The judge said, “I grew up in a town like this, too.” When Goldhammer looked surprised, Spatt’s eyes narrowed. “You expected me to come from the ghetto?”
“No, I— I’m from Illinois,” he said. “How about you?”
Spatt fiddled with the knot of his tie. He wore a nondescript suit, and Elliot could see scuffs on his shoes. Without his black robe, the judge looked more human, but no less mean. He scrutinized Goldhammer for a few seconds before answering. “Washington State.”
“I grew up in South Jersey,” Elliot said.
The conversation died. Through the limo’s tinted windows, Elliot could see the bus leading this parade. Inside it, the jury rode like a group of schoolchildren. Meanwhile, in an unmarked police car behind the limo, Frank Ramsey sat handcuffed and flanked by sheriff’s deputies.
For Elliot, this experience was surreal, like something out of a dream. Spatt and Goldhammer, on the other hand, seemed bored, as if they did this sort of thing all the time.
“One of my ex-wives was from New Jersey,” Goldhammer said. His attempt to resurrect the conversation hung in the air. No one responded.
A few minutes later, the bus in front of them pulled to the curb. Situated on a short lane, the Dillard house was practically indistinguishable from its neighbors except for the For Sale sign jutting from the crust of snow covering the front yard. The limo passed the bus and turned into the narrow driveway. The car holding Ramsey followed and parked behind it.
“Looks like we’re here,” Elliot said. He patted his hair and checked his reflection in the window.
A line of jurors disembarked from the bus, chatting with each other, looking excited. “Where do they think they are,” Spatt said, “Disney World?”
“I guess it’s a nice change of pace from the courtroom.” Goldhammer shrugged.
Spatt continued to stare. “Idiots.”
The real estate agent had assured Elliot that they would have the house to themselves. He was sure she would honor this promise—if for no other reason than that a reminder that the house was a murder scene is not usually good marketing for residential real estate—but just in case, he entered the house first and made sure it was empty. The last thing he wanted was an unexpected surprise—like a gaggle of anti-death penalty protesters, for example—that Goldhammer could manipulate to get his client another retrial.
He checked the house, then returned to the front door. Judge Spatt, Goldhammer, Ramsey, three sheriff’s deputies, twelve jurors, and two alternate jurors waited on the front lawn. Standing in a half-inch of snow, they resembled a strange troupe of Christmas carolers. Elliot held the door open as they filed into the house.
One of the jurors, a forty-three-year-old mother of four named Katherine Baldini, shivered as she passed across the threshold. Her trepidation spread to the rest of the jurors. They stopped talking, cast wary glances at the shadows, stuck close to one another. Before he could suppress it, a shiver ran up Elliot’s spine as well. Even in broad daylight, the Dillard house felt haunted.
Ramsey wore no handcuffs or other restraints—that might prejudice the jurors’ opinions of him—but the two sheriff’s deputies flanking him kept their hands near their holsters. Besides, Ramsey seemed docile enough. He held his large, callused hands together at his waist and stood apart from the jurors, under the arch where the entryway met the dining room. He studied the rooms as if he had never seen them before. If it was an act intended to persuade the jury of his innocence, Elliot doubted it was working. Most of them didn’t dare look his way.
Jenna Gottlieb, the twenty-year-old nursing student whom Jessie had identified as a potential problem juror, said, “This place is giving me the willies.”
Spatt faced his uncomfortable charges with a smile pasted on his face. “Folks, I promise we won’t keep you here any longer than necessary. Remember, the crimes that allegedly occurred here happened almost two years ago. We are accompanied by three of the sheriff’s finest deputies. We’re perfectly safe.”
The judge’s assurances did not appear to console the jurors, most of whom were visibly shying away from Ramsey. Good. Elliot searched for the spot on the stairway carpet where Officer Motes, one of the cops who had come to the house the night of the murder in response to a noise complaint by one of the Dillards’ neighbors, had spotted a dark red stain through the window. He could find no trace of it. Too bad. Had the house not been so thoroughly cleaned before being placed on the market, Elliot would have had some potent evidence to show the already spooked jury.
“Mr. Williams, why don’t you lead us to the primary crime scene?” Spatt said.
The primary crime scene—the location where the murders and rapes had occurred—was the master bedroom on the second floor. Elliot mounted the stairs. The others followed.
From the crime scene photographs he had studied, Elliot knew that the Dillards had decorated the upstairs hallway with framed photographs—family portraits, photos of Kristen, even a picture of the white mouse Dr. Dillard had brought home from one of his labs as a pet for Kristen when she was nine or ten. The real estate agent had removed these memorials to a destroyed family and replaced them with innocuous art prints.
The jurors’ attention focused on the open door at the end of the hallway. Sunlight spilled into the hall from the large windows in the bedroom but failed to brighten the mood. The jurors approached the room with dread, as if stepping so close to another person’s tragedy invited their own.
Inside, the room looked almost the same as it must have looked on the night of the murders—an absence of gore was the primary difference Elliot could see between the room as it was now and the room as it had been captured by the crime scene photographer. The reading lamp, alarm clock, and phone—from which Ramsey had ripped the electrical cords with which he had bound the wrists of his victims—had also been replaced. And, of course, there were none of the personal possessions that gave a space life. But overall, the layout of the room and its furniture was unchanged.
Trent Slaney, the construction worker, another of Jessie’s potential problem jurors, surveyed the room. His lips were pressed so tightly together that the lower half of his face was turning a pale shade of white.
“This is the room that the prosecution’s witnesses have testified about,” Judge Spatt said. “Bearing in mind the testimony you have heard, take a look around. Remember, it will be your job to decide whether Kristen Dillard’s testimony—including her identification of the defendant—is credible.”
A few of the jurors glanced in Ramsey’s direction, giving Elliot an idea. “Could we speak privately for a second?” The jury remained in the bedroom as Elliot led Spatt, Goldhammer, Ramsey, and Ramsey’s guards into the hallway. He closed the door, removing them from the jury’s hearing.
“I think it would be helpful if Mr. Ramsey stood where Kristen Dillard testified she saw his face on the night of the attack. That way, the jury could judge the angle of her viewpoint.”
“Why don’t you just ask him to rape a few of the jurors, too?” Goldhammer said.
“Relax,” Spatt said. He turned to Elliot. “Mr. Goldhammer is right. You can’t ask the defendant to place himself in a position that will suggest his guilt to the jury, any more than you can force him to testify. If you want to demonstrate Mr. Ramsey’s alleged position in the bedroom, you’ll have to do it with your own body.”
Elliot nodded. That could work. “I can do that.”
“Good. Now let’s go back inside. I don’t like leaving them alone in there. One of them’s liable to see a ghost, and then they’ll all start panicking, jumping out the windows. We’ll be digging their bodies out of the snow.”
Elliot struggled for an intelligent response. He settled for, “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Certainly not,” Goldhammer agreed.
Elliot stood near the bedroom door, his back to the king-sized bed. After several minutes of arguing, he and Goldhammer had agreed that this position approximated that described by Kr
isten Dillard in her testimony.
One by one, the jurors took turns lying on the bed in the position where Kristen had testified Ramsey had left her for dead.
Judge Spatt had instructed them not to share their conclusions with one another. It would be improper if they influenced each other’s factual findings. Each was supposed to judge for him or herself whether, from the vantage point of the bed, Elliot’s face was visible.
It was only when he was enduring the silent, appraising stares of the jurors that he realized the foolishness of agreeing to Spatt’s offer—he had no idea if he was helping his own case or that of the defense.
37
“How did it go?” Jessie said, when Elliot and the jurors returned from their trip.
Elliot seemed to hesitate. “I’m not sure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” They stood in the back of the courtroom. Spectators were taking seats in the gallery. Goldhammer was waiting at the defense table for his client to be brought in. The jury box was vacant, as was the judge’s bench. “Did the house make an impression?”
“Definitely.”
“So what are you unsure about?”
Again, he hesitated. “In the house, I had an idea. I set up a demonstration so the jurors could see for themselves if Ramsey’s face would have been visible to Kristen.”
Jessie looked away from him, annoyed. He’d broken the cardinal rule of litigation. Never ask a question unless you already know the answer. “And?”
“I don’t know. Spatt instructed them not to share their conclusions.”
“Great. So for all you know, the trip to the murder house helped the murderer.”
Elliot’s face reddened. “I guess that’s possible.”
“This is exactly why only experienced prosecutors are assigned to homicide trials,” she said. The benches in the gallery were filling up. Unless she wanted to stand, she needed to claim a seat now. “But don’t let it distract you. Keep going. You have a strong case.” She didn’t know if she meant it, or if she was blowing smoke, but she knew that she needed Elliot to be confident if they were to have a chance of winning.
Elliot nodded, but he didn’t look any less worried.
Called back to the stand for redirect, Kristen sat with her back straight and her hands folded in front of her, breathing evenly as Elliot approached. Apparently, the distress caused by reliving her experience for the jury earlier that day had faded.
Elliot, shooting anxious glances at the jurors and the defense table, appeared more nervous than she did.
“You’ve already told the jury about the defendant’s attack on your family,” he said, warming up. She nodded. “I have a few follow-up questions. First, would you describe in detail the view you had of Mr. Ramsey when he removed his ski mask?”
“I saw him from behind and to the side,” she answered firmly, without hesitation. “I saw his hair, his right ear, both of his eyes. I got a very good look at him.”
“How confident are you that Mr. Ramsey was the man who attacked you?”
“One-hundred percent.”
“You don’t have even the slightest sliver of doubt?”
“None,” she said, with a brisk shake of her head. “It was him.”
Kristen was the Commonwealth’s final witness. After she left the stand, Elliot announced to the courtroom, “The prosecution rests.”
As expected, Goldhammer then moved for judgment. He argued that the prosecution had failed to prove its case and that, as a matter of law, no jury could convict the defendant based on the evidence presented. This motion was routine; every defense attorney made it in every case. Judge Spatt denied the motion without pausing to consider it.
“It’s lunch time,” the judge said. “Let’s take a recess. When we reconvene, the defense will call its first witness.”
As soon as Spatt finished his announcement, Jessie squeezed out of her pew and hurried down the hallway, avoiding the press. She planned to grab a quick lunch and then spend the remainder of the recess working on her notes for Kate Moscow’s cross-examination. She knew Elliot would balk at the idea of using her work, but she also knew he wanted to win. Effectively crossing Moscow was crucial.
Outside the courthouse, Jessie almost collided with a woman walking toward her. She apologized before her mind identified the statuesque blonde as the person whom she’d just been thinking about.
“Dr. Moscow.”
“Ms. Black.” The woman’s smile was cold, superior—the smile of an expert witness who had bested innumerable prosecutors and made bushels of money doing it. “I’m told you’re no longer trying the Ramsey case.”
“My colleague, Elliot Williams, has taken over for me.”
“That’s too bad.”
Jessie shrugged, tried to appear nonchalant. “Elliot is more than capable.”
“Still, it must be frustrating for you to turn over control of the case to someone else. I know how close you are to the victim.” Jessie felt a pang of uneasiness. Had she run into Moscow by accident, or had the woman deliberately started this confrontation? “Will Kristen be present when I testify, do you think? It would be enlightening for her, a nice educational experience. So few people really understand the limitations of their memories.”
The psychologist seemed to be baiting her, but Jessie could not imagine a reason. What could be gained by antagonizing a lawyer who was no longer trying the case? Whatever Moscow’s motives, Jessie did not intend to be riled. Keeping her own voice as dispassionate as Moscow’s, she said, “Kristen won’t be in attendance.”
“But you’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Taking notes.” Jessie squared her shoulders.
“Like the notes you took about me, when you visited my campus and questioned my students and colleagues?”
Ah, so that was it.
“Yes,” Jessie said. “Like those notes.”
“I suppose that’s all you can do. Now that you’ve been caught with your pants down.” Jessie felt her cheeks redden. Moscow smiled pleasantly, as if they were still making small talk. “Or panties, as the case may be.”
The psychologist’s eyes flicked over Jessie’s body in a contemptuous perusal. How the hell did she know about Jack? There was no way Warren would have told anyone—he was too concerned about the DA’s liability to engage in courthouse gossip—and even Jack wasn’t reckless enough to make their relationship public. That left Elliot.
“Do you honestly believe that Frank Ramsey is innocent?” Jessie said. She didn’t really care about the answer. She just wanted to change the subject, snap that look of disdain from Moscow’s face.
But Moscow wasn’t finished. “Men are expected to think with their genitals, but we women have to hold ourselves to a higher standard. I was looking forward to facing you from the stand. You let me down.”
“You didn’t answer my question, Doctor.”
“You can call me Kate. We have a lot in common, you know. We’re both headstrong. We’re both misunderstood—and underestimated—by our peers. Neither of us plays well with others. Under different circumstances, I suppose we might have been friends.”
Jessie remembered when Jack had said something similar to her: We’re both very committed people. You’re committed to your work, and I was committed to a mental hospital.
Gritting her teeth, Jessie repeated herself. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Ramsey? Well, ninety-nine percent of criminal defendants are guilty, so he probably is, too. But that’s not my concern. I’m not a juror.”
“It doesn’t bother you that victims like Kristen Dillard have already been violated once? That your testimony is another violation they have to endure?”
“Listen to you. Jessica Black, the champion of the wounded. Defender of the meek.” Moscow laughed. “I’d say you need a good fuck, but we both know that’s not your problem. Maybe you just need to get over yourself.”
Without further comment, Moscow stepped past her, leaving her alo
ne on the street. Jessie listened to her heels click on the sidewalk until the sound faded behind her.
Woody finished his meatball sub, pulled a small napkin from the paper bag, and wiped marinara sauce from his chin. Across the street, the Ice Princess left Jessie Black standing on the sidewalk. From here, she looked like she’d just been gut-punched.
What the hell did Moscow say? When the Ice Princess had boasted that rattling Jessie Black would be no problem, Woody had scoffed at her. He was usually a good judge of character, and in his view, the prosecutor had her shit together.
Apparently, he had been mistaken.
Leave it to a shrink to know exactly how to fuck with someone’s head.
He couldn’t wait to tell his brother about their progress. With the District Attorney’s star prosecutor relegated to the sidelines and distracted by Moscow, her replacement hopelessly outclassed by Goldhammer, and Detective Leary chasing phantom leads to a contract killing that never happened, the trial would be over before the dust settled.
Then it would be time for Frank Ramsey to pay the piper.
38
“You leaving us to go to accounting school, Leary?”
Two shadows fell across the financial records on his desk. Leary looked up. It took his eyes a moment to adjust after staring at pages of 10-point print. Detectives Nick Jameson and Robin Scerbak grinned at him.
“You’re standing in my light,” Leary said.
Jameson reached over the desk, flipped on Leary’s lamp. “Wouldn’t want you to strain your peepers.” Other cops in the crowded room chuckled. “Say, when you’re done solving the Family Man case again, could you double-solve some of my old cases?”
Leary leaned his chair back as far as his limited workspace allowed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Jameson. I can’t double-solve your cases because most of them were never solved the first time.”
Burnout Page 18
