Chasing Justice

by H. Terrell Griffin

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The lack of prints could also mean that Mrs. Lester was never in that condo, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. Except that the wine glass was there.”

  “But somebody else could have put that wine glass in the bedroom, couldn’t they?”

  “I guess so. Yes.”

  “Did you find any fingerprints in Mr. Bannister’s condo that were identified as belonging to Robert Shorter?”

  He consulted his notes. “Yes, sir. Mr. Shorter’s fingerprints were found in the living room.”

  “Thank you. I have no further questions.”

  I couldn’t figure out how that wine glass with Abby’s fingerprints got into the master bedroom, unless somebody else carried it there. The location of the wine glass on the bedside table gave more credence to the prosecutor’s theory about Abby and Lester being lovers than if the prints had been found randomly in the condo. My cross-examination had been meant only to throw a little mud on the wall. Who knows what might stick in the mind of a juror?

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Judge Thomas recessed for the evening after the last witness. I spent a few minutes with the Lesters, talking about the day and trying to prepare them for the day to come. I warned Abby not to react to whatever she heard from the witness stand, no facial expressions, no comments, no body language. I told her she’d hear some lies, and she had to rely on me to correct them. I excused myself, telling them I had work to do, and that I’d see them in the morning.

  * * *

  Some years before, Longboat Key had become my refuge from a world of which I had despaired. My life had been a series of ever tightening circles, a pitiless gyre whisking me inexorably toward that final drain. My wife, the only woman I’d ever loved before I met J.D., had divorced me, tired of my inattention, my drinking, the eternal meetings that consumed my evenings, and so much else that a self-centered lawyer chasing the holy grail of success got himself involved in. Over the years, the practice of law had changed almost imperceptibly from a respected profession into a business. Lawyers spent more time chasing the dollar than they did justice. Legislatures whittled away at judicial discretion and froze judges’ salaries so that inflation meant that they earned less each year they stayed on the bench. The result was that many qualified lawyers refused to apply for judgeships, leaving the field open to those with little experience, and too often, even less intellect.

  The sun was hanging low in the sky as I drove onto the key at the end of the day, another day in a courtroom, the kind of day I thought I’d never see again after I had ensconced myself in this lovely slice of paradise. But here I was, back in the pit with a friend’s life hanging in the balance. I had an abiding fear that I may have lost a step in the years away from the daily grind of the trial practice, but during the months since I had agreed to represent Abby, I had boned up on the procedures and substantive law, and the precedents contained in the cases that had been decided by the appellate courts since I’d given up the practice.

  I needed a little downtime, an evening away from the travails of the trial and the worry that floated over me like an ominous cloud. The key wasn’t a place of refuge on this evening. It was ground zero, awash with talk of Abby and her trial, and by extension, of me and how I was faring. I could go home or to J.D.’s condo and we could hide out, keep to ourselves, but I wanted to sit quietly with her and order a meal and a couple of beers and talk of nothing of consequence.

  I called her. “I’m just crossing the New Pass Bridge. I thought I might pick you up and go up to The Bridge Tender Inn for dinner. Just the two of us.”

  “You think that’ll be far enough away to dodge all the interested bystanders?”

  “Better than on the key.”

  “I’ll be ready when you get here. Call me when you turn onto Dream Island Road, and I’ll come downstairs and meet you.”

  The Bridge Tender sits on the edge of Sarasota Bay in the small town of Bradenton Beach, which takes up the southern end of Anna Maria Island, just across the Longboat Pass Bridge from Longboat Key. It was an old place and it always brought to mind the Florida of my youth. “Old Florida” we called it, a place that lived mostly in memory now, a place that had been torn down and paved over by the developers in pursuit of progress. I’m not sure that the new was a fair trade for the old, but it was done and there was no going back, except rarely, as on Bridge Street in Bradenton Beach, where the new abutted the old, and the old held on with a tenacity lost to most of our magical state.

  We settled into the paneled dining room and ordered seafood so fresh that we knew it had been swimming in the Gulf just that morning. The snowbirds had left us for the summer, and the tourists had not yet made a dent in the idleness of the islands. J.D. and I were seated next to the windows overlooking the bay. Only one other couple was sharing the dining room with us, and they were on the far side of the room. I sipped a cold Miller Lite and let my mind succumb to the quiet, the company, the food, and the beer.

  “How’re you doing, Matt?” J.D. asked in that quiet husky voice that conveyed her concern.

  “I’m fine. Just trying to keep my feet under me.”

  “Are you on top of this?”

  “I think so. We had a pretty good day, but Swann will really come out with his heavy guns tomorrow. Those witnesses are going to hurt us.”

  “Do you remember Deanna Bichler?”

  “Sure. Your lawyer buddy from Miami. The hot, brilliant one who doesn’t look her age.”

  J.D. stuck her tongue out at me. “She says you’re the best cross-examiner she’s ever seen. And she’s no slouch in a courtroom.”

  “I appreciate her confidence, but I’ve been out of it for awhile. I might be a little rusty.”

  “Were you rusty today? Did you not do something you should’ve done?”

  “I was thinking about that on the drive out. I did okay, but there wasn’t much contest. Swann was just crossing off the mostly uncontested facts he has to put into evidence. Tomorrow will be different. I’ve got to be on top of every word, and I’m going to have to destroy a couple of witnesses.”

  “Which witnesses?”

  “The FDLE agent Lucas, and Bannister’s business manager, Tori Madison.”

  “Are you ready for them?”

  “Yes, but I’m thinking about holding off on cross-examination. I can call them in my case and do the cross then. It might have more impact with the jury. It’ll be closer to the time they go out for deliberation and it’ll also be part of the narrative I’m trying to convince them is the truth.”

  “What’s the downside?”

  “If I’m really able to destroy their testimony, the judge might be more inclined to grant a directed verdict of acquittal when Swann finishes his case. On the other hand, unless one or both totally recant their testimony, the judge will probably let it go to the jury. I certainly don’t think we’ll see any recantations, so I might as well follow the game plan I’ve been thinking about for weeks.”

  “Go with your gut. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”

  I laughed. “You’re right. My gut is usually on the money.”

  “Have you talked to Bill much?”

  “No. I try to stay away from that conversation. There are issues I don’t want to get into unless I have to. I left him and Abby at the courthouse this afternoon. I told them I had to get home to do a little legal research for tomorrow. How does he seem at the office?”

  “He’s doing well,” she said. “At least by all outward appearances.”

  Our conversation drifted on to local gossip, the doings at the police station, and other matters of little consequence. Because I would call J.D. in my case, she was bound by the rule that kept witnesses from discussing the case beyond the parameters of her own testimony. We’d been over that a number of times, and she was well prepared.

  We finished our meal and dawdled over another drink, then walked out into the night and across the street to my car. “My pla
ce or yours?” I asked.

  “Is that a proposition?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it? You have to be in court tomorrow.”

  “Celibacy is not part of the trial lawyer’s creed.”

  “Abstinence can’t hurt.”

  “You know not of what you speak. Abstinence is counterproductive. It dumbs me down.”

  “Well, my goodness, we can’t have that. Your place is closer.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  It starts to tear at you by the third day of trial. The constant tension, the gnawing fear of failure, the weight of your client’s life riding your shoulders. It all wears you down. I knew Swann would start out with an important witness, one that would begin the real process of making his case that Abby Lester did, with malice aforethought, plan and execute the murder of a citizen of Sarasota County, one Nate Bannister. There would likely be surprises, so I had to be alert, ready to diminish the impact of the worst of the testimony. But I had some surprises of my own, and they would play out when I started my case.

  The morning was quiet as I drove the length of the key. It was not yet seven and the sun had barely slipped above the eastern horizon. The Gulf was green and flat and inviting. A few walkers and cyclists were out, getting their exercise before the heat and humidity locked them in their air-conditioned homes and condos. I wished I were with them, enjoying the morning and the beauty of our island. Only an idiot trades a week as a beach bum for a week in a courtroom.

  I parked and went to sit in the courtroom and plan my day. I was counting on Swann to put either Tori Madison or Wes Lucas on the stand. These would be his best witnesses, I thought, the ones who would tie Abby to Bannister. I had, of course, taken Lucas’ deposition, but he had played it coy. That wasn’t unexpected. It’s what a good cop does when a defense lawyer is questioning him. But, Lucas was dirty, and I thought I could prove it. If I could, whatever he had to say about Abby would be ignored by the jury. People don’t like dirty cops. Even arrogant cops rub us the wrong way. The guy in the patrol car who passes you on the highway when you’re doing the speed limit and he has no emergency lights on, or the one who parks his marked car in a handicap parking spot while attending his son’s Little League game. So when we find a dirty one, we want him off the force, off the taxpayer’s payroll, and we don’t believe a word he says under oath.

  Victoria Madison presented another problem. Her background wasn’t pretty, but she had pulled herself up and was doing well with Bannister’s development business. I had the feeling that she was involved in some decidedly criminal activities, but so far I hadn’t been able to turn up anything.

  I’d decided I had to cross-examine both of them. I was afraid that if I let their testimony go without challenging it, the jury would start making up their minds before I had a chance to begin tearing them down.

  Trials are always conundrums. The truth is in there somewhere, but in the end juries don’t really find truth. They arrive at a consensus based on their collective beliefs about the veracity of each witness and the probative value of evidence, that is the weight they place on a piece of evidence or testimony, and how that adds to the effort to determine the truth. But consensus is, after all, only opinion. In the end, the jury may do its best, but truth is elusive, and opinion is colored by the individual juror’s life experiences and prejudices. The trial lawyer’s job is to sway that opinion, to get the jury to arrive at a conclusion that exonerates his client and hope that in its wisdom, the jury has arrived at the truth. Because the trial lawyer doesn’t know the truth either, and it’s not his job to find it. His job is to gain an acquittal.

  I thought the truth in this case was that Abby was innocent. If I hadn’t thought so, I’d be fishing today, rather than sitting in an empty courtroom waiting for the action to begin. I didn’t know whether she’d had an affair with Bannister, because I’d never asked her. Nor had I ever asked if she’d killed him. I didn’t need to know either one of those things. She had gratuitously denied the allegations, but could I trust the denials? I didn’t need to know the truth to gain an acquittal. I now had a pretty clear idea of who had pulled the trigger, but I didn’t have the direct evidence I’d need to pin the murder on him. I thought I did have enough evidence to point the jury away from Abby as the murderer and make them question the prosecution’s contention that Abby was guilty. Reasonable doubt was what I needed to plant in the juror’s minds in order to gain an acquittal.

  My thoughts turned to Bill Lester and Maggie Bannister. If they were having an affair, they would possibly have reason to kill Bannister, if for no other reason than to get him out of their hair. But what then? Would Bill have divorced Abby? I couldn’t imagine Bill setting Abby up as the murderer in order to get her out of the picture. Was he capable of that? I didn’t think so, but I had long ago learned that marriages are opaque from the outside. As the old Charlie Rich song goes, “No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”

  On the other hand, Maggie had plenty of reason to kill Bannister, or at least she may have thought so, and if she could frame Abby for the murder, she would have a clear shot at having Bill Lester to herself. She’d also be rich, or so it would have seemed. She probably had no inkling that her husband was so close to being broke.

  I had not pursued Bill or Maggie as the murderer. I wondered if it had been anybody else, would I have tried to make a case that one or the other of them had killed Bannister, and thus take the spotlight off Abby. Was I letting my friendship for Bill color my thinking? I was, but it was more than the friendship. I’d known Bill Lester for a long time and I thought I knew the man. I simply did not think he could be involved in a murder. I didn’t even think he could be involved in an affair. But that was my lack of objectivity coming into play.

  I thought Maggie Bannister would have been a good suspect. She had much to gain financially, or at least she thought she did, and Bannister’s death would have meant she didn’t have to deal with him any further. But I couldn’t suggest Maggie as the murderer without bringing Bill into it.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d had this argument with myself. I understood that I might be jeopardizing Abby’s case by not pursuing Bill and Maggie. I had decided to let the trial play itself out. If I got down toward the end and it looked like Abby was at risk, I’d play the Maggie and Bill card. It would ruin Bill’s career, but if it would mean my client going home, I’d have no real choice. I’d have to do it. Legal ethics required it, but more than that, it would be the right thing to do. Sometimes, one has to make hard choices when chasing justice.

  My reverie was interrupted by Swann and his entourage’s entrance into the courtroom. He shot me a quick frown and, behind his back, the young woman lawyer smiled quickly and gave me a finger wave. The gangly law clerk nodded. I’d sure like to know the dynamics of that bunch. My guess was that they didn’t like Swann any more than I did.

  * * *

  The players were onstage. The jury in the box, my client next to me, the judge, clerks, and stenographer in their places, the prosecutors huddled over their table. The first witness was Victoria Madison. She was dressed professionally and walked to the stand with an air of confidence. I had to admire her in a way. She’d survived the swamp that her childhood and young adult years had been, and she had risen to a position of some significance. It was too bad that she hadn’t been able to do so legitimately. All she had needed was a small opportunity and she could have been a success. Maybe she found the criminal element more desirable, a way to quicker riches without all the drudgery of college and job seeking. Well, I thought, we’ll see what she’s made of.

  “State your name,” Swann said.

  “Victoria Madison.”

  “Your occupation?”

  “I’m vice president of BLP, Incorporated.”

  “What kind of company is BLP?”

  “We’re a condo developer.”

  “Do you presently have any projects underway?”
r />   “Yes, sir. In Lakeland.”

  “Did you know the victim in this case, Nate Bannister?”

  “Yes. He was the president of my company.”

  “Were you social friends as well?”

  “Not particularly. We spent a fair amount of time together, but it was mostly business.”

  “Did you ever meet the defendant Abigail Lester?”

  “Yes. On several occasions.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At Mr. Bannister’s condo.”

  “Did you form any impressions of their relationship?”

  “They were lovers.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “Mr. Bannister told me they were.”

  The last two questions were objectionable, but I decided to let them go. The testimony would come in some way or other and I didn’t want the jury to think I was hiding something. I’d have to take this up on cross-examination.

  “Other than what Mr. Bannister told you,” Swann asked, “did you have any other reason to suspect he and Abby Lester were having an affair?”

  “One day I arrived at Mr. Bannister’s condo, and when he invited me in, I heard the shower in his bedroom running. He told me it was Abby, and a few minutes later she came out of the bedroom. I noticed that her hair was wet.”

  “Were you given any explanation as to why the defendant was in the victim’s shower?”

  “None. And I didn’t ask.”

  “Did you see the defendant at the victim’s condo on other occasions?”

  “Yes. Another time when I was at Mr. Bannister’s place, the bedroom door was cracked a little and I could see in. I got a glimpse of Abby as she walked across the bedroom toward the bathroom. She was naked.”

  Swann walked to the witness stand and handed Tori a sheaf of papers. “Ms. Madison, have you ever seen these documents marked as State’s Exhibit One?”