Corpus Delicti (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Book 6)

by Stephen Penner

  Grissom nodded. “Yes. But move on. I won’t do another sidebar.”

  Brunelle wasn’t sure if that meant she’d take the jury out at the next objection, or if she’d just declare the mistrial at that point. He decided it didn’t matter. He would just avoid any further objections. Besides, he’d made his point. If there was one thing everyone in the room knew, regardless of whether they were privy to the sidebar, it was that the issue of Amy’s ‘business relationship’ with Kenny Brown was a big deal and the defense didn’t like it at all.

  Good, Brunelle thought as he retook his place before the jurors.

  “As I was saying, Amy Corrigan found Kenneth Brown. Or rather, Kenneth Brown found Amy. But he was no benefactor. In fact, the women who worked for Mr. Brown had a habit of dying under suspicious circumstances.”

  Edwards stood up again, smacking the table as she did so. “Objection, Your Honor! Now I insist I be heard outside the presence of the jury.”

  Grissom frowned at Brunelle. He didn’t bother arguing against it. Besides, if the sidebar had underlined the ‘business relationship’ for the jury, then being sent out of the courtroom would underline and highlight the whole ‘women had a habit of dying’ thing.

  “Ladies and Gentleman,” Grissom looked to the jury box. “I’m going to ask you to retire to the jury room for a moment while I discuss a matter with the attorneys. This won’t take long. Thank you for your patience.”

  The jurors stood up and filed out obediently. It was early in the trial still. They hadn’t been stuck sitting in uncomfortable chairs for enough days on end yet to grumble at yet another interruption. As soon as the door closed, Brunelle took the offensive.

  “I’m very troubled that Ms. Edwards keeps interrupting my opening statement,” he complained before the judge could address either attorney. “She’ll get her turn to speak.”

  Edwards jumped in next. “I keep interrupting because you keep violating the pretrial orders. First, you all but tell them Amy was a prostitute and now you tell them people ‘have a habit of dying’ when they work for my client.”

  “Which is exactly what I can say,” Brunelle countered, “based on the pretrial rulings.”

  Grissom cleared her throat. “May I be heard?” It wasn’t really a question, of course.

  She waited for a reply anyway so Brunelle and Edwards were both forced to offer a meek, “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Grissom smiled for just a moment, then her expression turned to stone. “You,” she pointed at Edwards. “Stop objecting. Mr. Brunelle is right on the edge, but he hasn’t stepped over it.”

  Then she pointed at Brunelle. “And you, step away from the edge. Several steps. One slip of your tongue and this case goes down the toilet. If you accidentally say something against my rulings that poisons this jury, I won’t just be granting Ms. Edwards’ motion for mistrial, I’ll be granting her motion to dismiss. Understood?”

  Brunelle nodded. “Understood, Your Honor.”

  The finger swung back to Edwards. “Understood? “

  “Yes, Your Honor, ” Edwards agreed.

  Grissom raised her gaze to the bailiff waiting at the jury room door. “Bring the jury back in,” she ordered. “I’m not going to sustain or overrule the objection. Just move on, Mr. Brunelle. Move on.”

  Brunelle nodded and waited as the bailiff brought the jurors back in. He wished Grissom would have said ‘overruled’ when they came back in so they would know he hadn’t done anything wrong, but Grissom’s tone didn’t invite argument. He’d just have to be satisfied that Edwards wouldn’t interrupt him any more.

  “As I was saying,” he started up again, trying to reestablish his flow, “Amy Corrigan got herself wrapped up with the defendant, and it was this relationship that ultimately led to her death.”

  Brunelle paused for a moment. In part to reestablish himself—when a speaker pauses, it reaffirms that the others in the room are the passive party, having to wait for the speaker to continue, something never noticed if the speaker continues uninterrupted. The other reason Brunelle paused was because this was the hardest part of his case to explain. He knew Amy was dead, but exactly how it happened, he didn’t have a clue. The weakness in his case. So he would try to make the weakness a strength. And Edwards wasn’t allowed to interrupt.

  “The saddest part of Amy Corrigan’s death is that it was completely anonymous. She just disappeared. There was no dramatic shoot-out in the parking lot, horrified onlookers shrieking. No ambulance speeding to the hospital, lights flashing and siren wailing. No mournful funeral where family and friends could share their memories of her life. And no grave marker, where Amy’s two-year-old daughter could say goodbye to her mommy.”

  Brunelle sensed Edwards tense at his blatant appeal to emotion, but she kept her objection in check.

  “No, the only person who knows exactly what happened to Amy Corrigan is the man who killed her.” A final accusatory finger at the defendant. “Kenneth Brown.”

  Brunelle turned back to the jury and deepened his voice in pitch and force. “The state will call many witnesses in this case. Amy’s family. Amy’s friends. Amy’s coworkers. At the end of this trial, you may not know all the details of Amy’s death, but you’ll know one thing beyond a reasonable doubt. Kenneth Brown was Amy’s killer. Thank you.”

  Brunelle returned to his seat and allowed his heart to slow. He’d stayed right up on the razor’s edge, despite Judge Grissom’s warnings. But what choice did he have? The case was razor thin. He was reminded of a quote by Barry Goldwater when he ran for president in 1964: ‘Moderation in the pursuit of justice is no virtue.’

  Then again, Goldwater lost. Big.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Grissom interrupted his thoughts, “please give your attention now to Ms. Edwards who will deliver the opening statement on behalf of the defendant.”

  Chapter 32

  Edwards stood up and nodded to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.” She stepped around the defense table, laying a reassuring hand on her client’s shoulder on her way, and stepped into the attorney well. She set a large binder on the bar next to her and opened it to whatever page she wanted showing, then looked up the judge again, “May it please the court,” she began ceremonially, turning to each addressed party in turn, “counsel, members of the jury. My name is Jessica Edwards, and I’m pleased to deliver the opening statement on behalf of my client, Mr. Kenneth Brown.”

  She was more formal than Brunelle, an attribute that would tend to benefit her client. There was an unspoken, underlying dynamic in a criminal prosecution: the prosecutor and judge were working to enforce the rules of the body politic and the defendant was a radical, unrepentant agent of chaos, bent on destroying the peace and prosperity of the good people of the world—a threat to be extinguished lest it consume us all. And Edwards represented him. She acted as a standin in the jury’s eyes—since it was highly unlikely they would ever hear a word uttered from his lips.

  ‘Better to let the world think you a respectable businessman than to open your mouth and confirm the fact that you’re a low-life street pimp.’ Or something like that.

  So the more formal Edwards was, and the more she could show the jury she was part of the system, too, the better it would be for her client. It was all subliminal, of course, but very real.

  “Amy Corrigan may be dead,” Edwards began. “Or then again, maybe she’s not. She might have run off to another city or state, or even another country. Or maybe she didn’t. She might be buried deep in the ground somewhere or she might be way up in a penthouse starting a new life, looking down and wondering if anyone from Seattle even noticed she left.”

  Edwards shrugged to the jury. “We don’t know. No one knows. Because Amy Corrigan just disappeared. She didn’t leave behind any clue as to where she was going. But, then again, that happens a lot when people run away. The whole point of running away is so people can’t find you. It would defeat the purpose if you told them where you were going.”

 
She took two steps to her right, head lowered in apparent thought, then stopped again and looked back to the jury. “But not leaving anything behind—that’s very strange when a person is murdered. When a person is murdered they always leave something behind: their body.”

  Touché, thought Brunelle. But he didn’t let the thought appear on his face. He was bent over his notepad, taking notes with an air of calm confidence—at least that was the appearance he was going for.

  Edwards continued. “When someone dies, they leave their body behind. It doesn’t matter how they died. Unless the body is completely vaporized in some sort of accident, there’s a body left behind to confirm the person is dead. When an old man passes away in his sleep, his family finds his body in the bed. When someone dies in a car crash, paramedics pull the body from the wreckage. And when someone is murdered… Well, it’s pretty hard to get rid of a body and erase any trace of evidence at the crime scene. In fact, the body usually tells us exactly how the person died—strangulation, stab wounds, gunshot—and the crime scene often tells us who did it. The ex-wife’s living room covered in the victim’s blood? Pretty likely she’ll be suspect number one.”

  Edwards nodded to herself and retraced those two steps back to her original standing position. “But in this case, there’s no sign of Amy Corrigan’s body. It wasn’t found in a bed, or a car, or Mr. Brown’s living room.”

  Brunelle’s eyebrow raised. Edwards had very subtly, and very deftly suggested that Brown and Corrigan were exes. He knew it was intentional. He was less sure if it helped her case. On the one hand, it suggested he cared for her. On the other hand, domestic violence murders were hardly unheard of. It’s hard to get murderously angry at a simple coworker.

  “In this case,” Edwards continued, “Amy Corrigan disappeared without a trace. Something far more common in runaway cases than murder cases. In fact, it’s just the opposite of what you’d expect in a murder case.”

  Brunelle lowered his pen and frowned. The frown came for three reasons. One, Edwards was making a good point and doing so rather effectively. Two, she was being argumentative though—something lawyers aren’t supposed to do in opening statement. Three, he could therefore object, even though he really didn’t like objecting. Hence the frown; it was one of indecision. Because, despite his distaste for playing the objecting obstructionist, reason two meant reason three would be sustained, thereby stopping reason one.

  His indecision was overcome by Edwards’ next comments. “So, I’m going to challenge you, ladies and gentlemen. I’m going to challenge you not to be swayed by passion and innuendo, but rather to base your decision on the evidence—or rather the lack of it. A missing body—”

  “Objection,” Brunelle said calmly—almost quietly—as he stood up. “Argumentative.”

  The other reason Brunelle went ahead and objected was because Edwards had interrupted his opening statement, twice. It wasn’t just to get her back—not just that—but also because he didn’t want the jury left with the impression that he was willing to do something inappropriate but Edwards was the legal profession’s Mother Teresa.

  Grissom leaned forward, glanced at Brunelle almost as if to confirm he really had stood up and made an objection, then turned to Edwards. “It does seem argumentative, counsel. Opening statement is supposed to be limited to what you believe the evidence will show. The facts, as it were. Not arguments as to the legal significance of those facts. And not challenges to the jury to find a particular way.”

  Edwards, who had turned to face the judge, didn’t argue, but simply offered a tight smile and a curt nod. “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you, Your Honor.”

  She turned back to the jurors. “The judge is correct. Opening statement is supposed to be what we think the evidence will show. But, ladies and gentlemen, that’s the whole problem. The evidence is going to show nothing. It’s not going to show Amy Corrigan was murdered. It’s not even going to show that she’s dead. It’s going to show that she disappeared and hasn’t been heard from since, and there are any number of explanations for that which don’t involve her death, let alone that my client killed her.” Her voice was rising in volume and accelerating in cadence. Professionalism was giving way to passion—not necessarily a bad thing in trial. Jurors want to see you believe in your cause. “The evidence,” Edwards waved a hand at Brunelle even as she kept her eyes on the jurors, “is going to show that there is no evidence. Instead, the prosecution is going to put on a series of witnesses who have no idea where Amy Corrigan is in the hopes of creating a cloud of guilt to disguise the undeniable fact that Kenneth Brown is absolutely not guilty of the charge of murder. Thank you.”

  Edwards snatched up her binder—which she never looked at—and hurried back to her seat. Brunelle frowned slightly to himself. That still sounded pretty argumentative. Unfortunately, it also sounded pretty accurate.

  “Mr. Brunelle,” Judge Grissom peered down at him, “the state may call its first witness.”

  Brunelle stood up and nodded to the judge. “The state calls Mary Corrigan.”

  Chapter 33

  Mary Corrigan was Amy’s mother. The only better person to start with would have been Lydia. But generally, toddlers weren’t competent to testify. So Brunelle would have to forgo the theater of a two-year-old telling the jury, ‘I miss my mommy,’ and go instead to the mommy’s mommy.

  Mary walked into the courtroom rather uneasily and looked around at the proceedings. Lawyers and jurors, judges and defendants, armed guards and interested spectators. It was a lot. Her face showed her anxiety. The downside of starting with Mary was that civilian witnesses weren’t usually very good at testifying. Cops and crime lab scientists knew the drill: sit naturally, answer just the question that was asked, turn to the jury to speak. They were used to it. But civilians could get overwhelmed. Especially family. Especially mom.

  But that was also part of the appeal for Brunelle. Let mom break down on the stand. Let the jury see how devastated she is at the loss of her daughter. Let Edwards attack her and have the jury hate her client for it. Mary didn’t have any information about how Amy died—hell, Brunelle didn’t even have that—so she could hardly say anything to damage his case. She was there to introduce the jury to Amy, and to convince them Amy would never run away. Not from little Lydia.

  Mary walked nervously through the gauntlet of spectators and approached the witness stand. She clutched her purse in her left hand as she raised her right and the judge swore her in. Then she sat down and Brunelle started his examination.

  “Please state your name for the record,” he began.

  “Mary Corrigan,” she answered. She glimpsed quickly around the room, then returned her gaze to Brunelle.

  Ordinarily, Brunelle preferred a witness to give their answers to the jury, but he’d done this long enough to know the nervous witnesses needed to focus in on the questioner and half-forget anyone was watching. He took a step closer to her to affirm their connection.

  “Thank you for coming today, Ms. Corrigan.” The only pleasantry he had time for. They couldn’t pretend it was a social visit. “Did you know Amy Corrigan?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes,” was all she managed to say.

  Brunelle nodded back, half acknowledgment of how difficult this was going to be for her, half encouragement to do it anyway. “And who was Amy Corrigan?”

  Mary took a moment to respond. Her lip quivered. “My daughter,” she croaked over the lump in her throat.

  Brunelle nodded again, then stepped back to his table. He picked up a photograph and showed it briefly to Edwards. Edwards nodded and waved him forward. Brunelle approached the witness stand and handed the photograph to Mary.

  “Do you recognize the person in this photograph?” he asked.

  Of course she did. He knew that; everyone in the courtroom knew that. But the evidence rules required he lay foundation before he could show the picture to the jury. And, really, that was one of the two main reasons for calling Mary Corrigan. To show the jury that
Amy Corrigan was a real, honest to goodness, living and breathing person; and to tell them what she’d left behind.

  Mary looked at the photograph. Her eyes welled and she nodded. She closed her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek, “Yes,” she sniffled. “That’s Amy.”

  Brunelle reached out and took the photograph back. “Your Honor, the state moves to admit exhibit number one.”

  “No objection,” Edwards said.

  “Exhibit one is admitted,” the judge ordered.

  There was a box of tissues on the witness stand. Brunelle slid it to Mary, then stepped over to the projector between the lawyers’ tables and placed the photograph on it. A moment later, Amy’s smiling face was blown up four-feet tall on the screen across from the jurors.

  “That’s Amy?” Brunelle confirmed with Mary.

  Mary nodded again, a tissue pressed to her nose. “Yes. That’s my Amy.”

  Perfect, Brunelle thought. ‘My Amy.’ Couldn’t have been a better response. He was half way there.

  The photo was what was commonly referred to as an ‘in life’ photo. It was meant to contrast the ‘in death’ photographs: bloody at the crime scene, scrubbed and pale on the medical examiner’s slab. In the normal murder case, the in-life reminded the jury that the corpse used to be a real person. But this wasn’t the normal case. The smiling face of Amy Corrigan wouldn’t just remind the jury that Amy Corrigan used to be alive—without the bloody crime scene and creepy autopsy photos, there was a danger it would leave them with the impression that she might still be alive. Best to rebut that idea right away.

  “When was the last time you saw Amy?” Brunelle asked. He left the photo up on the screen. He was going to leave it up for the next line of questioning, until he replaced it with another photo to finish his examination—one he hoped Edwards would forget was up when she did her cross.

  Mary’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment. She choked back a sob. “About six months ago.”