Randy Singer: The Justice Game

God help me.

Jamison kept the gun pointed at Rachel, his eyes darting from her to Lisa to the large boom television camera capturing everything. “I’m Larry Jamison,” he said, stealing a glance at the camera. “The report you’ve seen about me is a total crock. And that’s because this station, WDXR, cares more about ratings than truth.”

He took a half step toward Rachel. Not close enough for her to reach him but close enough so she could smell the body odor from the half-moons of sweat under his armpits and the lines of moisture just under his chest that plastered his shirt to his body.

“Who are your anonymous sources?” he asked Rachel.

She hesitated-a journalist’s instinct to protect her sources.

“Tell me!” Jamison yelled, raising the gun over his head as if he might step forward and pistol-whip her again.

“Nysa Polides and Tereza Yankov.”

“Nysa. Tereza.” Jamison spit the words toward Rachel. “Did you know they asked me if they could be part of my Web site? Did you know they planned to blackmail me all along?”

Rachel quickly processed the allegations. The women had seemed so reliable. Innocent. Naive.

Jamison’s face darkened, the veins on his neck rising to the surface. “They wanted a thousand bucks a week or they would go to the media with their lies. A thousand a week! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”

He spun toward Lisa. “Your network let them conceal their identities? You’re responsible for this too! Nobody checked them out!”

Lisa shook her head quickly, her eyes wide with fright. Jamison took a few steps in her direction until he was close enough to touch her. He was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating, his eyes wild with hate. Lisa trembled, looked up at him, then at the studio door, then back to Jamison.

Rachel glanced at the back door too. Where’s the SWAT team? How much time can they possibly need?

Jamison pressed the barrel of his gun against Lisa’s temple. She closed her eyes, sobbing. He looked over his shoulder at Rachel. “You’d better apologize to your viewers. This time, make it good.”

Oh, God, don’t let him shoot. “I’m so sorry,” Rachel said quickly. “Don’t shoot her. Please. This report is mine, not hers. She had nothing to do with it.”

Jamison smiled thinly and leaned over so he was in Lisa’s face. “Is she guilty?” he asked. “Do you agree that it’s her fault?”

Lisa shuddered. Her words were hard to decipher, punctuated by sobs: “She… made… a… mistake.”

“I say she’s guilty,” Jamison replied, standing to his full height, the gun still pressed against Lisa’s temple. “What do you say?”

“Ask her. Not… me.”

He pivoted just as the studio door blew open and everything happened at once. Smoke bombs exploding, Jamison squeezing off as many shots as possible in Rachel’s direction, his own body convulsing from SWAT team bullets, Rachel diving for the floor, trying to roll as she fell, turning her back to protect the innocent life in her womb.

She felt something slice her shoulder, a blow to her back, and another bullet rip into the base of her skull.

A millisecond of images followed-her husband, the new life growing inside her. For the tiniest fraction of a second she reached out for them, but then they exploded into a blinding flash of light.

She was gone before she could even say good-bye.

A continent away from the chaos in the WDXR studios, Jason Noble approached the jury for the most important closing argument of his young career.

“Let’s talk about the hair,” he said, surveying the inquisitive expressions on the faces of the jurors. Some were literally gaping; others suppressed a smirk. Jason pretended not to notice.

“Mr. Lockhart argues that the hair evidence creates reasonable doubt. ‘Forget about the defendant’s rage when she learned that her husband and her best friend had an affair,’ he says. ‘Forget the fact that her best friend also happened to be a very talented backup singer whom the defendant’s husband could turn into a star the same way he made the defendant a star. Forget all that. If the hair testing shows that Carissa Lawson had been taking drugs for several months, then the cause of death must be a self-administered drug overdose, not poisoning.’”

The jury was only half-listening, but that was okay with Jason. They were too busy staring.

The night before, on a whim, Jason had dyed his hair platinum blond and spiked it-the hairstyle of the victim. And the change was more than symbolic.

Months earlier, when Carissa Lawson’s autopsy showed fatal amounts of oxycodone and cocaine in her blood, the medical examiner had declared the death an accidental overdose. But then the rumors started surfacing. The backup singer had been involved with the husband of rock star Kendra Van Wyck. When Van Wyck found out about the affair, she became consumed with jealousy and rage. She owed her fame to the efforts of her husband, a wealthy recording executive who had “discovered” her. His love for someone else, especially someone as talented as Carissa Lawson, ate at Kendra Van Wyck like a cancer.

Van Wyck was eventually indicted for murder. But the prosecution’s case was largely circumstantial, and Van Wyck had the best legal help money could buy. The defense lawyer opposing Jason, a pit bull named Austin Lockhart, had built his case on the popularity of Kendra Van Wyck and the lab tests of Carissa Lawson’s hair.

Van Wyck had not taken the stand in her own defense. Instead, her lawyers had relied on a distinguished toxicologist named Dr. Richard Kramer, a man who lectured the jury about the wonders of testing hair for drugs. According to Kramer, as hair grew, its roots were fed by blood. In a chronic drug user, the blood would contain trace amounts of the drugs in question, which would become entrapped in the hair’s cortex. Since hair grew at the rate of about a half inch per month, you could test different segments of a person’s hair and tell how long that person had been using drugs.

Kramer testified that hair testing for Carissa Lawson showed high levels of oxycodone and codeine in all segments of her three-inch hair. The obvious conclusion? Carissa Lawson had been abusing cocaine and painkillers like OxyContin for months and had died from a self-inflicted overdose.

As he approached his closing argument, Jason knew that the jury was looking for a reason to spring the popular defendant, consistently ranked by People as one of the hottest female performers. Her husband’s divorce petition and the murder trial had only garnered more attention, fueling album sales. Plus, the rock star cried on cue during the trial.

“Murder by poisoning? Or accidental overdose?” Jason asked. He paced back and forth in front of the jury. No notes, just a spontaneous little chat. He had memorized every word.

“Carissa Lawson had stopped seeing the defendant’s husband. But that didn’t mean he loved her any less. And that didn’t mean he wasn’t planning on dumping the defendant and making Carissa the next big thing.

“Did Kendra Van Wyck have motive? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ By killing Carissa Lawson, the defendant could punish both Carissa and her husband at the same time.

“No doubt-the defendant had plenty of motive.

“The defendant was seen with Carissa Lawson early in the evening on the night Carissa died. When the defendant found out about her husband’s affair, she never confronted him. She never confronted Carissa either, choosing instead to remain friends so that Carissa wouldn’t be leery about spending time together. The defendant had access to OxyContin pills for pain relief and to cocaine from any number of close associates, two of whom have pled guilty for possession with intent to distribute.