Steve Martini - The Jury

It’s always the problem with evidence obtained illegally. If the cops don’t mention it and they can find some independent source, even if that source is tainted by their illegal conduct, you may never know.

“Your office had an obligation to disclose it.”

“I’m well aware, Mr. Madriani.” Coats is steaming. “You can’t erect a Chinese wall inside your office and claim you didn’t know,” says the judge. “I’ll tell you one thing, we’re not gonna be doing this deal. If Dr. Crone wants to sue your office, I’m gonna make sure he has every opportunity. If you want to dismiss, you do it with no stipulations,” says Coats.

“I don’t have the authority,” says Tannery.

“Then you better call your office and get authority.”

They stare each other down across the desk.

Harry’s eyes are beginning to get misty, little sparkles, tiny dollar signs if you look closely-another civil case in the offing.

“What else did they find at the scene?” asks the judge.

“If you don’t mind, I’m gonna let Lieutenant de Angelo cover that,” says Tannery. He’s afraid he may say something rash to Coats and get himself thrown in the can for contempt.

Tannery heads toward the door to use the phone in the clerk’s office to call Tate. I’d love to be a fly on the wall.

“You tell him if he has any questions to come on over and talk with me about it. I’ll be happy to discuss it with him,” says Coats.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

“Let’s hope not,” says the judge. “Now to you.” He looks at de Angelo, who by this time is chastened.

“They didn’t find much, Your Honor. An impression in some mud. Appears to be a work boot. Large sole in the soft ground around one of the sprinkler heads in the park not too far from the cross. They haven’t been able to match it up yet. Probably belongs to one of the gardeners,” he says. “We’re not sure.”

He checks his notes. “That’s it. Everything else you got,” he says.

In the early afternoon a contingent of jail guards escorts Crone through a tunnel under the street and into the criminal-courts building. Because the jury will not be in the box, our client wears orange jail overalls and is shackled with leg chains, hands cuffed to a chain around his waist. These are removed, and he is directed to the chair between Harry and me at the counsel table.

From the look on his face I can tell that he senses something has happened, but is not certain what.

The press is back in the front row. This has been reserved for them. A few of the reporters, because of overcrowding, have had to take seats in the back rows. One of the journalists tries to worm his way into the jury box, which is empty, but the bailiff won’t allow it.

There are the usual courthouse groupies, gadflies, most of them retired, with nothing better to do than to follow the doings in the courthouse. It’s the best show in town.

There are people here from the university. I recognize one of the vice chancellors, the woman in charge of legal affairs. She has been a regular. Each time she has maintained her distance from Crone, never talking to him, taking notes, no doubt for briefings with her superiors back at the U.

There are a couple of new faces in the front row, reporters from the police beat who are now picking up on the story of Crone’s trial as a sidebar to Epperson’s death. As Harry and I guessed, Tate is now calling for a coroner’s inquest, trying to spread accountability. If the coroner blesses suicide, Tate and his office are off the hook.

“All rise.” Coats sweeps out from the hallway leading to his chambers and takes the bench. He sits, adjusts his glasses and opens the file handed to him by his clerk.

“I understand we have an arrangement in this matter. Are all counsel present?”

Tannery stands and states his appearance for the record. I rise for the defense.

“It’s my understanding that you want to make a motion, Mr. Tannery.” Coats looking at him over the top of his glasses.

The prosecutor glances over at me as if perhaps I will save him. This was not part of the deal, but that has all changed.

“Your Honor,” says Tannery, “the people would like to move that the charges, all charges against the defendant in this case be dismissed, in the interest of justice.”

“So ordered,” says Coats. “The defendant is discharged. He is free to go.”

The outcry of voices behind us almost drowns out the judge’s order. Suddenly, just like that, two months of trial come to an end, no answers, no one convicted in Kalista Jordan’s murder, and David Crone is a free man.

The press swarm around the bar railing. Several of them head for the cameras outside. Tannery, still standing at his counsel table, is engulfed by pencil-wielding reporters.

“There will be a statement from the district attorney’s office. I have nothing further to say at this time.” I can see him as they press in around him, Tannery trying to get his papers into his briefcase, using it like a shield trying to push his way out of the courtroom.

When I turn to look up, the bench is empty. Coats has already disappeared.

Crone seems dazed, perhaps not certain what he has just heard. Several people from the audience come forward, leaning over the railing to pat him on the back, offer their congratulations. He turns, doesn’t recognize any of them, but smiles. He looks over at me.

“That’s it?”

I nod.

“It’s over?”

“Yes.”

One of the sheriff’s deputies comes up behind us and taps Crone on the shoulder. “If you’ll come this way, we’ll get your clothes, your personal possessions.”

When he stands, I’m afraid for a moment that he is going to collapse. He steadies himself with both hands on the edge of the table. Two of the other guards surround him and try to keep the press away. They still pummel him with questions.

“How does it feel?”

“Good,” he says. “Good.”

“What are you going to do now?”

Crone looks at them. He doesn’t have a clue.

“Will you be going back to the university?”

“I hope so.”

“Do you have anything to say to the police who arrested you, or the D.A.’s office?”

Crone just shakes his head.

Before they can ask any more questions, the deputies escort him toward the door leading to the jury room, where they disappear. From there they will take him back to the jail another way, not past the holding cells.

We are the last participants left, and the press descends on Harry and me. “Do you consider this a victory?”

“My client is free. I consider that a good result.”

“Do you have anything to say to Tanya Jordan, the victim’s mother?”

“What can I say? She has suffered the violent death of her only child. Of course she has our sympathies.”

I do not say this lightly, and in my mind’s eye, at that moment, I have visions of Sarah.

“I cannot imagine what it must be like for a parent to lose a child in that way, even a child who is an adult. We hope and pray that the law will find the individual or individuals responsible for this and deal with them accordingly.”

Harry puts the lid back on our last box of documents and sets it on the floor for the kid with the cart. One of the deputies will keep an eye on these until they are transported back to our office.

We fend off question all the way to the door, make our way through the reporters, out into the hallway. On the stairs outside we are confronted with microphones and cameras. One of the reporters asks for a statement.

“It is my belief that my client has been vindicated,” I tell them.

“Would you have rather had a verdict from the jury?”

“I am satisfied with the result. Any day your client goes home a free man is a good day.”