Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales

by Randy Singer

  Elias nodded his head and there was a long silence before he spoke again. “If we lose this case, could you spend a little time with Jake? The kid needs a steady male influence in his life. I’ve talked it over with Julia, and we’d want you to be his godfather or something along those lines. He could spend as much time with you as you’d be willing to give him.”

  The request caught Landon off guard, but he realized that this had been the whole point of their field trip. Elias King had allowed himself to think the unthinkable. What if they lost? Elias and Julia had talked. Elias was like a man with a terminal disease putting his affairs in order.

  “Sure,” Landon said. “It would be an honor.”

  Elias reached over and patted Landon on the knee. It was an awkward moment; Elias wasn’t great at showing his emotions.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  ///

  On the way home, Billy drove and Elias rode shotgun, with Landon and Jake in the backseat. Jake was down in the mouth, describing his performance as “pretty lousy.”

  “You can’t let one day get you down,” Landon said. “I remember some days when I threw three or four interceptions just trying to put the ball into places it didn’t belong. It’s better to just throw the ball away than to try and make something out of nothing.”

  “You talking about those days you got paid to throw those interceptions or the days you did it for free?” Billy called out from the front seat. He glanced in the mirror, a smirk on his face.

  “Nobody’s talking to you,” Landon said. But he noticed that Jake had managed a small grin, his first one since getting in the car.

  “You know what a center is?” Landon asked Jake.

  “No, sir.”

  “A three-hundred-pound quarterback without any brains.”

  Jake smiled broadly. But the kid didn’t dare laugh out loud. Nobody but Landon could take shots at Billy Thurston and get away with it.

  68

  LANDON GOT HIS OWN PEP TALK on Monday morning, the first day of the Elias King trial.

  He had been awake half the night thinking about it, lying on his back, eyes wide open, worrying about a hundred tasks he hadn’t had the chance to complete. For the most part, he believed in his client’s innocence, though it felt strange starting a murder trial without knowing for sure what had really happened. In his law school dreams, he had seen himself defending innocent criminal defendants, Perry Mason style, the guardian of justice. Unfortunately, nothing in the real world was so black-and-white. And nothing in law school had prepared him for this.

  The alarm went off at five, but the only person it woke up was Kerri. Landon was already at the kitchen table, poring over some notes. Kerri gave him a kiss, said, “Good morning,” and fixed him a cup of coffee and two pieces of toast. They sat at the breakfast table and spoke softly, trying not to disturb Billy, who was sleeping on the couch, rustling around as they talked. Eventually he threw off the covers, went to the bathroom, fixed a large bowl of cereal, and joined them.

  “You ready?” he asked Landon.

  “Don’t have any choice.”

  Billy snorted. “You’re gonna kick butt and take names. Don’t give me that poor country lawyer routine.”

  “I wish I had your confidence,” Landon said, rubbing the back of his stiff neck. Too many hours hunched over his work.

  His comment made Billy stop midbite, a highly unusual occurrence. He leaned back in the kitchen chair, which creaked in protest. “You remember that game when Dave O’Shannon got hurt?”

  Landon remembered it well. It was his redshirt freshman year, and his role was to be O’Shannon’s backup. It was the first time he had played when the game was on the line.

  “I remember you came into that huddle with your voice all high and squeaky,” Billy said, chuckling to himself. Kerri had heard the story before, but she still couldn’t resist a little smirk. “You sounded like one of those Vienna choirboys. I remember looking at my buddies on the line and rolling my eyes like, ‘I hope O’Shannon can walk it off.’ I mean, no offense, but your legs looked like toothpicks that year.”

  “Yeah,” Landon admitted, “I felt like my knees might buckle at any minute.”

  “That first series, you looked like Jake out there. Two handoffs and an incompletion. You couldn’t wait to get off the field.”

  “It wasn’t quite that bad.”

  “It was worse. I remember checking on O’Shannon, and he said he was out for the game. I came over, slapped you on the helmet, and told you to get your head up, the team needed you.”

  “I remember that,” Landon said.

  Kerri sat there, elbow on the table, chin in her left hand, her right around a coffee cup, taking it all in. Landon knew she loved stories like this: the good ole days, before everything went awry.

  “Then at the end of the half, when we somehow managed to get into field-goal range, the coach sends in this nice little running play so that we can run down the clock and get three points before halftime.” Billy looked at Kerri with wide eyes, as if he was still shocked at what happened next. “And what does my boy Landon do?”

  Kerri raised her eyebrows, playing along.

  “He changes the play in the huddle. Calls for a corner pattern to our best receiver. Somebody says, ‘You sure?’ But I nudged my buddies on the line. ‘Hey, I can block for a guy like this.’”

  “Yeah, and you were nowhere to be found when I went back to the sidelines,” Landon said.

  This brought a belly laugh from Billy. “Kerri, after he overthrew that receiver and went back to the sidelines, Coach grabbed him by the face mask and jerked his head left and right. He had a few choice words for your husband’s play selection.” He flipped a wrist toward Landon. “Tell your honey what you learned from that.”

  Landon smiled. “A lot of players jog to the sidelines after they mess up and keep their helmets on. That way the ESPN cameras won’t catch the look on their face. But after that play, whenever I messed up, I always took my helmet off and carried it to the sidelines.”

  “Okay, so as I was saying,” Billy continued, his enthusiasm for the story coming through in his tone. “We get to the fourth quarter, and we’re still in the game, and Coach sends in some other cockamamy running play, and darned if your boy here didn’t audible out of that one too.”

  “In my defense, I saw one of their cornerbacks creeping up to the line of scrimmage. I thought we could burn him with a crossing pattern.”

  “And that’s exactly what he did,” Billy said proudly. He took another bite of cereal, but he wasn’t finished, so he continued with his mouth full. “He throws a perfect pass, and our guy takes it to the house and Landon comes running back to the sidelines getting congratulated by everyone except Coach. Eventually Coach comes down and stands beside him and says something under his breath like, ‘You got the guts of a cat burglar, kid. But if that play hadn’t worked, you’d be holding a clipboard the rest of the season.’”

  “So what does Billy do?” Landon asked. He was tag-teaming the story now, his concerns about the trial far away. This was one of the great bonding moments between Landon and his center, and Landon relished the story as much as Billy.

  “Billy was standing right behind us,” Landon continued. “I think he heard Coach chew me out, so he steps up beside us, as if he hadn’t heard a thing, and he says, ‘Great play call, Reed. Coach, that reminds me of that play you called in the Tennessee game last year. Must be ole Landon here was paying attention.’”

  Landon and Billy shared a laugh. “I remember Coach looked at me like, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Maybe this kid’s not so dumb after all.’”

  Billy had finished his cereal, and he lifted the bowl to his mouth, drinking the milk. “Anyway,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that’s the Landon that Elias King needs this week. You might have made some boneheaded mistakes your junior year with those bookies, but nobody ever doubted that you were a leader. Nobody ever questioned your conf
idence.”

  Kerri was nodding her head. “Frequently wrong, never in doubt,” she said. “That’s the Landon Reed I know.”

  Just in case that wasn’t enough, Kerri orchestrated one more motivational event. Right before Landon and Billy headed off for the first day of trial, Maddie gave her dad a present. Landon opened it and stared at the maroon and gold power tie—the colors of Southeastern University.

  “Have a good day in court, Daddy,” Maddie said.

  Landon picked her up and gave her a big hug. He was a blessed man. A few years ago he had been sitting in jail wondering if he had thrown his entire life away. And now, just a year out of law school, he was helping try one of the biggest cases the area had ever seen. It was a comeback of biblical proportions, and it reminded him that somebody greater was in charge.

  “Let’s pray before Billy and I take off,” he said. Kerri stepped close, and Landon put his arm around her. Billy shrugged and took off his cap. Maddie squeezed her eyes shut and listened to her daddy pray.

  ///

  The Chesapeake Municipal Complex consisted primarily of three mammoth buildings, each constructed with white stone and blue-tinted windows. The Municipal Center, which local residents sarcastically referred to as the Taj Mahal, occupied the prime real estate at the front of the complex. Behind that behemoth building was a large swath of green space that resembled a college quad. At the corners of the green space, forming an equilateral triangle with the Municipal Center, were two court buildings—one that housed the General District and Circuit Courts and the other one home to the Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court.

  Landon and Billy parked in a large asphalt lot next to the J&DR Court building. Elias had followed them and found his own spot. The three men walked silently together across the parking lot and around to the front of the building, getting their first look at the media horde that had gathered on the other side of the quad in front of the circuit court building.

  “Game on,” Billy said.

  They were all wearing Kevlar vests, and Landon was sweating like a pig. Billy was sweating too, but he looked like he was enjoying himself. He had on his new forest-green pin-striped suit, his shades covering his eyes and his Packers hat on backward. He was packing heat under the suit, and he made no effort to hide the bulge in the jacket. As they walked, he looked this way and that, surveying the crowd like a Secret Service agent.

  “We need to get you an earbud tomorrow,” Landon said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  They approached the gauntlet of reporters, and the questions started flying. Nobody crowded in, though, because Billy had that certain look on his face, like he might cross-body-block the first person who crossed his path.

  “Will Mr. King take the stand?”

  “Who killed Erica Jensen?”

  “Elias, can you give us a brief statement?”

  The three men ignored the questions, walked up the front steps of the courthouse, and took their places in line at the metal detector. Billy surrendered his gun to the deputies for safekeeping and stuffed his hat in a side pocket of his suit coat. The men headed upstairs and met Julia and Jake in a small conference room.

  Jake looked like he was about ready to puke. “You okay?” Landon asked.

  Jake nodded.

  Elias reminded Jake and Julia not to show any reaction, no matter what Franklin Sherman might say. Landon noticed Julia reach out and take her husband’s hand for a few seconds. Elias never changed expressions, but Landon could sense that this was the first step toward forgiveness and reconciliation.

  “We ready?” Elias asked. The five of them were going to enter the courtroom together.

  “I do have one small question,” Landon said. He looked at Elias. “Which side of the courtroom do we sit on?”

  Everybody smiled except Jake. When you’re fifteen years old, there are some things that just aren’t funny.

  69

  TAJ DEEGAN RAN AN EFFICIENT COURTROOM. The experts had predicted that jury selection would last three days. Those experts had never set foot in Deegan’s courtroom.

  She first ushered the lawyers into her chambers. “I’ll ask a standard set of questions,” she said, without sitting down. She handed both sides two full pages of questions, including ones the lawyers had submitted earlier. “When I’m done, you can approach the bench and let me know if I missed anything. But I’m the only one talking to the jury. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Landon said. He was more than happy to let the judge do the heavy lifting.

  “I’d like to reserve the right to follow up with individual jurors,” Sherman said, arms crossed. He was not happy.

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Deegan said. Her tone reflected a fair amount of annoyance. “But I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary.”

  Jury selection took all morning and half the afternoon, a full two days faster than the experts had forecast. Most jurors had heard about the case but promised they could still be fair and impartial. During the process, Sherman had a heavyset woman with an iPad whispering in his ear—a high-priced jury consultant, according to Elias. Elias and Landon didn’t use one. Elias claimed that he had picked more juries than virtually any jury consultant in America and it was mostly guesswork anyway.

  When the smoke cleared at three o’clock in the afternoon, Landon was staring at a jury composed of seven women and five men—nine whites, one Hispanic, and two African Americans. Two of the three alternates were also women.

  Elias had insisted that Landon use his jury strikes on three stern-looking married women. “They’ll convict me based on the affair alone,” Elias had said. But that left a Baptist youth pastor and a high school principal who had a reputation for being a disciplinarian. Not exactly a defense lawyer’s dream.

  After swearing in the jury, Deegan read the jurors the riot act for fifteen minutes—don’t talk to anybody about the case; don’t form any opinions until you’ve heard all the evidence; don’t read any media coverage or blogs about the case or watch anything on TV.

  Were there any questions?

  None of the jurors raised a hand.

  Landon glanced around the courtroom and felt isolated. The gallery was packed. Erica Jensen’s family was sitting in the front row behind Franklin Sherman. Landon had noticed that the rows on the prosecution’s side of the courtroom had filled up first. Landon turned and gave a reassuring grin to Jake. The boy was too nervous to smile back.

  Landon tried not to show it, but he was nervous too. His hands were leaving sweat marks on the glass top covering his wooden counsel table, and the butterflies were in full-scale revolt in his stomach. He had practiced his opening at least ten times but still wasn’t satisfied with it. His remarks were counterpunches, attempts to poke holes in the prosecution’s case. In his gut he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He needed to somehow prove who had killed Erica Jensen. The problem was, he still didn’t know the identity of the real killer.

  “Does the prosecution wish to give an opening statement?” Judge Deegan asked. She looked over the top of her glasses at Franklin Sherman, who jumped to his feet.

  “We do.”

  He walked into the well of the courtroom, a comfortable distance from the jury box, and introduced himself. He said that he represented the Commonwealth of Virginia and that it was his job to be a voice for the victim of this horrendous crime. He talked for a few minutes about Erica Jensen and the hardworking, upstanding young woman she was. “It’s tragic when somebody dies,” he said. “But it’s especially tragic when somebody so full of potential dies so young.”

  To nobody’s surprise, Sherman seemed supremely confident. He didn’t need notes or a podium to hide behind. He had apparently memorized his entire opening statement.

  He shifted into teacher mode and explained the federal insider trading case pending against Elias King. The defendant had set up offshore corporations in the Seychelles Islands, Sherman said. He had done so
because you could set them up without letting the public know who the shareholders or directors or officers were. And he had used this web of anonymous corporations to set up various offshore accounts and then used those accounts to buy and sell stock.

  Sherman spent a few minutes explaining the laws against insider trading—that people with inside information about a company couldn’t rip off the public by buying or selling stock before that confidential information hit the market. That’s why Elias King had gone to such great lengths to protect his identity. He bought options on the stocks of companies that his law firm represented. He did it when the companies were about to be sold, just before their stock price would take an enormous leap. He made hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  But he didn’t get away with it. An anonymous person sent the U.S. Attorney’s office a package of documents that showed somebody at the Kilgore and Strobel firm was engaged in insider trading. The Feds obtained a search warrant and, through the cooperation of the managing partner at King’s law firm, secretly obtained access to King’s computer. They were in the process of putting together their case when King’s assistant, Erica Jensen, called and asked to meet with assistant U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor.

  “Mr. Taylor recorded that conversation,” Sherman said. “When he testifies, we’ll play it for you.”

  Landon watched as the jury took in everything Sherman was saying. As much as Landon disliked the man, he had to admit that Sherman was a master storyteller. He talked about how Erica died on the night before her appointment with the assistant U.S. Attorney. That same night, Chesapeake police received an anonymous tip about a body being dumped into the Intracoastal Waterway.

  The evidence all pointed to Elias King. Strands of Erica’s hair were found in the trunk of King’s automobile. The car described by the caller matched King’s car. King’s fingerprints were on the weights found in the L.L. Bean bag. King had motive and opportunity. They had everything here except a videotaped confession.