John Lescroart - A Plague of Secrets

“But that’s not what she’s accused of. She’s accused of murder. And for that accusation the prosecution has no evidence. The district attorney tells you that it has evidence to support the charges it has brought against her, evidence that directly ties her-and this is important-that ties her, and no one else, to these crimes. That is simply not so.

“The actual truth is that unlike the story about Maya’s earlier life, which the prosecution can back up with witnesses and documents, there is nothing to tie her to evidence of these murders except innuendo and speculation. And why is that?”

Hardy paused, taking a moment up by the witness chair, again meeting the gaze of juror after juror. “The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is quite simple. The prosecution won’t provide you with this evidence because none of it exists. There are no eyewitnesses who will claim they saw her in the presence of either of the two victims on the day of their respective deaths. There is no documentary evidence-say a time stamp or video recording-analogous to the USF yearbook or the issues of the Foghorn that places Maya in the company of either of these two victims at the time of their deaths. Nearby? Yes, by her own admission. But nearby, ladies and gentlemen, is not good enough to meet the legal standard that will take you beyond reasonable doubt.”

This time Hardy stopped at his table for a quick sip of water. He glanced out at the gallery, at Kathy West and Harlen and Joel in the front row right in front of him. Nodding to them soberly, he came back to the jury.

“Now, I can see some of you asking yourselves: Wait a minute. This is a young woman without a criminal record. If she didn’t do it, if there were no proof that she did it, why would she be on trial? Why would the state of California expend all this enormous time, energy, and expense if there is no physical evidence tying her to these crimes? These are excellent questions, and unfortunately they go begging for answers. Because the real truth of this prosecution is that there is no physical evidence proving that Maya ever fired the weapon that killed Mr. Vogler, or held the knife that killed Mr. Preslee. No eyewitnesses. No fingerprints. No physical evidence. No incriminating bloodstains on Maya or on her shoes or on her clothing. No nothing.

“She was in the vicinity of both deaths on the times they occurred, yes. But both times she was summoned to those places-as her phone records will attest-by the victims themselves, or by someone calling her on their telephones. That someone is, I submit, the person who should be sitting where Maya is now, charged with these murders. He or she is every bit as real-in fact, more real-than the so-called evidence you will hear connecting Maya to these murders. The police simply haven’t found or identified this person as a suspect.”

This-the theory of the case that Hardy would be arguing whether he believed it or not-brought a significant buzz to the packed courtroom, as he’d known it would. The pundits, the reporters, the Court TV and other television crews-and with Kathy West’s presence he knew there’d be vanloads of them now in the next few days-would dissect this strategy from every imaginable angle. Was Hardy wise to show his hand so early? Was this pure cynicism? Did he have any proof of his own to support what he was saying? Wasn’t the SODDIT-“some other dude did it”-defense one of the most hackneyed and noncredible strategies in criminal law?

Hardy didn’t care. Whether he could prove it or not-and he couldn’t-he still felt that he could make it sing to at least one of the jurors, and that was the name of the game.

And incredibly, he thought, Stier still hadn’t said a word.

Well, Hardy was going to give him another chance.

He took another sip of water, set the glass down carefully, turned slowly to face the jury panel again. “All this brings us back, of course, to the question of why Maya has been arrested and charged with these murders.

“Unfortunately, the answer is cynical at best, and despicable at worst: Maya Townshend owned the coffee shop Bay Beans West, out of which Mr. Vogler sold marijuana. Although there is, again, no evidence tying Maya to Mr. Vogler’s marijuana business-the documents to which Mr. Stier referred in his opening, purportedly proving some marijuana business connection between Mr. Vogler and Maya, are inconclusive and ambiguous at best-Maya proved an inviting target as a suspect for a number of reasons, none of them having to do with evidence. All of them having to do with political ambition and expediency.”

If Stier had been asleep to this point, he was all the way awake now, and seemingly in full fettle. “Objection, Your Honor! Argumentative. This is an outrageous accusation, offered without proof. It has no place in an opening statement or, indeed, anywhere in this trial.”

And again, Braun, revealing the depths of enmity one encountered if one got on her wrong side as Stier had obviously done, surprised Hardy. “I was wondering when you’d notice, Mr. Stier,” she said. “But you’re a few beats late. Mr. Hardy is simply presenting his theory of the case, as you did in your own opening. Objection overruled. You may proceed, Mr. Hardy.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Hardy wasted not a second before getting back to his tale. “From the outset of their investigation the two homicide detectives handling this case were hampered with-guess what?-lack of evidence. In an effort to shake up one or more of their potential suspects-and the testimony of those inspectors will reveal that there were more than a couple of them-one of the detectives, Debra Schiff, happened upon the strategy of contacting a gentleman named Jerry Glass, the United States federal attorney based in San Francisco.

“She persuaded Mr. Glass to use the very tenuous marijuana connection between Bay Beans West and Maya Townshend not only to impugn Maya’s character and reputation, but also to provide her with an apparent motive for these murders-one that has no basis in reality or in evidence. But almost worse, it also attempts to explain away this lack of evidence by the implication that Maya’s close relatives-who include a supervisor and the mayor of this city-somehow colluded with her to cover up her transgressions.”

“Your Honor, I must object again.” Stier rose at his table. “All of this high-flown rhetoric is just a smoke screen meant to confuse the jury.”

Braun, humorless, looked down over her eyeglasses. “Objections, as you know, Mr. Stier, must be on legal grounds.”

“Argumentative, then, Your Honor.”

She appeared to consider for a moment, then shook her head. “Overruled.”

Hardy nodded quickly to the bench, acknowledging the ruling. Stier might not have realized it, but he’d just insulted the jury and questioned its intelligence by implying that Hardy’s “smoke screen” would fool them into giving the wrong verdict. Now Hardy thought he’d play the other side of that coin, praising their sagacity and collective wisdom. “Finally, ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, “I need hardly point out to you that this trial has taken on a very high public profile. A glance at the size of the gallery here, the number of reporters, and even some of the spectators”-he paused for a ripple of appreciation to flow through the gallery-“all of these things make it clear that this trial has the potential to be a career-making moment-”

“Objection!”

Hardy heard the word behind him, but he was too energized to stop himself now, and not inclined to in any event. He was speaking what he believed to be the absolute truth and he wanted the jury to hear. In fact, he raised his voice and continued. “A career-making moment for people whose ambitions-”

“Your Honor!” Louder still. “Objection! Irrelevant and argumentative!”