William Bernhardt - Perfect Justice

“Every piece of evidence presented by the prosecution—without exception—has been circumstantial. None of it directly proves that Donald committed this crime. No one saw him do it, no one heard him do it, no one saw blood on his hands.”

Stupid choice of words; the jury would remember the blood on his shirt. Too late now—best to keep moving ahead.

“The prosecution’s version of the facts is, at best, only one possible version of the facts. It is not an inescapable conclusion. Just for a moment let’s imagine another possibility. Picture that lonely country road in the middle of the night—only this time let’s imagine that it was you out for a midnight stroll.

“Let’s suppose, just to make it interesting, that you had an argument with someone that afternoon. I’ll bet each of you has had a fight with someone at some time in your life. I bet each of you has lost your temper and done something you later regretted. But let’s suppose that just after you lose your temper and have that fight, the person you fought with is killed. And when the police come for you, you haven’t had the foresight to concoct a clever alibi. So they arrest you. Picture yourself sitting in that chair at the defendant’s table. On trial for your life.

“Preposterous, you say? That could never happen?” Ben spread his arms. “But that’s what the case against Donald Vick is. The prosecution wants you to convict him because he didn’t like Tommy Vuong, because he fought with Tommy Vuong, and because he didn’t have an alibi when Tommy was killed. But you say—that could happen to anyone. And I say to you—yes, you’re right. And that’s exactly the point.”

Ben placed his hands on the rail and stood closer to the jury than he had ever dared stand before. “You cannot convict a man of first-degree murder on a possibility. You cannot convict him because he might have done it. You can only convict him if you have eliminated all the other possibilities. You must be certain—certain beyond a reasonable doubt.

“And you know what?” Ben said. “I don’t think you are. I don’t think you could be. I think each of you has doubts. Maybe they aren’t big ones. Maybe it’s just one teeny-tiny doubt. But that’s enough. As long as that doubt remains, you have no alternative. Enter a verdict finding Donald Vick not guilty.”

Ben held their eyes for a few more moments, then returned to his seat.

That had gone well, better than he expected, actually. Unfortunately he didn’t get the last word.

“Rebuttal?” Judge Tyler asked.

“I think so.” Swain sprang to his feet. He undoubtedly realized the jury was tired of speeches. He was going to say what he had to say and get it over with.

“Well, Mr. Kincaid was very dramatic, wasn’t he?”

Now that, Ben thought, was the pot calling the kettle black.

“But he left a few details out. Like, for instance, the fact that Donald Vick had access to the crossbow and personally picked up the bolts the day before the murder. That he was found wandering around the crime scene shortly after the murder occurred—with blood on his shirt.”

Swain picked up the crossbow and waved it in the air. “Has Mr. Kincaid forgotten that Vick’s own hair and blood was found on this crossbow?” he shouted. “I think not. But he’s hoping you will.

“This crime could not have been committed by just anyone. Who else attacked the victim? Who else specially ordered the ammunition? Who else told the sheriff that Tommy Vuong deserved to die? No one else!” He whirled around and pointed at the defendant. “ No one else! Only Donald Vick!”

Swain returned to counsel table, closed his eyes briefly, then looked one more time at the jury. “There is only one possibility, one alternative, one way to set the world right again. I ask you to find Donald Vick guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The judge instructed and cautioned the jury, then the bailiff led them to a room in the back of the courthouse. Judge Tyler told them to begin deliberating immediately, rather than waiting till the following morning.

It was clear to Ben, from the judge’s tone, that he didn’t think the deliberation would take long.

PART THREE

THE RESIDUE OF HATE

58.

JUST AFTER SUNSET COLONEL Nguyen and Lan walked hand-in-hand through the loblolly pine trees outside the perimeter of Coi Than Tien. The night was still and peaceful; they could almost forget all the turmoil that surrounded them.

Colonel Nguyen left the courtroom after the jury was dismissed. They still had not returned. Nguyen told himself repeatedly that no one could be certain what the jurors’ thoughts were. But the evidence at trial had been strong, almost overwhelming. He had little doubt but that the jury would find him guilty, and the death sentence would be rendered against Donald Vick.

A man he was almost certain had not committed the crime.

“We came here to escape,” Lan reminded him. “But I sense your troubles have followed you.”

He smiled as best he could. He wondered if all this had not been hardest on her, all his trauma, his moodiness, his indecision. At least he was in control—he could chart his own course. She was at the mercy of the decisions of others.

“Are you still thinking of the trial?”

He nodded.

“Surely they will convict the man. Surely there is no other choice for us. For Coi Than Tien.”

There was truth in what she said. Nguyen knew that even as they spoke Dan Pham and his followers were gathered in the barn, waiting for word of the jury’s verdict. They had made it clear they expected Vick to receive the maximum sentence. And that if the courts did not deliver justice to their satisfaction, they would do it themselves.

That was the choice that lay before them. A guilty verdict would mean the conviction of an innocent man. And a not guilty verdict would mean strife, violence, rioting—probably death to Coi Than Tien.

Lan took his hand inside hers. “Is there nothing I can do to soothe your worries, husband?”

“No. We will just have to wait and see what—”

He was interrupted by the sound of clattered tin cans inside the fence surrounding Coi Than Tien. Someone had triggered the trip wire he’d strung across the front entrance. A few seconds after that he heard gunshots firing in rapid succession. Automatic weapons.

“Stay here,” he told Lan.

Without waiting for a response, Nguyen ran toward Coi Than Tien. It would take him at least another minute to make it to the front gates. Instead he ran to the fence and leaped up against it. He rose at least four feet into the air and was able to grab the top. Pushing against the fence with his feet, he hoisted himself up and swung over into Coi Than Tien.

It was the black pickup with the smoked windows, returned once again to wreak death and destruction on Coi Than Tien. Gun barrels extended from both the driver’s and the passenger’s windows spraying a steady stream of bullets in all directions.

Nguyen ran as fast as he could toward the pickup. He passed terrified neighbors running in the other direction, desperately trying to get themselves and their families away from the danger.

He dashed around the barn and bolted toward his home. The pickup spotted him. Its engines roared; it pivoted around and began firing at him. A bullet ricocheted off the porch just inches above his head. Nguyen dropped to the ground, then crawled on his knees and elbows toward the front door. He flung the door open, crawled inside, and slammed the door behind him.

Holly was standing in the living room beside Mary’s cradle. Mary was crying loud and hard.

“I stayed with the baby, Daddy,” Holly said. Tears were streaming from her eyes. “Just like you said.”