by Shenda Paul
Counsel
Shenda Paul
Copyright © 2015 by Shenda Paul
Publish Green
322 1st Avenue North, Fifth Floor
Minneapolis, MN 55401
612.436.3954
www.publishgreen.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This eBook published in 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9944722-0-5
Cover design: TW/S. Paul
Cover Image: © Alswart/Fotolia
Dedication
T.K.
In my heart, always.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Preview of Justice – Sequel to Counsel
Acknowledgments
About The Author
Chapter One
"You surprised him, shot him with his own gun, and then, in a fit of rage and jealousy, butchered him with a kitchen knife. You let him bleed to death while you meticulously cleaned yourself up. You waited an hour before calling the police. You planned on murdering your husband, did you not, Samantha?"
"I… no… I loved…love him…" She sobs, but I’m impervious to her distress. It doesn’t matter that she's a woman, that she's beautiful, or that her husband was a cheating bastard. What matters is that Samantha Jenkins had motive, the means and the opportunity to murder her husband Robin; that and the overwhelming evidence pointing to her guilt. I'm simply using the facts to prove my case.
"Objection, move to strike. The prosecutor has badgered and led the witness throughout his cross-examination, Your Honor," her attorney, Owen Bryce, interjects, sounding almost indignant.
What the hell did he expect? He, like every attorney, has been taught the fundamental rule of cross-examination; 'every question must be a leading question'. Unlike a direct examination where the aim is to gain information from a witness, your intent during cross-examination is not to ask the witness, it’s to tell the jury. You are, in fact, testifying. You want the jury to hear what you have to say, not what the witness has to tell; and in this instance, I want them to remember the dying moments of the victim, not the evidence of the defendant.
"One more transgression and you will be ruled in contempt, Counsel," Judge Smythe cautions.
"The Commonwealth rests, Your Honor," I announce, satisfied that I’ve achieved my goal. Bryce is invited to redirect, but he, probably realizing the futility of doing so, declines.
"Court will reconvene at three p.m. at which time closing arguments will be heard," Judge Smythe announces.
"Lunch, Adam?" my second-chair asks hopefully as I pack up. Tess Williams is an extremely attractive woman with flaming red hair and long, long legs. The phrase 'don't foul your own nest' comes to mind at her look of blatant invitation. I’d never accept, but I'm not about to deny myself the pleasure of a beautiful and intelligent woman’s company over lunch.
"Let's go to Neptune Oyster, their clam chowder’s legendary," I suggest, and her smile widens.
"You were amazing in there, Adam," she says almost as soon as we’re seated and leans across to run long, red nails down my forearm. I hold her gaze for a moment before removing my arm.
"Thanks, but it’s a pretty cut and dried case. We just have to keep the pressure on and hope the jury doesn't sympathize with her because of her husband’s infidelity."
"I agree," she replies as I feel her ankle brush against mine. It could be accidental, but I highly doubt it. It’s not the first overture of this nature she’s made.
I smile wryly. "Tess, what are you doing? You’re an attractive woman…an extremely attractive woman, and under different circumstances we'd be spending a couple of hours in a handy hotel room; but I’m in a relationship, we're professionals, colleagues, and we’ve been friends for a long time. Let's not spoil things."
She sighs exaggeratedly. "We could be so good together," she laments, her gaze lingering on mine before she abruptly turns to her menu. "Okay, let's order. Remind me, what's good here."
I smile. "As I’ve said, the clam chowder’s legendary."
.
.
Back in court, I listen to Bryce extol his client’s virtues as a faithful and supportive wife. He's a good attorney, but he lacks the killer instinct, I decide.
"My client loved and still loves her husband deeply," he says. "Yes, she was devastated and angry when discovering his infidelity and heartbroken that he’d fathered a child with another woman, but she firmly believed they could resolve the problems in their marriage. She professed her willingness to accept his unborn child, and Mr. Jenkins assured her that they had a future together.
"My client was not home at the time of her husband’s murder. She stopped off for a drink after a long day’s shopping. There is nothing unusual in that, Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury. The pub she visited was crowded; it’s not surprising that no one remembers having seen her.
"She returned home to find her husband lying in a pool of blood. She was shocked and distraught and did what many in the same situation would; she tried to help her husband instead of immediately calling for help. The prosecutor would have you believe there was something sinister in my client’s behavior, but Mrs. Jenkins’ reaction was normal, Ladies and Gentlemen. Hers was the natural response of a loving wife. She was utterly distraught when her desperate efforts to save her husband failed. Surely, it’s understandable that it took time for her to think clearly enough to call the police?
"Testimony from her neighbor, Mrs. Arnold, who thought she heard my client arrive home that day cannot be substantiated and should, therefore, be discounted. The housekeeper, Mrs. Davidson’s testimony does not prove that my client was the one who removed the gun from the drawer where it was kept; the deceased may well have done so himself. He may have heard a disturbance and decided to arm himself against an intruder.
"It’s ludicrous to assume that my client was the only left-handed person in the vicinity when approximately ten percent of the world’s population is left-handed and thirty percent mixed-handed
"There is simply not sufficient proof to find Mrs. Jenkins guilty of murder. It would be doing further injustice to an innocent and already wronged woman. If you hold even a shadow of doubt in your minds, Ladies and Gentlemen, you must acquit my client," he concludes.
&nb
sp; It’s my turn, then, to make my argument. I rise and thank the court, defense counsels, and the jury for their time and attention.
"Defense Counsel presents a good case, but he failed to acknowledge the facts. The facts, Your Honor, Ladies, and Gentlemen, are that several witnesses overheard the defendant threaten not only her husband but also his pregnant mistress. Despite interviewing dozens of witnesses at the pub where the defendant claims to have gone for a drink on that fateful night, police were unable to find a single person who remembered her being there; not a bartender, not a waiter or waitress, not another patron. The defendant is a striking-looking woman, one, who would hardly go unnoticed in an establishment such as the Silverton."
I allow my gaze to sweep the jury panel before settling on a middle-aged woman at the end. Having even a single juror predisposed to your argument can be advantageous, and I can tell I’ve won her over.
"Mrs. Arnold didn’t simply think she heard the defendant arrive home as counsel has asserted, she witnessed her drive into the garage two hours before she claims to have done so; a timeframe that confirms she was home at the time of her husband’s murder. Mrs. Davidson, the Jenkins’ housekeeper, has testified that the defendant knew where the spare key to the gun drawer was kept; a random intruder would not have known that.
"Police uncovered no signs of forced entry, and the coroner has presented forensic proof that Robin Jenkins was shot at close range. No visible signs of a struggle were detected at the scene of the crime. Surely a man with the physical attributes of the victim would have tried to defend himself against an intruder? Robin Jenkins had his throat slit after being shot, and he was almost certainly still alive and unable to protect himself from that final and brutal assault. The entry point and nature of the knife wound indicates that his killer is left-handed, as is the defendant. The force with which the wound was inflicted indicates a person of small to medium build, as is the defendant.
"Defense Counsel claims his client’s failure to call police immediately on discovering her husband’s body is because she was overcome. We say she delayed because she needed time to destroy evidence and rehearse her story. The defendant has herself testified that she tried to help a man she knew was already dead. That, she maintains, is the reason for the presence of her bloodied handprint on her dead husband’s shirt. We say, and forensic evidence substantiates the fact, that the damning print resulted from her leaning over Robin to slit his throat.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, you are charged with the unenviable and grave responsibility of determining guilt or innocence. I urge you, in your deliberations, to disregard the personalities, the suppositions and the emotion surrounding this case. Consider the facts, and only the facts. The facts will lead you to the only possible verdict, and that is finding Samantha Jenkins guilty of the premeditated and brutal murder of her husband."
Judge Smythe instructs the jury and then retires them to deliberate. On the way out, Bryce and I cross paths. "You really are a bastard," he accuses.
"So they say," I reply dispassionately and without stopping to engage him further, make my way out of court.
Many have accused me of displaying hubris in court, but I make no apologies for my conduct. Criminals come in all guises. They hide behind the mantle of respectability, beauty, charm, or the facade of a grieving spouse, parent, lover or friend. They almost always profess innocence, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. A prosecutor’s role isn’t merely to present evidence; it includes unveiling the truth, exposing criminals and those seeking to protect them. Today, I did just that.
I chipped away at Samantha Jenkins’ show of bereaved widow. I read the guilt in her eyes and went in for the kill. I know guilt; I witnessed it in Eleanor’s eyes in her ever-diminishing periods of lucidity. I watched her become consumed by it and then lose it at the bottom of a bottle or with a shot in the arm. Yes, I learned in those dreadful years to recognize guilt. I suffered it. So I really don’t care what those I oppose in court think of me.
The only opinions that matter are those of my family because I owe them everything. They understand and accept my compulsion for work. The same can't be said for my girlfriend. Jaclyn simply refuses to accept my dedication, and she probably never will, especially as I choose to withhold details of my past. After six months of casual dating and then living with her for another six, I still don't have the desire to share the most private part of myself with her. Not that I think it would make a difference if I did.
She dislikes my friends and shows no interest in getting to know them. I don't believe she’s truly interested in knowing the real me, to be honest. I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t like that person anyway. She wants the rich, successful prosecutor with the bright future. She's not interested in the work I do, or why I do it. She's interested in its potential for my greater success and ascension among Boston’s elite and, by extension, hers.
As if gifted with some sixth sense, she calls. I brace myself for another meaningless, and what’s become a predictable, conversation.
"Hi," I answer, hoping to be proven wrong.
"You haven’t returned my calls, Adam. What if it had been an emergency?"
"Is it?" I ask, trying to contain my rising irritation.
"Is it what?"
"Is it an emergency, Jaclyn?"
"Well no, I'm just making a point. When will you be home?"
I take a calming breath. "I intended to call you shortly. I’m meeting Matt and the gang for a drink; it would be nice if you joined us."
Why don’t we spend the evening alone, or we could go to a nice restaurant. What about Espalier?"
"I haven’t seen my friends in weeks, and I’ve promised Matt."
"Adam, I don't have anything in common with those people." She sighs heavily.
"Matt’s like a brother to me; he is, in fact, family. I'm going, with or without you, it's up entirely up to you, Jaclyn."
"I'm not going Adam, just don’t be home late. We need to talk."
"We do, but it won’t be tonight," I reply testily, expelling a frustrated breath when she hangs up on me. I’m glad she’s raised the need to talk, though. I’ve been delaying the inevitable for too long.
I wasn’t ready for a committed relationship when I met Jaclyn, but we ran into each other at social events on several occasions after. I finally invited her out, and we started dating casually. Our relationship started out as easygoing, which I liked and enjoyed. I was clear about not wanting something long-term, but I let my guard down, and she managed to insinuate her way into my life. After spending a weekend together, I’d discover an item of lingerie in a drawer or a pair of shoes in my closet. I should have heeded those early signs, but I convinced myself I was being overly sensitive. Before I realized it, she’d all but moved in, and I simply took the path of least resistance. She started changing soon after, and the carefree nature of our relationship, the very thing that appealed to me, is rapidly being lost.
The physical aspect of our relationship remains satisfactory, and I’d describe my feelings for her as fondness. I don’t feel a burning passion for her; certainly nothing like the kind that exists between Mom and Dad or Caitlin and Matt. I’d hoped, hell, I still hope, to find that some day.
Despite knowing how dear my family is to me, Jaclyn studiously avoids every opportunity to spend time with them. What she enjoys, I’ve discovered, is the media attention I attract. She loves nothing more than to be seen and photographed on my arm. I, on the other hand, hate the media’s seeming obsession with me. I’ve tried, in the face of our differences, to ignite the kind of love for Jaclyn that my family experiences. Instead, I feel more and more stifled in a relationship I should never have allowed to develop.
My irritation slowly dissipates as I navigate the familiar streets where I grew up. I smile involuntarily when passing James Condon Elementary where Matt and I met. He came to my aid when I was confronted and outnumbered by bull
ies in the schoolyard. We ended up with bloody noses and scraped knees, but victorious, mostly due to his formidable reputation and size. We became best friends, and he later introduced me to Alan and Ian. Matt’s my brother-in-law now.
I’ve stopped at a red light when, suddenly, I’m lurched forward to the sound of a sickening crunch. It takes only seconds to realize what’s happened, and I’m already uttering a string of expletives as I step out of my car. The offending driver has yet to emerge as I move to assess the damage.
"Are you blind?" I turn on the offender. "That was a red light!" I accuse as the car door opens to reveal a shapely leg clad in black tights and pink leg coverings. I’m faced with a petite woman, wearing sunglasses that obscure most of her face. All I can distinguish is a slightly up-turned nose and a full, enticing mouth, which at any other time I’d find highly appealing.
"I'm so sorry! I…I just reached for my phone…" she stammers.
"You shouldn’t be using your phone. Someone could've been hurt or killed."
She appears taken aback by my anger but juts her chin out defiantly. "I’ve apologized, there's no need to be an ass about it. It was just a tap, and as you can see, your precious car’s fine." I glare at her incredulously before bending down to pointedly inspect the dent on my practically new car.
"I want your driver's license number and insurance details," I demand, straightening up.
"I'm not giving you a thing!" she replies, the slight tremor in her voice causing me a momentary pang of remorse. Then, I remember her calling me an ass.
"In that case, I hope you have insurance. If not, I suggest you find yourself a good attorney."
"You really are insufferable," she huffs and retreats to her car. She opens the door and leans across the driver’s seat to rummage through a voluminous handbag. Her shapely lips purse in annoyance as she scribbles in a notepad she’s retrieved.
"Here, I don't have time for your histrionics," she says haughtily as she rips the page out. She slaps it into my chest; and then, before I can react, gets into her car and drives away. I watch, dumbfounded as her taillights disappear from view.
