by Sydney Bauer
‘Right,’ said Rayna knowing the answer was not what he wanted to hear.
‘Okay,’ said Kainer and Rayna could see he was looking for a positive to counterbalance her fears. ‘The good news is that the path of the bullet appeared clean and there was no evidence of a stroke. I want to wait for the swelling to reduce and then I’ll do some test to gauge the extent of damage – if any – to her coordination, spatial orientation, eye movement, pain sensation.’
‘We must be aware of the worst and hope for the best,’ he said, then obviously registering the terror in Rayna’s eyes added, ‘I have seen victims with more extensive brain trauma make a full recovery but all we can do now is wait.’
Wait.
Rayna – her two court-appointed security officers posted just outside the door – spent much of the weekend sitting by Teesha’s bedside, talking, singing and stroking her daughter’s smooth brown skin.
‘I don’t know if you can hear me, baby, but if you can know I love you,’ she said over and over again. ‘This is all my fault,’ she said for the hundredth time. ‘This is all my fault.’
The shooter was a professional. Joe Mannix was sure of it.
The pistol and bullet were those of an accomplished marksman and the precision had been faultless. The shooter had left no evidence. They had combed the reserve behind Delia’s house and it was completely clean. The shooter’s only error was a failure to finish the job, for Mannix was sure the bullet was intended to kill and fortunately the unpredictable element of fate had been on their side.
The press were in a frenzy. Publications had printed close to entire issues on the Martin case and its latest macabre development. There was speculation as to the shooter’s identity and motives, including extremist theories such as vigilantism gone mad, Neo Nazis avenging the Aryan princess, the KKK and so on. A small group of extreme right wing fascists known as the United American Protectors of White Supremacy even claimed responsibility, which was ridiculous given the group was based in Utah, had a membership of twenty and none of them knew how to use a gun.
The defence team had set up shop in the hospital canteen.
There they sat, organising evidence, rehearsing statements, preparing cross examinations.
David would have preferred being out with Joe, looking for Teesha’s shooter – or better still trying to link Haynes to the shooter. But they knew that now, more than ever, Teesha needed her mother and the trial must be their only priority.
Con Stipoulos was on his way to Tokyo. David had finally spoken to Sato Kyoji, but unfortunately his English was limited. Kyoji said he saw a ‘boat’, but David was unsure if he was referring to the outboard or the cruiser.
They considered video conferencing with an interpreter, but Mr Sato seemed nervous and, given his importance as a potential witness, David sensed Con’s calm demeanour would be more effective than the sterile use of computer technology.
He was concerned that, if the Satos were in Teesha’s eyeline, and Teesha could not see the cruiser, that the outcrop also prevented the Satos from seeing beyond the Peninsula as well. That meant no clear picture of Christina and no witness to any conversation.
Still, they realised there was no point in speculating until Con and his interpreter met with the Japanese couple over the next few days. Until then, all they could do was pray.
38
Superior Court Clerk Osmund Smead was a brave man, for it was he who had volunteered to make the suggestion. Judge Isaac Stein entered Suffolk County Superior Court Number Seventeen, and flipped his robe over the back of his chair before taking his seat. He could see him now, Clerk Smead coming towards him, his feet leaving temporary impressions in the newly shampooed carpet, and knew what he was going to say. Smead, a stickler for order, would be recommending they move to the larger Court Nine – immediately after lunch recess – and of course he would agree.
Seventeen was Stein’s favourite, for it was small and, as such, kept the press numbers down and the riffraff out. But now, looking out across the room at this crowd of sweaty, anxious spectators, he really had no choice. There were just too many of them, and the air conditioning could not cope.
As he watched Smead negotiate the human obstacle course from the back of the room to the front, he took the opportunity to scan the crowd before him. There was the barrage of media squashed into the stalls on his far right and the jury, a half stunned group of innocents, as their complement on the far left.
Before him, centre left, sat Scaturro and Katz, all serious faced but brimming with confidence. They were surrounded by assistants – the young men, all slicked back hair and dark suits and the young women, all slicked back hair and dark suits.
Behind them sat the Haynes – the Senator the picture of stoic determination, his wife the complement of pathos, poise and perfection.
Cavanaugh and Wright were huddled in a last minute referral at the defence table to his right and the girl, Davis, sat next to them whispering some last words of encouragement into the defendant’s ear.
And there she was, Rayna Martin, her hair styled softly around her face, her emerald green dress all crisp and cool defying the heat and camouflaging her torment. But her eyes said it all and in that instant he turned away for fear of meeting them and forming a bias he could not afford to entertain.
And so he agreed with Smead, and they would move to Nine after lunch, and make room for the rest of the voyeurs who had come to watch the show and re-tell the story to whoever cared to listen.
Stein took a deep breath and called the court to order. And so it began.
‘I consider trial by jury as the only anchor yet imagined by man by which a government can be held to the principles of its constitution.
‘Those words, ladies and gentlemen, were spoken by Thomas Jefferson and they still hold true today, perhaps now more than ever.’ Stein peered over the rim of his glasses and down towards the twelve men and women who sat straight, to attention, excited, anxious, terrified.
‘I understand this case has become a national issue. It has been the subject of many a newspaper and magazine article, hundreds of television and radio reports, endless discussions of speculation.
‘But from this moment on, right now, from this second, you must eliminate all the conjecture, editorial, loose comment and opinion from your minds.’ The Judge, firm but considerate, serious but sincere, paused to let this sink in.
‘Over the next fortnight, you will hear a lot of to-ing and fro-ing from the prosecution and the defence. It will be difficult – close to impossible even – to remove yourself from the emotion of the arguments.
‘But, ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to keep your minds on the facts as they are presented. I ask you to listen carefully to each piece of evidence. I ask you to remember that a guilty verdict requires a belief in guilt beyond all reasonable doubt.
‘Above all, I need you to remember that you are here as officers of the court, as guardians of our constitution. Mr Jefferson was talking about you, each and every one of you, when he spoke those words I quoted a few moments ago.
‘Finally, I want to thank you in advance for your time, your learned considerations and your dedication to justice. Your duty is a serious one and your unselfish execution of it is most appreciated.’
The main purpose of an opening statement was to give the jury a broad understanding of the case. They were more often taut than verbose, factual than emotional, and structured so that each of the twelve began the trial with a general understanding of what was about to occur. Both the prosecution and defence would stick to the facts as they saw them, but also try to reach into the hearts of the twelve people before them for, above all, trials were essentially vigorously contested competitions, where fact came with feeling and winner inevitably took all.
Knowing all of this, DA Scaturro also knew she had a specific problem. For the past two months the prosecution had worked on a case based on fact but driven by emotion. They had gathered their evidence but knew they wo
uld have to manipulate the pure aesthetics of the situation in order to gain a guilty verdict. Which, at face value, should not be too hard.
Christina Haynes had looked like an angel. She’d been young, vibrant and beautiful and the very fact that she no longer breathed seemed like a crime against humanity. Then there were the faces of her grieving mother, her brave but broken-hearted father, and the inevitable conclusion that someone had to pay.
For two months the DA had been mentally preparing an opening statement in which she had planned to draw on such emotions. She would be careful to stress that the facts would show Rayna Martin to be a murderer (for she must not contradict Stein’s instructions to consider fact over sentiment) but she would also cautiously interweave words and phrases that were designed to set up her canvas for the colours of loss, grief and finally conviction and punishment.
But now, she faced a dilemma. The passion was still there to draw on, no doubt about that. But there was now a fresh dose of sentiment thrown into the ring – the feelings of loss and regret for Rayna Martin, the defendant, whose own long-haired, big-eyed, straight-A student daughter Layteesha was lying in a coma in Massachusetts General Hospital.
Thank God she had been revived, at least Christina was one step higher – or lower – on the ladder of tragedy. Still, the shooting was a major setback for their case, and she would now have to paint the Haynes as the greater victims and Rayna as a casualty of her original wrongdoing.
So after she had outlaid the facts, and guaranteed they would be supported by evidence, she endeavoured to ‘talk’ to the jury on a more personal level. For she knew dazzling them with promises was one thing, but winning their hearts was another.
‘As hard as this may be for you all,’ she went on, ‘you must not – I repeat, you must not – allow events of recent days to affect your view on this case.’
She had almost got through her entire opening statement without mentioning Teesha’s name.
‘These events have no bearing on this case. This case is about the death – the intentional killing of Christina Haynes, nothing more, nothing less. ‘You may be asking how you can rule out introducing emotion into your deliberations when the motive itself, the reason why Rayna Martin murdered Christina Haynes, was due to an emotion – the heinous, intolerable emotion of hate? This is a fair question, even reasonable. And I am not sure I can answer it to any great degree of reliability.’
Scaturro paused, and shook her head before raising a finger to say: ‘But, perhaps I can reassure you when I promise that we will provide evidence to show beyond any reasonable doubt that this woman did in fact kill out of hate, a hate so deep and so strong that a beautiful young woman was robbed of all of life’s opportunities just because her skin was white.’
Another pause as she shook her head yet again and made eye contact with individual jurors, stopping on Nancy Pirot.
‘We are all human, and our justice system, as cold as it may sometimes seem, is based on the principles of humanity. All I ask is that you seek the same foundations when casting your vote. Thank you.’
‘Accidental death,’ said David as he rose from his chair, trying to swallow his nerves and forget the fact that Loretta Scaturro had just given a flawless opening statement for the State. ‘Accident,’ he held up his left hand. ‘Death,’ he held up his right, and then he shook his head as if it did not make sense.
‘Accidents are when your two-year-old toddler spills her milk, when your teenage son backs into the neighbour’s car, when you trip off the ladder spilling house paint on the carpet.’
The jurors gave a nod of agreement, Jose Renderra even let out a small laugh. At least one of these three events had happened to all of them at some given time in their lives.
‘Accidents should have nothing to do with anything as serious as death. But, sometimes, unfortunately, accidents do end in tragedy. It doesn’t happen very often and, when it does, our heart goes out to those involved.’
David paused, his expression one of acceptance of the harsh realities of life, before moving closer towards the jury with slow calm steps.
‘Ms Scaturro is right, we are all human and, every now and again one of us is placed in a situation where a chain of events comes into play, beyond our control, and ends in the ultimate catastrophe. That is what happened to Rayna Martin the day Christina Haynes died and, unfortunately, there is nothing we can do to change that.’
Another pause.
‘But, whilst we have no power to change what happened, and whilst none of us can ease the pain felt by everyone who knew Christina, we do have the power to break the chain here.’
David looked at the jury. It was a look that said ‘I understand the depth of your responsibility and I know you will stand up to the challenge’,
‘Rayna Martin did not kill Christina Haynes. It may be easier, even more popular to say that she did. It would give us someone to blame, to punish, to hate, to put away in a box and forget about. But – and this is the most important thing of all – no matter how good it may feel to blame someone, there is no one to blame!
David went on to summarise the basic elements of their case, realising that before his opening statement was over he had to encourage these people to adhere to the facts without alienating them with a sense of coldness or insensitivity. He told them he would prove the said conversation took place, not yet knowing exactly how he would do this, and show them that Rayna Martin made the logical decision under very difficult circumstances.
‘Judge Stein was right when he told you to listen to the facts, and Ms Scaturro told you the same thing – so here are a few to get us started.
‘Rayna Martin is a good mother.
‘Rayna Martin has spent her entire career making sure that people less fortunate than most have an equal chance at life.
‘Rayna Martin is not a bigot.
‘Rayna Martin did not kill Christina Haynes.’
He paused as he rested his hands gently on the jury rail, talking to these men and women as friends, as if he was number thirteen to their twelve.
‘As a lawyer, I have built a living investigating and presenting facts and I am proud to work in a system where facts count, for what is the alternative?’
Another pause as he looked down and shook his head.
‘But,’ he said, looking up at the twelve once more, ‘I disagree with Ms Scaturro that justice is cold. Facts are not cold or hard. Facts represent the truth and the truth is not sterile or insensitive or indifferent. Facts, such as those I just mentioned, about Rayna Martin, are warm, and good and true, and that is what our system of justice is all about.’
David turned to gesture towards Judge Stein.
‘Earlier today the Judge spoke of Thomas Jefferson and his belief in the jury system of justice. So let me borrow from another of our forefathers when I say: ‘There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular – but one must take it because it is right.’
‘That, ladies and gentleman was from Dr Martin Luther King Jnr, and that is your moral responsibility.’
Under the auspices of Massachusetts Law, the party bringing the case to court, in other words, the prosecution, had both the opportunity and the responsibility to present their case first. As they held the burden of proof, they would begin by calling their list of witnesses, with the defence maintaining the right to cross examine.
Each witness was called with a specific game plan in mind – one jigsaw piece at a time – so that by the time they had finished, the jury had the full picture from a pro-State perspective.
Scaturro’s first witness was, however, unconventional to say the least, for he was a friend of the defendant. Austin Malfrey, Rayna and Teesha’s sailing instructor, was originally on David’s list of witnesses, but when the count of involuntary manslaughter was dropped the defence surmised they no longer needed his testimony on Rayna’s keen sense of water safety. So when Malfrey, a kind-faced man of about fifty, took the stand, he im
mediately looked at Rayna. He had no idea why he was being called and was obviously feeling as guilty as hell about it.
Scaturro began by asking Malfrey to summarise his extensive experience as a sailing instructor and outline exactly what his courses entailed. She then went on to question him regarding the generally accepted ‘rules’ which come into play when there is a ‘man overboard’ – the general term for someone who is in the water at sea. Next, she moved on to the specific twelve-week course undertaken by Rayna and Teesha at Cape Ann the summer before last: the ground they covered, including the practical aspects of sailing and the more theoretical lessons on water safety regulations and rescue procedures.
‘Mr Malfrey, would you say Mrs Martin was a good student?’
‘Yes. Very good. She was smart and attentive, and her daughter . . .’ Malfrey looked down as he mentioned Teesha, ‘she was pretty good too.’
‘And how many were in this group which included the two Martins?’ Scaturro looked at her notes. ‘I believe the course ran for twelve consecutive Saturdays.’
‘That’s right. There were about ten. In fact, Mrs Martin was the one who set it up. She rang and asked if I would consider taking on a class of young people who couldn’t afford such a program under normal circumstances. I said “sure” and cut my price so that AACSAM could cover the total cost.’
‘I see. And these would be ten African–Americans?’
‘Well, I preferred to think of them as ten budding sailors.’
This brought a snigger from the gallery and a small smile to David’s face.
‘Just answer the question Mr Malfrey.’
‘Yes, I believe they were all African–American.’
‘Did Mrs Martin pass the course, Mr Malfrey?’
‘Yes. Like I said, she did very well.’
‘So she understood the general procedures of “man overboard” – or more specifically, the widely accepted protocol to help, assist, and retrieve anyone in the water onto your craft.’
