Steve Martini - Double Tap

Emiliano has not been brought in yet. The guards won’t do that until the crowd is seated and the doors at the rear are closed and guarded, inside and out.

Templeton is at the table with the detective Mike Argust and his computer tech. He is introducing Argust to three other men, all inside the railing. I have not seen them before. Two of them are younger, I would say in their early thirties; the other is older, his gray hair finely groomed. In pinstripes, all carrying bell-shaped leather briefcases, they have the look of government about them. Over the hum of voices in the room I can’t hear what Templeton is saying to them.

The two younger guys are smiling; the older one has a more serious expression. His suit is a bit wrinkled and he looks tired, as if he’s been on an airplane all night.

As I approach the bar railing at the main aisle, Templeton nods in my direction but doesn’t look at me as he continues talking to them. The older man turns and looks at me, the kind of expression you might get from a hired gun who is sizing you up. Even with the wrinkles and tired eyes, he is dapper and fit, in the prime of litigation life. I am guessing that he has a fairly high GS rating, as if Justice probably saves him for Sundays and going-to-trial-use only.

The other two are gofers. One of them looks like he might be military by the way the civilian suit fits him, as if he hasn’t had it on in a while.

As I lay my briefcase on the table and sit, Harry comes over and says into my ear, “I think you got their attention.”

“We’ll know shortly,” I tell him.

A minute later they lock up the back doors, one sheriff’s guard posted inside and one out. By now they have it down to a routine. Two minutes later, almost on the dot, the holding-cell door opens and they bring in Emiliano. As he traverses the area in front of the prosecution table, the lawyer from Washington gives him a hard look. He watches Ruiz as he walks the distance to our table flanked by guards. The lawyer doesn’t look away until he notices me watching him.

Emiliano sits down in the chair and leans toward me. “Who the hell are they?” Like a dog sniffing for dominance, Ruiz can smell them.

“I think they work for your former masters,” I tell him.

“What do they want?”

“That’s what we’re hoping to find out.”

Gilcrest comes in, takes the bench, and slaps the gavel down. The bailiff intones, “Court is in session. The Right Honorable Samuel Gilcrest presiding.”

“Be seated,” says Gilcrest. This happens before the lawyers and some in the audience can get halfway out of their chairs.

The judge arranges some papers on the blotter up on the bench, then looks over and sees the mob sitting in the chairs inside the railing, behind the prosecution table. “Who do we have here, Mr. Templeton?”

The gray-haired man starts to rise from his chair, the fingers of one hand gently touching the closed center button on his jacket, all the gestures of a Renaissance courtier.

“Just visiting counsel, Your Honor.” Templeton doesn’t offer any introductions beyond that.

“Very well, take your seats, gentlemen.”

The gray hair sits down.

“Any motions or documents?” says the judge.

“Yes, Your Honor.” Harry is on his feet. “We would move at this time for a directed verdict, and move that the court dismiss the case against Emiliano Ruiz inasmuch as the state has failed to meet its burden of establishing evidence beyond a reasonable doubt. I have points and authorities, Your Honor.”

“You can have the bailiff bring them forward,” says Gilcrest.

“Your Honor, if I might. .” Templeton has his hand up. He would like to go to the podium and get up on the stool to argue the matter.

“That won’t be necessary,” says the judge. “I’m going to take the motion under submission at this time and allow the defense to put on its case-unless, of course, the defendant wishes to have me make a ruling on the motion at this time.”

The motion for a directed verdict is a mere formality. It must be made at the close of the state’s case or else it is deemed waived. If Gilcrest had granted it and cut Ruiz free, both Harry and I would have needed cardiac shock therapy to bring us back. As it is, we don’t require that the judge embarrass us in front of the audience. We allow him to sit on the motion until the end of the trial, when he can use it to make confetti.

“Mr. Madriani, are you ready to proceed?” he says.

“I am, Your Honor.”

“You can bring in the jury,” says Gilcrest.

A few seconds later they begin to file in. They take their seats in the box. The alternates march around to the front and take the six chairs in the corner of the courtroom up front. Several of the jurors are looking toward Templeton’s table. They’ve noticed that there are extras here today. Lawyering must be slow.

The judge greets them and gives them a moment to settle in, then looks at me. “Mr. Madriani, you may begin.”

I stand, walk over, and take up position directly in front of the jury box. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

A few of them smile. Most, having been here long enough by now, are no longer charmed by the social pleasantries. They have seen too many pictures of brain matter and blood, watered down with spinal fluid, to be entertained by a smile and a greeting.

It is common practice for the defense in a criminal case to reserve its opening statement until after the prosecution has laid out all of its evidence for the jury. That way you have a chance to tailor your response and see where you stand.

The fact that we have been pushed off a cliff leaves me floating in air, and while I’m squarely in front of the jury box, I will be making my statement to a different audience, and for an entirely different purpose.

I begin slowly, deliberately. “Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” I acknowledge the presence of Madelyn Chapman’s mother and sister sitting in the front row. I gesture toward them but I don’t look. I know that this would only bring expressions of rebuke, which I would rather avoid.

Using their names, I tell the jury, “They have suffered greatly. They have a right to our respect as well as our sympathy. But most of all”-I bring my voice up in volume, so that several of the jurors look startled-“they deserve to have the real killer, the person who perpetrated this crime-the person who actually murdered their daughter, their sister-caught, convicted, and punished. What greater travesty could occur not only to the defendant but to those who loved Madelyn Chapman than to convict the wrong person?” I ask. “In this, the state is failing them miserably. For whoever commissioned the murder of Madelyn Chapman and whoever carried out that crime is not in this courtroom today.”

Templeton begins to stir in his chair, about to jump on me for making an argument during my opening.

“Ladies and gentlemen, while the defendant, Emiliano Ruiz, has absolutely no duty, no obligation, no burden, to prove his innocence, and while the state bears the highest burden to prove his guilt, proof beyond a reasonable doubt, the defense will produce evidence to establish beyond any question that Emiliano Ruiz is innocent of this crime.

“In determining who killed Madelyn Chapman, the most critical issue, the most vexing question, is, why was she killed?” I look over at Templeton in his chair, and the three lawyers sitting behind him, a dramatic pause, as if to say the state has failed this question.

I turn back to the jury. “We will produce evidence that Madelyn Chapman was killed because of something she discovered.”

It has been clear from the beginning that, rather than attack Chapman and accuse her of playing sly games with the government over the use of her software, the better approach is to cast her in the role of heroine, the doer of good deeds, who paid with her life for trying to undo evil.