Steve Martini: The Jury

According to the witness she could not hear what was being said, only voices raised in anger. What others might have heard we can’t be sure.

“It’s an important point,” I tell him. “If you threatened her, if you said anything that could even be misconstrued as a threat, we need to know that now.”

“I didn’t threaten her. I would never do that.”

The problem is that we are hearing all this for the first time from their witness. The prosecution has blindsided us with this.

Crone apologizes for what he calls an “oversight.” He’s been under a lot of stress. According to him, this explains why he can’t remember every detail.

“The damage is done,” I tell him. “But make no mistake, it is damage. Maybe it’s time we talked about other matters, so that there are no more surprises.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“I know we’ve talked about this before. It’s the question of these documents, the ones you say Jordan took from your office. I think it’s time you told us what these papers were. Specifically what they deal with.”

Crone looks pained, exasperated. “We’ve been over all that,” he says.

This has been taboo from the start. The specifics of his work have been placed out-of-bounds since we took the case.

“If I told you the details of what I was working on, I might as well tender my resignation from the university. They would fire me, in a minute, in a heartbeat. Even with tenure I would not survive,” he tells us. “I’m sorry. You’ll just have to trust me.”

“That’s becoming difficult,” says Harry.

“If you want me to get another lawyer. .” says Crone.

“That’s not necessary.” I cut him off.

“You don’t think they’re gonna fire you if you’re convicted of murder?” asks Harry.

“I’ll have to take my chances.”

“And if we put you on the stand? What are you going to tell the prosecutor when he asks you about these papers?” I ask.

“We’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.”

I was afraid of that.

Monday, and Crone’s case is off-calendar for the day. The court has scheduled downtime so that the judge can clear some other matters from his docket.

Harry is at his desk working on a motion in a civil case, trying to save a client from bankruptcy. It is a small manufacturer in San Diego, a third-generation company that employs thirty-two people. For almost fifty years Hammond Ltd. has made custom hunting rifles-elephant guns, for want of a better term. These are rare big-bore double-barreled rifles, pieces of art engraved and tooled, some of them inlaid with precious metals by skilled artisans who mastered their craft in Europe.

Hammond’s cheapest rifle runs twelve grand, with models ranging up to eighty-five thousand dollars. They are not your average Saturday-night special. Only a fool would fire one. They are collectors’ pieces out of the box, works of art, fashioned to be polished and displayed in cases on a wall against a background of green felt like a finely crafted clock.

Despite this, the company has been caught up in a class-action lawsuit inspired by politicians mining for antigun votes. The high priests of polling have told them that with just a little more flailing, the hysteria among soccer moms will put women on the liberal plantation permanently. It is now easy to believe that there are politicians who go to bed each night praying for just one more good school shooting to put them over the top.

Harry is no lover of guns or those who make them. He is an old-line Democrat, a believer in the workingman and the underdog. He has never cared much for the tyranny of any majority, whether silent or otherwise. And when it is coupled with a scent of hypocrisy, it tends to get his attention.

He has taken a loser of a case and is now financing it out of our pocket. The price you pay for Harry as a partner is his tilting at a few windmills. It’s well worth the cost.

Twenty states and an equal number of municipalities have now joined the feds in the firearms litigation. A score of small companies around the country whose guns have never been used in a crime are now being driven out of business by the cost of government litigation.

Harry puts his pencil down. “I think maybe I should come with you,” he says. He is looking up from the pile of papers spread on the desk in front of him.

I have a meeting with the prosecutor in the Crone case. We may be in trial, but Harry smells an offer in the making.

“Even if they do make it,” I tell him, “you’ll never sell it to Crone. He won’t cop a plea to anything. Besides, are you sure you can take the time?”

“I’ll make the time.” He turns off the lamp on his desk and grabs his coat.

“You know he could do worse than voluntary manslaughter,” says Harry.

“Tannery wasn’t saying much on the phone,” I tell him. “Only that it would be worth my while to come over and talk.” Tannery called this morning out of the blue and invited me to his office, said it would be wise if we had a conversation before things went any further. You could read anything into that. Harry is ever the optimist.

I remind him that Crone has already turned down even the hint of such a deal.

“That was before he saw some of the evidence play out,” says Harry.

“He didn’t seem particularly rattled by Hodges and her revelations.”

“They’re just getting warmed up,” says Harry. “I can smell it. I’ve got a bad feeling on this one.”

“Like what?”

“Like there’s a lot we haven’t been told by our own client.”

Tannery had dangled a deal before the trial opened, though it was never formally offered. He hinted at a single count of voluntary manslaughter on condition that Crone could provide credible evidence that the murder was committed in sudden rage or heat of passion. He said he would have to sell it to his boss. At the time, he was not able to do that. Crone exploded when I ran even the hint of an offer by him. Harry tried a hard sell. It ended up with Crone questioning Harry’s manhood and his willingness to go to trial. Since then, relations have not been smooth between the two of them.

“If they actually make the offer,” says Harry, “I hope this time you’ll lay heavy hands on him. Last time, as I recall, you did a lot of listening while I got my butt kicked around the cell.”

“I told him the risks. That he could do life if convicted. What more can I say?”

“You might remind him they don’t do a lot of genetics research at the infirmary up in Folsom. Not on any life forms he’d recognize, anyway. The man may be a Phi Beta Kappa, but he’s not too bright,” says Harry. “With voluntary man, he could be out in six years, maybe less.”

“I don’t think he’ll budge.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe he didn’t do it.”

“Then there’ll be one more innocent lifer in the joint,” says Harry. “Whether you think he did it or not, we’d be remiss not to tell him the facts. His chances in front of that jury are not good. The demographics are all wrong. We tried for college-educated and missed.” Harry is right. We have three secretaries and a receptionist, a lineman for the electric company who probably wants to know why the state’s not using “Old Sparky” to do our client. The jury foreman never finished high school and probably thinks a geneticist is somebody who performs genocide. These are people who are likely to be more confused than dazzled by Crone’s credentials.

“I’ve looked at their faces, studied their eyes while you were cross-examining witnesses,” says Harry. “Screw the evidence. They’re ready to convict Crone based on first-degree arrogance.”