William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Moltke seemed to go back and forth on motive, sometimes suggesting the killing was the product of a lover’s spat, sometimes suggesting Christina was after Lombardi’s drug stash. It didn’t really matter. The motives weren’t entirely contradictory. Besides, this was a jury trial, not Logic 101. Ben watched the jurors follow Moltke’s. words, gestures, and facial expressions. He held them spellbound throughout his presentation.

When Moltke was finished, Ben took the podium. He would be the voice of reason, he thought, presenting the hard facts in a calm, even-handed manner, without Moltke’s manipulative gimmicks. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Ben began. “Everything counsel for the prosecution has just told you is disputed. You will hear evidence refuting every fact of importance in their case. And the judge will instruct you to make your ultimate decision based upon the evidence, not the things attorneys tell you. I merely ask that you listen carefully to the evidence presented, and that you remember the promise you made to me earlier.”

He saw a puzzled expression on Mr. Svenson’s face. Promise? Oh yes, you had one, too, didn’t you? What was it about? Ben could tell he didn’t remember. He wondered if any of them did.

Ben carefully sorted through the facts previewed in Moltke’s opening, presenting Christina’s denial, or refutation, or explanation. He covered the forensic evidence, the medical evidence, the ballistics evidence, and the inconclusive drug analysis. All the hard-core facts. All the nitty-gritty detail that Moltke left out of his opening.

For good reason. Again, Ben could feel the jury’s attention drifting. He was boring them. It was hard to believe a drug-related homicide could be boring, but he was making it so. Of course they loved Moltke. He fulfilled their expectations; he made the lugubrious trial process almost as compelling as it was on television. Ben turned it into algebra in a courtroom.

Ben saw them stretch, twist, and glance at the clock on the wall, but there was nothing he could do. He stuck to the script he had prepared in advance; he couldn’t improvise a Stephen King subplot just to grab the jury’s attention. He finished his preview of the evidence and began identifying the anticipated defense witnesses.

“Excuse me, counsel.”

Ben glanced back at Derek. He was yawning. Thanks, Judge, very subtle.

“I believe your time has expired.”

“Time?” Ben said. “I wasn’t aware the court was imposing time restraints on opening statement.”

“Well, normally I wouldn’t, but…” His voice trailed off. Several of the jurors smiled. “Try to wrap it up, okay?”

Ben could argue, but it would be pointless. The jury clearly sympathized with Derek. He listed his witnesses quickly and returned to defendant’s table.

Christina was still focusing straight ahead, looking alert, but not otherwise displaying emotion, just as he had told her to do. But Ben could see past that. He could see the tiny crinkles encircling her eyes, the near invisible trembling of her hands. She’d been in the courtroom many times before—more times than Ben for that matter. She knew who was winning. And who wasn’t.

“Splendid,” Derek said, popping another tablet. “Let’s move right along. Mr. Prosecutor, call your first witness.”

34

“THE UNITED STATES CALLS James Abshire to the stand.” Ben was surprised. They were foregoing the usual slow buildup and leading with a heavy hitter first out of the box. Abshire was wearing a blue sports jacket, khaki pants, and a dark tie—standard government witness costuming. In solemn sonorous tones, he repeated his oath to tell the whole truth. Moltke ran through Abshire’s résumé, eliciting a laundry list of qualifications and experience that made Abshire sound like the J. Edgar Hoover of the 1990s. Summa cum laude from Georgetown, top of his trainee class at Quantico, junior agent on several important investigations. Then Moltke traced the history of the Lombardi investigation, beginning with an account of how the FBI first obtained evidence of the so-called Tulsa connection, the purported narcotics pipeline flowing from South America to Oklahoma via small planes and smuggled goods.

“Do you know a man named Tony Lombardi?” Moltke asked.

“Yes,” Abshire replied. He was restraining himself, maintaining a flat, even tone. He gave no indication that he might have a personal stake in the success of the investigation. “Mr. Lombardi was engaged in the importation of parrots and other rare birds from South and Central America.”

“And why did that interest you?”

“Drug smugglers often use legitimate importation avenues to cover the movement of illegal goods. We suspected Mr. Lombardi was using his parrot network to bring cocaine and other narcotics into this country. Mr. Lombardi transferred his imported goods to another company for distribution in the United States.” He paused and made eye contact with the jurors. “A company owned by a man named Albert DeCarlo.”

Ben watched the jurors’ eyes widen. There was no misunderstanding the point of that little exercise in guilt by association.

“And do you know the defendant, Miss Christina McCall?”

“Yes I do.”

“How did you first come to know her?”

“During the course of our investigation of Mr. Lombardi. Miss McCall was his…” Abshire paused, allowing the jury to run all the possible synonyms through their minds. By the time he finished his sentence, it didn’t matter what word he used. “His special friend.”

“Was this friendship romantic in nature?”

“We believe it was, yes. They met as a result of her work for a local law firm, but the relationship became more than simply professional.”

Ben watched the jurors’ gazes shift to Christina, the scarlet woman. Well, thank God he got Mrs. McKenzie off the jury.

“Please tell us what happened on the night of Monday, April first.”

“The evidence we’d gathered indicated that major drug shipments were made on Monday nights, about every other week, and we were expecting one that night. We had been unable to determine the drop site—that is, the place where the drugs, were delivered. We hoped to follow Lombardi to the site, or at least to witness an intermediate exchange.”

“What did you do?”

“We watched Mr. Lombardi. Unfortunately, he remained at his office, apparently alone, until after midnight. When he finally left, we followed him directly to his apartment. He went inside”—another meaningful glance at the jury—“and never came out. Not alive, anyway.”

“Did you hear a gunshot?”

“No. After Lombardi went inside, we returned to headquarters and tried to obtain a search warrant. From one to two, the apparent time of death, none of our agents were—”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Lack of personal knowledge regarding apparent time of death. He’s not the coroner.”

“That objection will be sustained,” Derek said with an air that clearly suggested that he considered the matter trivial and that Ben was a petty pain in the butt for mentioning it.

“What happened next?” Moltke asked.

“No disrespect for the court intended, but the wheels of justice sometimes move rather slowly. About two A.M., we returned to the apartment building with a warrant and moved in.”

“Were you personally involved in the raid on Lombardi’s apartment?”

“I was. In fact, I had what police officers call the death seat. I led the way.”

How heroic. J. Edgar Hoover becomes Teddy Roosevelt. Ben tried not to gag.

“What did you find in the apartment?”

Several jurors, ever so imperceptibly, leaned forward. They knew they were coming to the juicy part.