by Rick Bowers
Laura pushed through the oak doors and into the portico. She angled her way along the mahogany-paneled east wall, climbed the back staircase to the second floor, and hustled to a door blocked by an armed guard.
Presenting her ID, Laura stepped past the guard and into a windowless space, defined by wooden benches and slouching men. This was the holding room for prisoners awaiting trial. Laura stopped in her tracks at the sight of the clean-shaven man on a bench, hands folded on his lap, back leaning against the wall. Eddie? He was hard to recognize in the casual blue sports coat, white dress shirt, and red-and-white tie knotted at the neck. This was the first time, she realized, that she’d seen him in clothes that had not been issued by the New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision.
“Eddie.” Laura beamed as she slid onto the bench next to him. “You look great.”
“Thanks.” Eddie checked out her brand-new, opening-day attire. “You look like the first day of school.”
“Ready for this?” Laura’s upbeat tone hid her nerves. She was here to allay her client’s fears, not add to them. “All set to go?”
“Do I have a choice?” Eddie shrugged in his store-bought clothes. “Okay. Yeah. I’m ready.”
Laura pushed aside her inner jitters and placed a hand on his. Squeezing hard, she whispered, “It’s fine. You’re supposed to be scared.”
Eddie lowered his head and stared at the hardwood. “I don’t know…”
“Look.” Laura broke the short silence. “You can’t show your fear. We’re both going to have to keep our emotions in check.”
“I know.” Eddie straightened up on the bench and glanced at the bailiff against the far wall. “I’ll be strong.”
“Be prepared for anything,” Laura counseled. “Show no reaction.”
“Reaction?” Eddie asked. “To what?”
“The prosecutor is going to find ways to throw all those horrible words at you: Monster; murderer; inhuman; Hangman...”
“I know.”
“The jurors are going to look at you with hate in their eyes.”
“I know.”
“The witnesses are going to repeat the same old lies: ‘I saw him going to the bridge.’ ‘He threatened to kill her.’ ‘He couldn’t wait to confess.’”
“I can handle it.”
“The prison shrink is going to diagnose you as both a madman, and a cold, calculated killer.”
“Fuck him. He’s crazy.”
“Eddie, you have to stay cool. Your job is to keep it under control.”
“I will.” Eddie pumped confidence into his voice. “I know what to expect. Remember, I’ve seen this movie before.”
“This time, we’re rewriting the ending.” Laura chuckled as she expanded the metaphor. “This version ends with your acquittal. This version ends with justice flowing like a mighty river.”
Eddie cleared his throat. “Look. You said it. We both know it ain’t gonna be easy. Laura, you’ve gotta be straight with me. What worries you the most? What’s the one thing that’s eating at you?”
“The urine deposits,” Laura replied in the fraction of a heartbeat. “Those damn urine deposits on the victim’s body worry me the most. They tested positive for traces of your DNA. Those traces are the hardest evidence that links you to the crime scene.”
Laura thought about the words of the original prosecutor, who surmised that the killer guzzled a beer before showering the corpse with piss: “The defendant consumed a twelve-ounce bottle of Genesee beer and defiled the body with human waste. How else did those urine traces get on the corpse?”
“Planted,” Eddie said. “The cops planted that urine on her somehow.”
“Don’t worry,” Laura said. “I’ll make the argument.”
Eddie turned away. “Fucking piss.”
She laid her hands on his face and guided his eyes back to hers. “I’ve got this.”
Eddie took her hand. “You know how I survived in prison, Laura? I pushed negative thoughts out of my head. The stomach-turning food. The brutal guards. The predators in the showers. I imagined all those things as pieces of trash, piled up in a huge garbage heap. I imagined a big, yellow bulldozer pushing all that trash out of my head. That’s what I’m gonna do for this trial. The lies. The fake evidence. The judgement. I’m gonna imagine it as worthless pieces of trash. I’m gonna imagine you as the bulldozer.”
67
Laura entered Courtroom Four like a gladiator entering the Coliseum. The egotistic thoughts of career and fame were gone. Righting this miscarriage of justice was not. It was all that mattered.
The room was just beginning to fill with lawyers, court personnel, journalists, and spectators. Laura was halfway down the center aisle that split the two banks of church-pew-style benches, when she spotted Martha Barrack, staked out at the defense table, dressed to the nines.
“Hi, Laura.” Martha waved. “Set to go?”
Martha leaned against the defense table with arms folded, tapping the heel of her handcrafted, Italian leather ankle boot on the hardwood, looking like a million bucks in her signature pique-knit black dress. The courtroom veteran cast a striking figure, from the revealing V-neck right down to the lace-embroidered hem.
Martha sized up Laura’s modest gray cardigan, white, ruffled blouse, and black skirt. Laura had picked out the clothes while buying Eddie’s new suit at the mall. “You look fantastic,” Martha said, obviously lying. “Like a hard-working attorney. Brilliant. The jury will relate.” She tilted her head to one side and let a broad smile cross her made-up face. “The future starts now.”
Laura smiled back. “I’m feeling good.”
She had come a long way toward accepting Martha as second chair. In the weeks leading up to the trial, Martha had helped craft a well-balanced legal strategy. Knowing the prosecutor’s witness list from discovery, Laura and Martha would counterpunch each one. Knowing the full scope of the police frame-up, the defense would let the prosecution step into the holes they’d dug for themselves. Then, they would bounce off the ropes and land the big blows. Eddie Nash would not testify—unless the outcome was in severe doubt.
In the dull prelims, Martha had also excelled at voir dire—the painstaking process of selecting jurors. Martha had conducted exhaustive research on the final batch of prospective jurors, rating each on their openness to the defense’s case. For example, prospective juror Angela Hernandez was a married, thirty-six-year-old, Latino woman from nearby Genesee, New York. Two years back, Mrs. Hernandez’s eighteen-year-old son, Miguel, had been arrested for stealing a car. He had been remanded to the county jail, pending trial. The charges were dropped after the family spent $5,000 on a private defense lawyer, who proved that Miguel was innocent. There was a good chance, Martha told Laura, that Mrs. Hernandez would be sympathetic to a defendant. Agreeing with the logic, Laura pushed to make sure that Mrs. Hernandez was empaneled. Martha also discovered that prospective juror Harvey Keen—a white gentleman in his mid-forties—once headed a citizens’ group favoring the restoration of the death penalty. Using a preemptive challenge, Laura excluded Keen from the panel.
As the courtroom filled, Martha smiled at her junior colleague. “Don’t forget; I’m here to back you up. You have first chair, and I have second. Use me as you see fit. Just remember, I know my stuff. I can critique your arguments, clarify points of law, cross-examine witnesses, and dig up precedent-setting cases. Besides, this judge has a thing for me; it can’t hurt.”
Whew, Laura thought. What will I do? Cheer you on from the sidelines?
Out of the corner of her eye, Laura saw the prosecutor enter the courtroom. She watched him stride down the center aisle with focused eyes, confident steps, and a briefcase that was undoubtedly full of ammunition. Laura felt a chill crawl down her spine at the prospect of taking on the state of New York. She was in for the fight of her life. Maybe it was good that Martha
had her back.
68
“All rise.”
Superior Court Judge James Peter Striker emerged from his chambers with his black robe trailing behind him. The distinguished jurist with wavy, white hair, a square jaw, and piercing blue eyes settled into the leather swivel chair behind the carved oak bench. Looming above the defense and prosecution tables, Striker scanned the packed courtroom, gaveling a few renegade whispers into silence.
“The clerk may swear in the jury.”
Five men and seven women filed into the jury box, recited the oath, and settled in for the duration.
“For the state?” Striker barked. “Whom do we have?”
“Good morning, Your Honor.” The smooth voice filled the room. “Bartholomew Ward, Deputy State Attorney. May I say, sir, it’s an honor to be in your courtroom.”
Bart Ward was a formidable stalwart of the state prosecutor’s office. He looked impeccable in his blue, Brooks Brothers suit, newly coiffed black hair, and manicured black beard. In his forties, with ten years as a prosecuting attorney under his belt, Ward was known for his booming voice, dramatic flair, animated theatrics, and well-honed arguments. Defense attorneys had nicknamed him “Ward the Wizard” for performing magic tricks with judges and juries.
The Wizard was a winner. He scorned the milquetoast role of the prosecutor spelled out by the Supreme Court and canon of ethics of the American Bar Association guidelines that dictated the prosecutor—the representative of the people—must strive for justice, rather than just convictions. He should never stoop to underhanded means to convict an innocent defendant. Bart Ward was about notching convictions by any means possible. His twenty-five wins in felony murder cases proved it.
Putting Ward in charge of the prosecution also provided cover for County Prosecutor Mel Radowitz, whose methods in the original trial were certain to come under fire this time around. Radowitz would be second chair to Ward in the retrial.
“Defense counsel,” Striker barked. “Stand.”
Laura and Martha stood in unison and introduced themselves.
“Ah.” Striker grinned. “Nice to have you back in my courtroom, Ms. Barrack.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. The pleasure is mine.”
The judge rapped his gavel. “Counselors, approach.”
The four attorneys stepped to the bench to hear the judge lay out the ground rules. “Prosecutors, I want your case to be based on the facts. Not sensational accusations. Let’s leave the sensationalism to the experts, the media.”
The co-prosecutors nodded and stepped back.
“Defense,” Striker growled, “the county police and prosecutor are not on trial here. You are to stick to the facts. Tread with care on claims of official misconduct. These proceedings are not going to be turned into a referendum on the police. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Laura and Martha spoke as one.
“Now, step back,” Striker ordered. “Let’s get to opening arguments. The reporters in the gallery haven’t been fed for days.”
Prosecutor Ward approached the jury. Did he have a magic trick in his back pocket?
“Your Honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Ward gripped the podium with two hands and nodded at each juror. “The defendant is charged with an unspeakable crime. Edward Thomas Nash is accused of the brutal, premeditated hanging of a troubled young woman, Erin Lambert. Erin Jane Lambert was a human being who met her fate at the end of a knotted rope, strung from a pedestrian bridge outside the small town of Eden.
“Yes, this is a sensational case. Yes, the details are horrific. We will not ask the jury to ignore the monstrous nature of the crime. No one can ignore the grotesque nature of the act, or the monstrous depravity of the perpetrator; no decent human being could be expected to consider this crime without feeling repulsed.
“However, the state will refrain from stirring the passions of the jury by rehashing the vivid details of the rope, the noose, and the breaking of the neck. Instead, we will present cold, hard evidence—irrefutable evidence—that will prove the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. We will present evidence—undeniable evidence—that will prove that this defendant planned and committed this abomination. I implore you to pay attention to this evidence. Listen to this testimony. It will prove that Mr. Nash is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Beyond a shred of doubt. Edward Thomas Nash is the Hangman of Eden.”
Ward returned to the prosecution table with a smug half-smile that said mission accomplished. The skilled prosecutor had made the jury cringe with his gruesome description of the crime, while promising to stress the facts over sensationalism. Masterful.
Laura hoped to bring the jurors back to reality. She released her grip on Eddie’s hand and approached the podium that stood in front of the twelve blank faces in the jury box.
“Your Honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Unspeakable. Hideous. Gruesome. Monstrous. Grotesque. The prosecutor used these emotional superlatives in the first minute of his opening remarks, remarks in which he pledged to place the evidence, the testimony, and the facts above the sensational details. I watched as many of you cringed at his reference to the slip of the knot and breaking of the neck.
“The fact is, the prosecution has to stir those passions because its theory of the crime is wrong, its eyewitnesses are mistaken, its evidence is paper-thin, and its conclusion is false. We will show you the gaping holes in their case. We will show you the faulty testimony and bad evidence. We will show you that Edward Thomas Nash did not commit this crime. You will see that Edward Thomas Nash is an innocent man.
“The law intends reasonable doubt to be a high bar for the prosecution to scale. Think about it. Proof beyond a reasonable doubt. We will shed more than reasonable doubt on the prosecution’s so-called ‘evidence,’ and their so-called ‘testimony.’ We will shed more than reasonable doubt on the claim that Mr. Nash was—or still is—prone to violence.
“Of course, one thing is true: This was an unspeakable crime. All the more reason to make certain that an innocent person does not pay for it, while a guilty one—and there is a guilty one out there—goes free.”
69
Whispers and murmurs rose in anticipation.
“I call Detective Peter Demario to the stand,” Prosecutor Ward boomed.
Demario lowered himself into the witness chair and relaxed, running a hand through his thick black hair. Wearing a light-green sport coat and powder-blue golf shirt, he looked like a man with a fast-approaching tee-time. The ruggedly handsome investigator made eye contact with each juror.
“Chief Detective Demario.” Ward spoke with a tone of reverence. “Did you have occasion to take a confession from the defendant?”
“Yes. He admitted to killing the victim—hanging her from a walking bridge. He was anxious to get it off his chest. He told me the whole story, and then repeated it on video. Every detail. It was obvious that he was our man.”
Ward had the bailiff roll the two-minute video clip for the jury. Eddie looked exhausted as he recited the words. “Then, I threw her off the bridge.” Still, the chilling details made the jurors squirm.
Ward looked pleased. “Now, Detective, did you have an occasion to examine the evidence gathered at the crime scene?”
“Yes. The tire tracks and hair fibers led back to Mr. Nash. Two empty beer bottles found at the scene contained his DNA. Urine deposits taken from the victim’s upper torso also matched Mr. Nash’s DNA. The evidence all traced back to the defendant. It all pointed to Mr. Nash.”
“Detective, do the police have a technical term for this kind of case?”
“Yes.” Demario zeroed in on the eyes of the jurors. “‘Open and shut.’”
Laughter trickled through the courtroom.
Laura sprang to her feet. “Objection.”
“Sustained.” Judge Striker groaned. “Save the
sarcasm for the squad room, Detective.”
Demario assured the jury that the investigation was flawless. Of course, he’d followed standard police procedure to elicit the confession. Of course, he’d followed standard police procedure to gather the evidence. No, he would never exceed standard procedure to tilt the scale against any defendant. “I play by the book. I have to be a role model to younger officers.”
After Ward the Wizard thanked him for his outstanding service to the community and praised his openness on the stand, Demario straightened his back and shrugged his shoulders. He was clearly looking forward to being cross-examined.
“Chief Detective Demario.” Laura moved between him and the jury. “Do you know what this is?”
He looked at her prop and smirked. “It’s a phone book.”
“Detective Demario, isn’t it true that you used a phone book just like this to elicit the confession from Mr. Nash? Isn’t it true you struck my client over the head multiple times with a phone book and demanded that he confess?”
“No, not true.”
“Isn’t it true that you cuffed the defendant to a water pipe in the interview room? Isn’t it true that you pointed your service revolver at his head and ordered him to confess?”
“No. False. Wrong. Ridiculous. I followed procedure. I asked questions.”
“Objection. Objection. Objection.” Ward’s voice thundered liked cannon fire. “No basis in evidence. Prejudicial. The police are not on trial here.”
“Ms. Tobias,” Judge Striker intervened. “Tread carefully.”
Laura was not surprised to hit the stone wall. In fact, she’d charged into it on purpose. Her research had revealed a clear three-phase pattern in the detective’s testimony in previous trial appearances and depositions.
Phase One: Demario denied each allegation of misconduct.
Phase Two: Demario accused the interviewer of impugning his integrity.
Phase Three: Demario boiled over with wild and unpredictable statements.
