Marcia Clark - Killer Ambition

“I’m going to show you that e-mail and video now. Okay?”

Raynie nodded. I put the e-mail on the monitor first.

One million dollars in cash in a duffel bag. Go to Fryman Canyon. Take the small path on the left for fifty yards, then turn right. Walk until you see two trees with white string tied around the trunks. Leave the bag between them. Go home and wait for the call. If you bring in the police, Hayley’s dead.

“Yes, that’s the second communication.”

“Now I’m going to play the video that came with it. Ready?”

She nodded again, more slowly this time. It hurt to look at her. The only thing I could do to help her was to get it over with.

Again, Hayley’s sweet, almost unbearably young face looked steadily into the camera. For the first time, I noticed a look of sadness in her eyes as she spoke. “Dad, just do what they say and everything will be okay. Please.”

With that, Raynie completely dissolved. And for the second time in this trial, racking sobs echoed through the courtroom. Even I had to swallow hard to keep my emotions in check.

“I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

“Defense?” the judge asked. “Any cross?” His tone suggested what the answer should be.

Terry took the cue. “No. No questions, Your Honor.”

“People?” the judge asked. I certainly couldn’t find a stronger ending. I stood and forced a look of confidence.

“The People rest.”

By the timeI rested my case, it was a quarter to five. Not enough time to start the defense. Having the jury go out for the evening with a mother’s sobs ringing in their ears was always helpful. I knew some jurors were unmoved, but there were at least two or three who’d clearly been affected by Raynie’s testimony.

Terry was well aware of this. When the judge turned to dismiss the jury, she asked for a sidebar. “Judge, I know you want to take advantage of every minute of court time. I could do my opening now,” she said, her voice low and tight with tension.

“We have less than ten minutes, Ms. Fisk. I can’t imagine you’ll be finished that quickly and I’m not inclined to make the jurors stay late. I can see they’re getting tired. Besides, it’ll be no favor to you if they’re just sitting there wishing they could go home while you do your opening.”

Terry had reluctantly agreed and the judge let the jurors go for the evening. I was taught early on to stand whenever the jurors enter and leave the courtroom as a sign of respect. But it has the added bonus of giving me a chance to exchange friendly nods and smiles-in other words, to get a feel for how they’re responding to me.

The librarian looked coolly neutral as she gave me a short head bob. The Pac Bell worker ignored me. The single black mom gave me a little smile with sad eyes. Was that sympathy for Raynie? Or for me, because my case was history? Maybe both. The rest swept by us without a glance. General reading: not good. An alternate dropped his reading glasses as he passed by and I started to reach out and retrieve them for him, but he beat me to it and scooped them up without so much as a nod in my direction.

I watched him leave: a talent agent whose agency represented some of the actors and writers who worked for Antonovich and Powers. But he was smart, which was more than I could say for the remaining jury pool, so I’d tossed the dice. Maybe I’d made a mistake. But he was just an alternate, and none of the jurors was likely to let go of a front-row seat at the biggest show in town.

When the jurors were gone, Terry made the standard motion to dismiss the case for insufficient evidence, leaning heavily on the blood evidence that was supposed to be the linchpin of my case and was now its most likely demise. Though it was a routine motion that had no hope of succeeding, I knew her every word would be the top news story of the day. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t bother me. The press changed screaming sides about who was winning or losing at least once a day. By now, even the least avid trial follower knew better than to buy into the stories. But this time it was different.

Because now they had real-time footage that showed the bona fide disaster that was Gelfer’s testimony-a bellyflop of graphic, epic proportions. If a picture is worth a thousand words, video footage is worth a thousand photos.

I walked out of the courtroom with head held high, but inside, I was leaden. The brief shot of hope-filled adrenaline I’d gotten from the unexpected appearance by Raynie had ebbed and was now a distant memory. I punched in the security code on the door to our wing on the eighteenth floor and dragged toward my office, feeling as though I were slogging through quicksand.

“Rachel! Wait up!”

I turned to find Sandi Runyon, director of media relations for the DA’s office, trotting toward me.

“We need you in the conference room for a presser in five minutes,” she said.

Talk about the last thing I wanted to do right now. “Sandi, I can’t do it. I’m dead.” And in a really shitty mood. I didn’t need to add that because she could see it for herself.

“I know, but if you don’t show up, it’ll look bad.”

“You mean worse than it already does? How would that even be possible?”

Sandi squeezed my arm. “I know, kiddo. I saw Gelfer. It sucks. But otherwise you’ll be leaving Vanderhorn out there alone.” She gave me a meaningful look. We both knew what that meant: brain farts and bluster. If anything could make matters worse right now, it’d be Vanderhorn fielding the hardballs alone.

I sighed and let Sandi lead me into the conference room. The press had already piled in and filled every available seat and square inch of standing room. Except for the space where the podium stood-that was wide open. Feeling as though I were heading for a firing squad, I moved to that end of the room and stood next to the flags of the county and state. Seconds later, Vanderhorn entered the room from his private side door and walked to the podium.

His statement was brief but cheesy. “Every trial is a long and winding road, and just like that road, it has its bumps. But I have every faith that ultimately, justice will prevail.”

The press began to shout questions before the period could even be heard at the end of that line.

“Do you still believe justice means Ian Powers gets convicted?”

“How do you expect to get a conviction now that your most important evidence has been discredited?”

“Wasn’t the blood the only thing that really showed Ian Powers was involved in the murders?”

Vanderhorn held up his hands. “I’m going to let my lead prosecutor speak to the specifics.” He stepped aside and gestured for me to take his place on the hot seat. “Ms. Knight?”

I tried to salvage what I could from the wreckage that was our case. “While the blood is important, it’s far from the only critical piece of evidence that proves Ian Powers murdered these two young victims.” I listed the rest of the evidence we’d presented and tried to show that we still had a strong case. The truth was, we didn’t.

With no solid proof of motive, we were completely dependent on the physical evidence. And the blood was the strongest. No other piece of evidence tied Ian as surely to the murders.

Even the fingerprints on Brian’s trunk weren’t a slam dunk. We couldn’t prove they were left there at the time of the murder, and besides, after the drubbing Gelfer had taken, everything that came out of the LAPD crime lab would be suspect. All it would take now to blow down the house of cards was a couple of decent defense experts. There were thousands who’d jump at the chance for the free publicity this case would give them.