by Jeff Stetson
“How did he respond, if at all?”
“He said it was custom-made and, to his knowledge, one of a kind, but its real value was based on it bein’ a gift from the first class of students he ever taught.”
Reynolds glanced over Matheson’s shoulder at a row filled with students. Next to them sat the Reverend Matheson.
Macon continued. “He went on to say something about it being priceless as a result of that.”
“Officer Macon, as you sit here today, are you absolutely certain the pen discovered at the scene of Earvin Cooper’s murder is the same one-of-a-kind custom-made pen that belonged to the defendant, Martin Matheson?”
“I am, sir.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Miller, your witness,” declared the judge.
Miller rapidly pursued his first question. “Officer Macon, do you know Sergeant Jill Fischer?”
“She’s our desk sergeant.”
“Your Honor, I’d like to introduce into evidence defense exhibit seven-B, and I ask permission to approach the witness.”
“The exhibit is so marked, and you may approach.” Tanner took a breath and watched Miller hand Macon a sheet of paper.
“Officer, please take a moment and review that.”
Macon skimmed the paper.
Reynolds sneaked a peek at Matheson and noticed a slight smile.
“Could you tell the jury the nature and content of that paperwork?” Miller asked, as if the answer bore great significance.
“It’s a lost-property form filled out by Professor Matheson and signed by Sergeant Fischer.”
“What did Professor Matheson report as lost, and when and where did he lose it?”
“He indicated he left his fountain pen at our office durin’ his interview.”
“The same fountain pen we’ve been discussing in court?”
“It would seem so,” the officer admitted.
“The one found in Mr. Cooper’s barn the night of his murder?”
Macon hesitated, then replied, “Yes.”
“And please remind the jury the date the interview occurred with the professor.”
“I believe it was on or around September twenty-eighth.”
“A full eight weeks before the murder of Earvin Cooper.”
“That sounds correct.”
“According to that form, was the pen ever found and returned to Dr. Matheson?”
Macon scanned the paperwork. “Evidently not.”
“You interview a great many suspects as part of your official duties, isn’t that true?”
“Yes.”
“A significant number have extensive criminal records?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Ranging from petty theft to murder, I’d imagine?”
“The range of crimes is pretty diverse. Just like the people who commit ’em.”
“If one of those criminals was interrogated in the police station the same day you interviewed Dr. Matheson, and stumbled upon an expensive pen, what’s the likelihood that person would’ve returned it to the lost-and-found?”
Macon crossed his arms. “I’ve no way of estimatin’ that.”
“How long have you been in law enforcement?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Has it been your experience that when thieves, rapists, and murderers happen upon an expensive item, they immediately bring it to the attention of police, then volunteer to fill out a report?”
“It’s possible.” Macon uncrossed his arms and leaned back.
“Many things are possible, Officer, including arresting a respected and distinguished professor and accusing him of the most heinous crimes based upon little more than the discovery of a lost or stolen pen!”
Reynolds rose to his feet. “Your Honor, the state objects.”
“As well it should,” Miller agreed.
“Mr. Miller, save the philosophical stuff for your closing argument,” Tanner said, barely controlling his anger. “Objection sustained. Ask your next question, Counselor.”
“During your fifteen years as a seasoned and experienced police officer, how many times has a criminal approached you to return an expensive item?”
“I don’t believe that’s ever happened,” Macon answered.
Miller walked in front of the jury box. “So it’s possible, perhaps even likely, somebody with a criminal record who’d been detained at your station found the pen and either kept it for himself or gave it to someone who visited him while in custody.”
Macon looked at the jury. “That’s highly unlikely.”
“Officer Macon, you’re not suggesting someone who worked at the station found the pen and later placed it at Mr. Cooper’s barn to implicate the professor, are you?”
“If someone in law enforcement found the pen, it would’ve been returned to its proper owner.”
“Officer Macon, is there any particular reason you didn’t inform this jury you were one of a handful of officers who arrived at Mr. Cooper’s home shortly after his murder?”
“I was never asked.”
“There’s no need to become modest. You spent the first half of your testimony telling the jury of your many achievements. You’re a highly decorated officer, isn’t that true?”
“I’ve had my fair share of honors.”
“And you played a major role in sealing off the crime scene area, didn’t you?”
“Along with several investigators.”
“How important is it to maintain what is often referred to as the ‘integrity of the crime scene’ as quickly as possible following the commission of a crime?”
“Very,” answered an increasingly annoyed Macon.
“Please tell the jury why that’s the case.”
“To make sure evidence isn’t compromised or lost.”
“You don’t mean ‘lost’ in the same way that Professor Matheson lost his pen at your station, do you?”
“I’m not convinced the professor ever lost it,” Macon replied harshly. “Seems odd he’d be that careless with something he’d just finished tellin’ everybody meant so much to him.”
“So are you telling the jury it’s your theory Professor Matheson filled out a lost-property report because he had nothing better to do with his time?”
“Maybe your client, the defendant, lied about losin’ it. Or he could’ve owned another one just like it that he dropped at the murder scene.”
Miller looked at the jury for a moment, then shook his head sadly. “Professor Matheson is an extremely bright and organized educator. He’d have needed to be fairly absentminded and clumsy for your theory to be true.”
“Brilliant people do stupid things after they’ve murdered someone.”
“Couldn’t be too stupid.” Miller moved closer to Macon. “He secretly ordered a pen identical to the one he had, because using his clairvoyant powers, he knew he’d lose it at your police station and would need an extra one to leave behind at the scene of a crime.” He turned his back on Macon and addressed the jury. “And, oh, by the way, for good measure he placed it inside a burning building just in the right location where it could be found in pristine condition with his initials engraved on the top and his fingerprints imprinted all over the bottom.” He looked at the witness. “Is that really what you want this jury to believe?”
“I’m speculatin’ just like you are, Counselor.”
“But you’re a police officer under oath, and as such you’re attempting to testify to the facts as you know them, not as they might be conveniently distorted to prove the state’s theory.”
A frustrated Reynolds once again rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I have to object to Mr. Miller’s continued badgering of the witness.”
“Was I badgering Officer Macon?” Miller asked innocently. “If I was doing that, I certainly apologize. After all, this is only a murder trial where Professor Matheson risks losing his freedom and possibly his life, and I wouldn’t want to be rude in challenging the evid
ence.”
“Would counsel be so kind as to approach the bench, please?” ordered Tanner.
Miller faced the jury and shrugged his shoulders helplessly, then joined Reynolds and met the judge at the bench. Tanner leaned over so far, his nose almost touched Miller’s forehead. “You’re skating on thin water, mister.”
“Your Honor probably meant to say ‘ice,’” corrected Miller.
“I’ll say ‘contempt of court’ if you interrupt me again or start makin’ speeches when you’re supposed to be askin’ questions. Now, if you got some evidence the real murderer just so happened to be visitin’ the police station the day your client lost his pen”—Tanner turned his back to the jury—“or if you’re gonna imply a police officer planted incriminating evidence against Professor Matheson, you better offer a whole lot more than theatrical implications and inferences—or I’m about to rule all of your questions out of order.”
“Your Honor, with all due respect—”
Tanner cut him off. “Whenever somebody starts off a statement ‘With all due respect,’ I got a pretty good feelin’ I ain’t gonna be shown any. Matter of fact, I’m likely to get downright insulted. And, Mr. Miller, it does not pay to insult a judge while he’s wearing a robe in his own courtroom. Now, you finish up with this witness or you move your line of questions in a different direction.” Tanner sat back in his chair.
By the time Miller turned to face the jury, he displayed a smile that indicated great satisfaction and pleasure with whatever discussions he’d completed with the judge. Reynolds, in contrast, looked as if he’d been the one chastised.
“Officer Macon, I just have a few more questions on another matter. What was it, precisely, that brought Professor Matheson to your police station on September twenty-eighth?”
“My partner and I were asked to visit the defendant while he was teachin’ one of his classes. We asked him to come with us to discuss what was happenin’ as a result of his list.”
“You asked him to come with you?”
“Yes.”
“And you handcuffed him in front of his students so he might feel welcomed and comfortable as he made the journey from his classroom to the backseat of your patrol car?”
“My goal was to prevent students from gettin’ involved in police business. I wanted to avoid a confrontation that might get additional people in trouble.”
“And you accomplished that through intimidation and humiliation?” Miller asked innocently.
“I thought if we demonstrated we were there on a serious matter, it would eliminate any potential conflict.”
Miller shook his head in agreement and offered a helpful suggestion. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to pistol-whip him?”
Reynolds rose. Miller waved him off. “I’ll withdraw that comment. Thank you, Officer Macon, for your enlightening views; I’m certain the jury found them helpful.”
“And, Mr. Miller,” added Judge Tanner, “I’m certain our state coffers will appreciate being made richer by two hundred and fifty dollars, which is the sanction I hereby impose on you for being in contempt of court.”
Reynolds observed the jury. As if he didn’t have enough problems with heroes, now the judge had turned Matheson’s attorney into a martyr as well.
“In that case, Your Honor, I’ll avoid having my wallet assaulted any further. I have no more questions of this witness.” Miller strolled to his seat with the noticeably increased admiration of several black jurors. Aubrey Munson, as usual, looked greatly annoyed.
Tanner poured a glass of water and downed two aspirins. “Mr. Reynolds, do you have any redirect?”
“Yes, Your Honor, thank you.” Reynolds walked toward the witness. “Officer Macon, you don’t like the defendant, do you?”
“I have no reason to either like or dis—”
“Officer, this isn’t the time to be courteous!” snapped Reynolds. “You don’t like the man, do you?”
Reynolds’s outburst caused the jurors to sit up straight and pay renewed attention.
Macon looked down at the floor. “No, sir, I don’t.”
“You believe he murdered Earvin Cooper.”
Miller rose quickly. “What this witness believes is immaterial to—”
“Counsel for the defense was very much interested in what Officer Macon believed on a variety of subjects,” Reynolds said firmly. “I think it’s only fair for the state to pursue the same line of questioning.”
“The objection is overruled,” Tanner said with some satisfaction. “Officer Macon, you may answer.”
“Yes. I believe the defendant murdered Mr. Cooper.”
“Did you come to that conclusion because you don’t approve of the course Professor Matheson teaches?”
“No.”
“Do you think he’s a murderer because you don’t like him?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you rendered an opinion as to who murdered Earvin Cooper based on the evidence discovered at the crime scene?”
“Yes, sir, I have.”
“And you state under oath that you believe the man who took the life of Earvin Cooper is Martin Matheson, the defendant?”
“I do.”
“Did you plant evidence at the scene of the crime?”
“I did not.”
“To your knowledge, did anyone else involved with this investigation attempt to falsely implicate the defendant in the crime of which he now stands accused?”
“No.”
“You realize if you planted evidence, you’d be guilty of committing a felony that would cost you your career, your livelihood, and your freedom.”
“I know that,” answered Macon with conviction.
“And you’re telling this jury you wouldn’t be willing to go to prison to frame an innocent man, even if you didn’t like him?”
“I would not.”
“Even if you despised or hated him?”
“Even then.” Macon looked squarely at the jury. “I wouldn’t jeopardize everything I’ve been sworn to uphold. I wouldn’t do that to my profession, to my family, or to myself, no matter how I felt about the professor.”
Reynolds waited for a moment and discreetly surveyed the jurors in the back row. They believed the officer, he thought, but would it matter? “I appreciate your honesty, and I’m hopeful the jury does as well. I have no further questions of this witness.” Reynolds walked past the defense table, ignoring both Matheson and Miller, and took his seat next to Sinclair. He didn’t want to display too much righteous indignation—just enough to elicit empathy from the jury.
Tanner looked at Miller with an expression that suggested the answer to his upcoming question had better be no. “Mr. Miller, do you wish to recross?”
“That won’t be necessary, Your Honor.”
“Officer Macon, you’re excused,” said Tanner.
Macon left the witness stand and exited the courtroom.
Tanner turned to the jury. “I’m going to let you go a little early today. I’d rather do that than keep you late or dismiss you in the middle of someone’s testimony. As you know, we’ll conduct half-day sessions tomorrow and again on Thursday. Hopefully, we’ll be able to complete at least one or two witnesses both sessions.” He took a large swallow of water. “As you’ve just experienced, on occasion in the heat of battle, tempers flare and lawyers in the pursuit of their advocacy may force a judge to comment negatively or, as was the case with Mr. Miller, impose a fine or sanction.”
He leaned closer toward the jury and spoke with a father’s firmness. “You should not, under any circumstances, construe that action by me as demonstrating a preference for one lawyer over the other. Nor does it imply I have a view regarding the credibility of a particular witness, or, for that matter, a position on the innocence or guilt of the defendant.”
Reynolds carefully studied the reactions of the jury and wondered if the judge would have been better off avoiding this subject altogether.
Tanner looked at the attorneys
and smiled. “As both the prosecution and defense will agree, I’ve had to take a lot of lawyers to the woodshed during my time as a judge, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like or admire them. They’ve got their job to do; I’ve got mine.” He turned to the jury. “And, ladies and gentlemen, you certainly have yours. You are instructed to do that job on the basis of the evidence submitted to you. Any exchanges between myself and another participant in this room shall have no bearing whatsoever on your deliberations or the outcome of this case.”
He panned the jury. “Having looked into each of your faces, I’m assured we understand and accept our distinct roles. Am I correct in that belief?”
The jurors nodded yes or answered in the affirmative.
“Then we can all rest peacefully in the knowledge we’ll be here tomorrow to see who gets fined next.”
CHAPTER 45
CHERYL HAD BEEN reading a magazine when she heard a car pull into the driveway. She straightened the pillows on the couch, quickly fixed her hair in the mirror, and hurried to the front door.
Reynolds walked in slowly and barely kissed his wife on the cheek. He proceeded into the living room and collapsed on the sofa. Cheryl took a seat next to him.
“Did it go as poorly as reported on the news?”
Reynolds let out an exasperated gasp. “A big-foot police officer stole Matheson’s pen then planted it at the barn. We do blood evidence tomorrow.” He shook his head in defeat. “Miller will claim contamination, police incompetence, corruption, and then dismiss the reliability of DNA testing.”
“Martin must feel relieved,” she said.
“I’d like to permanently relieve Martin of that pretentious smirk on his face.”
“You have another face to worry about.”
“Whose?”
“Young boy, nine years old, named Christopher.” She looked at him. “Sound familiar?”
“It rings a bell.” Reynolds rose from his seat. “Is it bad?” he asked, concerned.
“It’s a man thing,” she replied. “I’ll let you be the judge.”
“Please don’t use that word or any other that might remind me of where I’ve been today,” he pleaded. He headed down the hallway and knocked on his son’s bedroom door. He entered and discovered Christopher standing next to the window, looking out. When the boy turned around, Reynolds noticed a swollen eye and a bruise on his forehead. He approached his son and took a seat on the edge of the bed.
