John Lescroart - Guilt

Thomasino's eyebrows lifted up and down. 'Sustained.'

It didn't slow Jenkins. She took her eyes off the jury to consult her pad, then went right back to it. 'In his own statement to the police, the defendant admitted what happened next. He left his office downtown and, on his way home, made a stop at Dellaroma's Liquor and Delicatessen on Ocean Avenue for a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne and an assortment of meats and vegetables. He went home and he and his wife shared the champagne and the hors d'oeuvres. Then, because she was tired, Mrs Dooher went upstairs for a nap. The defendant went to the driving range.'

Listening to it, Glitsky was confronted again – it happened to varying degrees every time he came to court in other cases – with the chasm of difference between his essentially free-wheeling job of gathering evidence and the court's job of objectively analyzing it. But Jenkins evidently realized how benign it all sounded because she stopped a minute, walked to the prosecution table to break her own rhythm, and took a sip of water.

She turned back to the jury. 'That's what the defendant told the police. What the defendant did not tell police was that even then, he was planning to kill his wife.'

'The plan was a simple one.'

'The defendant had long ago obtained – for his own use – a prescription of chloral-hydrate, a strong sedative he said he needed because he had trouble sleeping. Chloral-hydrate is often commonly referred to as "knockout drugs", and that's how the defendant intended to use it. He would puncture some of the gel tabs and slip some of the drug into his wife's champagne. He would help put her to bed. He would go to a nearby driving range to establish an alibi. Then he would return, stab his wife to death in her sleep and make it look like a burglary. He almost got away with it.'

'What the defendant did not know was that his wife was already taking two other powerful drugs – Benadryl for her allergies, and Nardil for depression. When the defendant gave his wife the chloral-hydrate, the dose, combined with the alcohol and these other drugs in her system, was enough to kill her.'

There was an audible stir in the courtroom. This was evidently a surprise to people who'd only read the articles as far as the grisly stabbing. Thomasino gently tapped his gavel and quiet returned.

Jenkins continued. 'If Mrs Dooher had been allowed to remain unmolested as she lay dead in her bed, Mark Dooher would probably not be in this courtroom today, charged with her murder. But Mr Dooher is a lawyer. He is a clever man and-'

Farrell was up out of his seat. 'Your honor…'

Thomasino sustained him again. And this time Jenkins turned to the Judge and apologized to him, then to the jury. She didn't mean to characterize the defendant.

Jenkins was playing well for the jury – friendly, courteous, professional. 'Intending to stab his wife to death, the defendant instead poisoned her to death. Legally, it makes no difference – either killing is murder in the first degree.'

'Factually, it makes all the difference in the world. The defendant's miscalculation got him caught. That's because much of the evidence deliberately planted by the defendant to suggest a burglary, much of the evidence designed to explain Sheila Dooher's violent death at the hands of a knife-wielding attacker, takes on a very different light once we know Sheila Dooher was poisoned to death. It shows the calculated and methodical attempt of a cold-blooded murderer to conceal guilt…

'We're going to show you a knife – a classic "murder weapon", complete with Mark Dooher's fingerprints. You're going to hear from witnesses who help to piece together the real story of what happened on that evening of June 7th. And that is this: that the defendant, having made sure his wife would be sleeping soundly – drugged with chloral-hydrate – left his house by the side door, without activating the alarm system, and reached above the door, unscrewing the porch light so the driveway would be dark upon his return.

'Then he drove to the San Francisco Golf Club, not to the Olympic Club which is closer to his house and where he is a member, and bought two large buckets of golf balls. After hitting a few balls, he walked through a break in the fence, went to his car, and drove home.

'We know he drove home because one of the neighbors, Emil Balian, recognized his car with its personalized plates parked on the street down from his house at between eight and nine p.m.'

Yes, Glitsky knew Balian had said that, but he thought that if ever a witness were born to be broken, it was the neighborhood busybody, who'd already changed details in his identification story three times. Glitsky thought that Farrell would destroy him on cross-examination. But, as Drysdale had said, Balian was very nearly the key to the case. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.

'By now it was dark out, and the defendant entered his darkened house. Upstairs, in his bedroom, he plunged a knife into his wife's heart as, he thought, she lay sleeping. He tore her bedclothes and threw blankets around, simulating a struggle. He poured a vial of blood that he had stolen from his doctor's lab around the body. He tore the wedding and engagement rings from Sheila Dooher's hand, and then rifled the bureau in the room, taking other jewelry, including his own Rolex watch. Then he went back to the driving range, climbed back through the fence-'

'It's all a goddamn lie!'

Glitsky was startled nearly out of his seat. Dooher was suddenly on his feet, pointing at Jenkins, who stood open-mouthed, stunned at the outburst. And it wasn't over. 'And you're a goddamn liar!'

Thomasino, who'd been listening intently to Jenkins, reacted as if he'd been jolted by electricity. He reached for his gavel, missed it, and it fell behind the desk, so he had to stand himself. 'Mr Dooher, you sit down! Mr Farrell, you control your client, you hear me? Sit down, I said!'

Glitsky was up and the two bailiffs were moving across to Farrell's table, but Wes held up his hands, motioning them back. 'Come on, Mark, easy…' Christina, too, was up, an arm around Dooher's back, whispering to him.

But Dooher glared at one and all. 'I cannot believe I am hearing so much bull- shit! '

Everybody in the courtroom heard him.

Dooher turned to the jury and suddenly his voice was in the normal conversational range. 'None of this happened this way,' he said. 'Not any of it.'

Thomasino had found his gavel and slammed it down again. 'Mr Farrell, I'll gag your client if you don't.'

'Yes, your honor.' A hand on Dooher's arm, pulling him down. Whispering through clenched teeth. 'Mark, sit down. Get a grip, would you?'

Then, Farrell to Thomasino again: 'Your honor, if I could ask for a short recess?'

But Thomasino was shaking his head. 'Not during an opening statement, Mr Farrell. You control your client and let Ms Jenkins finish up, and if there are any more interruptions, I'll hold you in contempt. How's that – clear?'

'What the hell was that? What are you trying to do, kill yourself out there?'

Farrell, in their tiny room across the street, was himself now nearly out of control. There was spittle on his lips and he seemed almost struck with palsy – now pacing, now hovering in front of his client. Dooher, again, had hoisted himself up on to the desk. He was swinging his feet, relaxed. Christina stood at the window, arms crossed over her chest.

Thomasino was going to allow Jenkins all the time she needed to wrap up her opening statement, but it turned out that she only made it another ten minutes before she asked for a recess. Dooher's interruption had pole-axed her, and what had begun as a reasonably compelling recital of events had degenerated into a disjointed shopping list of purported evidence whose relevance and connection seemed to elude Jenkins herself. She kept referring to her notes, stumbling over her words, until she finally gave it up.