by Al Macy
“No, Agent Tick, you don’t need to tell me that. Thank you for coming by.”
* * *
Three long months after the preliminary hearing, it was time for the trial. By the second day of jury selection I was regretting that I hadn’t taken Jen’s advice and hired a jury consultant. We’d already used three of our peremptory challenges, and Finn had only used one. In baseball terms, we were behind in the count.
Something was wrong with the heating system, and Courtroom 4 was sweltering. It felt as if we’d been transported to the Deep South before air-conditioning. Judge Stevens suffered the most in her black robes. Despite fanning herself with a manila folder, tiny drops of sweat occasionally slid down her high-class forehead. One made it all the way to the tip of her nose.
Any number of jurors can be eliminated for cause—that is, for being incapable of rendering a fair verdict uninfluenced by bias. For example, if a juror states she’s been harassed by the police, the prosecution might ask that she be excused for cause. She has a bias that could prevent her from being impartial.
An example was Juror 10, a woman who was large enough to come from another planet. Ms. Rosemary Dawson made no attempt to keep any of her Facebook data private. That information was fair game as long as we didn’t friend the person to unearth private details. Passive data mining was okay. Active, not so much.
Ms. Dawson’s posts demonstrated a clear law-and-order bias, and during voir dire, I’d been able to elicit some pro-police responses.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I would like to excuse Ms. Dawson for cause.”
My number one goal in jury selection is to get unfavorable jurors eliminated for cause. Striking a juror for cause doesn’t cost a thing. While we can eliminate a juror for no stated reason, known as a peremptory challenge, those challenges are limited and therefore precious. In the worst case scenario, we could run out of peremptory challenges and end up with a juror who is both persuasive and destructive but who can’t be removed for cause.
In the case of Ms. Dawson, Judge Stevens thought about it for a while, then went through the charade that’s all too common in jury selection.
“Ms. Dawson,” she said, “do you think you can put aside your feelings about law enforcement and listen to all the evidence and be impartial and fair?”
“Yes, I think I can do that.”
It was a farce because scientific studies have shown that the answer to that question, so often asked, was not reliable. Even putting aside the tendency of Homo sapiens to be unaware of their biases, the potential jurors might lie if they want to get on the jury. The humongous Ms. Dawson might be champing at the bit to get on the jury and strike her blow for truth, justice, and the American way.
I stood. “May I approach, Your Honor?”
When Finn joined me in front of the bench, I said, “Your Honor, Ms. Dawson has a clear bias here. There’s no way she can be impartial.”
“She feels that she can put aside her partiality.”
I pushed out my lower lip and blew out a breath that would have fluttered my bangs if I’d had any.
Stormy Stevens sent me a scowl.
Watch it, Garrett.
“Your Honor,” Finn said, “the defense wants to eliminate anyone who doesn’t view RPPD as a snake pit of fascist pigs. Next thing you know—”
“That’s enough, Ms. Finn!”
The storm clouds had broken, and Stormy Stevens lived up to her nickname. Lightning bolts leapt from her eyes and scored a direct hit on the prosecutor. I glanced back to see whether the potential jurors had caught the display directed at Finn. Couldn’t tell.
The judge kept her eyes on Finn for a few more seconds then moved them over to me. “Mr. Goodlove, do you wish to use one of your peremptory challenges?”
“I do not.” Win some, lose some.
On the way back from the bench I leaned toward Finn and whispered, “Snake pit of pigs?”
She bumped me with her butt. Intentional?
I gave Jen the bad news. She absorbed it without a hint of emotion. Never let the jurors think you’re losing. Carly also did a good job of hiding her thoughts.
Things started looking up as Finn blew through her own peremptory challenges. She apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that striking jurors based on demographics was a waste of time.
For example, she was apparently trying to seat more males, and in the process seated Juror 7, a professor at HSU. We’d learned that he was known for his love of debating. He had an intellect tailor-made for the arguments we’d planned, and we predicted he would reject the gut-based anger that Finn was likely to try to evoke. Jen and I found it hard not to high-five when Finn let him onto the jury.
When we were done, however, the battle had gone to Finn in a big way. She’d been dealt a good hand, and she played it with a skill and flare that could have been used in a law school seminar. I could picture a professor tapping the screen with a pointer. “Now that’s the way to win at jury selection.”
We put on a good face for the public, but back at the office, Jen patted me on the shoulder. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“I keep picturing that big woman crossing her arms and shaking her head during deliberations.”
“Dawson?”
“Yeah.” I dropped into my chair, my head down.
“Chin up, boss. We don’t have any indication that she’s stubborn. Bigoted, a champion of the police, yes, but stubborn, no. You’re too close to this. Step back and you’ll see the big picture. Our professor will tie her up in knots. A hundred bucks says he’ll be the foreman.”
“Uh … no. No bet. I think you’re right. I hope you’re right.”
I caught her looking at me with a worried frown. Worry about the case, or worry about me?
* * *
Louella was finishing up the report that would warm Garrett’s heart: There was reasonable doubt as to who killed Angelo. More than reasonable. The mob was after him. Garrett would have to find a way to present that. Perhaps a judge could force the FBI to release enough information to get the charges dismissed.
That was not all. She’d uncovered a dirty trick the prosecution had up its sleeve. They probably wouldn’t dare pull the trigger and call that witness. But if they did, Louella had information that would allow Garrett to keep her off the stand.
Just a few more sentences, then she’d send it. She was tired in a way only a heavy smoker can be, but she would sleep better once it was sent.
She coughed then froze. Was there a noise behind that cough? She pushed the button on her security system that turned on all the outside lights and paged between the different cameras. The rear corner camera was out again. Probably the same loose wire, but she couldn’t take the chance.
After one last drag, she stubbed out her smoke and slid her laptop into its special slot. She took the shoulder holster off her desk. After putting it on over her housedress, she pulled out her pistol. It was a Smith and Wesson model 41. She gave it a quick once-over. She loved it; it hadn’t jammed even once in the last year of target practice. She paged through the camera views again. If I hadn’t coughed, I’d know where the sound came from.
Quail often tried to commit suicide by flying into her windows but not at night. They’d be roosting safely in the pine tree.
The guest room had a bay window with a clear view of the corner with the broken camera. She entered it, gun first, checked that it was clear, then closed the door so the room would be totally dark. Holding the gun down by her side, she eased onto the cushion below the window. It was a warm place to read when the sun was out.
She looked. Nothing happening at that corner of the house. Probably a false alarm.
Back in her office, she picked up the phone to dial 911 and report a possible prowler. Two things happened at once: The sound of shattering glass broke the silence, and the lack of a dial tone registered in her brain.
Showtime. Fuckers don’t come into my house.
She had two options. She’d converted he
r office closet into a safe room, with a reinforced door and a solid lock. And a phone. A useless phone. That was out. If this was the mob Tick had talked about, they could get through the door or just burn down the house. Second option. Hunt the hunters or at least get to the cell phone in the front hall. She headed down the stairs, leading with her gun. The slightest movement from the corner at the bottom of the stairs and she’d shoot.
She got to the bottom and came around the corner. Again, the gun did the leading.
The living room was lit only by the streetlight down the block, and the phone sat in its charging dock in the hallway. Screw it. I’m outta here. Elvis is in the building, and I’m too old to play cowboy. Slip out the door, and I can disappear into the neighborhood. As long as I don’t have to run.
She mentally rehearsed her moves: holster the gun, unlock the dead bolt, open the door, pull out the gun, go. She’d executed the first move, when a shadow flew out from the kitchen.
Her decades’ old training kicked in. She pulled the gun from its holster and put a quick double tap in the guy’s center of mass. No real thought; she just did it. He went down as if sliding headfirst into second base. His gun fell out in front of him, slid along the hardwood floor, and clattered into the bottom of the front door.
Breathing hard and trying to ignore the tightness in her chest, she kept her revolver trained on his head. Guess there’s some cowboy left in the old broad after all. The bad guy was all in black, with a dark balaclava on his head. She’d let the police roll him over. The risk wasn’t worth going near him, even though he was probably dead.
Keeping the gun pointed at the perp, she picked up the cell phone. She was dying for another cigarette, but that could wait until the police were on their way.
Her attention divided between the dead guy and the phone, she didn’t see the second intruder until he was halfway across the living room floor. Damn!
Her ottoman obsession saved her. She had four in the room, three more than any reasonable person would expect. The man tumbled over one, and his gun went off. The report was quiet. A suppressor!
She swung her gun over and pulled the trigger twice. Nothing. Jammed.
The man started to get up. Did he still have his gun in his hand?
No time to clear the jam. Three steps, and she was through the door into the basement. She locked it behind her. She’d had the lock put in for just this kind of situation, no matter how unlikely. Kind of a second safe room. She snapped on the light and ran down the stairs, her arthritic knees complaining with each impact.
Few houses in the neighborhood had full basements. Hers had a dirt floor and no door to the outside. Fix the damn gun or climb out the window? The bad guy was already attacking the door.
The window.
Pulling in wheezing breaths, she holstered the gun and cleared off the workbench below the window with one sweep of her arm. A paint can, a hibachi, and the toaster oven that her husband had never fixed crashed to the floor. Climbing onto the table, a pain gripped her chest as if someone were tightening a pipe clamp around it. I am too old for this.
She tried to unlatch the awning window, but it was rusted shut. She pulled out the gun and hit the lever. It came unstuck at the same time the basement door crashed open.
With the strength and speed provided by her sixty-five-year-old muscles, she pulled herself up and through the window. She stood in the recess, but before she could step up the two feet to ground level, a stinging sensation flashed up from her calf. Gunshot?
A second pain like the sting of a Doberman-sized wasp hit her. This time, she heard the pop of the gun. You can hide, but you cannot run went through her mind. She didn’t have much time; the bad guy would be out the window soon. She felt sick—would it affect her thinking? Where to hide?
One time when her grandkids had played hide-and-seek in the yard, ten-year-old Melissa had discovered the best hiding place: A bear had hollowed out a den under a neighbor’s shed, and bushes obscured the opening. Louella hobbled to it and crept in. Unoccupied?
No way the bad guy can find me here. But her relief called attention to her greater danger. The pain in her chest felt as if the den’s former occupant were giving her a hug. She slid her hand to her calf. She probed the wounds. They felt like cuts from glass rather than bullet holes. It may have been the pain, the blood loss, or the probable heart attack—not that it mattered—one of those things or all of them together pushed Louella’s mind toward the precipice of unconsciousness.
She had two final thoughts: No one would find her in time to save her, and she’d never see her grandkids again.
Chapter Fourteen
In the old days, when I was a cutthroat, take-no-prisoners attorney, I’d have stayed up all night fine-tuning the next day’s opening statement. However, after being schooled in the college of hard knocks on how depression and sleep deprivation were bosom buddies, I took no chances. I told myself I was ready to go and tucked myself into bed at 10:00 p.m.
I was sound asleep when my cell phone yanked me out of my dreams. I blinked at the bedside clock. 2:30 a.m. I hadn’t dared set my phone to Do Not Disturb in case any last-minute emergencies needed my attention.
“Is this Mr. Garrett Goodlove?”
“Hold on a second.” I took some deep breaths and rubbed my face. “Okay, sorry, go ahead … uh, yes, this is Mr. Goodlove.”
“This is Police Chief Curtis in Weaverville. Do you have a son named Toby?”
“Yes. Is something wrong?” Dumb question.
Curtis had a southern accent. “We have Toby in custody here—”
“What is he charged with?”
“Now hold on, Mr. Goodlove. I’m on your side here. We haven’t charged him with anything. He seems to be having some kind of episode or something. Does he have a mental condition?”
“What did he do?”
“Earlier this evening he was going from house to house, knocking on doors, and being really … chatty. Nothing violent, but he really wanted to talk and was pretty insistent that people talk with him. We started getting phone calls. When we finally found him, he had climbed a tree and was yelling obscenities at people. We convinced him to come down, and we’ve brought him into the station. He’s in a cell now.”
“May I talk with him?”
“Yes, but first, can you tell me if y’all can come pick him up? We’re pretty informal here, and I can release him to you. Can you do that?”
I looked at the clock. Three hours to Weaverville. “Do you have a hospital there?”
Curtis laughed. “No, I wouldn’t call it that. It’s just an emergency clinic. I’d have taken him there, but they’re not equipped to handle anything like this. I’ve got a call in to a psychiatrist nearby, but I ain’t been able to get a hold of her yet.”
I did the math. Three hours there, three back. Admit him to St. Joe’s? Could I find someone to babysit him? Leave him with a friend? Could I get to court in time?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll leave immediately.”
“That would be really good, sir. I get the feeling he’s a good kid, but there’s some kind of a screw loose in his head. I’m not a doctor, but this is serious, I think. We’re in the Weaverville Town Hall, on the main drag. Just ring the buzzer. I’m going to hand the phone to him now.”
Toby’s voice faded in, as if he’d started talking before he had the phone up to his mouth. “Hey, Dad, do you know what’s going on?”
“Toby, it—”
“I’m not sure how to get home from here. From Weaverville. That’s where I am. They have me in jail here, and it’s like Andy of Mayberry or something. Real small. But it really sucks. I don’t know where my camera is. I’ve got a great idea for a photo book.”
I once saw someone on TV who had won a prize for fast talking. Toby was faster.
“Toby, stop. Listen for a second. I’m going to come pick you up now. I want you to try to calm down and just wait for me. Do everything they tell you to. It will be okay.”
I threw on some clothes and took two caffeine pills; I didn’t want to take the time to make coffee. I was on the road in ten minutes, feeling a little manic myself. I gave my unconscious time to process things, then I started planning.
It sounded like I’d need to get Toby admitted to St. Joe’s in Redwood Point. Carly was the best person to handle things there. She was smart, assertive, and levelheaded. On the other hand, she was going on trial for murder in just a few hours. If she went to the hospital, she’d be able to communicate with them, get things set up. I couldn’t call Carly, but I could stop the car and text her.
Jen? No, I didn’t want to wake her up. Someone had to be sharp for the trial. We’d gone over my opening statement together, maybe she could give it. Would Judge Stevens let things start without my presence?
I reached the windy part of Highway 299, and a tsunami of irrational and irresistible hopelessness washed over me. A twitch of the steering wheel, and I could drive off a cliff. It would be an accident. No one would know I abandoned them. Stop! This is depression talking. You know better than to listen.
Who else could I call? Louella. She’d gripe if I woke her up, but she’d want to help. Maybe she was awake. I set up the hands-free mode and dialed her number. C’mon pick up. It didn’t go straight to voicemail, so her phone wasn’t on Do Not Disturb. No answer. I left a message.
Did I really have no good friends that I’d feel comfortable calling? Huh. I hadn’t realized until then that I’d let all my friendships lapse during my depression.
Nicole. Of course. She was at Quinnipiac University Law School in Connecticut, so three hours ahead. Her roommate answered then got the phone to Nicole.
“Dad?” She was probably squinting at the clock radio by her bed.
“Hey, sweetheart. I need your help with an emergency.”
Her fog of sleep dissipated faster than mine had. She said, “Okay, I’m ready.”
I explained the situation.
