Talon Winter Legal Thrillers Box Set

by Stephen Penner

  Talon frowned slightly. That wasn’t exactly accurate.

  “And remember,” Quinlan finished, “what Arnold Langston told you. The weapon from the defendant’s home was the same one that killed Jordy McCabe.”

  Yep, Talon thought. That was the State’s case in a nutshell. If the jury believed it, Michael was sunk. So the question wasn’t whether the witnesses said that—they did. It was whether the witnesses were compelling. Whether the jury believed the witnesses. And whether they believed them enough.

  So Quinlan, wisely, addressed the weaknesses in his case.

  “Now, there may be some questions you still have,” he said. “Most importantly, why did this happen? What was the motive?”

  He nodded. “We always want to know the motive. Heck, that’s one of the ways detectives identify suspects. Who had a motive? But the one thing we actually don’t have to prove is motive. We have to prove what happened, and who did it, but we don’t have to prove why. Put another way, if you know what happened and who did it, you don’t need to know why. You still vote guilty.

  “Why was Jordy McCabe murdered that night so many years ago?” Quinlan shook his head. “We might never know. But we don’t have to. Because we know who did it. The defendant, Michael Jameson.”

  Talon knew why it happened. But the jury didn’t. Quinlan didn’t want them to know his victim was a drug dealer. Fine with Talon. They didn’t know Michael was either. He might not have to prove motive, but if the lack of motive left a reasonable doubt…

  Quinlan continued. “There was also a disagreement between the experts in this case. But really it was only an apparent disagreement. When you really look at their testimony, they actually agreed where it really mattered.”

  Talon raised an eyebrow. Oh, really?

  “Both of them agreed the defendant’s weapon was exactly the type of weapon that shot the bullets that killed Jordy McCabe,” Quinlan said. “The only difference was that Ms. St. Julian said she couldn’t find enough evidence to link that particular gun to those particular ballistics. But Arnold Langston could. And that only makes sense. Ms. St. Julian retired several years ago. Science marches on and technologies improve. Of course, the person who’s still doing this every day and who’s completely up-to-date on all the latest advancements is going to be able to see more. And he told you, Michael Jameson’s gun fired the shot that killed Jordy McCabe.”

  Talon had to hand it to Quinlan. That was about the best possible way to spin the experts’ testimony. But prosecutors weren’t really supposed to ‘spin’ evidence. She determined to make him pay for it when she got her chance to stand up.

  “Finally, one thing you may struggle with,” Quinlan said, “is the fact that you don’t know exactly what happened out there that night. This is a very important decision. In fact, it’s hard to imagine a more important decision than the one you’re facing. It’s only natural you would want to know every last answer to every last question. But you know what? You won’t have that. And you don’t need it.”

  He walked over and picked up his copy of the jury instructions. “The judge told you we have to prove every element of the crime beyond a reasonable doubt. And that’s true. But you know what? If we do that, we don’t have to prove anything else. If you’re convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that Michael Jameson fired the shot that killed Jordy McCabe, then that’s all that matters. You don’t have to know anything else. You don’t have to know what color shirt Jordy was wearing, or what model car Michael Jameson was driving, or anything else like that. Would you like to know that? Would we all like to know that? Of course. Do we all wish there was video of everything that happened so we wouldn’t be left with those nagging questions that are inevitable in any case, let alone a twenty-five-year-old cold case? Of course. But do you need that video? Do you need answers to every last question? No.”

  He set the jury instruction packet on the bar, and turned back to the jurors to finish his summation.

  “You need to be satisfied beyond a reasonable doubt that Michael Jameson committed the elements of murder in the first degree. That he killed Jordy McCabe and that he did it intentionally or with extreme indifference to human life. We have proven that. We have proven it beyond a reasonable doubt. Michael Jameson is guilty of murder in the first degree and we ask you to return that verdict. Thank you.”

  Quinlan walked back to the prosecution table and Talon watched as he sat down and accepted congratulations from his partner. It was a good closing, Talon had to admit.

  So it was time to give a great closing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Kirchner said, “now please give your attention to Ms. Winter who will deliver closing argument on behalf of the defendant.”

  CHAPTER 44

  Talon didn’t hurry as she took her place in front of the jury. It was the same exact spot where Quinlan had stood. In part, because that was the best place to stand when giving a closing, regardless of which side you were on. But also in part, to claim it. To take it away from Quinlan.

  “Reasonable doubt,” she started, “may arise from the evidence,” then a pause, before finishing, “or the lack of evidence.”

  She nodded to the jurors, making eye contact with several of them in turn. “This case was all about lack of evidence.”

  She could point too. She pointed at Quinlan. “There’s a reason the prosecutor told you not to worry about all the evidence they didn’t present. It’s because they barely presented any evidence. And they want you to overlook the huge, gaping holes in their case. They want you to forget your oath, ignore your instructions, and return a verdict of guilty on nothing more than a kiss and a promise. He did it. We promise. Trust us.”

  She shook her head. “No. Don’t trust them. Don’t ever trust them. Don’t trust the government with all of its resources and advantages when they want to put a man away for murder. The judge said you can consider the fact that punishment may follow conviction insofar as it may tend to make you careful.”

  She pointed at the jurors and raised her voice. “Be careful.”

  It was aggressive, but she wasn’t going to win being passive. Everything was in the State’s favor. The jurors walked in wondering what the defendant had done. When the judge told them it was a murder case, they wondered how he did it. When the prosecutor told them it was a shooting, they were ready to convict. Or at least, that was the danger. And it was no time to be polite.

  “Think back to what you thought when you walked into the courtroom the first time,” she challenged. “You wondered what he’d done to end up in the defendant’s chair. Because you don’t want to live in a country where innocent people are prosecuted for crimes they didn’t commit. You don’t want to live in a country where mistakes are made and innocent men lose their lives for things someone else did.

  “And good for you. None of us want to live in a country like that. But we know we do. We see the news reports. We watch the true crime shows. We know innocent people do get convicted. And we wonder, how did that happen? Well, I’ll tell you. It happened because the jury wasn’t careful. It happened because they trusted the government and the system and they didn’t want to live in a country either where innocent people get prosecuted.”

  Another accusatory finger. She panned it across the jury box. “Don’t be like those jurors. There’s a reason the judge told you the defendant is presumed innocent.” She looked over to her client. “Michael is presumed innocent. He is innocent. And the State, with all of its resources and advantages, didn’t even come close to proving otherwise.”

  She took a step to her right, more to shift her weight than anything else. She wasn’t a pacer. Pacing was distracting. Quinlan did it; that was enough reason for her not to.

  “Think about what Mr. Quinlan just told you. We didn’t prove motive. We didn’t prove what happened. We didn’t prove who, what, where, or when. But we told you it was Michael Jameson because one person working in a crime lab thinks he can match a smashed bullet to a firearm
twenty-five-years after the fact.”

  Another shake of her head. “Well, let’s take a closer look at that, shall we? First of all, the State failed to actually link that particular firearm to Michael. You heard two different and distinct things. First, a firearm or firearms was stolen from Michael’s home; and second, the firearm Arnold Langston claims was used to kill Jordan McCabe was pawned at the same time and by the same people who pawned Michael’s stolen T.V. and laptop. But you know what you didn’t hear? You didn’t hear that Michael or his wife or anyone else actually identified that pawned gun as the one stolen from the Jameson home. Is it so unlikely that a burglar might pawn items from more than one burglary at the same time?”

  She paused and let that sink in.

  “Go ahead, check your notes when you get back in the deliberation room. No one ever linked them. You think they did. Some of you anyway. Some of you are sitting here right now, thinking, ‘I’m pretty sure someone said that.’ And you know what? You’re wrong. I was listening for it. As much as anyone in this courtroom I was listening for it. That’s my job. And I didn’t hear it, because no one said it.”

  She raised a finger. “Now, this is a very important point. It might be the most important point in this entire trial. You swore an oath to follow the law. The law is, if they don’t prove every element of the crime—beyond a reasonable doubt—then you must acquit. You have a duty to acquit. A duty.

  “And even with that duty—that duty to acquit—some of you are still thinking, ‘Well, it was implied. I mean, why would the prosecutor say it was the same gun if it wasn’t the same gun? We’re here for a reason, right?’ And I am telling you right now, any of you who are thinking that—you are violating your oath. You are violating your duty. You are the reason innocent people go to prison.”

  She wasn’t making any friends, Talon knew. But it wasn’t about making friends. It was about making a point. Winning the argument. Winning the case.

  The jurors were uncomfortable. But they were listening.

  “And then the prosecutor, Mr. Quinlan, has the gall to stand in front of you and try to spin the ballistic testimony as if Anastasia St. Julian is some doddering old retiree who’s fallen behind the times. How dare he? How dare he?”

  It wasn’t an unintentional pivot. Turn from whatever wrong thing her client might have done and let’s talk about the wrong things the prosecution might have done.

  “You heard her testimony. You heard how she explained it. Did Arnold Langston diagram anything for you? Did he try to educate you as to why he came to the conclusion he did? No. Because he came to the conclusion he did based, not on the evidence, not on the marking on the bullet, but based on the information on the lab request form. The defendant’s name, the victim’s name, the detective’s name, and the crime. Murder. And not just a murder, a cold case murder. A chance to be the hero. He knew what the detectives wanted, so he gave it to them. A match. A perfect, exact, complete match. But one that couldn’t withstand scrutiny.

  “Ann St. Julian used to run that lab. She came in here and she told you exactly why Arnold Langston was wrong. And he was wrong. But not as wrong as the prosecutor when he attacked Ms. St. Julian.”

  She took a step back to her left. “Do you remember what we talked about in jury selection? How the system hasn’t always been fair to people of color, to Americans of color? But it’s not just ethnicity. Do you remember retired Detective Halcomb? Do you remember how he didn’t even bother to look at me when he answered my questions? And now Mr. Quinlan, in his perfect suit and red power tie, and alabaster skin and male anatomy, tells you to disregard the vastly more experienced and qualified woman because, hey, she’s old, and Mr. Langston is, well, a mister. We can forgive an old woman her silly notions.”

  Again, not polite. Maybe not even fair. But effective. Or so she hoped.

  “So when you go back there and deliberate the fate of Michael Jameson, don’t just look at what little the State did prove. Look at all they didn’t prove. They put on no evidence that Michael Jameson pulled the trigger. They put on no evidence that Michael Jameson was even there that night. The only evidence they put on was that a gun pawned by some thieves was the same type of gun that killed Jordy McCabe. That’s not proof beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s not proof at all.”

  She could have finished there. She’d made her points, and closing argument was about explaining how the evidence did, or didn’t, prove the crime charged. But it wasn’t enough. She had given them the reasons they could use to acquit Michael Jameson. But she had to make them want to.

  She walked over to her client and stood behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. They were going to look at her, so she made them look at him. “Michael Jameson is forty-three years old. He’s a husband, he’s a father, and he’s a good man. We don’t know what happened that fateful night twenty-five years ago. The State hasn’t been able to prove it. But we do know what’s happening right here, right now. This man’s fate is in your hands. Return a verdict that’s consistent with your oath. Return a verdict that’s consistent with your duty. Return a verdict of not guilty.”

  CHAPTER 45

  Talon was pleased with her closing. Or at least satisfied. It would have been a good final word. And in a lot of states it would have been the final word. But not in Washington. In Washington, the prosecution got the last word. Ostensibly because they had the burden of proof. And to keep the defense attorney honest, knowing the state would be able to address whatever arguments the defense made. Amity McDaniels stood to deliver the states rebuttal argument

  She took that same spot, centered before the jury, but only for a moment. "Pretty words," she started. "Pretty and powerful words from two lawyers. Professionals whose job it is to deliver pretty and powerful words."

  She stepped over to where the exhibits sat on the bar in front of the bailiff. "But words are cheap," she said as she selected two pieces of paper and walked over to the projector. "It takes a thousand of them to equal one picture. So instead of more pretty words, let me show you two pictures."

  She laid the exhibits on the glass and flipped the projector on. Two images filled the screen opposite the jurors: on the left, Jordy McCabe's yearbook photo; on the right, his lifeless, bloody body at the crime scene.

  "This is what this case is really about. It's about Jordan McCabe and why he didn't get the chance to grow up to be a father and a husband and a neighbor and a coworker. And that reason is because the defendant murdered him. He shot him through the chest and left him to bleed to death on the cold asphalt of Cushman Avenue."

  She clicked off the projector again. "And now he's gone. The defense is right about one thing. This is a circumstantial case, solved because the defendant held on to the murder weapon all these years. But the judge told you, circumstantial evidence is not necessarily worse than direct evidence. Especially where the reason we don't have that direct evidence is because of the actions of the defendant himself."

  McDaniels didn't point at Michael. She didn't even look at him. Instead she returned to the jurors to deliver the case's final entreaty.

  "Jordan McCabe can't tell you what happened that night because the defendant stole his voice from him. But you can be that voice. A quarter century later, you can speak for him. You can say what needs to be said. Say the word. Say justice. Say guilty to murder in the first degree."

  McDaniels turned and returned to her seat. It was time for the judge to speak one last time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, that concludes the trial. You will now retire to the jury room to begin your deliberations.”

  The bailiff stood and led the jurors out. And it was finally over. The trial, the work, the preparation and the execution, and the daily grind of being ‘on’ every minute of every day for weeks on end. It was all over.

  Almost.

  Michael turned to Talon as the judge departed the courtroom and the bailiff began collecting the exhibits for the jury. “Now what do we do?”

  “No
w,” Talon shrugged, “we wait.”

  CHAPTER 46

  They would wait days, in fact. It had taken a month to put on the trial. They could hardly expect the jurors to return a verdict within just a few hours. That probably would have been bad news anyway. Juries were only supposed to convict if they were convinced beyond a reasonable doubt. If the jury was that convinced, they would probably know it right away. A quick verdict would mean a prosecution verdict. A guilty verdict.

  Or maybe not. For every theory of what a jury might be doing and what it might mean, there was a competing theory that argued the opposite. The truth was, there was no way of knowing what they were doing or why or how long it would take. Hours dragged into days. A weekend interrupted the deliberations and it turned into weeks. Michael checked in at the end of every day, and he was always within thirty minutes of the courthouse, his cell phone fully charged and ringer volume up. The plan was clear: when the verdict came in, the bailiff would call Talon, and then Talon would call Michael. They would meet at the courthouse. Michael would walk into the courtroom not knowing whether he’d walk back out the same door he entered, with his wife and children, or exit through that secure back entrance, handcuffed and escorted by armed guards, never to live free again.

  No pressure.

  “He should go to Canada,” Curt opined on the afternoon of Day 8. “If it’s an acquittal, it won’t matter if he’s not there. If it’s a guilty, well, it’d probably take a few years before they could get the extradition through. Vancouver’s a pretty nice city.”

  Talon shook her head. Curt had brought coffee, so she could hardly turn him away when he sat down in her office. Besides, she didn’t have any other cases, so it wasn’t like she needed to be someplace else. “I’m not sure he’d want to sit in a Canadian jail for two years while the extradition played out.”