Defending Turquoise (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  “What’s new?” his wife asked. She was wearing hiking boots, blue jeans, and a Patagonia top. Leather work gloves completed the outfit. Her hair was braided to the shoulders and yellow ski sunglasses gave her face a warm look. She removed the gloves and beat them together as she watched him bend to the task.

  “Had lunch with Bill Gerhardt this afternoon. What a twist that was.”

  “How so?”

  “It was crazy. He all but promised me a not guilty verdict in Angelina’s case.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “Dunno. I think he said more than he meant to say. He definitely said more than he should have said.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, he and Angelina are a thing. They just spent the weekend together in San Diego.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. I’m telling you. For once I was speechless.”

  “Well, all the better for your case. Do you feel stronger about why she shot the guy now?”

  “He was raping their daughter. I probably would have shot him too.”

  “I would have done worse than bullets. That’s too clean,” Katy said darkly. “Had it coming, you ask me.”

  “But it also gives motive to shoot other than in self-defense. The state will try to make it look like she shot him out of rage, not in self-defense.”

  “That’s how that works?”

  “That’s how that works.”

  “Girls, let’s go in and get dinner. Okay?”

  Turquoise said her goodbyes and slipped the phone into the pocket of her flannel shirt. Shirt and jeans and hiking boots courtesy of Thaddeus and Katy and he was damn happy to have been honored with the chance to help provide for her. More and more he was “falling” for the kid: she was neat, honest, polite, and worked hard with her tutors. All three had reported that she was an exceptional student and quick study, and that she had her educational sights set far beyond mere high school. She wanted to be a small animal vet and just that afternoon had enlisted Katy to drive her to the Flagstaff Humane Society, out in the pines, where she had walked several dogs, a volunteer gesture. Katy had jumped in and brought along a dog each time herself. They chatted about it as they went inside to get dinner.

  Thaddeus kept his head down, shoveling and basking in the glow of family. He was extremely grateful for each and every one of them. Life was grand.

  Except that one of them was charged with first-degree murder.

  That night he went upstairs for bed, Max leading the way two stairs at a time. Max had a special thing for Thaddeus and it was reciprocal. Katy was in the shower, singing “Sunshine of My Life.” “That you?” she shouted. He answered, and she asked him to loofah her back. She popped open the shower door and turned her back to him. Warm brown skin, soap streaming down and disappearing between the buttocks and running on down into the drain, hand circling the loofah gently but strong enough to make a difference, fighting off the urge to encircle her with his free hand and cup her breast, feeling aroused, her head turning and giving him a soapy, questioning look. “This too hard for you?” she asked.

  “That’s not all that’s hard.”

  “Well, maybe tonight we can do something about that.”

  “I accept,” he said, his breathing difficult as the old familiar swollen feeling rose up through his chest and rolled down into his abdomen and genitals.

  She turned off the water and reached for her towel. He handed it in.

  “Well, don’t stare at me, please.”

  “I’m trying hard not to.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Just lonely.”

  “Now I don’t know. All the times you came home reeking of hundred-dollar perfumes. All of a sudden I’m not feeling so friendly.”

  “Please don’t go there.”

  She gave him a sharp, querulous look. “No, you went there first. I’m still bitter. You can just stay on your own side of the bed tonight.”

  “I’m sorry for my shortcomings. I know I hurt you.”

  “Come on, Thad, you killed off a part of me inside.”

  “Well, what about you? You had your own indiscretions.”

  No sooner had he said it than he wished he hadn’t. More than anything he had dreaded having this conversation with her and he had made himself promise that he wouldn’t point fingers. Like he had just done. Damn, he thought, damn!

  “I had my flirtations at the hospital, granted. But only because I was hurt by you first.”

  “Now you’re justifying your actions by my actions. Sorry, but that doesn’t fly.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was a drunk and acting out in my drunken, addled state. Your own flirtations, as you call them, were done a hundred percent sober. That’s premeditation, where I work.”

  “Screw you and screw your premeditation. You hurt me and you’re not getting off the hook by claiming drunk.”

  “Whatever. It’s still the truth. In 1952 the World Health Organization declared alcoholism a disease. The AMA followed soon after.”

  “Oh, so now you’re going to use the disease concept to justify getting in someone’s panties? Is that where we’re at? I call bullshit, mister.”

  He caught himself. She was right. Disease or not, he had hurt her. It was time to call his sponsor. And time to shut the hell up.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you. I can only ask forgiveness and if you’re not able or willing to give it, I can live with that. Just let me keep trying, please. Don’t shut me out, please. I love you and I’m sorry.”

  “Well.”

  And that’s where they left it for the night. He on his side, her on her side, back turned to him, tears in her eyes.

  The next morning he remembered hating on himself before drifting off to sleep.

  Oh, how he hated himself sometimes. Would that never cease? And speaking of forgiveness, would he ever forgive himself?

  Time to buy lunch for the sponsor. Time to work the Twelve Steps.

  Max followed him to the door when he left for work.

  She did not.

  41

  Katy dressed Turquoise for trial in a pleated gray skirt, white button-down shirt, women’s crossover tie, and blue blazer with gold buttons that matched her low gold and black half-heels. She looked sixteen years but no older, as the lack of makeup portrayed the glow of a very young woman who needed none. On her left wrist was a one-inch silver bracelet adorned with one inset turquoise stone. On her right wrist was a red Swatch wristwatch, as she was left-handed, which would soon become known, probably for the first time, to the DA and lead investigator. She took the seat indicated to her by Thaddeus. He was wearing an expensive navy suit with just the faintest hint of a pinstripe, plain black lace-ups, and white shirt with regimental striped tie. He handed her a yellow legal pad and pen and told her, as soon as the jury was seated, to make notes and to make sure all of them saw her writing left-handed. They had discussed all this and she whispered back that it was a done deal.

  The recently enthroned district attorney, Wrasslin Russell, made her appearance flanked by a first-year ADA and an FBI agent who had headed up the investigation on the Navajo reservation. The Fibbie was a stout, capable-looking redhead named Stall Worthy. Special Agent Worthy was named in the list of witnesses both as lead investigator and as the representative of the People of the State of Arizona, which was standard operating procedure. Thaddeus watched the procession settle in and begin unpacking Arizona Evidence manuals and essential Pacific Reporters—authority for the key legal support the DA figured she would need to call upon as the defense objected to evidence she intended to offer. Agent Worthy took a seat and flipped open his tablet and busied himself typing who knew what.

  Five minutes passed. The bailiff waddled up with an icy pitcher of water and made sure the thermos pitchers at each table were full. He placed a fresh folded napkin under the pitcher on Thaddeus’ table and, satisfied with this last housekeeping chore, walked over to the door leading into chambers. He
softly rapped three times. The signal: all present and accounted for, the court reporter had loaded her machine with a fat new tape, the pitchers were topped off, hats were removed, books were in place, and all was ready.

  Then it happened, just as Thaddeus had feared with the squirrely little judge. He was requesting—demanding—a pre-trial conference with both attorneys—without clients. The attorneys surrendered to the order and swept anxiously into the judge’s chambers, leaving their partners alone at counsel table. The judge and one other person, who was introduced as Irl Kampbell, a trial monitor from the State Bar of Arizona Office of Professional Responsibility, met them.

  “Mr. Kampbell is here at my request.” H. Ivan smiled (for the benefit of the visitor, Thaddeus was sure). “He will monitor this trial and report back to the bar on any of Mr. Murfee’s trial conduct that violates any rules of professional responsibility.”

  Without standing, Irl Kampbell stuck his hand out and shook hands all around. He was a wizened old man, mid-seventies, Thaddeus guessed, complete with white hair, white eyebrows, and lined bifocals, as well as a failed attempt at the vogue-ish goatee. His eyes were large and round and his smile engineered by a lifetime of dentists. “I’m a retired Court of Appeals judge,” he said mildly. “You might have read my opinions if you’ve practiced in our wonderful state for any length of time. If you read case law, that is.”

  Wrasslin allowed as how she was very familiar with his rulings—an attempt to endear herself with this State Bar snitch. Thaddeus was seething inside at H. Ivan’s attempt to suppress his efforts at trial to free Turquoise from the state’s tentacles. He decided then and there that he would change nothing about his plans for how he would proceed, what witnesses he would produce, what arguments he would make, and what dramatic outbursts and comments he would serve up for the jury.

  “I haven’t read your opinions at all,” said Thaddeus. “Are they still good law?”

  There, the gloves were donned and he had taken the first swing.

  “Why yes, Mr. Murfee, all of my opinions are still good law. If you review them and find you have differences with any, we should discuss your questions before kicking off our little trial here today.”

  Touché. Point made. It was going to be war and both sides had answered Ready!

  “Lady and gentlemen,” H. Ivan droned, “my question is, any last-minute problems before we begin our little inquest?”

  “None,” said Thaddeus. “But I’m just wondering, now that we have a State Bar trial monitor in our midst.”

  “Wondering?” responded the little jurist.

  “I’m wondering who’s going to judge the judge, just to make sure we have a fair trial? Any special guests today for that purpose?”

  The judge’s face froze over. “I can assure you, comments such as that are exactly the sort of insult Judge Kampbell will be noting.”

  “So noted,” commented the Honorable Irl Kampbell. However, he didn’t write anything down, not that Thaddeus could see. Which told him the retiree’s presence was as much for the purpose of intimidation as it was for any useful end.

  “Then let’s begin, shall we?” H. Ivan said with a refresh of gusto, and he rose up out of his chair and zipped his power robe to the top.

  The lawyers were allowed to file into the courtroom first, while Judge Kampbell went out the back way so he could sneak into the rear of the courtroom and ready his keen eye.

  Whereupon H. Ivan Trautman swung into the courtroom and stepped quickly up to his perch, where he sat and partially unzipped the black robe about twelve inches. Underneath he was wearing a blue shirt and red tie. His hair was freshly trimmed. He surveyed the courtroom, whispered under his breath to the clerk of the court, and tapped his microphone. He nodded to the bailiff, who called court to order, and plopped back down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Today the court will begin the trial entitled People of the State of Arizona versus Turquoise Begay, a minor being tried as an adult. A jury panel of sixty registered voters from around Coconino County has been summonsed and earlier sworn to give true answers to my questions. The clerk will please draw fourteen names at random and, as your name is called, will you please come up to the jury box and take a seat in the order your name was called. The last two called will serve as alternates to the jury of twelve.”

  Jury selection followed, the jury was sworn, and the rest of the panel was thanked for its service and dismissed.

  The judge called upon the State to present its opening statement. Wrasslin shot to her feet and looked hatefully at Turquoise. Wrasslin looked much taller than her 5’2”, thanks to the spike heels and West Point posture. A slight shake of the head. Stride in front of the defense table, this is my territory and I’m lifting my leg and marking it. Eating up the common ground with her presence. She edged close by the jurors, feet planted wide apart, shoulders squared, and eyes full of fire. Her look said that she was thrilled to begin, committed to her case, and that it would be a trifling task for her to convict the defendant.

  She came out swinging.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a circumstantial murder case. It is circumstantial because there is no eyewitness to the murder. It is circumstantial because there is no security video like you might have in a convenience store robbery. And it is circumstantial because the connection of the defendant to the crime is not based on eyewitness or video testimony.”

  She allowed that to soak in. She edged closer, making certain she was cutting off Thaddeus’ view of the front row jurors.

  “How is this woman connected to this case? It’s very simple.”

  Leaning yet nearer, speaking confidentially.

  “The connection is based on the T-shirt she was wearing. The connection is based on the gunshot residue left behind on that T-shirt after the defendant pulled the trigger and killed Randy Begay.”

  She looked each juror in the eye—not a long look, just a glance and a nod. Several nodded back, as people are inclined to do.

  “And the connection is based on her opportunity to kill Randy Begay, her presence at the crime scene, and her premeditation in planning his execution and death. She”—swirling and pointing hatefully at Turquoise, as all accusers since Judas had been taught—“pulled the trigger on the rifle that killed Randy Begay. She then attempted to erase evidence of her guilt. How? By wiping down the gun. She then fled the scene when she was done with her killing. And always remember, nothing says ‘guilty!’ as strongly as fleeing a murder scene!”

  “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained. Proceed.”

  Wrasslin pulled up the whiteboard and wrote out the names of the witnesses she would call, along with their topic:

  Stall Worthy - FBI lead investigator

  CSI staff - crime scene

  Medical Examiner - cause of death

  Navajo PD - arrest of defendant

  IHS nurse - defendant’s gonorrhea

  Clay Lattimoren - firearms expert

  Cindy Petring - crime lab scientist.

  “A young man in his late twenties,” she began, “found dead in the defendant’s bedroom. He had been shot in the head by the defendant with the Winchester rifle she left in the corner beneath a shelf of Kachina dolls. Why was he there? Because he had raped the defendant. DNA evidence will prove this. Which is why she shot him: she was angry. Worse, she was in a blind rage, so she did the one thing our system of laws doesn’t allow: she went after justice on her own.”

  A few jurors looked put off. The notion of rape sat well with none of them. So Wrasslin plunged ahead to build the logic for the prosecution.

  “What should she have done instead of murder? Well, she didn’t call the police and report the rape. She didn’t tell her father about the rape. She didn’t call IHS and ask for help. No, she took matters into her own hands and murdered her aggressor. Justifiable in human affairs? Maybe so. Justifiable in the eyes of the law? Never! With premeditation and malice in her heart she murdered. Ki
lled. A homicide. And now you’re here to do the only thing our society can do in such cases. Which is find her guilty of murder. That’s your only job here this week.”

  She looked at each juror. She made eye contact and never moved.

  A minute ticked by. Thaddeus stretched languidly and made a point of exhaling loud and long. He looked around the courtroom for the clock, let his eyes tarry there, and slowly looked back to the jury. Are you as bored as I am?

  “And look at the defendant. The child of an alcoholic father and an absent mother. Beset by problems of poverty and sexual abuse. That’s all true. But a straight A student in school with a desire to be a veterinarian. A boyfriend, a good kid named Tommy Begay. At one point the defendant told me that it wasn’t the uncle who had given her gonorrhea, that it was Tommy. Maybe this whole claim of rape by the uncle is nothing more than her attempt to justify shooting him. You’ll have to make that decision. But know this: she’s told it two different ways now. At least two. Which means neither story is believable. Whatever else you believe about this case, know this: you cannot believe her. She is unbelievable. So, like I said, it’s a case of circumstantial evidence. The circumstances will guide your vote and when you think about the gunshot residue on her shirt, her motive and premeditation, her fleeing the scene of the crime, I’m sure you will be able to return with one verdict and one verdict only.”

  The pause hung in the air, chattered across the imaginary screen as if a CNN feed.

  “G-U-I-L-T-Y.”

  Wrasslin finally said, simply, “Thank you.”

  And returned to her seat.

  Thaddeus fiddled with his yellow pad. She had done a superb job of defusing the weak spot in her case: the rape. The ongoing rapes, plural. The hell the victim had laid on Turquoise. She had managed to make it sound like there had been no rape at all, that it was because of her boyfriend she visited Indian Health Services to report her STD.

  “Six horrible years,” he told the jury as he approached them. “Six horrible years he had been raping her. The DA forgot to tell you that”—turning and smiling cynically at the DA, who returned the look with a glare. He let his words work their full measure, then, “Six years of hell. But you know what the evidence is actually going to show? That in spite of the hell and hatred in her heart, she never shot the uncle at all. It wasn’t her. And the state can’t prove it. What the evidence will show is that the uncle was a drug smuggler. A doper and pusher. The evidence will strongly suggest that it was someone from that world who took his life. Not the true victim in the case, the young girl Turquoise Begay. Stand up, please”—indicating his client. “Let them see how pretty, how demure, how incapable of shooting anyone you are by your youth alone. See how her diminutive size would have been no match for the uncle’s sexual abuse. And the innocence: gone from her face. Eyes bloodshot from crying. The old woman’s stooped, round shoulders, courtesy of the hundred pounds of guilt and self-hate her assailant had coiled around her body and made her wear.” She heard all this and she dabbed with a tissue, the tissue she was to brush over her eyes whenever the prosecutor would start to speak. And it was the left hand responsible for this tic. Always with the left hand. The strong hand.