Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  “And do not, under any circumstance, discuss the merits of this case amongst yourselves. During those times when court is in recess or adjourned, do not allow anyone to discuss the case with you. If anyone attempts to discuss the case, tell the person that you are a member of the jury and can’t talk about it, and ask the person to stop. If the person keeps talking about the case, leave the conversation and report the incident to my clerk, Ms. Wagner. She’ll bring it up to me, and I’ll decide what to do about it.”

  A ritual hanging, perhaps? I wondered what awful justice Adele Wegland would mete out.

  “You are not being sequestered in this case, which means you get to go home at night. Do not listen to any reports about this case on the TV or radio, and do not read any accounts in the newspapers or on the Internet. Don’t even talk about the case with your spouse or significant other. Let him or her give you a back rub instead. You’ll probably need it.”

  The jurors laughed. Jurors like to laugh when judges make jokes.

  “Now, in every criminal case the accused party is presumed innocent. To overcome that presumption, the burden of proof of guilt is placed on the prosecution. They must prove to you every element of the charge beyond a reasonable doubt. I’ll tell you exactly what that means when I explain the law to you. Also, in a criminal trial the accused has the absolute right, under the Constitution, to remain silent. He does not have to take the stand to testify. You are not to draw any inference of guilt if the accused so chooses. That must not influence your verdict in any way.”

  Then why did I have the impression that Judge Adele Wegland was silently telling the jury she thought my client should go away for a long stretch in the pen?

  “Again, I want to thank you for accepting the role of juror in this case. We will take a ten-minute recess, and when we come back, the lawyers will proceed with their opening statements.”

  As the judge went back to chambers, Triple C said, “The show is about to begin. You ready?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  “Then speak the speech, I pray you, and fit the action to the word, the word to the action.”

  “Hamlet?”

  “You got it.”

  “Nice literary reference,” I said. “But only one thing bothers me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hamlet ends up dead.”

  Because the state has the burden of proof, the prosecutor gets the first word to the jury. Benton Tolletson took that and more.

  He seemed to own the courtroom. I was beginning to suspect he really did, along with all the judges in Hinton County and maybe a handful of the jurors too.

  “Good morning,” he said to the jury. “As you know, my name is Benton Tolletson, and I am the People’s representative, the county district attorney. I’m standing before you today to speak on behalf of one of our own, Rae Patino, a young woman, a young mother, a working mother, who was trying to forge a new life for herself and her little boy here in the town of Hinton. You’re going to hear her story from those people who knew her, but mostly what you’re going to hear about is a jealous husband, one so jealous it drove him to plan the murder of his wife.”

  Pausing for a moment in front of the jury box, Tolletson looked up and down the two rows of rapt jurors.

  “You see, the defendant over there”—Tolletson pointed at Howie—“thought about how he was going to do it, how he was going to dispose of his wife, while he was five thousand miles away. He thought about it on the plane trip to Los Angeles, and he thought about it on the bus ride from Los Angeles International Airport up here to our town. He thought about it when he got off the bus, and he thought about it as he walked up White Oak Avenue.

  “This defendant, you see, knew that Rae Patino had decided to move on with her life. This sometimes happens in a marriage. We all know that. And in this country, at least, when that decision is made by one party, the other party has to accept that.

  “But this defendant couldn’t accept that. Wouldn’t accept that. And he decided Rae Patino was not going to get away with it.”

  Tolletson was pacing up and down now, like a panther in a cage. His hands were clasped behind him, his head bowed slightly. I could see his neck turning a faint shade of red.

  “The defendant knocked on the door and shouted out Rae’s name. There was no answer. There’s a reason for that. Rae Patino was scared of her husband. She recognized the voice and refused to answer the door.

  “That did not stop the defendant. He went around to the back of the house where he was able to break in. Once inside, he made for the bedroom where Rae Patino lay in bed, no doubt afraid of the confrontation. Did she beg for her life? Perhaps. We don’t really know. What we do know is that the defendant got a knife from the kitchen and proceeded to stab”—Tolletson made a stabbing motion with his fist—“and stab and stab and stab”—he pumped his arm—“over and over again, until Rae Patino bled to death.”

  Howie was motionless beside me. It was almost like he was in a coma. Maybe he was, in a way, lost in a catalepsy of torment.

  “You will hear a lot of evidence in this case, ladies and gentlemen, but nothing you hear will be as important as what came out of the defendant’s own mouth. You will hear the words, ‘I did it! I killed her! I killed my wife!’ You see, the defendant had a moment when he just couldn’t hide the truth any longer. That’s because the truth just won’t go away.”

  For another twenty minutes or so, Tolletson went over the evidence he was going to present. If this had been any other prosecutor and any other venue, I would have said he overplayed his hand, promising too much to the jury. When that happens, the other lawyer can usually do severe damage to his opponent’s case by reminding the jury about how much was told them during opening statement, and how the guaranteed evidence never materialized.

  But we were in Hinton, where the people had elected Benton Tolletson to the office of the district attorney. Maybe the jury would believe him if he said pigs flew.

  I heard my name called by Judge Adele Wegland. After a quick look at Triple C and Fred and Janet Patino, I stood up.

  And almost fell down.

  I don’t know what it was, or how it happened. A wave of nausea washed over me so suddenly and completely that I thought I was going to faint. I was either temporarily blinded or else had my eyes closed. Either way, I was in momentary darkness.

  It was the darkness that scared me more than anything. Maybe it can be explained psychologically, maybe it was something more. Much more. But in those few moments, I was oblivious to everything except myself, feeling like I might pass out, but also something far worse—feeling I was in a blackness from which I would not emerge.

  And then I heard a voice.

  What happened next may have only taken a few seconds in real time in the Hinton County Courthouse, but it seemed like an hour in my head. The voice was audible in the way dream voices are, sounding in my brain without passing through the ear canals, without the physiological requirements needed to make an actual sound.

  It’s all over, the voice said.

  Where was it coming from? A pickled part of my brain?

  It’s all over, so why don’t you just give up?

  I felt Triple C take my arm. “Jake, what is it?”

  “Mr. Denney,” said the judge, “are you all right?”

  “Water,” I said. Triple C poured me a glass from the pitcher on the counsel table and handed it to me. I could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom, including the jurors, and could only wonder what they thought. Poor sap attorney can’t even get out the first words of his opening statement.

  “May we have a short break, Your Honor?” I asked.

  After a terse pause, Judge Wegland said, “All right. Fifteen minutes. And I want to see counsel in chambers.”

  She got up and left the courtroom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “JUST WHAT HAPPENED out there, Mr. Denney?”

  Adele Wegland’s office was a st
udy in contrasts. Even with the lights on, it seemed darker than it should have been, and the dull browns and blacks of the interior only added to the brooding feeling. Yet on her desk, in a small vase, was a single, hopeful flower—a red rose. It reminded me of blood.

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” I said. “I don’t know what hit me. Maybe it’s all the excitement.”

  Benton Tolletson huffed.

  “Do you feel ill?” the judge asked.

  “I think I’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t want to call a halt if I can help it.”

  “You won’t have to.” I was feeling my forehead, which had a thin layer of sweat across it.

  “I wish I could be sure, Mr. Denney. Do you need a doctor?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you need something else?” Benton Tolletson said.

  I looked at him sideways, wondering what he meant. The judge said, “What do you mean, Mr. Tolletson?”

  “I’m not one to speculate,” the prosecutor answered. “But we all know Mr. Denney has had his troubles in the past. Drinking, you know.”

  I wanted to shout some choice epithet to express my outrage, but two things stopped me—my stomach and the judge. Adele Wegland was looking at me like she was in complete agreement with Tolletson. If I’d been a conspiracy buff, I might have said they had gotten together before the trial to plan this very thing—a tag team match, two against one.

  Shaking my head, I said, “That’s . . . ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” Tolletson said like a cross-examiner. “When was the last time you had a drink?”

  I looked at the judge. “I don’t have to answer that.”

  I might as well have been looking at a poster of Uncle Sam, the one where he is scowling and pointing at you. “I think you do,” said the judge.

  Tolletson was sitting there with a half smirk on his face. I could read his thoughts as if they were words appearing on a computer screen. You’re out of it, Denney. You have no business being here. You’re a loused-up lawyer with a loused-up life. You thought you could come up here and take me on, but you can’t even say a few simple words to a jury. I don’t even want you around my town, stinking up the place . . .

  “I asked you for a response, Mr. Denney.” The judge had her firm-lipped look, like a mother superior with tight shoes.

  “My personal habits aren’t your business,” I said.

  “If you can’t handle this case,” she said, “then it is my business. I have to make sure your client gets competent counsel. And if your alcoholism is going to make that an impossibility, I’m going to have to remove you.”

  “Alcoholism? That’s ridiculous.”

  “Are you an alcoholic, Mr. Denney?”

  “No!” I snapped, sounding to myself like one of those classic dipsos who say I can quit anytime I want to . . .

  “Maybe we need a medical opinion,” said the judge.

  Tolletson shrugged his shoulders. That’s when I decided to fight back. “You try that, and I’ll have you up before the Commission on Judicial Performance. I’ll make the biggest stink of your professional life.”

  “That,” Tolletson interjected, “I can believe.”

  “Now, now,” said the judge, “you don’t need to fly off the handle. My only concerns are your client and the twelve people sitting in the jury box. I just want to know if this sort of thing is going to happen again.”

  “I’m not planning on it,” I said. “And I’m not going to be replaced.”

  “Then you go give us an opening statement.”

  “All right,” I said, standing up. My legs felt like spaghetti.

  “But, Mr. Denney,” said the judge, “I’ll be watching you very carefully.”

  Yeah, I thought. You and everybody else.

  “You look like the walking dead,” Triple C said when I got back to the courtroom.

  “Thanks. You’re a real pal.”

  “I mean, you don’t look healthy.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t want to scare the poor people on the jury. Why don’t we put this off until tomorrow?”

  “Judge wants to get on with it.”

  “Oh, man.”

  I put a hand on Trip’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Maybe the jury’ll have such sympathy for me they won’t possibly convict.”

  Trip laughed, but it was muted laughter. I suddenly felt very alone. As the jury marched in, I wished that my little girl was in the courtroom giving me a big hug. If there was one person in the world who wasn’t ready to condemn me, it was Mandy. I wanted Mandy.

  Instead I got the jurors, and I could tell they had questions in their minds when I finally started speaking.

  “I must apologize, ladies and gentlemen,” I said. “Opening night jitters, I guess.”

  At that point I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say next. I had an outline written down, which went over the evidence, but I felt I had to tell the jury something else. Just what, I didn’t know.

  “I guess I’m a little nervous here. It’s a big responsibility defending a man accused of murder. A big one. And I want to make sure I do the best I can, not only for him, but for you. You are the ones who will ultimately decide this case, not me, not the judge, and not the prosecutor. It’s my job to get you the evidence you need to make that decision, and that’s just what I’m going to do. I only ask that if I seem a little shaky on my feet you don’t hold it against my client.”

  “Your Honor,” I heard Benton Tolletson say. “This is not a proper opening statement.”

  I spun around, and if I’d had anything in my hands, I probably would have thrown it at his square-jawed face.

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  No lawyer likes to have an objection sustained against him, but especially not during opening statement. It makes the jury think you’re trying to pull something and got caught. Not a great way to start a trial.

  I walked over to counsel table and looked down at my outline. The words were there, but they didn’t seem to make any sense. They were a jumble, like the scribblings my daughter made with crayons when she was three years old.

  I looked back at the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, there are two sides to every story. What the prosecutor told you a little while ago was only one side, his side. But what he said is not evidence. The evidence is going to come to you from that witness box and through exhibits. All I ask you to do is keep an open mind, as you have sworn to do, before making your decision. Thank you.”

  As I sat down, Judge Wegland said to Tolletson, “Call your first witness.”

  The witness was none other than Officer McGary, and Tolletson walked him through the events for the benefit of the jury. Starting off with the dramatic action was a smart move by the prosecutor.

  Jurors, like just about everyone else in society, are TV trained. They watch cop shows, and that’s just what Benton Tolletson was giving them. With rehearsed adroitness, McGary spun his tale, and Tolletson led him up to the point of greatest dramatic interest—the introduction of the murder weapon.

  Juries love the introduction of the murder weapon. It’s just like show-and-tell.

  When Tolletson held up the knife, Howie’s eyes widened with a look of abject terror. If you didn’t know him—and the jurors didn’t—the look would have signaled just one thing: conscious guilt. That’s why I leaned forward in my chair, trying to keep Howie’s face from being flashed to the entire jury like a neon I DID IT sign.

  Fortunately, most of the jurors were watching Tolletson, which is just what he wanted.

  After McGary finished identifying the weapon, Tolletson turned him over to me. “Go get him,” Trip whispered as I stood up.

  “Just a few questions for you, Officer,” I said walking to the edge of the jury box. Some lawyers like to ask their questions from a lectern, giving them the appearance of professional authority. Others, like me, stand so as to make the witness look past the eyes of the jurors, the ones who sit
in judgment on credibility. I wanted them looking into McGary’s baby blues.

  “When you got to the house,” I said, “you didn’t hear any screams, did you?”

  “No,” McGary answered brusquely.

  “Well, how about voices? Did you hear any loud voices?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Sounds of something breaking?”

  “No.”

  “A gunshot?”

  “No.”

  “A television set?”

  “No.”

  “A radio?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, Officer McGary, you did not hear anything from inside the house, did you?”

  “Which is why I had some concerns.”

  “Just answer the questions I give you, if you don’t mind.”

  Tolletson shot to his feet. “The witness may answer as he sees fit, Your Honor.”

  Nodding, Judge Wegland said, “As long as it’s responsive. Continue, Mr. Denney.”

  I said, “How many times in your career has the absence of evidence been evidence of a crime?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You say the lack of any sound raised concerns for you. Sir, if you were following a car that was driving straight at a normal rate of speed, you wouldn’t pull it over for drunk driving, would you?”

  “Objection,” said Tolletson. “Argumentative.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge

  “Officer McGary, this was at night, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Around 10:45 or so, is that your testimony?”

  “Yes.”

  “At 10:45 at night, sir, is not the absence of noise consistent with people sleeping inside their homes?”

  McGary scowled slightly, then said, “But that’s not what was going on.”

  “You didn’t know at the time that anything was going on, did you?”

  “Not when I knocked on the door, no. But later—”

  “Just answer my questions, sir. At no time did you hear any noise from within that house. Isn’t that a fact?”

  “Yes.”

  I could see the backs of all the jurors’ heads, which was a good thing. At least they were watching the witness.