Burnout

by Larry A Winters

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Jessie said, barely able to keep her tone civil. “The witness is not a psychiatrist. In fact, the witness is not even a high school graduate—”

  Spatt leveled at her one of his warning stares. “Sustained.”

  “Without speculating about Mr. Ackerman’s mental condition,” Goldhammer said, “tell us what happened.”

  “He barely questioned her,” Ramsey said. “It’s like he was sick of attacking witnesses, like he’d done it so many times as a public defender that he was burnt out—”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Ramsey,” Goldhammer said, “do you think Mr. Ackerman’s refusal to aggressively cross-examine Kristen Dillard resulted in your losing the trial?”

  “I know it did. The jury found me guilty based on her testimony. She was either lying or confused—I don’t know. Because of Ackerman, the jury never doubted a word she said.”

  Jessie could not even muster a polite smile for the man on the witness stand. He regarded her with a neutral mask—the face of a sociopath, if she’d ever seen one.

  “Did Mr. Ackerman explain to you his rationale for not, as you put it, drilling Kristen Dillard on cross?”

  Goldhammer bounced up from his seat. “Objection. Ms. Black is mischaracterizing my client’s testimony. She’s taking that word out of context.”

  “Your Honor, I apologize. I wouldn’t want to make the witness sound bad.”

  Behind her, she heard Goldhammer mutter something.

  “All I know,” Ramsey said, “is she told the jury she was one-hundred percent sure I was the man who did all those things to her and her family. She was either lying or she made a mistake.”

  “I see. What, exactly, were the things she said you did?”

  “Objection,” Goldhammer said. “We all know what crimes Mr. Ramsey was convicted of. They’re not relevant here.”

  Spatt turned to Jessie, raised his eyebrows.

  “They’re relevant to demonstrate the reasonableness of Mr. Ackerman’s legal tactics, Your Honor.”

  That seemed to satisfy him. “Objection overruled. Mr. Ramsey, answer the question.”

  “She said I raped her mother. Stabbed her mother and father to death. Raped her. Stabbed her. Left her for dead. None of it is true.”

  “It must have been heartbreaking, hearing a sixteen-year-old girl describe those things happening to her,” Jessie said.

  Ramsey shrugged. “You were there.”

  “So, to rephrase my first question, did Mr. Ackerman explain to you his rationale for not aggressively challenging Kristen Dillard’s story on cross?”

  “He thought it would turn the jury against me.”

  “Did he explain why?”

  “Objection,” Goldhammer said. “Hearsay.”

  Jessie looked at the judge. “The statement is not being offered as evidence of its truth, only as evidence that Mr. Ackerman was acting in a reasonable manner.”

  “Overruled. Answer.”

  “He said the jurors would see him attacking the girl and they would see it as me attacking her. He said they would look at it as another violation.”

  She held his stare for a moment. “I’m finished with this witness.” She turned, started walking back to her seat.

  “Wait.”

  Ramsey’s voice, a flat monotone, froze her in place.

  Spatt said, “Mr. Ramsey, please refrain from speaking unless you’re asked a question.”

  Jessie turned around, faced the man.

  “What would you have done, if you’d been my lawyer?” Ramsey said.

  “Mr. Ramsey—” Spatt’s cheeks tinted red.

  Ramsey ignored him. His stare was fixed on Jessie. “Would you have let her off easy, just in case the jury felt bad for her?”

  “Mr. Ramsey,” Spatt said, his voice louder now, “you do not ask the questions here.”

  “Well?” Ramsey said.

  “It’s not a choice I’ll ever have to make,” Jessie said. “Because I don’t represent murderers.”

  Ramsey’s eyes flared. “That’s not an answer!”

  The bailiff stood up. Ramsey immediately took the hint, shut his mouth, and folded his hands in front of him. The bailiff sat down again. Ramsey looked up at the judge and said, “I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  But he’d shown his true self. For ten precious seconds, his mask had slipped. Hopefully that would be enough.

  13

  Although Jessie had seen Jack Ackerman in various courtrooms throughout her career, the sight of him on the witness stand unnerved her. She recognized his Armani suit—one of many in which he’d once dressed to impress jurors—and he regarded the judge with the same confident demeanor he’d often employed with great effect in front of juries. But there were no jurors here today, and the only witness was himself. Under the cold appraisal of Judge Spatt, the former star of the public defender’s office looked as fragile as his former clients, stripped of the authority accorded lawyers in a courtroom, authority he’d once wielded with such relentlessness. Yet he looked relaxed, even happy.

  “Hey, Jess.”

  The warning glare with which she returned his greeting wiped the smile off his face. He might find humor in the novelty of his inverted circumstances, but she did not.

  “Mr. Ackerman, did you represent Frank Ramsey at his murder trial?”

  He leaned forward slightly, the smile returning to his face as if he just couldn’t help himself. “Yes ma’am.”

  Judge Spatt looked from Jack to her, then back again. No doubt sensing an in-joke from which he’d been excluded, his eyes narrowed with displeasure.

  Jessie soldiered on as if there were nothing strange about Jack’s answers. “How would you describe your performance at the trial?”

  “Exemplary. I definitely should have won.”

  She could hear Goldhammer frantically taking notes behind her and wondered what he’d made of Jack’s flippant tone. If she was lucky, he’d missed it. But she didn’t think Goldhammer missed much.

  “Why didn’t you win?”

  “It happens.” Jack shrugged. “Juries are unpredictable. There’s no such thing as a sure victory. Especially against a skilled prosecutor.”

  With his sanity and professional aptitude on trial, was he actually flirting with her again?

  “Would you briefly describe your strategy for representing Mr. Ramsey?”

  “From the beginning, Mr. Ramsey refused to entertain any deals, period. And even if he had been amenable, the prosecutor didn’t offer any.” He winked at her. “So there was no way to avoid a full trial.”

  “What was your strategy for the trial?”

  “In my opinion, the prosecution’s case was weak. No offense. The police had not found any physical evidence linking Mr. Ramsey to the crime—no semen, no blood, none of those little flakes of skin, no hairs. They couldn’t even locate the murder weapon. The prosecution’s whole case was based on the testimony of one eyewitness. My strategy was to emphasize the lack of physical evidence.”

  “What about the eyewitness?”

  “Her name was Kristen Dillard. She was one of the victims of Ramsey’s alleged crime. She was sixteen, had clearly been brutalized by someone, and was an incredibly sympathetic witness.”

  “What was your strategy for dealing with her?”

  “In my experience, when you have a victim-witness who is very sympathetic, it’s best to handle her with kid gloves or not at all. If you cross-examine her too belligerently, you risk alienating the jury and coming off as a bully. I asked Miss Dillard a few questions to establish that, for much of the incident, her back was to the assailant. I also established that she initially failed to identify Ramsey, when the police showed her his picture in a photo array. That was as far as I dared to go.”

  “Mr. Ackerman, what happened to you in July of last year?”

  “I burned out, I think. I had a breakdown. But that happened weeks after the Ramsey trial
was over.”

  “During the Ramsey trial, you weren’t burned out?”

  “No.”

  “You provided effective assistance of counsel?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thank you. I have no further—”

  “Hold on,” Judge Spatt said. “I have some.”

  Jessie held her breath. It was not uncommon, especially at a hearing or a bench trial, for a judge to ask his own questions of a witness. But with Judge Spatt, even common actions threatened to undermine her case. As she watched him gather his thoughts, her legs suddenly felt tired, her feet uncomfortable in her heels. She had been on her feet—or poised to pop up for an objection—since morning. Now she would have to stand mute in the middle of the courtroom as the judge grilled her witness.

  Spatt’s eyebrows, stark white against his dark complexion, twitched as he leaned toward the witness stand. Jack did not flinch from him, but he didn’t wear his usual smile either. His eyes regarded the judge with caution.

  “Mr. Ackerman, you’re a criminal defense attorney, is that right?”

  “Well, I used to be. Now I practice trust and estate law, mostly drafting wills—”

  “Yes, but when you defended crooks for a living, did you ever find it necessary to attack the credibility of their victims?”

  “It’s a tactic every defense attorney uses at some point.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “Sometimes I found it necessary, Your Honor. Yes.”

  “But not in Mr. Ramsey’s case? Where there was no evidence except for the victim’s word?”

  Jack leaned toward the judge. His face shifted to an expression Jessie recognized from the not-so-distant past—his lawyer face. “Attacking an already-devastated victim is a tactic almost certain to backfire.”

  “Aren’t most victims devastated, Mr. Ackerman?”

  “Most? I don’t know—”

  “Aren’t most of them sympathetic?”

  “I’m not sure you can quantify—”

  “I’m not asking you to quantify. I’m asking a simple question.”

  “Your Honor,” Jessie said, “I object to your badgering of the witness.”

  Spatt ignored her, his attention locked on Jack. “A simple question, Mr. Ackerman. Lawyer to lawyer.”

  By some miracle, Jack retained his composure. “Many crime victims are sympathetic witnesses.”

  “What was special about Kristen Dillard?”

  Jack opened his mouth, closed it, shook his head. “It was just a feeling I had.”

  “I see.” Spatt looked at Goldhammer. “Do you want to cross this witness, Mr. Goldhammer?”

  “Uh, no, that won’t be necessary, Your Honor,” Goldhammer said, half-rising. “I think you covered all the bases.”

  “Good,” Spatt said. “Because I’ve made my decision. I’m not a psychiatrist, but Mr. Ackerman’s mental issues appear to me to be too serious, and too close in time to Mr. Ramsey’s trial, to ignore. I am granting Mr. Ramsey’s petition. His guilty verdict is hereby vacated and he will have a new trial.”

  Spatt slammed his gavel, and left the room before anyone could speak.

  14

  Jessie went directly to the DA’s office from the courthouse, part of her hoping she would be fast enough to deliver the bad news to Warren first, in person. The rest of her was already resigned to the likelihood that he’d heard everything already, and that he’d only heard one side of the story. He was on the phone when she arrived at his office breathless from her hurried walk through the brisk November air. He waved her inside as he continued talking. Judging by his side of the conversation—which was characterized by obsequiousness as opposed to his typically condescending tone—he must be on the line with a superior.

  As the head of the Homicide Unit, Warren didn’t have many superiors.

  Warren hung up, looked at her. “Word of advice—if you’re going to steal a colleague’s case, make sure you win it.”

  Shit.

  She offered what she hoped was an appropriately self-deprecating nod. “Was that District Attorney Rivera?”

  Warren ran his hand through his sparse hair. “I’m getting it from two directions. Rivera’s terrified that Goldhammer is going to turn Ramsey’s retrial into some kind of indictment of the DA’s office. And Rasch is bitching at me because you screwed over Elliot.”

  Holly Rasch, the head of the Appeals Unit. Jessie cringed. Up until this point, she and Holly had been on good terms. Women were a minority in the DA’s office and Holly had acted as an informal mentor during Jessie’s first few months at the office. Her stomach twisted at the thought of Holly taking today’s events as a betrayal of their friendship. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Rasch is the least of your problems right now. Or do I need to remind you that stabbing your boss’s nephew in the back is not generally considered a good career move?”

  The knot in her stomach tightened. “What are you saying?”

  He uncapped a marker. The smell filled the small office, made her dizzy. “I’m taking you off the Zuhdi double homicide.” He found her name on the big dry erase calendar on the wall behind his desk and slashed it with black ink. “And the DeSena killing.” Another slash. “In fact, I’m clearing your calendar.” More slashes, one following another.

  “What does that mean? You’re firing me? What did Elliot tell you? I think you should hear my side of the story. After all these years working together—”

  “Relax, Jessie. I’m not firing you. But you’re going to need to focus all of your attention on Ramsey. We have a potential disaster here, and Rivera wants to make sure it’s prevented. You put Ramsey away once. You can do it again.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment as the tension drained from her body. “Thank you.”

  When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. “Don’t thank me. Get a conviction for me.”

  She nodded. “I didn’t win Ramsey’s trial because of Jack’s mental condition. I won it because of Kristen Dillard. There’s no jury that wouldn’t convict the bastard based on her testimony.”

  Warren leaned back, his chair squeaking. “Don’t be so sure. Gil Goldhammer’s read the trial transcript. Trust me, he’s memorized Kristen Dillard’s testimony. He has surprises in store for us. Don’t doubt it. He isn’t paid a thousand dollars an hour for nothing.”

  She remembered her earlier conversation with the celebrity lawyer. “Who’s paying him? Ramsey has no money. No family or friends.”

  “You know how it is with death penalty cases, the philanthropists crawl out of the woodwork. Maybe some anti-death penalty faction?” Warren shrugged. “Who knows.”

  “The information might be useful.”

  “What are you saying? You want to put someone on it?”

  “Not someone from our office.”

  His face looked puzzled for a moment, then cleared with understanding. “Leary? Are you kidding? What’s the deal? You still have a thing for him? Hoping for a return trip to the backseat of his car?”

  It had been the front seat, not that it was any of Warren’s business. “I don’t have a ‘thing’ for Mark Leary,” she bit out. “He was the lead detective on the Ramsey case. It makes sense to get his help again now.”

  “Detective Leary has fresh homicides to work. Scumbags don’t wait in line to kill people, you know. They don’t put their murders on hold while we resolve last year’s crimes. Leary—”

  Jessie knew the power Warren wielded with the police. “If you make a call, Captain Henderson will reassign Leary to the Ramsey case without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “We don’t need a homicide detective wasting time working a case he closed over a year ago. If you miss him, send him flowers.”

  Miss him? She’d barely thought about him, especially since the new and improved Jack Ackerman had entered her life. Not that she was going to mention that to Warren.

  “Leary knows the case. He can help us anticipate Goldhammer’s traps.
You just said Goldhammer has surprises in store for us.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “Jessie, what have I told you about throwing my own words back in my face?”

  “I can’t help it. They’re so intelligent, so perceptive, so—”

  “The answer is no,” he said, cutting her off. “I am not going to ask the Philly PD to re-open a case in which we already have an eyewitness who can identify the murderer. If you can’t win with that evidence, you don’t deserve to work here.”

  “I understand.” The threat was tacit but unmistakable. Her career was on the line.

  15

  Woody slipped out of the courtroom gallery immediately after the judge ruled in Ramsey’s favor. After watching the hearing from the back of the room, careful to avoid giving any indication that he knew any of the participants, he had driven straight to Goldhammer’s hotel.

  The doorman looked him up and down before grudgingly opening the door. Woody resisted the urge to inform the idiot that the massive Christmas bonus he’d probably receive next month would be coming out of Woody’s—or, more accurately, Woody’s brother’s—pocket. In addition to booking a massive temporary office space that spanned almost an entire floor of the hotel, complete with office equipment, cubicle dividers, high-speed Internet access, and God only knew what other necessities, Goldhammer had also helped himself to a luxurious personal suite with a view of the city. Woody rode the elevator to the suite now, his irritation growing with each floor the elevator pinged past.

  One of the blowhard’s minions greeted him at the suite door holding a flute of champagne. “Gil’s just changing out of his suit. He said to give you this and tell you he’ll be right with you.”

  “No thanks.”

  Woody knocked aside the man’s hand, spilling champagne onto the carpet and knocking the grin off his face, then brushed past him into the suite. Woody had dealt with plenty of lawyers just like Goldhammer during his years as a corrections officer. People like Goldhammer, Ackerman—even the prosecutor, Jessica Black—were all the same. Arrogant, self-important, and soft, they thought they were more critical than the cops and the prison guards and the other real servants of the justice system, who they barely deigned to acknowledge.