The Jury Master (12 page)
He considered her eyes, but if she was holding back information, she was good at it. Keeping his eyes on her, he turned over the envelope, conscious that she stood watching him, perhaps gauging his reaction. He tore open the tab, reached inside, and pulled out the contents.
The worn manila file staggered him—he felt like a parent seeing an estranged child after thirty years.
T
INA CRINGED, THOUGH
not at the brutality of Sloane’s gruesome revelation but at the fact that he had to relive it every morning.
“David, I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
“The worst part about it,” he said, “is I feel like what’s happening to her is my fault.”
“You mean because you can’t help her?”
“It’s more than that.” He paused to consider how best to explain it, running a finger over his lips before settling for “I feel like I’m responsible for what’s happening to her.”
“David, it’s only a dream.”
“I know,” he said, but in his mind he watched the shadow grab the woman by her hair and lift her from the floor, her body dangling limp and lifeless, the light flickering—the polished blade catching the glint of the moon before cutting through the night as if through a blackened canvas.
She sat back. “It’s no wonder you’re not sleeping. What a horrible thing to go through every night, David! Do you have any idea who this woman could be?”
The question perplexed him. “You mean Emily Scott?”
Her eyes widened and her eyebrows arched. “You didn’t say it was Emily Scott. Is it?”
He had assumed so, but now, put to the question, he realized he did not know. “I thought so.”
Tina put her half-empty bottle on the desk. “Can I ask you something else?”
He smiled, knowing she would. “This seems to be the night, doesn’t it? Fire away.”
“How did it make you feel when the jury found Paul Abbott not liable?”
“You mean, how did I feel keeping an obnoxious son of a bitch from having to pay a large bill he was morally obligated to pay? It’s not a perfect system, Tina, but it’s not for me to judge my clients. That’s the jury’s job.”
“Then forget about Paul Abbott for a moment. Forget about the jury. Forget about defending the system. Just tell me how winning made you feel
this
time.”
“What are you getting at?”
She playfully chided him. “You always get to ask the questions. Let me play lawyer this once. How did it make you feel?”
“It’s impossible to divorce your ego from it entirely. Nobody likes to lose.”
“Blah, blah, blah. You’re giving me textbook answers. I want to know how it made you
feel.
Were you happy, sad? Did you feel any guilt?”
The word hung over his head like a guillotine blade.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Did you?”
He stretched the muscles of his neck, tilting his head from side to side, uncomfortable. “None of these are easy, Tina, and none are particularly satisfying, but I can’t dwell on that. No matter how sorry I might feel for the family, it’s my job to defend my clients, whether I personally like them or not.”
She sat silently.
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “If you’re human, you feel compassion. That’s what makes these cases so hard. Jurors want to find a reason to give the family money, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m hired to do a job.”
In his mind he saw the photograph of Emily Scott’s battered face on the courtroom easel. The homicide detective had used it to describe what he called “the most horrific act of violence I’ve witnessed in twenty-six years.” Steiner had neglected to remove the exhibit after the investigator testified. Emily Scott’s young son had been brought into the courtroom for a portion of the closing argument and sat in the front row, feet dangling above the floor, eyes regarding what would be the last image of his mother. Realizing this, Sloane had stood in the middle of Steiner’s closing argument, ordinarily an intolerable act, walked to the easel, and turned the photograph around.
No one took offense. Not Steiner. Not the judge.
Sloane looked across the desk at Tina.
“Yes,” he said, hearing the low whistle of the guillotine blade sliding down the rack and hitting the wood stump with a dull thud. “I felt guilt.”
P
ARKER MADSEN STOOD
in his wood-paneled den looking out the leaded-glass panes, sipping tea from a mug embossed with a picture of a large deer—his Christmas gift from his secretary. Above the animal’s proud antlers were the words
THE BUCK STOPS HERE
. On a manicured green lawn lit by sporadic Japanese landscape lanterns, Exeter gnawed a deflated basketball. Madsen’s grandson would not be happy, but dogs often taught children valuable lessons. This one would be about leaving toys unattended.
Madsen turned from the window and reconsidered the sheet of paper in his hand beneath the muted light of a green and gold desk lamp. The log of telephone calls indicated that the last three calls had been made within two minutes of one another, two to an area code in the San Francisco Bay Area. The first number belonged to a San Francisco law firm, the second to a private residence in Pacifica, California. Both had the same thing in common: David Allen Sloane.
According to the San Francisco Bar Association, Sloane worked as an attorney at Foster & Bane. A lawyer. Madsen found that interesting. Each call was also charged as exactly one minute, which indicated that they were actually less than a minute—just enough time to leave a message or instruct the recipient to call back on another line.
Madsen returned the sheet of paper to the three-ring binder, snapped it closed, and flipped a tab. Sloane’s date of birth was February 17, 1968. He had never married and had no children. A search of Social Security records in Baltimore revealed a California prefix, 573. According to the State Department of Public Health and Vital Statistics, Sloane’s birth certificate had a reissue date of 1974. No reason was provided for why the certificate had been reissued, but Madsen reasoned that it was related to Sloane’s parents’ dying in a car accident in Southern California when he was a child. A clipping from the
Los Angeles Times
included a picture of the car wrapped around a telephone pole like an accordion. At six years old Sloane was NPG—“no parent or guardian.” He was shipped to a series of foster homes as a ward of the state until, at seventeen, he enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. It was not uncommon for underage men to enlist. Some lied about their age; others obtained a parental signature. The records did not reveal that Sloane had done either. Somehow he’d talked his way past the marine recruiter. When he obtained the highest score that year on his Marine Corps aptitude test, one of the highest scores ever, no one was about to question his age. Madsen put on his bifocals and reconsidered the number. He had not misread it. Further military testing indicated that David Sloane had an IQ of 173. Near genius. And he wasn’t just smart. Though he was the youngest member of his platoon, Sloane’s commanding officers saw enough in the young marine to elevate him to platoon leader—First Marine Division, Second Battalion, Echo Company. Over the course of his four years of service, Sloane had compiled an impressive record, earning citations for marksmanship and a Silver Star for gallantry in Grenada. Madsen considered a medical report. Sloane took a Cuban bullet in the shoulder after removing his flak jacket during an engagement. That act explained the report that followed the medical report, which Madsen recognized immediately—a psychological profile. He adjusted the lamp.
This Marine has unquestioned intelligence, skills, and leadership qualities. The men in his platoon show a unique willingness to follow his command and a loyalty and confidence in his abilities, which, given this Marine’s young age I find remarkable. Nevertheless, I do not recommend this Marine for Officer Candidate School. This Marine’s only explanation for removing his flak jacket during a hostile engagement is that he felt “weighted” and desired to “move faster.” On the surface it appears to be a careless act not in keeping with a man of his intellect or abilities, a clear disregard for his own well-being. Further interviews, however, reveal it to be consistent with a pattern of impulsive behavior. He describes his decision to join the Marine Corps as one made while passing a Marine recruitment center while walking to a hardware store to buy bolts. “It seemed like something to do.”
It is my opinion the Corps became something heretofore lacking in his life—stability in a daily routine, and a brotherhood and family with his fellow recruits. That he embraced the Corps, excelled, and developed strong bonds with the men with whom he serves is, therefore, not surprising. Nevertheless, his spontaneous decision to join the Corps is consistent with his spontaneous decision to remove his flak jacket. It is indicative of a man dissatisfied with his life and therefore prone to making rash decisions to change it. Such decisions could, in the future, endanger not only himself but also the men for whom he is responsible.
Madsen put down the report and pressed a finger to his lips, the ends of which lifted upward into a grin. Sloane was not unlike the soldiers he recruited: men without family, skilled and determined, but raw and in need of guidance and discipline. Commanding them was not unlike training a dog. Madsen broke them down and rebuilt them, dispensing enough discipline to control them without breaking their spirit and natural instinct to fight. Throw a carcass of meat into a pack of dogs, and all the training in the world went to hell. Mayhem replaced order. Instincts replaced training. Men were no different. Madsen had seen it in Vietnam more times than he could remember: the dark side of the human psyche that caused men to discharge a hundred rounds into a hooch of women and children, then burn it to the ground. His men did as ordered, without regard for the moral or ethical consequences of their actions. They were men who got things done. And they were men, like dogs, that you did not turn your back on. Ever.
Madsen closed the binder. The NSA was assisting in breaking down Sloane’s telephone records for the past six months, as well as his credit card transactions. That was all well and good, but Madsen did not have the luxury of time. While there appeared to be no connection between Joe Branick and David Sloane, there most certainly was one. Branick saw fit to call Sloane twice and to mail him a package.
Exeter padded into the room, claws clicking on the hardwood, head shaking his new chew toy. After his wife died, Madsen had had all the Persian rugs in the house removed. Carpet muffled sounds, and Parker Madsen did not like to be surprised.
T
INA SUPPRESSED A
smile, though not very well, and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “The beer,” she said.
“Beer makes you cry?”
She gave him the empty bottle. “Shut up and give me another one.” He opened a bottle and handed it across the desk. “You’re human, David. The fact that you felt guilt only means you’re human.”
He chuckled. “Was there some doubt about that?”
“Sometimes I wondered,” she said with sarcasm.
“Boy, I guess it’s better not to know what people think about you.”
“Don’t start getting sensitive on me now.”
“It’s my human side coming out.” They laughed. Then he became contemplative. “I’m sorry to see you go, Tina, but I’m happy for you.”
She looked down at her beer. “They’ll find you another good secretary. The firm won’t want to slow down the Sloane trial machine.”
“You’ve taken care of me for ten years and been a good friend. I appreciate it.”
She looked up at him. “I have to think of Jake.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s what makes you such a good mother.”
She seemed to blush at the comment, then stood to look out the floor-to-ceiling windows. “You know, I can’t recall the last time I had a Friday night free. My mother’s always harping . . .” She stopped. “Well, you know how mothers can be.”
Sloane didn’t. But that was not for this conversation. “Why didn’t you ever remarry?” The question seemed to catch her off guard, and he was just as surprised that he had asked it. “I’m sorry. That’s none of my business.”
She spoke to the glass. “A couple reasons, I guess. First, it would have to be the right situation.” She looked at Sloane. “Not just for me, but for Jake, too.” Then she looked back out the window. “Not having a father around is hard, but having a bad one would be worse. He’s been disappointed too many times . . . So it would have to be someone good to him, someone who would spend time with him, someone who would learn to love him.”
“That shouldn’t be hard. Jake’s a great kid. He’s the only reason I go to the company picnic every year.”
She turned from the window and walked back to the chair. “Yeah, he still talks about playing catch with you,” she said.
“And what about you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Practicalities.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t get out much, and the pool of appealing, single, heterosexual men is rather limited in this city.”
“What about the guy in Seattle?”
“Who?”
“The guy with the architectural firm in Seattle?”
She laughed. “I don’t think that would work.”
“Someone here?”
“Maybe.” She seemed to consider this for a moment, then looked back out the window. “But he’s still searching to find himself. And until he does, I can’t expect him to find me.” She put her beer on the edge of his desk.
He was about to ask her if she wanted to get a cup of coffee when he remembered Melda and looked at his watch. “I’m late. I forgot I have a date.”
Her expression went blank.
“When you’re seventy years old and bake an apple pie, you expect the person to be there to eat it.”
“Melda.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
“It’s too far out of your way. You’ll be really late.”
She was right. “I’ll pay for a cab.”
“You bet your ass you will. I’m not taking the bus this time of night.”
He tossed the empty carton of Chinese in the garbage, grabbed a pile of work from his desk, and reached to stuff it in his briefcase.
