I looked up, saw Rudy. He froze.
“Does he have epilepsy? Is he taking any meds? Is he allergic to anything? Come on, I need to know,” said the medic.
Rudy hesitated.
“Just tell her!” cried Arnold.
“He’s epileptic. He’s on clonazepam,” said Rudy.
“Back up. Give us some room,” I said.
The crowd cleared, and I saw Pryor across the courtroom, leaning back against the jury stand with his arms folded.
The asshole was still smiling. He looked around, making sure no one stood behind him in the jury stand and began typing a message into his cell phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kane knew what was coming.
The judge spelled it out for the rest of the jury. Most couldn’t take it all in.
“The police commissioner has informed me that he cannot rule out the possibility that Brenda Kowolski was deliberately targeted because she had been chosen to serve on this jury. In fact, there is evidence that this was no ordinary accident. As you may have seen on the news, the vehicle hit Brenda, and then reversed backward, over her body. Consequently, we are taking steps to ensure your safety,” said the judge.
Spencer spoke first.
“I knew it. I … Jesusss. I mean, what kind of steps, man? Sir?”
Kane watched Judge Ford remain passive. He must’ve expected some kind of reaction, and he was sympathetic.
“When we break for lunch, each of you will be allowed to return home, and pack up some clothes. An officer will accompany each of you. When court finishes for the day you will all be taken to a hotel where you will remain under armed guard for the duration of this trial,” said the judge.
Groans. Protests. Shock. Tears.
Kane let it all unfold in front of him.
The judge held firm, and said, “In a case like this, which has so much media attention, sequestering the jury was always a possibility. It’s not a decision I’ve taken lightly, trust me. However, I do believe this is a necessary precaution. And I’m telling you all now in case you need to make calls to friends and family. Some of you might have to organize childcare for the evenings. I’ll give you thirty minutes before we begin the trial.”
A volley of protests and questions hit the judge, all from the male jurors, as he backed out of the room. Kane heard one question quite clearly. It came from the man in the pale-blue shirt and tie, Manuel.
“Sir? Sir? Where will we be staying?” he asked.
Kane moved forward in his seat, trying to zone out the background noise as much as possible.
“The court will be making those arrangements shortly,” said the judge, right before he left the room.
Nodding, Kane felt the swell of excitement in his gut. He had anticipated this moment. In fact, he’d counted on it. The court were making the arrangements, but Kane knew exactly where the jury would be headed at five p.m.
And Kane had made arrangements of his own.
CARP LAW
* * *
Suite 421, Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY.
Strictly Confidential,
Attorney Client Work Product
Juror Memo
The People -v- Robert Solomon
Manhattan Criminal Court
Spencer Colbert
Age: 21
Barista at Starbucks, Union Square. DJs in various clubs in the Manhattan area on weekends. Single. Gay. High-school graduate. Democrat. Alternative lifestyle choices – regular marijuana user (no prior criminal record). Poor financials. Father deceased. Mother in poor health and resides in New Jersey. She is cared for by Spencer’s sister, Penny.
Probability of Not Guilty vote: 88%
Arnold L. Novoselic
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rudy and I watched Bobby slowly come around in the medical bay. He was groggy at first. Didn’t know where he was or what had happened. A medic gave him sips of water. Told him to lie down. Rudy stood in the corner, barking into his cell phone.
“He’s not done. Not yet. Give me more time,” he said.
I could only hear one side of the conversation. Didn’t matter. I could tell it wasn’t going well.
“So what if the press saw it? He’s still an A-lister. Give me two weeks and I’ll deliver …”
Whoever it was on the other end of the line had hung up. Rudy curled back his arm, ready to hurl his phone into the wall. He swore, let his arm drop to his side.
The medical bay consisted of a bed, a few drawers filled with painkillers and bandages and a defibrillator that sat in a case on the wall. Gently, Rudy asked the medic to give us a moment. Before she left she told us not to move Bobby for at least fifteen minutes and to let him come out of it slowly.
“I saw two reporters in the back of the courtroom. They weren’t supposed to come in until everyone was set up and ready to go, but they must’ve snuck in. They saw the whole thing. Pictures too. It’ll be front-page news tonight,” said Rudy.
“I don’t care anymore. I can still do a lot of roles,” said Bobby.
“Hang on, I’m not following you. What has Bobby having an epileptic fit got to do with anything?” I said.
Rudy sighed, looked at the ground and said, “Nobody knew Bobby was an epileptic before today. Okay? You can’t work on a three-hundred-million-dollar movie if you might suddenly take a fit and fall off a platform. The insurance premiums for Bobby alone would cost fifty million. The studio was launching Bobby as the new Bruce Willis. That’s all gone now.”
“There are bigger things to worry about than his career,” I said, “Like going to jail for murder?”
“I know, but there’s nothing we can do. Bobby, I’m sorry, the studio are releasing the movie this Friday, and they’re pulling the firm off your case,” said Rudy.
Bobby couldn’t speak. He closed his eyes, lay back. Like a man about to fall off a steep cliff.
“They can’t do that,” I said.
“I tried, Eddie. The posters are up because of the trial. They don’t need a long lead-up, and don’t need to spend much more on advertising. The studio is getting all the free advertising it could ever want, all over the world. Bobby’s deal is no good with the studio in the event his epilepsy becomes public knowledge. He knows that. He signed the contract. I had persuaded them to wait, let us get the trial over and secure an acquittal. They don’t see the point anymore and they’re through taking chances on a not-guilty verdict. They’re getting the picture out while he’s still innocent.”
“We can’t leave him,” I said.
“It’s done. It sticks in my throat, but the studio is the client here. I’ll send word to the judge, Bobby. You’ll get a continuance.”
Bobby had heard everything. Movie star or not, he looked like a frightened kid to me. Head in his hands, his shoulder shook with tears.
As Rudy left the medical bay, he spoke to me over his shoulder.
“Come on, Eddie, we’re walking here.”
I didn’t move.
Rudy halted, walked back and laid it out straight.
“Eddie, the studio was backing this trial. They’re our client. You come with me now, and you can start that job tomorrow. Great salary, easy work. Come on, you deserve it. We’ve got no choice.”
“So that spiel you gave me about believing in Bobby – that was just a play to get me on board, wasn’t it? You’re going to walk out on this guy on the first day of a murder trial?”
“The trial hasn’t started. I’ll talk to the judge and he’ll pull the trial until Bobby can get a new lawyer. Look, Eddie, I’m not a bad guy. I’m not walking out on Bobby. I’m following seventeen million dollars in legal fees, per year. I’m going with my client and so are you. Come on,” he said.
If I turned my back on this, I would never get another chance. The job offer was the only shot I had at getting Christine back. Solid career. Easy life. No stress. No risk. No danger to the family. If I took the job at Carp Law I knew I stood a good chance of winn
ing back my wife. Without it, she would never believe I had it in the first place. I’d be Eddie Flynn, the liar. Again.
I breathed out. A long, steady breath. Nodded.
I stepped into the corridor and followed Rudy to the elevators. He adjusted his tie, pushed the button to call the elevator. He saw me approach.
“Smart kid,” said Rudy.
I stood in silence. Head bowed. The elevator doors opened. Rudy stepped inside. I didn’t move.
The doors began to close and Rudy’s hand shot out to grab them.
“Come on, Eddie. Time to go. The case is over,” he said.
“No,” I said. “The case is just getting started. Thanks for the job offer.”
I was already around the corner and headed back to medical before I heard the doors shut. The medic had returned to the room, and I saw her trying to comfort Bobby. He saw me standing in the doorway. His face was soaking wet. He’d sweated through his shirt and the medic tried to get him to lie down, but he resisted.
“Can I come in?” I said.
He nodded. The medic stepped back. Hooking the sleeves of his shirt in his thumbs, Bobby wiped at his face. Sniffed. He looked pale. I could see him shivering. His voice sounded like dry branches cracking in a storm.
“I don’t care about the studio. I just want this over with. I didn’t kill Ari or Carl. I need people to believe that.”
No two defendants react to a criminal trial in the same way. Some are wrecks from day one. Some don’t give a shit one way or another – they’ve been inside before and they don’t care about the prospect of doing serious time. Others, it hits them in stages. They’ll be cocky at the start. Over-enthusiastic. Then as the trial gets closer, the more confident they become. But at the same time, the anxiety ramps up. The confidence is soon eroded by paralyzing fear. And when the machinery of justice finally starts turning those cogs on day one of the trial – they go to pieces.
Bobby fell into the latter category. Big time. Day one of a murder trial is sink or swim. Without doubt, Bobby was sinking.
“Looks like you need a lawyer,” I said.
For a second, his eyes half closed. The tension left his shoulders, and they relaxed. The relief didn’t last long.
“I can’t pay as much as the studio,” he said, and I saw his shoulders hunch up again. The panic returning to his face.
“Take it easy. Rudy paid me enough. I’m still on his dime. But you’re my client. And I’ll do everything I can to defend you. If you’ll have me,” I said.
He held out a hand. I took it.
“Thank you …”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’re still in the shit, here, Bobby.”
Throwing back his head, Bobby let out a ripple of nervous laughter. It stopped abruptly, as reality kicked in again.
“I know, but at least I’m not in it alone,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Juries have to get used to waiting. Most are not good at it. They get restless, angry and frustrated at time that they see as wasted. Kane had plenty of practice. He was a patient man. The old radiators began to rattle in the jury room, and the pipes squealed. It was cold outside and the heating system was struggling to keep it in check.
Kane remained still in his seat at the table. The rest of the jurors either sat restlessly, or helped themselves to coffee and made small talk. The women were still discussing Brenda. The men had started talking sports. Apart from Spencer, who wasn’t a sports fan. He stared out the window as a fresh flurry of snow took to the air.
Spencer took out his wallet, fanned through the meager collection of bills. He turned to Kane, said, “Forty bucks a day. I ain’t sending a guy to prison for the rest of his life for forty measly bucks a day,” and then sucked his teeth.
Kane had seen Spencer’s face on the defense team’s panel of preferred jurors. Some jurors will always identify with law enforcement – with the authority figure. Some will always imagine themselves on trial. Spencer fell into the latter category. It wasn’t difficult to see why the defense wanted him on the jury.
“When do you think we get paid?” asked Spencer.
Kane shook his head, but didn’t speak.
Money. It always brought out the worst in people, thought Kane. He remembered a summer afternoon, long ago. Maybe a week after his tenth birthday. His mother stood at the kitchen sink with the sun in her hair. Washing dishes, listening to music. Her dress was so old it was almost transparent. She’d had a couple of drinks, like she always did in the afternoon. When she stepped away from the sink and twirled around, the sun shone through her dress. Her hair swung around, and soap suds flew off the dish brush, landing on Kane’s nose. The floorboards in the old farmhouse moaned in the heat and in time to the music.
Kane remembered laughing. He thought, maybe that was the last time he’d been truly happy.
The man came later that same afternoon. Kane sat on the swing beneath that old tree that he’d fallen from a few years before. The sun low in the sky. The branch above him creaked as he swung his legs back and forth. And then he’d heard the sound of breaking glass. A scream. At first he thought it might have been the wind, or some strange sound from the ropes holding the swing, but he soon realized it had been neither. He ran toward the house, calling for his momma.
He found her on the kitchen floor. Blood on her face. A huge, black thing on top of her.
A man with dark brown hair. Dirty jeans, and a filthy shirt. He smelled the same as the pastor did on Sunday evenings. That strange, earthy, sweet smell. Momma had called it Bourbon. The man turned his head and locked his red eyes on Kane.
“So this is the boy,” said the man.
“No, no, no I told you I didn’t want you around here no more …” He slapped Kane’s momma quiet.
“Go on outside for a while. I’ll deal with you later,” he said. Then turned back toward his mother and said, “He doesn’t look anything like me. Good. Means we can keep our little arrangement. It’s been a long time.”
Kane’s mother screamed and the boy rushed forward, until suddenly he found himself on the other side of the kitchen. The man had spun and back-handed Kane clean across the room. The crack of the man’s callused hands on Kane’s cheek was so loud, Kane’s mother thought he might be dead. Kane had hit the back of his head against the far wall, and slumped down on the floor.
She screamed even louder.
A warm feeling spread over Kane’s cheek. He got up from the floor, raised his hand and for the first time, he saw his own blood. The blow had split open his face. Where most boys would’ve been knocked out, or screaming in pain, or cowering in fear in the corner, Kane merely became angry. This man had hurt him. He was hurting his mother.
Quickly, Kane rushed toward the sink. He’d spotted the black handle of momma’s big knife jutting from the wash basin. Momma had warned him, time and time again, that he wasn’t allowed to touch the knife. And when Kane picked it up he hoped that his momma would forgive him for touching it.
The man looked up once, confused. He’d damn near taken the boy’s head off, now the boy was standing in front of him. The man’s look of confusion froze on his face. And then his left cheek drooped. His left eye, too. And the right eye turned white. Like a switch. But Kane knew the eyeball had just spun around, real quick.
Kane’s mother scrambled up as the man toppled over on the floor. His mother held him, and rocked him and sang to him. All the while, Kane stared at the tip of the big knife protruding from the back of the man’s head.
Kane fetched an old, rusted wheelbarrow and his mom rolled the body out of the house to the back field. He knew what she was going to do. He tried his best to stop her going too far into the field, but he knew it was pointless. She was headed over the big, moss-covered mound. Behind it, there was a hollow. If you buried a man there, no one would be able to see it until they were almost standing on the grave.
The wheelbarrow slipped out of her hands at the top of the mound, and the man’s body spilled
out when it hit the bottom of the hollow. The earth there was dark and soft. It yielded easily to the big shovel Kane had carried on his shoulder.
It didn’t take long for Kane’s mother to find the first set of bones. Little ones. The more she dug, the more she found. Animal bones. Buried in the shallow, wet earth. She said nothing to Kane and together, they buried him.
When they were done, Kane’s mother was covered in soil and blood and she knelt down beside him. Took his soft, dirt-stained cheeks in her hands and said, “I won’t tell about the animals. I knew it was you, all along. We’ll keep all of this a secret. Just between you and me. I promise. Do you promise?”
Kane nodded, and neither of them spoke of it again until years later. At the age of fifteen he had learned the truth. She told Kane the man had been a cousin of hers. When Kane’s grandfather had died, leaving her the old farmhouse, this cousin offered to help with money. He worked as a laborer, all over the county, and he always had cash for a willing woman. Kane’s mother had been desperate. She had no food, and bills, and land she couldn’t work. That money got her started. And she’d told Kane that she hated every minute she had spent with that man. And that Kane’s father wasn’t really a marine who got killed in a far-away place. It had been him, the one they’d buried together.
She told Kane she was sorry. She had needed the money.
Kane told her he had understood. And he did.
He didn’t tell her the other part. The part he knew he was never supposed to tell anyone. That when he put that big knife through the man’s face, he’d felt good.
Real good.
That feeling had been increasingly difficult to replicate as the years went by.
Kane blinked away the memory, and looked again at Spencer. He knew he had to deal with jurors like him. There was no persuading some people. No matter what happened in the courtroom, no matter how much he argued in the jury room Spencer was always going to vote one way. Same with the musician, Manuel. He was another defense favorite.
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 17
