John Lescroart - Guilt

Farrell was calmly shaking his head. 'We're not calling Flaherty. We're not doing character.'

'We have to do character, Wes. Character wins it for us.'

'We've already won it. We don't need it.' Farrell was giving it a more confident spin than he felt after the nearly disastrous testimony of Michael Ross, which in spite of his cross remained a serious evidentiary chip for the prosecution.

Wes wasn't going to tell Mark that the Archbishop had withdrawn as a witness unless he absolutely had to. The momentum had shifted, and Farrell's last and best hope was that he could save what he'd already accomplished. He still had a good chance to get Mark an acquittal. But he was holding all this close.

Christina was standing by the doorway. 'I thought you could never get enough. You've said that a hundred times. And now we've just had a hit from this Ross character -I think we do need more, Wes.'

'Well, I want to thank you both for your input, but unless you're going to fire me, Mark, this is my trial, and I'm done. We've won it. I've got a closing argument that's irrefutable. Christina, I'm sorry you don't get to cross-examine Diane Price. I'm sorry we didn't use you, and I believe you would take her apart, but I don't want any hint of bad character about Mark, not now. Even if we can refute. It's not worth the risk when we're so far up. You both have got to trust me here. I've done a pretty fair job so far. I promise you it's going to work.'

But Dooher wasn't ready to give it up. 'How long have you known this, that you weren't going to call Flaherty?'

'Frankly, Mark, I don't know. There was always that possibility, right from the beginning. I wanted to keep the door open as long as I could in case I needed him, but now it's my judgment that I don't. We don't.'

Christina spoke up again. 'I'd like to know where they got Michael Ross. What was that about? How could he have been where he said he was?'

'He wasn't,' Dooher said flatly. 'They made him up. Glitsky and Jenkins invented him.'

Christina believed it, Farrell could tell. But it was more than any one witness or decision at this point – Wes knew that Christina had bought the package with Mark.

If the facts didn't fit, then the facts must be wrong.

As a defense lawyer, she was inexperienced; as a person, she was naive. And she made the novice's mistake. She confused Not Guilty – a legal concept that meant the prosecution had failed to establish guilt, with Innocent, a fact of behavior.

But this was not the moment for these niceties. Farrell forced a relaxed tone. 'How Ross got to testify is a long and tedious story about attorney duplicity that I'd be happy to recount for you at our victory celebration. But meanwhile, I'd like to put this thing to bed before Jenkins pulls any more quasi-legal shenanigans out of her bag of tricks – ones that might hurt us.'

One last shot from the defendant. 'You're sure we got it, Wes? This is my life here.'

He forced himself to meet Dooher's eyes. 'I have no doubts.'

By the lunch recess, news of the arrest of Diane Price for carrying a concealed weapon had spread through the Hall, along with the myriad theories attendant upon any event of this nature: she had been planning to assassinate Dooher; she was going to kill herself as a last, desperate cry for help; or maim herself as a publicity stunt.

Diane's plea was that the whole thing was simply a mistake. She'd carried a gun for protection for years and years, since a few months after the rape. It was registered, even, though she had no license to carry it concealed on her person. She'd had no violent agenda. She simply hadn't realized that there was a metal detector at the entrance to the Hall of Justice.

This explanation was, of course, dismissed by every law-enforcement professional in the building, and Diane was taken upstairs – Sam Duncan abandoned, scuffling to locate the Crisis Center's attorney. Diane spent three hours in custody before being cited and released on the misdemeanor.

Every person in the courtroom – the gallery as well as the principals – was aware of the drama that had occurred outside during the lunch recess.

With this as a backdrop, Amanda Jenkins stepped up and presented her closing argument. The facts, she said, spoke for themselves, and allowed for no other interpretation than that Mark Dooher had murdered his wife on the evening of June 7th. The defendant had not been at the driving range when he said he was. They had a witness who'd positively identified his car near his house when the murder had been committed, another witness who'd been twenty feet from where Dooher was supposed to have been, and had never seen him.

Why hadn't he seen him? Because Dooher hadn't been there, ladies and gentlemen. He'd been home stabbing his wife, faking a burglary. The prosecution had shown the linear connection between the blood taken from Dr Harris's office on the same day that Dooher had been there – indeed, within minutes of when the defendant had been in the same examining room. And then later this same blood, not even close to the most common type of blood, and tainted with EDTA, had been splashed on Sheila Dooher's bed and body. No one else but Mark Dooher could have done this. The jury must return, Jenkins concluded, with a verdict of murder in the first degree.

Farrell stood as though lost in thought, scanning the yellow pages of his legal pad, on the table in front of him, for a last second before pushing back his chair and finally positioning himself in front of the jury box.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he began, then took another step forward and lowered his voice. This was now simply a talk with these jurors, whom he'd come to know. Intimate and familiar. 'I remember that back in school, when I was first being taught how to write an essay, I had a teacher – Mrs Wilkins – and she said if we only remembered three things about essays, we'd get an A in her class.

'First,' he held up a finger, 'first you write what you are going to say. Next you say it. Then, number three, you summarize what you just said.' He broke a smile, homespun and sincere. 'I'm a bit of a slow learner, but I got an A in that course. And ever since, I've been comfortable with that essay formula. Which is why it's lucky I'm a lawyer, I suppose, because that's a little bit what a trial is supposed to be like.

'We've been here over the last couple of weeks listening to the evidence in this case, trying to see if we can resolve one question, and resolve it beyond a reasonable doubt: Does the evidence show that Mark Dooher, the defendant over there' – he turned and pointed – 'that Mark Dooher killed his wife?'

Back to the jury, his voice now harsher in tone, though still at only the volume of whisper. 'I'm going to let you in on something, ladies and gentlemen. It does not. Not even close. Let's look for a last time at what the prosecution has given you to consider, what they say they have proven.' He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at Glitsky and Jenkins.

'A motive? Certainly, a man who apparently has been happily married for over twenty-five years to the same woman would need some overwhelming and immediate reason to decide to kill his wife in cold blood. The prosecution's theory is that Mark Dooher did it for the insurance money. Now, forget for the moment the fact that Mr Dooher is a well-paid attorney, that he owns a house worth a million dollars, and that his retirement is secure. Forget all that and focus on this question: Where's the proof of this motive theory? Did the prosecution present any witnesses supporting any part of it? They did not. No proof. No witnesses. A bald assertion with no basis in fact.'

Farrell glanced at the clock – 3:15. He had a lot to say, but suddenly he knew with relief that he was going to finish today. It was nearly over. He went to the table and drank some water, then returned to the panel.