“So ruled. You two gentlemen keep going along like this and we’ll be through with this trial in no time.”
The hearing seemed to have given the judge confidence. He was warming up to the idea of being on center stage. Jack thought that was a good development. He needed a strong judge for his plan to work.
On Thursday Jack and Henry had lunch in the city with Luis. The man was so nervous he was visibly shaking. For a moment, Jack thought back to their days with the Lexingtons. Back then Rico was so tough, so hard, so sure of himself. Jack was certain that person was still inside there somewhere. Luis had already lifted himself out of the gutter, but the situation with Benny seemed like it was about to knock everything out from under him.
“How did your visit with Benny go?” Jack asked.
“Great. Great. It couldn’t have been better. I owe that to the both of you. Whatever you said to him made him start to see things differently.”
“It wasn’t me,” Jack replied. “It was Henry. He and Benny have traveled some of the same roads.”
“It’s prison too,” Henry added. “If you’ve got half a brain, it makes you start thinking about things.”
“Whatever it was, Benny and I are together now,” Luis responded. “I’m just so on edge. I’m so afraid the state is going to pull something in that courtroom that will send Benny to his death.” Luis started shaking again. Jack searched for something to say that would calm the man.
“Luis, I told you before, I can’t guarantee the outcome of this trial. But I can guarantee you that Benny will get the best day in court he will ever have. Nobody is going to pull any shenanigans in that courtroom. I won’t allow it. I’m the Mayor of Lexington Avenue, Luis. And that courtroom is my turf!”
Luis smiled. He remembered the day on a football field many years ago, when he had given that lesson to Jack. He was thankful that his friend had learned the lesson so well. Henry, on the other hand, had no idea what Jack was talking about.
57
The criminal courts building was a seventeen-story monolith located on Centre Street near the tip of Manhattan Island and within walking distance of the Fulton Fish Market, the South Street Seaport, and Wall Street. The surrounding area was a complex of judicial and government buildings. The civil courthouse was two blocks away, the federal court was on the next block, and City Hall was across the street. The area was always overrun with television cameras and reporters for one reason or another.
For criminal trials, the networks set their little kiosks up on the sidewalk in front of Collect Pond Park, a small park directly across the street from the criminal courts building. Each kiosk had its own lights, its own camera on a tripod, and its own talking head. There were also producers and producers’ assistants and runners and plenty of others to give and take orders and to whisper about what was happening and create a buzz that would work itself into a frenzy that could be translated into exciting news for the TV screen.
The press had gotten word that the courtroom would be closed for jury selection, so Monday morning was rather subdued. The kiosks were still being set up and reporters were there to meet the attorneys as they entered the courthouse, with cameramen at the ready to film them. But there were no crowds to speak of, no buzz and no frenzy—yet.
The felony courtrooms were on floors eleven through sixteen. Judge Middleton’s courtroom was on the eleventh floor. The walls were covered with maple paneling for the first six feet. It matched the wood of the judge’s dais and the attorneys’ tables. The rest of the wall up to the thirty-foot ceiling was white and bare. There were four large, modern, ugly lights that lined the ceiling on each side of the room. Overall it was a sterile, cold environment.
The judge’s dais was relatively modest for such an imposing place. The witness chair was to the judge’s right and the jurors’ box to the right of that. The lawyer’s rostrum was movable. During voir dire and opening and closing statements it was placed facing the jury. For the questioning of witnesses it was turned to face the witness chair so that the witness would be looking directly at the lawyer and the jury could watch the interplay of questions and answers. The court reporter was also on that side right in front of the judge’s dais so as to be able to hear the questions and answers and record them. All other court personnel were on the far left side of the room opposite the jurors. Accommodations were tight inside the bar that separated the judge, the lawyers, the jurors and the court personnel from the rest of the courtroom.
The benches for spectators were behind the bar and were set up on each side of the middle aisle like the pews in a church. Jack counted six rows on each side, each row accommodating maybe eleven people. When the trial started they would be packed in like sardines.
This morning, however, since they were selecting a jury, the courtroom was empty of spectators. Only the judge, the lawyers, and the court personnel were present as each prospective juror was brought in for questioning.
Jack had always felt that the term “jury selection” was really a misnomer. It should have been called “jury exclusion” because the purpose was to identify and exclude anyone with a bias. In order to do that for his part, Jack had to ask the right questions, and in order to ask the right questions, he had already made a profile of his ideal juror. He’d decided that it didn’t matter whether it was a man or a woman. He wanted people who were independent and open-minded and who had the intelligence to evaluate the evidence unemotionally and apply it rationally to the appropriate standard. He wanted to eliminate those who saw things in black and white, who never questioned authority, or who had relatives who were career military people or in law enforcement.
So as Jack began the process, to find clues to their personality he asked all the potential jurors detailed questions about their family, their job, their relatives, their thoughts about current affairs, the books they read, and their hobbies. He asked how they felt about the legal system. As an experienced litigator, Jack knew that no matter how good a case you put on, no matter how well you cross-examined the other side’s witnesses, if you picked a bad jury you were dead out of the box. Jury selection was the most important part of any trial.
He had a laundry list of questions addressed to the burden of proof. This was where he started conditioning jurors to his case.
“Mrs. Jones, do you understand that the state has the burden of proof to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt?
“Do you understand what a reasonable doubt is?
“Do you understand that the defendant does not have to present any evidence whatsoever?
“Do you understand that the defendant himself has a constitutional right not to testify?
“How do you feel about that?
“If the state fails to prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt, do you understand that it is your sworn duty to find the defendant not guilty?
“Will you do that if the evidence does not support the state’s case beyond a reasonable doubt?”
That last one was particularly important. He had to get that commitment and he had to evaluate each person’s demeanor as they gave that commitment. It was an art, not a science, and Jack was an artist.
It took two days of questioning potential jurors before both sides were satisfied with a panel of twelve and two alternates. The process had gone rather smoothly. The lawyers had conducted themselves professionally, and Judge Middleton was continuing to feel comfortable. He swore the jurors in at six o’clock on Tuesday evening.
The fireworks would begin promptly at nine o’clock the next morning.
Jack had still not heard from Charlie since their conversation on the previous Monday, so he gave her a call that evening from Mike McDermott’s office.
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” she told him. “I found the telephone records. They were tucked away in the back of the last box. I think that was intentional.”
“Probably so,” Jack replied. He was antsy. He wanted to cut through the small talk, but he knew Charlie needed
to have her say. She was the one buried under mounds of paper. “So, did you find anything?”
“Yeah. There was a person in Florida that Carl Robertson was calling all the time. He wasn’t in Gainesville, though. He was in a little town called Micanopy. I found thirty-eight calls in the month before Robertson’s death—twenty the month before that.”
“Do you have a name and an address?”
“Yeah, I do. His name is Leonard Woods and his address is 26 Robin Lane, Micanopy. I called the number; it’s been disconnected.”
Jack didn’t know if this was a break or not. So Carl Robertson had a good friend somewhere in Florida that he talked to a lot. So what? He would have to pursue it, though.
“Where the hell is Micanopy anyway?” he asked Charlie. “I’ve never even heard of it.”
“I checked on that for you too. It’s a small town north of Ocala.”
“Okay. I’ll get Henry on it right away. What’s the bad news?”
“I haven’t even started wading through the financial records. Where are you in the trial?”
“We’ve picked a jury. We start opening statements in the morning.”
“How long will it take for the state to put on its case?”
“I think they could do it in two days.”
“If that’s the case, Jack, you’d better hope Leonard Woods has something for you, because I won’t.”
“I understand, Charlie, but keep at it. You never know what might happen.”
He called Henry as soon as he got off the phone.
“We got a name. Charlie says Carl Robertson called a guy named Leonard Woods in Micanopy, Florida. Apparently it’s a little ways north of Ocala. The exact address is 26 Robin Lane, and the closest major airport is probably Tampa.”
“So I take it you want me to get on a plane and go visit Mr. Leonard Woods.”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“That’s right. It may be our only lead. Charlie hasn’t even touched the financials yet.”
“All right. I’ll see if I can find a red-eye and get down there. Jack, remember everything I told you. Watch yourself. And be sure to call on your way home so somebody is waiting for you. And take a cab.”
“I will.”
Jack worked for another hour until his brain was no longer functioning. He wasn’t ready to go to sleep, and a drink or two to calm his nerves seemed like a good idea. He reached into his wallet to see how much cash he had and found the note from Molly with her phone number.
Molly answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Molly, this is Jack.”
“Jack, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. How’s the trial going? I’ve been following it a little bit in the paper. You’ve been doing jury selection, is that right?”
“That’s right. You’ve been paying attention, I see. It’s going very well. We finished picking the jury today. Assuming we get through opening statements, the prosecution will start putting on evidence tomorrow. Listen, I know it’s late, but would you like to have a drink?”
Molly didn’t hesitate. “Sure. Where are you now? I can meet you.”
“I’m downtown still. I know you’re in the West Village. Is there someplace in between?”
“Yeah. There’s a little Irish bar called Colin’s Place over on Spring Street, two blocks east of Broadway. I can’t remember the cross street. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
Molly was already there when he arrived. She was a sight for sore eyes even though the red bikini had been replaced by a bulky wool knit sweater, boots, and jeans. Jack gave her a big kiss. Molly glowed.
“Here we are in New York City,” she said with that familiar sparkle in her eyes.
“Yeah. It’s a far cry from Bass Creek, isn’t it?”
“They both have their advantages, don’t you think?”
“I do. Still, I’ve been in the city for only a week and I’m already missing Bass Creek.”
They chatted for about an hour. It was precisely what Jack needed to relax. He wanted more than anything to invite himself home with Molly, but he knew he couldn’t. He had an early morning, and Henry’s words were ringing in his ears. After his second beer, he told Molly he had to leave.
“I’ll call you tomorrow night. Maybe we’ll meet again for a drink.”
Molly gave him the kind of good-bye kiss that ensured he would call the next day.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she said, her eyes holding the connection between them as he headed for the door.
58
Jack knew that Wednesday morning outside the courthouse would be different from the previous two days. He hadn’t anticipated how different.
George, the bodyguard, drove him downtown in an old Mercedes with heavily tinted windows. George was not a talkative person, and no words passed between them during the trip. He let Jack off on a side street a couple of blocks from Centre Street so that nobody would see how he’d arrived and be able to recognize the car and follow it.
“I’ll call you tonight when I’m on my way home,” Jack told him before shutting the car door.
“Uh-huh,” George muttered.
The crowds were thick, and there was some pushing and shoving when he reached Centre Street. He was carrying his trial briefcase and had trouble working his way through the mayhem. He saw the kiosks all lit up across the street. Several people in the crowd were carrying signs. In the immediate group around him all the signs had slogans against the death penalty. On the other side of the entrance to the criminal courts building the signs were all pro death penalty. The two groups were shouting at each other and chanting in unison like opposing fans at a football game.
The police had erected barriers to either side of the courthouse entrance to separate the crowds and prevent them from entering the building. Somebody in the crowd around him recognized Jack and shouted, “Way to go Jack! Keep fighting for justice.” Others picked up the chorus. He shook hands and smiled as he tried to shoulder his way through to the wooden barriers. When he finally got there he yelled to a cop to tell him who he was. Finally a sergeant noticed him, came over, and motioned him to climb under the barrier. He was in the open space now where everybody could see him. The crowd he’d been in was cheering; those on the other side booed loudly. Jack walked up the steps and into the building.
The last week before the trial, when the media was showering its attention on Benny’s plight, Jack did not read the newspapers or watch the news. He didn’t want or need that kind of distraction, so he had no idea what the media was writing and talking about. Since he’d undertaken Benny’s representation, Jack had focused solely on the strategy he was going to use to try to get him off. He’d assumed the high profile of the case came from Carl’s status as a wealthy captain of industry. Yes, the governor had been very vocal touting the death penalty, but New York hadn’t executed a person in fifty years. The signs and the attitude of the crowd had surprised him. In the eyes of the public, the New York State death penalty was on trial.
As he rode the elevator to the eleventh floor, Jack realized that the public’s focus on the death penalty was a good thing. If Benny was convicted, so long as there were grounds for appeal, his case would remain in the spotlight. The public would follow it through the entire appellate process and at every juncture apply pressure on the judiciary. His job was to make sure there would be an issue for appeal in the event Benny was convicted.
Even though Jack was thirty minutes early the courtroom was already full of spectators. Luis was there. Benny had not yet been brought in. Jack took his place at the defendant’s table and turned to Luis.
“Remember what I said, Luis. This is my courtroom.” Luis smiled nervously to let Jack know he understood.
A court officer approached and whispered in Jack’s ear. “Your client is in there,” he said, pointing to a door on the right side of the courtroom. “He’s changing.” Jack walked over to the door and into the room. Luis had brought Benny a
new blue suit, a white shirt, a red tie, and black shoes, and Benny was getting into the pants when Jack walked in. Three guards were in the room with him.
“How are you feeling?” Jack asked him.
“A little nervous but fine,” Benny answered. He seemed a lot better off than his father. When he had finished getting his pants and shirt on, Jack helped him with the tie.
“You’re going to look like one of the lawyers,” he remarked. Benny smiled sheepishly. “Seriously, Benny, you look really good. When we go into the courtroom, I want you to stand when everybody stands and I want you to stand up straight. When you sit, sit straight. No slouching. No matter what anybody says on the stand, I don’t want you to make any facial expressions, understand?”
Benny nodded.
“As I’ve told you before, the jurors will be watching you constantly. Even though you won’t be testifying, they’ll be watching you and sizing you up. An important part of all this is you and your demeanor in that courtroom. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Benny answered. “I’m ready.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
Benny followed Jack into the courtroom and Jack showed him where to sit. He took a yellow pad and a pen out of his briefcase and put them on the table in front of Benny.
“You can write things down, even doodle—anything that makes you look attentive. If you want to alert me to something, write it down. Don’t talk to me while somebody is testifying because I can’t divide my attention. And remember, don’t tell me anything about what you did or didn’t do on the night of the murder.”
“I understand,” Benny told him.
They both sat down and Jack started unloading the contents of his briefcase onto the table and readying himself for his opening statement.
Spencer Taylor was already in the courtroom at the table farthest away from the jury. Like most prosecutors, he wanted the scum-sucking, lowlife defendant as close to the jurors as possible. As the trial progressed and Benny’s guilt became apparent, he wanted them to have a bird’s-eye view of him. Spencer trained his perfect pearly whites on Jack before the jury came in, flashing his best smile.
The Law of Second Chances Page 30
