person?” I ask. “In this, the state is failing them miserably. For whoever commissioned the murder of Madelyn Chapman and whoever carried out that crime is not in this courtroom today.”
Templeton begins to stir in his chair, about to jump on me for making an argument during my opening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, while the defendant, Emiliano Ruiz, has absolutely no duty, no obligation, no burden, to prove his innocence, and while the state bears the highest burden to prove his guilt, proof beyond a reasonable doubt, the defense will produce evidence to establish beyond any question that Emiliano Ruiz is innocent of this crime.
“In determining who killed Madelyn Chapman, the most critical issue, the most vexing question, is, why was she killed?” I look over at Templeton in his chair, and the three lawyers sitting behind him, a dramatic pause, as if to say the state has failed this question.
I turn back to the jury. “We will produce evidence that Madelyn Chapman was killed because of something she discovered.”
It has been clear from the beginning that, rather than attack Chapman and accuse her of playing sly games with the government over the use of her software, the better approach is to cast her in the role of heroine, the doer of good deeds, who paid with her life for trying to undo evil.
“So why was she killed? What was it that Madelyn Chapman discovered that caused her death?” I pause for a second or two. “Ladies and gentlemen”—I drop my voice a half octave so that some jurors lean forward in their seats to hear—“the defense will produce evidence to prove that the victim, Madelyn Chapman, discovered a scandal of immense proportions. We will produce a document showing, beyond any question or doubt, that the computer software produced by Isotenics, Incorporated, the company run by the victim, Mad
elyn Chapman—the computer program known as Primis, the key component to IFS, the government’s Information for Security project …” When I turn to look toward Templeton’s table, the gray hair in the suit is all eyes and they are directed at me like a laser. “ … the software designed to run IFS, the project that is under review by the Congress of the United States at this very moment—was in fact transformed before the victim’s own eyes and was being used by elements within our own government to spy on the American public.”
There is a hum of voices in the audience. The guy with the gray hair is out of his chair, leaning over, whispering into Templeton’s ear.
As I turn I can see Templeton out of the corner of my eye trying to quell a mini-rebellion behind him. Turned partway around on top of the chair, he is whispering and gesturing with his hands.
Gilcrest slaps the gavel. “I’ll have it quiet or I’ll clear the courtroom. Mr. Templeton, please. Excuse me, Mr. Madriani.” The judge apologizes for the interruption.
I offer a smile, a shake of the head, and gesture as if to say, “No problem. Please feel free to kick the crap out of the prosecutor at any time.”
“Mr. Templeton, have your guest take his seat.” They are still whispering and doing pantomime with their hands as the judge breaks it up.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” Templeton apologizes, and the guy in the suit sits down.
“Please, go ahead, Mr. Madriani.”
The problem with most of this is that I have no evidence. The gulf between what I am promising and what I can prove would swallow the Aswan Dam.
“As for the defendant, Mr. Ruiz,” I tell them, “our evidence will show that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, a convenient scapegoat whose firearm from his earlier military service was discovered and used to commit this crime. The evidence has already shown that there was no serious effort to dispose of this weapon after the crime was committed, but that instead the killer laid the gun in the garden, where the police would trip over it, and placed the silencer on the rocks, where it would be found. The evidence will show that this is not the rational conduct of a man who knows that the firearm in question will be traced back to him. So you must ask yourselves once again: Why was this done?”
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