“Ladies and gentlemen, what more do we need? I would submit that we don’t need anything more to establish guilt on the part of the defendant.
“But we do have more. We have scientific evidence that underscores her involvement in this act of violence. Oh, the defendant’s attorney will tell you that just because her genetic fingerprints are on the beer cans found in the car does not mean she was driving it. That’s true. But I ask you, who else would have been driving it? Why would the defendant’s genetic fingerprints be found on beer cans inside the car if she were not a party to this crime?
“And I remind you that the only eyewitness to the aftermath of this murder said that he saw a Chicago Cubs hat on the driver of the vehicle as it passed by him. Such a hat was found in the defendant’s home, because she’s a longtime fan of the team. And I remind you, this is not Chicago. There aren’t a plethora of Cubs fans in Sacramento, California.”
Denton paused, walked a few steps over to the prosecution table. He leaned back against the front edge of it and crossed his arms on his chest. “In my opening statement, I asked you all to concentrate on the facts of the case and on what the witnesses had to say. I told you that if you did that, and did not allow yourselves to be swayed by fantasies, far-reaching theories, or confusing curves that the defense attorney would throw at you, then the answer to your question of guilt will be black and white. It would be simple, I told you.” He stood up straight and began to walk toward them again. “It is simple, ladies and gentlemen. I didn’t say easy, because it’s never easy to find someone guilty of murder. But simple, because the facts so clearly support it.”
He stopped in front of the jury box, rested his hands on the railing. Looked at each of them, making eye contact as he spoke. “Mr. Warwick, in his opening, said that he didn’t need to prove anything to you—which is good for him, because he didn’t prove anything. Because he couldn’t.” Denton leaned forward. “But we did. We proved our case, met our burden of proof. You must tell everyone in this great nation that murder for revenge will not go unpunished. Ladies and gentlemen, do your duty. Find the defendant guilty, as charged. Thank you.”
A low-level murmur erupted from the gallery; the reporters were writing furiously, phone sat the ready. As soon as Warwick finished his statement, the journalists covering the trial for radio would call in and report live, while those handling it for television would choose an appropriate backdrop for filming their remote spot. Bloggers and local print journalists would begin transmitting their bytes from their laptops, tablets, and smartphones within seconds.
Calvino cracked his gavel and asked for quiet. He nodded to Warwick. The lanky public defender stood, buttoned his sport coat, and approached the jury box. He stopped, and smiled. “Good morning. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you have surmised, we have now reached that part of the case known as closing argument in which each of the lawyers has an opportunity to tell you what his case is about. You’ve already heard the district attorney’s position.
“In my opening, I told you that the evidence that the prosecution had against my client was circumstantial. Not the best type of evidence. In fact, none of it is direct evidence. Because there is no direct evidence linking my client to this crime. No one saw her commit the crime.
“Oh, yeah, there’s a witness who saw someone wearing a Cubs cap. Well, the last time I looked, being a Cubs fan did not make someone a murderer. And we also must remember that based upon this same witness’s description, the police arrested a male initially, not a female.
“My client is not an angel. She’s not a model citizen. I won’t insult your intelligence by standing up here and saying that she is. But her past actions were not precursors to murder. Poor judgment, misguided ethics, for sure. But murder?” He spread his arms out, palms up, pleading his case. “I think not. I know not.”
“And this incident in the market. My client has what some call ‘verbal diarrhea.’ She runs off at the mouth,” he clarified, to some stifled laughter. “But again, I ask you...does this make her a murderer? It does not. She was angry, she was frustrated—whether you feel she was right or justified is irrelevant. But when she came face-to-face with the man who represented her frustrations, she yelled something at him. Did she really mean what she said? Of course not. We all, at one time or another, say things that we regret, that we don’t mean. We’ve all said things that we wish we could, take back because they were said in the heat of the moment. The DA wants you to believe that she was announcing to a crowded market her intentions to commit murder. My client may not be an angel, but she is certainly not stupid.
“At the start of this trial, I asked you to remember three things: reasonable doubt, circumstantial evidence, and burden of proof. Burden of proof,” Warwick said, walking the length of the jury box and letting his left hand drag along the railing, “means that it is the prosecution’s responsibility to make a compelling case against my client. But all they did was to throw a bunch of circumstances at you and ask you to make a leap of faith. They gave you nothing concrete except a contrived theory.
“They didn’t mean for their case to be so indirect and weak—it’s not their fault. They didn’t have a choice. But ask yourselves,” he said, slapping his right hand, karate-chop style, into his left palm for emphasis, “did they actually prove anything to you, or did they merely set the stage and ask you to imagine that you’ve seen the play?
“You have to admit that their case may, in, fact, be interesting, but it’s not conclusive. Certainly not beyond a reasonable doubt. Which is the standard against which, you must judge my client. Reasonable doubt means that if you have any doubts about the innocence or guilt of my client, if there’s something bothering you about all of this in the back of your mind, something that just doesn’t feel right, you must vote not guilty. That’s not my invention, it’s the law.
“As for Mr. Denton thinking that the matter of imprisoning someone for perhaps the rest of her life is a simple decision...well, maybe where he comes from, it is. From where you and I come from, it is not. It’s never easy to make such drastic decisions regarding another human being’s life. I’m sure you feel that in order to do so, you must be absolutely sure of the facts. Absolutely sure!”
As Warwick’s voice rose, in the manner that a preacher admonishes his followers, Denton detected the slight nod of the head of two of the jurors.
“I’m not asking you for sympathy for my client. But I am asking you for fairness for my client. Miss Harding is an innocent person, falsely accused, whose life will never be the same again, even if she is acquitted. Don’t reach a verdict of guilty merely because you want to make someone, anyone, pay for this horrible crime.” He held out his right hand, index finger angled toward the ceiling for emphasis. “Based upon the case that the prosecutor has provided, you must find her not guilty.
“Thank you.”
Warwick strolled back to the defense table, sat down next to Harding, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She sat there, numb, staring straight ahead. Judging by her lack of response, it appeared as if she had not heard a word either attorney had said this morning.
As the judge provided his long-winded instructions to the jury, Denton ground his molars so hard he gave himself a splitting headache. He knew what was coming, and he knew there was no way to avoid it—the extensive speech by Calvino defining and discussing reasonable doubt. The only positive aspect of his instructions concerned his comments on circumstantial evidence—which were strong and, Denton was sure, confusing to the jury.
Calvino explained, in an informal manner, that circumstantial evidence was real evidence: “It is to be considered and given weight just as one would give weight to direct evidence. However, the circumstantial evidence must not only point in the direction of guilt, it must also exclude to a moral certainty every reasonable hypothesis except guilt.” He plowed forward, despite the confused looks of some of the people on the panel. “Further,” he said, “every inference you make from the circums
tantial evidence needs to arise from facts that were proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Otherwise, the circumstantial evidence could not be considered as evidence of guilt…”
After the judge concluded his thirty-minute explanation, the jury was dismissed to its room to begin deliberations. Hellman, who had arrived with Madison and Leeza just prior to the dosing statements, stood up and straightened his tie. “Now, we wait,” he said.
“How long do you think it’ll be?” Leeza asked.
Hellman cocked his head to one side. “No way to tell. If they’re absolutely convinced of her guilt, they’ll be backout here in half an hour. If they have issues of conflict, say, if one juror doesn’t think the evidence is conclusive enough, it could be days or weeks before they reach a verdict. I’ve given up trying to read juries. It’s not only inaccurate a good portion of the time, it’s stressful as hell.”
“Well, I’ve blocked off the morning from my schedule. God knows I’m not exactly busy these days,” Madison said, shaking his head.
“Things will pick up, Phil. It’s just a matter of time. People will forget. The other docs will realize they have no one who can do these surgeries as well as you can. They’ll start sending cases over again.”
“I can just hear it every time I go to testify as an expert witness. ‘Doctor, isn’t it true that you were once arrested for murder?’ It’ll be objected to, but I’m sure it’ll make a hit with the jury...and dredge everything up again. Would you want to hire me as your expert if you knew that question was going to be asked?”
“Why don’t we go grab some coffee,” Hellman suggested, realizing that this was not going to be a simple issue of reassurance. Leeza urged Madison to go, promising that she’d call him should the jury return while they were away.
They walked out of the courthouse to a Java City café a couple of blocks away. As they walked, Madison took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that had a brisk, moist chill to it.
“Hopefully, today is the start of something new,” Hellman said.
“How did your trial go?”
“Jury’s still out. Deliberations will go on for days, I’m sure. It wasn’t as strong a defense as I’d like to have had, especially with the guy facing twenty-five to life. But you take what you have to work with. Regardless, life goes on. For me, at least.”
Madison gave him a look. “Sorry—just a bit of defense humor.”
They ordered decaf lattés and sat at a comer table with a view of the street and sidewalk.
“So is that it? Life goes on? Is that how I’m supposed to think?”
Hellman shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt. This past year hasn’t been a dream, Phil. As much as you’d like to wake up from it all, you have to accept that it’s happened and you have to deal with it. Your life will be changed forever.”
“Just move on, that’s it.”
“That’s it. There’s not much else you can do. Just be glad that it turned out this way. You could just as easily have been sitting in court right now instead of Harding waiting for the jury to decide your fate.”
Madison sat there, shaking his head. “I can’t describe what this past year’s been like, Jeffrey. I’ve been to hell and back. I guess I should feel fortunate, but all I feel is numb...emotionally spent. I’ve been on a rollercoaster for ten months. I’ve had feelings I’ve never had in my life. I’ve done things I’ve never done, been places I’ve never been.”
Hellman chuckled, tried to lighten the mood. “You can say that again.”
“All my life, I’ve always been liked. Now, people would just as soon spit in my face as shake my hand.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to say that I’ve never had conflict in my life—you know I have. But conflict is very different from persistent harassment by a psychotic nut. You never know what she’s going to do next. Where she’s going to show up, what rumors she’s going to spread. Whether your family is safe when they walk out the door…” He shook his head slowly, as if he were reliving a nightmare. “I didn’t know where it would lead, Jeffrey, when it would stop. My kids, I was worried about my kids...”
“I know, I was there, remember?”
“It just kept building, threatened to consume me. When Leeza left me, everything just...fell apart. I couldn’t deal with it anymore.”
“In a few days, maybe a week, heck, maybe today, it’ll all be over.”
Madison took a deep breath, gulped a mouthful of coffee. “And if she’s acquitted? What then?”
“First of all, they’ll convict. I really believe that. We gave Denton a good case. He had a lot to work with and he did a great job.”
“I thought you’d given up trying to guess what juries—”
“That was the attorney side of me talking. Speaking as a friend, my gut tells me she’s dead meat.” Hellman placed a hand on Madison’s shoulder. “On the off chance that she’s acquitted, I’ll get a restraining order. I’ll make sure they keep her away from you. We’ll do everything within the law to keep you insulated from that nut.” His eyes searched Madison’s face. “But all this is just meaningless debate. She’s going to be convicted.”
They finished their lattés, then parted company. Madison stopped by the courthouse to check in with Leeza and learned that the jury had came out to have part of Ronald Norling’s testimony read back. They also wanted to hear part of Warwick’s cross-examination of Stuart Saperstein. Denton explained to Madison that it was impossible to predict what they were thinking, but he did think it was good that they wanted to hear Norling’s testimony again. He was an important link between the establishment of motive and the verbal projection of her intentions.
With Madison due at his office and Leeza leaving to pick up Elliott and Jonah, Denton offered to call him when the jury had reached its verdict. As Madison left the courthouse, he saw the demonstrators carrying signs demanding justice against Harding. He buried his face in the collar of his cashmere overcoat and steered clear of them. While he was no longer the object of their animosity, he did not want to invite recognition or, what’s worse, conflict.
CHAPTER 69
CHANDLER ROLLED OVER in bed and fumbled for the phone in the dark. He knocked it off the hook, reached down, and fished along the carpet for the handset. As he found it and pulled it up to his ear, he glanced at the clock. It was 11:45.
“Hello?”
“Junior, did I call too late?”
“Johnny. Denise went to bed early. With this pregnancy, she’s been turning in around nine-thirty.”
“I’m just hitting my stride around nine-thirty.”
“I assume you’ve got info on those lot numbers forme.”
“Got something to write on?”
Chandler flicked the lamp on and grabbed a pad and pen from his night table drawer. He jotted down the information, then thanked Johnny. He hung up the phone and lay there, reading his notes.
“Shut the light,” Denise moaned.
“Huh? Yeah, okay, in a minute.”
“Who was on the phone?”
“Johnny. He got me some info on Phil’s case I’d asked him for.”
Denise rolled onto her side facing Chandler. “Phil’s case? I thought that’s done with, at least as far as you’re concerned.”
Chandler grunted.
“What does that mean? Are you done, or aren’t you?”
“It was just a loose end I was following up on.”
“What kind of loose end?”
“It’s late. I’d rather not go into it now.”
“You’re not going back out to California, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just...the beer cans. The lot numbers stamped on the bottom of the cans they found in Phil’s Mercedes don’t match one another.”
“And this means…”
“Nothing. Probably nothing.”
She sighed and turned onto her back. “Then shut the light.”
“Yeah.”
Denise rolled back onto her si
de facing Chandler, “Ryan, either tell me what’s bothering you or shut the damn light.”
He sighed, tried to rub the wrinkles from his forehead.
“Something’s on your mind,” she said, stifling a yawn.
He thought of closing his eyes, of trying to go back to sleep. But he was suddenly wide awake. He looked over at Denise, who was staring at him.
“Beer is brewed in fifty-five-thousand-gallon lots; when that lot is canned, the lot number is stamped on the bottom of the can. The lots are then sent to distributors, who deliver them to different retailers. They keep very detailed records, as required by law and as regulated by the state’s Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control. The lot numbers on the bottoms of the cans of the six-pack found in Phil’s car didn’t match. Two cans were from one lot, and the other four were from another. Johnny tracked down the two different lots and found out they were sold at different stores. Are you following me so far?”
Denise shook her head, yawned again. “Yeah.”
“Why don’t we finish this in the morning. You need your sleep—”
“The cans in his car were from different stores,” she said. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What else?”
“The two cans that matched were the ones that had Harding’s saliva on them; that lot was delivered to Food & More, where Phil ran into Harding that night. The other four cans were from another lot, which was delivered to a different retailer—Qual-Mart. When Harding’s house was searched, they pulled an unopened can from her refrigerator and an empty can from her recycling bin. Those two cans matched each other—they had the same lot number. They also had the same lot number as the two cans in Phil’s car that had her saliva on them.”
Denise was nodding. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning...probably nothing.”
She looked at him. “Is it nothing, or is it probably nothing?”
Chandler rubbed at his forehead again. “It could be argued that someone went by her house and pulled a couple of cans from her recycling bin. And that person could then have taken the cans and planted them in Phil’s car along with four cans from a six-pack purchased at Qual-Mart a few days later.” He paused, waved a hand at the air. “But it’s more likely that Harding bought two different six-packs at different times, and still had a couple of cans left in her refrigerator from the last time she went shopping. Like the eggs in our fridge. You go to the market, buy a dozen eggs, and there’s still a few left over from the dozen you bought a couple of weeks ago.”
False Accusations Page 37
