Chapter 30 Kate

30

Kate

The defense table was annoying Kate.

It must be the floor , she thought. She bent below the desk, saw that one of the rubber feet at the bottom of the table leg closest to her had come away. That made the table rock back and forth, half an inch, whenever she leaned her elbows on it. This caused the row of four pens in front of her to roll out of alignment.

She tore off half a dozen pages from her legal pad, folded them together until they formed a wedge, which she slid underneath the table leg. At first the corners ripped, but, using the toe of her shoe, she managed to force the wad of notepaper between the tiles and the foot of the table.

With both hands on the desk, she tested it for stability. Solid.

She rearranged her pens. Checked her phone, made sure it was on silent. Checked her iPad, made sure it too was on quiet mode. Adjusted the items on the desk, ensuring they were equidistant from one another, square and to hand.

Nodded to herself. Satisfied.

Kate thrived on order – or so some would say. In truth, what Kate truly enjoyed was restoring order. Fixing things: organizing files into neat piles with multicolored tabs stuck among the pages, tidying her pens into a neat row in front of her a half-inch apart with the pen clips on the caps all facing to the right, and leveling wobbly defense tables. The habit, or compulsion, applied to people too: taking out corrupt bosses who harassed their staff, adjusting Eddie's tie to make it straight and even, flicking the more unruly parts of Harry's hair until it came into line, making sure Eddie didn't have more than one drink on the rare occasion he joined Harry with a glass of bourbon . . . She drew the line at Gabriel Lake, though – that man's appearance was so disheveled he sometimes made her feel dizzy.

Order needed to be restored in this courtroom. The jury needed to know that John Jackson was an innocent man.

She turned around and glanced at John and Alison.

John's eyes were closed. When the jury came in, he would take his seat at the defense table. For now, he sat in the front row, holding hands with his poor wife. He'd lost twenty pounds since Kate had first met him. And he didn't have twenty to lose. Now, instead of athletic, he looked gaunt. A gray hue permanently shadowed his eyes and bloodless cheeks. A nervous tremor had begun in his left hand. She'd first noticed it after Esther's murder. On Kate's insistence, he went to a doctor. Someone who didn't know him, way out of Manhattan. He got tested, and it wasn't neurological. Which made it psychological. The strain was beginning to tear him apart.

Beside him, Alison stared into nothing, her mind a thousand miles away. Maybe years away. Maybe thinking about the before times. The good times with her family. Before her husband had been accused of murder. Before her mother had been so brutally killed. Before her perfect life had imploded. It was one thing to lose a parent. It was quite another when that parent was the victim of a brutal murder. And the killer was someone Alison had fired. Even now, weeks later, Kate remembered the sight of Alison at the funeral. She hadn't cried at the graveside, she had howled. Kate knew that cry. She had echoed it herself when her own mother died. It was a cry of pain and loss and regret made only by those who are savagely broken. Sometimes, grief can be a machine that grinds your very bones. And Alison was still in that grinder.

Alison hadn't been eating either. She covered up the worry lines that crept around her eyes, but no amount of make-up could disguise the hollow look on her face.

She'd almost lost everything. If John was convicted, Kate dreaded to think what might happen to Alison. Some people can take whatever life throws at them. Alison had taken some heavy hits in the last few months and one more might knock her down so hard that she would never get up.

Kate smiled, reassuringly, but it seemed that neither John nor Alison could see her. Their minds were overcome with pain and terrible fear.

Al Parish sat beside Alison. He was checking his phone. Probably work emails. To Al, the Jacksons were just another couple of clients. They meant nothing more to him than how a stockbroker would think of a portfolio of products, or a carpenter would think of a piece of pinewood or ash. They were commodities. A file. A name on top of an Excel spreadsheet of billable hours.

To Kate, they were people. Broken people who needed her help to get fixed.

Kate looked to her right. There were two chairs there. The one on the end would soon be taken by John. The chair beside Kate, the chair for lead counsel in the case, was empty.

Eddie said he would be late.

Kate would take a note of Castro's opening statement, then give her own.

Jury selection had been uneventful. Twelve ordinary New Yorkers, none more biased or more even-handed than the next. Thanks to Eddie, this case had not received anything like the media attention Castro had craved. Kate also suspected that he had a hand in keeping Esther's murder out of the papers so as not to risk the jury feeling in any way sorry for the Jacksons. Still, the main thing was the jury pool had not been infected with fifty news articles speculating on why her client might have killed the one-time starlet Margaret Blakemore. Most of the jurors had not heard of the case before. Some had remembered a mention of the killing around the time of the murder, but nothing else. And certainly nothing that would sway their opinion when it came time to deliver a verdict.

Crime journalists, mostly for the web, huddled in rows at the back of the courtroom. There were few other people in attendance. Even the victim's widower had not shown up. Maybe it was too much for him. Or he had moved on already. Kate got the impression Margaret Blakemore had lived in a loveless marriage.

Noise from the prosecution table to her left drew Kate's attention. Castro was standing over his assistant district attorneys, pointing at a laptop screen and whispering. Even though he was trying to keep the volume low, Kate could see he was having trouble keeping his emotions in check. His cheeks were flushed, but he didn't look pissed off. Still, his pale, ivory-colored suit set off the redness in his complexion. The man in white. The hero. Or so he would have everyone believe. One of the assistants hit some keys on the laptop, then Castro noticed Kate staring at him. He reached over and quickly slammed the laptop closed.

He was up to something. Even though he wore a white suit, he was no innocent.

She glanced over her shoulder at the doors of the court.

No sign of Eddie. Not yet.

She could handle the case, and was confident in her skills, but she felt better having Eddie beside her. Whatever Castro could throw at them – Eddie could throw back a lot worse. Kate was a straight shooter. But to win, with the entire weight of the State of New York thrown against you, sometimes you had to play a little dirty to even the odds. That was Eddie's department.

Right now, he wasn't even in the building.

She thought about Harry, lying in his hospital bed. She missed his strength and his wisdom. Most of all, she missed his friendship.

‘All rise,' said the clerk.

Everyone in the courtroom stood. The excited chatter from the prosecution table ceased. John kissed Alison, and left the public benches to take his place at the defense table beside Kate.

The Honorable Arthur Zell took his seat in the judge's chair. He wasn't a bad judge. Not a lot of experience and very little of it in criminal law. Fair minded in that he often had to check the law in the privacy of his chambers. He didn't just rely on what the prosecutor told him. He was still getting used to wearing the robes of his office. There were stitches visible all along one side of his robe where he had repeatedly caught it on doorknobs and stair railings. With any luck, he wouldn't interfere too much in the case, which was all you could hope for in a judge.

Judge Zell reminded the jury of their obligations to keep an open mind, not to discuss the case among themselves until all the evidence had been heard, and then asked Castro to give his opening statement.

Kate felt the defense table rocking. She bent down to check if the paper wedge had come loose. It was still in place. It was then that she noticed John was shaking. His hands were clamped together, resting on the table.

Gently, Kate put her hand over his, and separated his fingers from each hand, told him to put his palms on his thighs. He couldn't help his hands from shaking, so there was no point in him trying. But Kate told him the best thing he could do was not to let the jury see his nerves. People interpret others' anxiety in different ways. Some would see John sweating, shaking in fear, and believe him to be guilty – right then – right there. No need for any testimony or evidence. The guy looks guilty, so he must be guilty.

Kate didn't need any more hurdles to leap over. Not with this jury.

She leaned over, whispered to John, ‘Take it easy. I know this is hard, but the jury are watching now. Don't react to anything Castro says. He wants you to get pissed off and show anger in this room, in front of this jury. Just keep your expression neutral. No nervous smiling, no angry looks.'

John nodded.

‘Remember, Castro has some forensic evidence, but he doesn't have a story to tell the jury. There's no motive. That's our first strong point in this case. We need the jury to have unanswered questions in their minds. No story, no conviction. Okay?'

He nodded again, took a deep breath.

Kate turned her attention to Castro, who stood in front of the jury.

‘Members of the jury, I want to thank you for your service during this trial. By the end of this case, you will have performed your sworn civic duty. You will have returned the only true verdict in this case – guilty. And you will have put a murderer behind bars for life. That is what this city requires of you. And I have no doubt you will not shy away from this duty. When it all comes down to it, this case is very simple. The defense . . .'

Castro pointed at Kate, and then continued. ‘The defense will try to make this more complicated than it really is. It's up to you if you want to listen to them. Me, I keep things simple and true. Facts, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We deal in facts. The who, what, where and when.

‘Who killed Margaret Blakemore? What happened during that crime? Where and when did it happen? The prosecution case will prove the following, beyond all reasonable doubt. Margaret Blakemore died from multiple gunshot wounds. She was shot in her home on June second, sometime around midnight. The gun that fired those fatal shots was found during a lawful police search of the defendant's property. The murder weapon was in his closet. And it has his DNA on it.'

None of this was news to Kate, or to John – it was as she expected. A simple, clean and powerful statement to the jury. An attempt by Castro to frame the case within his parameters. She had made a note while he talked. Castro had talked about the facts – Who? What? Where? And when?

But he had left out the most important question. The one the jury would be asking themselves constantly.

Why?

‘That is more than enough for any jury to convict this defendant . . .'

Kate knew Castro was winding down. She felt that tingle of nerves in her stomach. It would very soon be time for her to make the defense opening statement.

‘. . . and, members of the jury, once you have heard the testimony from the prosecution witnesses, those facts will become concrete in your mind. And, with that, there is only one verdict – guilty.'

Castro sat down. The judge offered Kate her chance to frame the case for the jury. Like all good lawyers, she knew the best thing to do was to ball up the prosecution's speech and throw it right back at them.

‘Members of the jury, my name is Kate Brooks. I represent the notable pediatric neurosurgeon, John Jackson. He is an outstanding member of our community.'

She glanced at John. He had threaded his fingers again, held them on the table, shaking the whole damn desk. One thing Harry had taught her was that a disadvantage, or a weakness in a case, was just a matter of perspective. If you looked at it from a different angle, maybe it could be a strength.

She continued, ‘Hundreds of children have had full and meaningful lives because of the skilled hands of my client, John Jackson. Take a moment, please, members of the jury, and just take a look at my client's hands now.'

The jury turned to look at John. They saw the fear and hurt in his eyes, and ripples of that pain fanned out into his shaking fingers.

‘My client is afraid. He is an innocent man on trial for his life. And all he has done is serve our community and save the lives of our children.'

Kate knew to pause, let the jury take a good look at John. She wanted them to adjust their thinking – to take a different angle on what was in front of them. This wasn't a guilty man who had been caught by the system – this was someone who has been wronged and has paid for it dearly.

‘Now, John Jackson needs you, members of the jury. His life, his career, has been destroyed by these false allegations and at the end of this trial we will ask you to give him his life back. The evidence that Mr. Castro outlined is all disputed, and you will understand by the end of this case how forensic evidence doesn't always tell the full story. Speaking of stories, that is something very important to bear in mind. The prosecution want you to answer the who, where, when and how questions. But they don't want you to think about the most important question of all. Why? Why would John Jackson kill his neighbor? There is no answer to that question for two reasons. First, the prosecution have no connection between John Jackson and the victim in this case. They can't tell you why because they don't know. They don't know because John Jackson didn't kill Margaret Blakemore. He had no reason to harm her. But someone else did. Someone with motive who is not sitting in front of you today . . .'

‘Objection, Your Honor,' said Castro.

Kate turned round, genuinely surprised. It was relatively unheard of for a prosecutor to object to a defense opening statement. The judge called for both parties to approach the bench.

‘What is the meaning of this?' asked the judge.

‘My apologies, Your Honor. I had to object. Defense counsel was misleading the jury.'

‘What?' was all Kate could manage.

‘I will give Miss Brooks the benefit of the doubt. I don't think she did it deliberately. Maybe she hasn't had time to read our latest filing,' said Castro.

Kate felt a chill on her neck.

‘What filing?' asked Judge Zell.

‘We have filed a motion for witness anonymity . . .'

Kate's mind flashed on Castro's hushed conversation before the judge entered the room. His ADA must've hit send on the electronic filing right before the judge came into court. Kate left the judge's bench, retrieved her iPad from her desk and came back. Sure enough, she'd received a copy of the prosecution motion. They'd held it back on purpose, making sure she wouldn't see it until after her opening statement, so they could interrupt her, ruin the opening of her case.

‘What is this?' asked the judge.

‘Your Honor, the prosecution have obtained new evidence from a witness who will only testify anonymously. They are fearful of retribution from the defendant, and we believe this witness qualifies for anonymity. This witness will tell the jury exactly why John Jackson murdered Margaret Blakemore.'