Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  Kirchner’s face scrunched into thought as she tried to recall exactly what Quinlan had said.

  Quinlan didn’t bother thinking. “I said no such thing, Your Honor,” he insisted.

  “He said,” Talon was ready to answer, “the jurors would hear, not from the victim of the murder, but the victims of the other crimes my client allegedly committed. Or he was about to when I objected. There are no other crimes charged. Telling the jury Mr. Jameson committed other crimes is a textbook case of hoping jurors will convict a defendant because they think he’s a bad person generally, rather than because of whatever evidence might have been presented.” Then a jab: “Obviously, Mr. Quinlan knows he won’t be able to prove the charged crime beyond a reasonable doubt and is already hedging his bets and lowering expectations.”

  “I am not,” Quinlan shot back. “And your client did commit other crimes. He was dealing drugs, for one thing. That’s why this happened in the first place.”

  “He’s not charged with drug dealing,” Talon answered.

  “That’s because the statute of limitations on drug dealing ran years ago,” Quinlan said. “The only crime that doesn’t have a statute of limitations is murder and that’s why it’s the only crime he’s charged with.”

  Judge Kirchner stepped in. “Counsel, stop arguing with each other and direct your comments to the bench. Ms. Winter, I understand your point, but if this case arose out of a drug deal gone wrong, how can the State explain the evidence without mentioning the crime of unlawful delivery of a controlled substance?”

  Talon nodded. “In all candor, Your Honor, that’s not my problem. The State is the one who chose to bring the charge on the flimsiest of evidence. They could sanitize it and have their witnesses simply say it was a business transaction without mentioning drugs.”

  “That won’t work, Your Honor,” Quinlan started, but Kirchner cut him off.

  “Wait your turn, Mr. Quinlan,” she instructed. He nodded in compliance, and the judge turned back to Talon.

  “Isn’t the drug dealing part of the res gestae, Ms. Winter?” the judge asked. “It’s just part of what happened. Gunshots aren’t usually fired at your run-of-the-mill business transaction, but it’s not uncommon that a drug deal can turn violent very quickly.”

  Talon shrugged. “Maybe, Your Honor. Maybe not. The State hasn’t endorsed any expert witnesses to discuss the statistics of drug deals gone wrong. But regardless, the State can’t call it a crime. My client is charged with one crime: murder. And that’s the only thing in this trial that should be labeled a crime.”

  “I think the jury will know,” Kirchner pointed out, “that selling drugs is a crime.”

  Another shrug. “Maybe,” Talon conceded, “but the State can’t be allowed to call it that. It’s irrelevant. Would you allow the State to say Mr. Jameson committed a crime if he’d had some marijuana in his pocket? It was a crime then, but isn’t now. What was illegal then is irrelevant unless it’s charged now. And nothing is charged except murder. The State cannot be allowed to smear my client by claiming he committed other crimes that are uncharged and for which I haven’t been put on notice I would need to defend against. It violates his right to prepared counsel and a fair trial.”

  It was a good speech. But speeches by defense attorneys were usually discounted. A defense attorney had an obligation to argue every possible point in favor of their client, but that made each argument suspect. The judge turned to Quinlan.

  “Response?” she invited.

  Quinlan huffed. “I’m not even sure how to respond, Your Honor. It’s not like Ms. Winter didn’t know I was going to tell the jury that Jordan McCabe was shot during a drug deal gone wrong. If she was going to object, she should have made a motion in limine before I started my opening. The horse is out of the barn now, I think.”

  Talon raised an eyebrow at the metaphor. “If I might, Your Honor,” she interjected. “I didn’t make a motion in limine because I didn’t think Mr. Quinlan would be so careless and brazen as to accuse my client of crimes he’s not charged with.”

  “You knew I was going to talk about a drug deal,” Quinlan shot at her.

  “I didn’t know you were going to call it a crime,” Talon returned.

  “Drug dealing is a crime,” Quinlan responded in a raised voice.

  “Enough!” Judge Kirchner raised her own voice even more. “I told the two of you to address your comments to me, not each other. I won’t tolerate another outburst like that.”

  Both attorneys apologized. Talon took a moment to glance at Amity McDaniels. She was still seated, her hands folded on the table, and her eyes focused attentively on the judge. Very professional. Unlike her co-counsel. Or Talon, for that matter. But Talon’s outbursts were also strategic. The jury had been out for over five minutes already. Hardly a short recess. One of them had probably already started a chain reaction of using the bathroom while they waited. Even if Kirchner ended the arguments right then, it’d be at least another five minutes before Quinlan was back in front of them, picking up wherever it was he’d left off.

  Mission accomplished.

  “Anything more, Ms. Winter?” the judge asked.

  “I believe I stopped Mr. Quinlan before he finished his sentence accusing my client of uncharged, undefendable crimes, so I don’t believe the Court needs to strike any comments by Mr. Quinlan or instruct the jury to disregard anything. I would simply ask the Court to instruct Mr. Quinlan not to use the word crime when discussing anything other than the one and only crime alleged here, the murder of Jordan McCabe.”

  Judge Kirchner looked to Quinlan. “Can you live with that?”

  Quinlan didn’t seem to appreciate just how much time the entire argument was taking up. Rather than agree and move on, he replied, “No, Your Honor, I can’t. The defendant did commit other crimes that night. The fact that the statute of limitations prohibits their prosecution doesn’t mean they weren’t crimes at the time.”

  Kirchner exhaled and considered. “What crimes do you want to tell the jury Mr. Jameson committed?”

  “Well,” Quinlan hesitated. “Selling drugs for one.”

  “Can’t you just tell them he was selling drugs without calling it a crime?” the judge asked.

  “But everyone knows selling drugs is a crime,” Quinlan repeated his earlier argument.

  “So why do you have to say it then?” Judge Kirchner asked.

  Quinlan opened his mouth, but didn’t have a reply ready. “Uh…”

  Kirchner looked at the clock. Almost ten minutes now. “Okay,” she announced, “I’m going to sustain the objection. Mr. Quinlan, you can tell the jury what facts you think the evidence will show, including describing conduct which would have been criminal, but you can’t call it a crime or accuse the defendant of committing any crimes other than the one with which he is charged.”

  “Your Honor,” Quinlan started to protest.

  “Do you really want to turn this into a half-hour argument, Mr. Quinlan?” she interrupted. “Should we adjourn your opening statement for an hour or two while you go look up some case law? I would think you’d like to get back into your flow.”

  The judge said the last word the same way Talon felt about it.

  “No, Your Honor,” Quinlan replied meekly. “Thank you. I’m ready to proceed.”

  Kirchner looked at Talon again. “Ms. Winter?”

  “Nothing further,” Talon answered. “Thank you.”

  And thank you, Mr. Quinlan, she thought. He’d been slick when he’d started. She guessed he was rattled now. Not just about having been objected to on that one subject, but wondering what else Talon might object to. He hadn’t seen his comment as objectionable. Were there more landmines buried in his prepared remarks? He didn’t know.

  It was sneaky, maybe even dirty. But she had a life in her hands. There was no going back to civil litigation.

  Judge Kirchner called for the jury, but, as expected, it took nearly five more minutes before everyone was seate
d again and Quinlan could pick up where he’d left off. And not even quite there, given Talon’s sustained objection.

  “As I was saying,” Quinlan tried to rally himself, “you will hear from many different witnesses during this trial. Police officers, civilians, forensics experts.”

  His voice had lost its confident edge. He was still loud enough, still delivering his words in the right order, without hesitation or stammering. But it wasn’t the same. His voice didn’t grab the jurors; he didn’t have the room any more. He plodded through the rest of his opening like an exhausted parent reading a bedtime story so the kid will go to sleep, not because it’s interesting.

  “Twenty-five years after Jordan McCabe was murdered,” Quinlan said, “the gun that killed him was recovered from a burglar who had burglarized the defendant’s home. He’d kept the gun all those years. When the gun was test-fired, the ballistics matched those found at the scene of the murder. The killer had finally revealed himself.”

  Quinlan stood up a little straighter, ready to deliver his parting lines. “The defendant kept the gun as a souvenir, but it was the justice system that never forgot. Never forgot about Jordan McCabe. And never gave up on holding his killer responsible.”

  He pointed again at Michael Jameson. This time Talon kept her eyes riveted on Quinlan. She was Michael’s champion, and Quinlan was his attacker. The jury needed to see that too.

  “At the end of this trial,” Quinlan concluded, “I will stand up again and ask you to return a verdict of guilty to the crime of murder in the first degree. Thank you.”

  Quinlan strode back to the prosecution table and sat down. McDaniels gave him an encouraging nod, but he didn’t return it. He was obviously still shaken by Talon’s gambit.

  But Talon didn’t have time to gloat.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Kirchner announced, “please give your attention to Ms. Winter, who will deliver the opening statement on behalf of Mr. Jameson.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Talon stood up and took her place before the jurors. There was a quiet that seized a courtroom when an attorney was about to deliver an opening statement. Part of it was artificial: the rules said no one else was supposed to talk. But part of it was organic: the jurors really did want to hear what the attorneys had to say. They may have been able to infer some things from the questions during jury selection, but these were the first direct statements of the case. And like any first impression, they tended to stay with the jurors throughout the trial.

  No pressure.

  New attorneys often employed what was called ‘the ramble.’ The attorney would thank the judge and jurors, then re-introduce themselves by name and which side they represented, then maybe an explanation about what opening statement was supposed to be. A lot of words whose only real purpose was to calm down the speaker. In the meantime, the jurors, who wanted nothing more than to hear that side of the story, sit there, thinking, but unable to say, ‘Get on with it!’

  The better tactic—the one they taught at trial advocacy clinics—was what was known as the ‘attention grabber.’ A phrase or line designed to grab the jurors’ attention. Like a catch phrase for a movie or the first line of a novel. Quinlan had done a good job with his—that was why Talon had to interrupt his flow. Talon needed one too. A better one.

  She’d given a lot of thought to it. What was the case really about? What was the single most important part? What was the one thing she wanted the jurors to think about throughout the entire trial, even when they were home, brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed?

  Well, that was easy.

  “Michael Jameson,” Talon began. And she, too, gestured at her client, but with an open hand, not an accusatory finger.

  “He’s sitting right there,” she went on. “Look at him. He’s a real person. With real emotions and real thoughts and a real story.”

  Opening statement was all about storytelling. Talon was going to tell them her story. Michael’s story.

  “In fact, Michael has many stories. We all do. Stories that capture a snapshot of who we are, who we were, who we hope to be.”

  She stepped to one side and opened her body slightly toward her client. It was an invitation to look at Michael again, but to join Talon in her ruminations as they did so.

  “Think back,” she said, “about the person you were when you were still in high school. Now think about the person you are now. For some of us, those seem like two pretty different persons.”

  There were several nods and at least one light chuckle from the jury box. Good, Talon thought. They were listening. More importantly, they were experiencing.

  “But you’re still the same person.” A subtle shift from ‘him’ and ‘we’ to ‘you.’ You, the jurors. “It’s all the same story, just a different chapter.

  “Stop and think for a moment. Think back to your best friend in high school. Or your first girlfriend or boyfriend. Maybe even a rival on the football team or in the math class. Someone who knew you back then. Now, think about the story they might tell about you. One that really summed up who, to them, you were.”

  She took a step back toward her original position. It told the jurors to pay closer attention. To her, to what she was about to say.

  “Now, imagine your best friend now. Your spouse or significant other. That co-worker who always seems to look at you sideways. What story would they tell?

  “Think about your kids. Or even your grandchildren. What story would they tell if someone asked what you were like?

  “Now, put those stories next to each other. The person your best friend in high school knew, the person your spouse knows, the person your boss knows, your kids know, your neighbors know. Would they even be recognizable as the same person? Would your prom date recognize the story from your grandkids?”

  Talon smiled. “For some of us, the answer may be yes. There may be some thread of similarity that connects eighteen-year-old us to forty-five-year-old us, to eighty-year-old us. But for most of us, life is about changes, about growth. About pain and loss and falling off the horse, if only to see if we can get back up again. And when we do, when we climb back up on that horse after being thrown, we’re not that same person who let a horse throw him off.”

  Some of the jurors were still looking at Michael. Some of them were looking at her. And a lot of them were looking down, walking down their own path of memories, recalling the horses that threw them, and how they were different for it.

  Talon let them wander a few moments more. Then she brought them back to the courtroom. Back to Michael Jameson.

  “So, Michael has more than one story. Or rather, more than one chapter to his story. I’m going to tell you two.”

  She turned and slowly walked toward the near side of the jury box. Pacing was never good during an opening statement—or closing argument—but was common. Good trial lawyers were like ducks: calm on the surface but paddling like hell underneath. If you’re not nervous when you’re talking to a jury, then you’re not paying attention. The trick was to convert that anxiety into energy for the presentation. Like gasoline exploding hundreds of times per minute to drive the race car forward.

  But proper placement in the courtroom could underline and emphasize points of the argument in ways no words could. Talon would stand near her client when she told the jury about who Michael was now. But she’d stand at the other end of the jury box when she addressed the earlier chapter of his story.

  “First, I’m going to tell you about the Michael Jameson I know. The Michael Jameson who sits before you today. Go ahead, look over at him again.” Another warm gesture toward her client. “That Michael Jameson.”

  She smiled at him. He was clearly uncomfortable with everyone staring at him. Good. That’s what a normal person would feel, how a normal person would look. Talon hadn’t warned him. That would have ruined it.

  “Michael is a computer programmer. He works at a company called DigiDream International, based right here in Tacoma. They create ap
ps for smartphones, graphic design software for architecture firms, and a lot of other things that the rest of us don’t completely understand, but are glad exist. He’s worked there for over ten years and is a supervisor now, responsible for both programming and managing other programmers.”

  So, the Black man in the defendant’s chair actually had a job. A good one. One that required brains and hard work. Talon wondered how many of the jurors were a little surprised, and if any of them realized their surprise was part of what she was fighting.

  Talon nodded to the woman in the gallery sitting two rows behind Michael. No one was allowed to sit directly behind a defendant.

  “Michael is married,” Talon went on. “He met his wife, Alicia, in college. They have two wonderful children. A son named Marcus, who graduated from high school this year, and a daughter, Kylee, who’s about to start high school herself.”

  So, the Black man in the defendant’s chair was not some absentee father who’d impregnated several different women and left them to raise his children alone. The only thing remarkable about all this was that it could be remarkable.

  Alicia couldn’t quite manage a smile—not under these circumstances—but she did give Talon a nod. Talon provided the smile, sending it to her over the rail that separated her from her husband.

  Talon turned back to the jurors. “They live in University Place. A four-bedroom house, yellow with white trim, and the cars in the driveway because the garage is filled with Michael’s workbench and storage boxes full of memories. He goes to the same Home Depot, and Subway, and Baskin Robbins, like everyone else in U.P.”

  So, the Black man in the defendant’s chair didn’t live on the Hilltop—not anymore, anyway. He wasn’t relegated to that part of town the rest of the city’s residents could avoid by taking Schuster Parkway along the water, or State Route 16 around back.