John Nance - 16 Souls

“Marty, I need my sleep. I was up until one working on the closing argument. What time…” she glanced around at the clock on the nightstand. “Jeez! Three fifteen.”

There was a small round table between the bed and a bench seat under the window and he settled onto the window seat, his eyes red and wide.

“I figured it out, Judith.”

“Figured what out?”

“Richardson has been laying a huge trap and I fell right into it.”

She sat opposite him on the only chair, the table to one side, tempted to say that of course Richardson had been trying to lay a trap, but she could see that would be useless in calming him down.

“Tell me why you think that?”

“That criminal statute! The way the damn thing is written, it’s a Catch 22! He got me to say that I knowingly decided to land, and tomorrow he’ll tell them that it was the speed that means I condemned someone to death.”

“Marty, you said very clearly that you did not make any such decision.”

“No, no, no! Don’t you see? He’s already twisted everything up! The jury will believe that the only way I’d be innocent is if I followed the company’s dictates and slowed down. I’m screwed!”

“I’m ready to fight that interpretation. Yes, he’s going to make that argument, but all we need is one juror to think it through.”

“I want you to put me back on the stand!”

“Marty, I can’t do that.”

“Can’t you go to the judge? I have more to say… I can clear this up!”

Judith sighed, running her hand through her unruly hair after catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror looking like a Medusa. She stared at the rug, letting her mind deal with the interlocking geometric patterns woven into the carpet before meeting his eyes again.

“Marty, I think I know you well enough now to know you seldom if ever panic. Yet here you are, in the middle of the night, essentially panicking.”

“I’m sorry… I’m really sorry, Judith, but…”

“I’ve got a very strong closing for morning, Marty.”

“I thought if I could re-take the stand I could make them understand.”

She got up and moved to the small refrigerator, tightening the loose tie on the robe before taking out a chilled bottle of water.

“You want one?”

He shook his head.

She unscrewed the top and sat again.

“Marty, no lawyer likes to admit this, but you were right when you called it a game. But it’s a serious game, with serious rules, and in the end, it’s designed to get as close to a correct decision as humanly possible.”

“They don’t understand, Judith!”

“I think they will! But I cannot put you back on the stand unless there is new evidence, and there isn’t. We already proved the existence of the car on the runway… that was huge, Marty! Huge! It validated everything you said.”

She took a swig of the water and put the bottle on the table, then moved the chair forward and reached out, taking both his hands in hers, looking him in the eye.

“You promised to stay with me, Captain. Remember?”

“I am. I’m here.”

“But I need your courage as well.”

A tear had begun to roll down his face, and he turned in an attempt to hide it as she gave his hands a small shake.

“It’s going to be okay, Marty. I’m not supposed to say that… it’s unprofessional to speculate… but it’s going to be okay.”

His eyes were pools of anguish and pain, a watery window into his tortured soul.

“I’m scared, Judith,” he said at last, inhaling sharply as the admission left his lips, “…and I have no one else to tell.” The words were spoken so softly they barely registered. He snorted suddenly and looked at the ceiling. “Getting ready to kill myself on Long’s? I wasn’t a bit scared. But now… I’m… terrified. Far worse than in the cockpit that night.”

Mentally Judith stuffed a sock in the face of her better judgment and rose from the chair, sitting next to him then, pulling him to her, folding her arms around him until he leaned into her at last, his head resting on the fabric of the robe pulled tightly over her breasts as the silent tears morphed into body-racking sobs.

Present Day — September 15 — Day Eight of the trial

Courtroom 5D, Lindsey-Flanigan Courthouse, Denver

The fact that Carl Moscone had once again slipped quietly into the courtroom registered on Joel Kravitz, who had glanced at the wealthy investor and saw the same absolute poker-faced expression that apparently never changed. The question of why he was here in the first place had begun to take greater precedence in Joel’s mind, and the formula so far didn’t balance. The man had lost his young and beautiful wife in the breakup of the Regal Air 757 on Runway 36R, yet there wasn’t the slightest flash of anger, angst, or grief, and certainly none of the sneers that Grant Richardson had poorly hidden in his obvious anger toward Marty Mitchell.

As Richardson took the floor in his attempt to hit a homerun with the jury, Carl Moscone sat expressionless.

At the defense table, Judith Winston sat quietly, several pages of notes in front of her, each anticipating one of the points Richardson was bound to make. In his first fifteen minutes, he had missed nothing.

“So, ladies and gentlemen,” Richardson continued, facing the jury box, “you’ve heard all the facts, and you’ve also heard Captain Mitchell’s attempt at excuses, and in a little while you will hear an eloquent attempt by Ms. Winston to distract you so badly with smoke and mirrors that, she hopes, your confusion in the jury room will lead to a wrongful acquittal. So, let me insulate you against the dog and pony show to come. The law is stunningly simple. It says that if you, or I knowingly cause the death of someone, we’re guilty of second degree murder here in the great state of Colorado. There are no if’s, and’s, or but’s regarding the person’s intentions other than one thing: Did they know that a particular action would most likely result in the death of someone, and yet they took that action anyway? If so, they’re guilty of second degree murder. That’s it! That’s literally all you have to decide, and the decision has already been made for you. Captain Mitchell was warned that to keep two hundred and thirty knots of speed would result in a crash, and he disregarded that advice, maintained that speed, crashed his plane and killed five passengers. Nothing else matters. It does not matter legally whether the crash was on Runway Seven or Runway Three Six Right or anywhere else, or what might have contributed.

Now, Ms. Winston will try to mesmerize you with the fact — and it is a fact–that Captain Mitchell was attempting to save the lives of the poor passengers in the Beech fuselage. But, he did not have the right to condemn the passengers in the 757 in order to maybe save the Mountaineer folks. Remember, Captain Mitchell testified that he did not know whether the fuselage would come off or not. That fear was pure, panicked speculation. What he DID know was that landing overspeed on Runway Seven would kill someone, and the fact that he changed runways without slowing does not erase the fact that he made a ‘knowing’ decision that resulted in five deaths. Ms. Winston will ask you to have sympathy for him because he was trying his best. She will remind you that his last, best idea about landing on 36R would have worked except for a car on the runway. But all that is nonsense when you consider, as you must, that he knowingly made the decision to maintain a dangerous speed, and people died as a result. That leaves you no legal choice. You may have sympathy and pity and feel very bad for Captain Mitchell, but as a matter of law, you are required to fit the evidence to the statute which leaves no room for any other verdict than a verdict of guilty. Thank you.”