by Randy Singer
And one more thing, Sherman said. Erica Jensen was pregnant. The baby growing inside her womb belonged to her lover—he pointed a stubby finger—“that man, Elias King.”
Some people kill to keep witnesses from testifying against them, Sherman said. Others kill to avoid damage to their reputation. And still others kill because love has turned to hate, two passions that are closer together than most people think. But Elias King?
The General walked over and stood right in front of Landon’s table. It was a bullying move that Elias had expected and had warned Landon about. The two of them just sat there, staring impassively at the prosecutor, refusing to take the bait.
“This man killed three birds with one stone,” Sherman said, the anger boiling over, the veins in his neck pulsing. “He got rid of a witness in a case against him. He killed his ex-lover. And he made sure that his sterling reputation wouldn’t be tarnished. If not for an observant motorist driving across that high-rise bridge at just the right time, he might have gotten away with it.”
Sherman walked back into the well of the courtroom and surveyed the jury. It was time to wrap it up, and he appeared to be thinking about what to say next.
“It’s our job to prove this case beyond a reasonable doubt. As the judge will tell you, that can be done by circumstantial evidence. We don’t need eyewitnesses. We don’t need a confession.”
He moved a little closer to the jury box; every juror watched him. He had been talking for thirty minutes, but even to Landon the time had gone quickly.
“In fact, I once heard a prosecutor tell a story to illustrate how reasonable doubt can be proven by circumstantial evidence. He said that his son came into the house one day and had a rock stuck in his nose. The prosecutor said he asked his son how the rock got up his nose, and his son said the wind blew it up there. And I remember that prosecutor telling the jury, ‘Despite the son’s statement, the father had no doubt about how the rock got in his son’s nose. So please, don’t let the defense lawyer try to blow rocks up your nose.’”
The General turned and stared for a moment at the defense table. Once again, Elias kept his poker face. “That prosecutor was Elias King,” Sherman said. “That boy was his son. And those words were his words.
“Greed caused that man to cheat his own clients through insider trading. Lust caused him to cheat on his own wife with his legal assistant. And fear caused him to kill his own lover and his own baby, the young life growing inside Erica Jensen.
“There are heinous crimes, and there are shocking crimes that make the blood run cold. But there’s nothing more despicable than a man who uses his training as a prosecutor to carry out the cold-blooded, premeditated murder of a woman who was carrying his own child. There’s a special place in hell for a man like that.”
Landon stood to object but felt Elias’s hand on his elbow. He sat back down.
“No man’s above the law,” Sherman said. “At the close of this case, we’ll be asking you to find Elias King guilty of two counts of first-degree murder and to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.”
70
BEFORE FRANKLIN SHERMAN could even take his seat, Landon was up and walking toward the jury.
“The difference between a cover-up and a setup is simple. In a cover-up, the defendant doesn’t want to get caught. But in a setup, somebody wants to make sure that he is.”
“Objection!” Sherman boomed. “He’s arguing the case, not giving an opening statement.”
Landon turned to Judge Deegan and held out his palms. “I didn’t object during his opening.”
“Perhaps you should have. Objection sustained.”
The whole sequence threw Landon off stride. Harry had taught him to argue the case during his opening. But now, that was apparently going to be met with one objection after another.
He looked at Elias, who motioned him over to counsel table. Landon could feel his face turning red—the rookie being embarrassed right out of the gate.
“Just give the opening we planned but keep using the phrase ‘The evidence will show,’” Elias whispered. “It’s magic.”
Landon stood up and walked back to the center of the courtroom. He took a deep breath. Good quarterbacks had short memories, shrugging off interceptions. This time he would get it right.
“The evidence will show that Mr. King was an experienced prosecutor, one of the best. And the evidence will show that there are certain things experienced prosecutors know. They know that hair testing can reveal drugs in victims for up to six months. They know that fingerprints can be lifted from objects that have been submerged in water. They know better than to dump bodies off high-rise bridges and risk being seen.”
Sherman was up again. “Your Honor, may we approach?”
Judge Deegan gave him an annoyed look. “Make it quick.”
The three lawyers huddled around the judge’s dais, and she flipped a switch to pipe in some music so the jury couldn’t hear their conversation.
“How’s he going to prove this stuff if he doesn’t call the defendant?” Sherman asked. “I mean, if he intends to call the defendant, I don’t have any objection. But an opening statement is supposed to be a preview of the evidence. And if the defendant isn’t going to take the stand, then this is hardly a preview of the evidence.”
Deegan turned to Landon. “He’s got a point. Is Mr. King going to take the stand?”
Elias interjected. “We haven’t decided yet.”
Landon wanted to give him an elbow, but it would have been too obvious. She wasn’t asking you.
“Let’s just stick to what you know the evidence is going to show,” Deegan suggested. “Don’t talk about anything you have to prove through Mr. King unless you know for sure he’s going to take the stand.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Sherman said, loud enough for the jury to hear. He wanted to make sure they knew that the judge had sided with him.
“And keep your voice down,” Deegan said.
Landon had to make some modifications on the fly, but he warmed to the task and made it through the rest of his opening with only a few objections. He concluded by reminding the jury that there were two anonymous tipsters in this case. The first sent papers about the insider trading scheme to the Feds. The second allegedly saw someone dump Erica Jensen’s body off a high-rise bridge.
“Could it be that both tips came from the same person?” Landon asked. “Could it be that the person providing anonymous tips just happened to know so much because he set my client up on both matters? Think about it. How unusual is it to have not one but two anonymous tipsters in the same case, each one with critical information against my client?
“My client, Mr. King, was a very effective prosecutor. In that job, he made a lot of powerful enemies. He put away some angry men who have ruthless allies on the outside. Don’t let them use a court of law to exact an unjust revenge.”
Landon sat down, not at all pleased with his opening. There had been too many interruptions, and he hadn’t handled them well. The first round, in his opinion, had gone to the prosecution.
But Elias King apparently didn’t agree. He reached over and put a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “Nice job,” he said.
It was pushing five, and Judge Deegan decided that the prosecution should start its case the following day. When she gaveled the court closed, Landon and the King family followed Billy Thurston into the hallway and down the long escalators. They pushed their way through the reporters who were waiting outside and headed across the quad toward the parking lot on the other side of the J&DR Court building. They ignored the questions being shouted at them.
As they walked, Landon couldn’t resist a quick glance over his shoulder. The General had followed behind them and was now standing on the courthouse steps answering questions from reporters. His eyes caught Landon’s for just a moment, a quick look of condescension.
He smirked, or at least it looked like a smirk to Landon. And then the General went back to confidently f
ielding questions.
///
He hung toward the back of the crowd and watched the defense team leave the courthouse and walk across the wide-open quad toward the J&DR Court building. There was at least fifty yards of open grass between the two courthouses and a set of sidewalks laid out in a square.
During the afternoon court session, he had been checking out rooftops near the parking lot the defense team had used that morning. There was no out-of-the-way building from which he could get a clean shot. He had traced the path the defense team would take to and from court, surveying the surrounding property for a good place to hide.
He saw it as he watched the defense team walk the sidewalk next to the quad. The perfect spot.
He kept his head down, his eyes shielded by sunglasses, his ball cap riding low on his forehead. He waited until Franklin Sherman finished his press conference and the crowd started to disperse.
He walked casually across the quad, toward the back of the J&DR Court building, checked to make sure nobody was watching him, and took a quick panoramic video with his cell phone. Compared to blowing up the Cessna, this would be a piece of cake. It would take another day or two of planning, but he had a little time.
The fireworks, quite literally, would begin on Wednesday.
71
WHEN LANDON AND BILLY ARRIVED back at the office, there were five cars sitting in the parking lot. One was Parker Clausen’s gray BMW. Landon didn’t recognize the other four, except that the black Porsche looked vaguely familiar.
“Wait here,” Billy Thurston said. He parked Landon’s truck and marched inside to see what was happening.
A few minutes later, Billy reappeared and motioned for Landon to come to the front door. Landon was met there by Parker Clausen.
The three men huddled in the front portico, and Parker gave him the bad news.
The death of Brent Benedict notwithstanding, Carolyn Glaxon-Forrester was still on a rampage. She was convinced that Benedict had been squirreling money away in some offshore accounts, and she wanted her client’s fair share. There had been a hearing earlier that day, attended by Parker Clausen as the firm’s managing partner. Glaxon-Forrester had argued that all firm accounts should be put in a constructive trust until the judge could figure out whether Benedict had been illegally secreting money into these suspected offshore accounts.
“The court didn’t grant the motion, but she did allow Glaxon-Forrester to take my deposition and yours. I tried to tell the judge that you were in the middle of a trial, but she said you could spare an hour at night.”
“Are you kidding?” Landon asked. The last thing he needed—the very last thing—was to spend an hour being harassed by Carolyn Glaxon-Forrester. “I don’t have an hour.”
“I tried to tell that to the judge,” Parker said. “But I think she just wanted to get Glaxon-Forrester out of her courtroom.”
Landon shook his head and grunted. How did he get stuck with a managing partner who couldn’t argue his way out of a wet paper bag? “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”
Glaxon-Forrester, along with her client and a court reporter, were already set up in the firm’s main conference room. She was wearing skin-tight jeans and a body-hugging sleeveless white top. Landon threw his suit coat over a chair, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. He took a seat at the end of the long conference table and leaned forward on his elbows.
“One hour,” he said. “Not a minute more.”
Glaxon-Forrester sized him up over the end of her beaked nose, a contemptuous little grin on her face. She reached down and started her triathlon watch. Landon thought she did a little muscle flex just for the fun of it.
“Fair enough,” she said.
Landon had never been waterboarded, but he thought it couldn’t be any worse than this. Glaxon-Forrester had a list of questions that she spit out in rapid succession, each designed to make Landon look either complicit in Brent Benedict’s alleged wrongdoing or, at the very least, stupid and naive.
She started off by establishing that Landon was a partner in the firm. She then asked about how firm compensation worked, and particularly about how Brent Benedict had been paid. Landon kept his answers short, his favorite consisting of three simple words: “I don’t know.”
“You’re a partner in the firm, and yet you claim not to know that the firm paid for Brent Benedict’s car, his health club memberships, golf club membership, private jet lease, health insurance, retirement plan, and life insurance premiums, all on top of his regular salary and bonuses?”
Landon’s voice remained calm. “I wasn’t a partner at the time. And if you know about those things, I assume they were all reported in the divorce proceedings.”
“Then let’s talk about some of the things that weren’t reported,” Glaxon-Forrester sneered. The court reporter sat next to Landon, her head swiveling from Glaxon-Forrester to Landon as she transcribed every word.
Glaxon-Forrester stood and walked the length of the table until she was standing over Landon’s shoulder. She plopped some documents in front of him. Parker Clausen, who was sitting a few seats away, tried to warn Landon with his eyes.
“Do you know what these documents are?”
Landon stared at them. He thumbed through the documents carefully. He had never seen them before.
“Nope.”
“You have no idea?” Glaxon-Forrester said, hovering over Landon.
“I can read what they say, but I’m assuming you could do that too. At least most of the words.”
“Strike that from the record,” Glaxon-Forrester said. The court reporter made a few keystrokes.
Glaxon-Forrester stayed there for a moment, arms crossed, and Landon had to crane his neck to look at her.
“Your client Elias King set up several offshore corporations in the Seychelles Islands; isn’t that correct?”
“No, that’s not correct. Besides, that’s got nothing to do with your case.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Glaxon-Forrester said. “So let’s start again. Isn’t it true that the federal government is claiming Mr. King set up international business corporations in the Seychelles Islands to hide his insider trading activities?”
“That’s what the federal government says. But as far as we can tell, somebody else set them up.”
This brought a little smirk from Glaxon-Forrester. “As far as you can tell?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And that’s because it’s hard to tell who sets up a corporation when it’s done in the Seychelles Islands; isn’t that correct?”
Landon could see where this was going but was helpless to stop it. “That’s correct.”
“Because when you set up a Seychelles offshore company, you don’t have to name the shareholders. Right?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“You don’t have to file any public documents naming the officers or directors either, do you?”
“No.”
“You can make your stock certificates—which don’t even need to be filed—payable to bearer, meaning that whoever possesses them is the owner. Isn’t that right?”
“I believe that’s correct.”
“And you can have nonresident directors?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t have to file any annual returns.”
“Correct.”
“And lastly, there are no corporate taxes to pay in the Seychelles Islands.”
“I believe that’s true as long as the company is an international business company.”
Glaxon-Forrester stood there for a moment enjoying her own little show. She nodded knowingly at her client, who smiled back. She asked the court reporter to mark the documents she had shown to Landon.
“You’re sure you’ve never seen these documents before?”
“I’m sure.”
Glaxon-Forrester walked to the other end of the table and took her seat. She thumbed through a pile of papers and apparently found what she wa
s looking for. She stared at Landon for a few seconds, as if she were some kind of human lie detector who could make Landon flinch.
“Brent Benedict would have known about the allegations against Elias King for insider trading, and he would have known about these Seychelles offshore companies. Right?”
“I don’t know what he knew or what he didn’t know.”
“But he was the managing partner of your firm, and Elias King was one of your firm’s biggest clients. You don’t think the managing partner would have known about the details of the insider trading indictment against Elias King?”
Landon shrugged. “Brent Benedict and I didn’t talk a lot.”
“Fair enough. Do you know if he ever set up any of these offshore companies himself?”
“No.”
Glaxon-Forrester picked up a few of the documents, stood, and returned to Landon’s end of the table.
“If you want to sit next to me, it might expedite things,” he said. “I’m not contagious.”
“That won’t be necessary.” She placed a new set of documents in front of him. These documents showed deposits and withdrawals in a number of different accounts. “Do you know whether Brent Benedict was siphoning money from the firm’s operating account into an account controlled by a Seychelles offshore company?”
Landon looked through the documents, but they were Greek to him. “I have no idea.”
“Doesn’t that concern you—the thought that one of your former partners may have been siphoning money from the firm?”
“My concern right now is getting through this deposition so I can prepare for the second day of a murder trial.”
“This account right here—” Glaxon-Forrester reached over Landon’s shoulder and pointed her enameled fingernail at a document from a bank in the Cayman Islands, “has been closed out.” She shuffled a few documents. “So have two or three of these other accounts. Do you know what happened to the money?”
