A Fool for a Client (37 page)

All too many lawyers instead used the technique of good journalism:
present the conclusion in the first sentence and then cite the facts on which that conclusion was based.
This was fine for an
opening
statement, where the lawyers summarize what they
intend
to prove.
But it was wholly inappropriate for the closing, where the lawyers draw the strands of their case together. The underlying logic behind this technique was that different jurors would attribute different weight to different pieces of evidence and it was therefore wrong to close the case on any one piece of factual evidence.
Rather, the last thing the jury should hear should be the
logical conclusion
: the sum of all the parts they have heard and seen before.

“If we take all this together we get a picture of the defendant deliberately
and with prior intent
implementing a carefully worked out and meticulous plan to cause Sean Murphy to die of atropine poisoning, and in case there was any doubt, the defendant confirmed this version of the facts
in her own testimony
.
Indeed I could not have put the case against Justine Levy better than she has put it herself when she took the stand and testified freely and of her own volition.
Whatever
moral
significance Miss Levy may attach to her actions, you must understand that from the point of view of the law she is guilty of murder, and
premeditated
murder at that.”

He paused again.
He knew that he had presented all the elements of his case and summed them up as eloquently as anyone could.
But he long years of courtroom practice had taught him to read faces and he could tell that some of the jurors were not convinced.
Just as the act of
covering
ones mouth with ones hand during cross-examination tended to indicate lying, or a desire not to speak about the current subject, so a slight opening of the mouth of a juror during a closing statement indicated that the juror was unconvinced, a desire to blurt out “you
’
re wrong” to the lawyer who was currently speaking.
Abrams noticed that several of the jurors had open mouths, and it filled him with dread.
This was not going to be the open and shut case that he had anticipated after Justine
’
s obligingly straightforward confession from the witness
stand.
There were going to be several hours if not days of tough, angry arguing and negotiating in the jury room over the degree of homicide.

Abrams decided to depart from his prepared structure and branch off into some philosophizing.
He knew that any remaining doubts that the jury had must be about the
morality
of his case, not the
legality
.
It was
these
doubt that he had to address, these fears that he had to allay. The trouble was, these were the very doubts that had plagued him throughout the case, and more so after Justine
’
s testimony.
He realized that in challenging the jurors moral uncertainties on this score he was going to have to confront his own.
And this was a prospect that at some deep-seated level of his consciousness he had always been dreading.

He took a step closer that brought him back to the jury rail.

“In a way, members of the jury, the defendant is condemned not only by her testimony but also by her rhetoric.
She has told you that Sean Murphy should not have been allowed to escape justice and that a murderer should be punished even if he committed murder for the sake of a cause.
Yet she then proceeds to invoke her
own
cause as her excuse for murdering Murphy.

“I
’
m sure she genuinely believed that Murphy deserved to die.
Perhaps some of you do too.
I try not to think in these terms myself, but I certainly wouldn
’
t have lost any sleep if he
’
d slipped on a banana peel or fallen down a flight of stairs, as long as no one was in the way at the time.”

He was greeted by the nervous laughter that he had hoped for.
He smiled inside, but kept it off his face.
He was carrying them with him.

“But private thought is one thing, unlawful
action
is quite another.
Who
decided that Sean Murphy should die?
Was it God?
A judge?
A jury?
A legal tribunal?”

He slammed his first down on the jury rail.

“No!” he thundered.
“It was decided by a young lady who set herself up as judge, jury and executioner!
A young lady who decided, in fact, to play God!”

Some of the jurors winced at this and he wondered if he had gone to far.
But he realized that it was the sheer force and power of his voice that had frightened them, not his words.

“If you let her get away with what she did then you
’
ll be doing the very thing that she claims to object to:
subverting justice for the sake of some one else
’
s cause
.”

He started walking away from the jury, towards Justine.

“Whatever sympathy you feel towards the defendant, and I too feel some sympathy for her, you must not let it blind you to your duty as jurors and to the public trust that has been placed in you.
The fine balance that makes it possible to sleep in our homes in safety is so easily rocked and shaken.
The fragile fabric of law and order that makes it possible for us to walk in the sunlight and hold our heads up high without fear is so easily ripped to shreds.
We must preserve this sensitive balance and shield this delicate fabric with every measure of protection that our great institutions of justice are capable of providing, and the public are counting on you faithfully to discharge your duties as members of the jury, that most precious and sacred of those institutions.

“If we allow a criminal such as Justine Levy to escape justice because we sympathize with what she did, then we may as well pack up our law courts and police forces and go back to the jungle.”

He stood for a moment more in silence and then sat.

Justine
’
s decision not to present a closing statement had thrown everything into confusion.
Abrams had half expected it, because her testimony had said everything that she needed and wanted to say.
But Abrams had still been caught by surprise when the judge gave him the go-ahead to start his.
And now in the twenty minute recess before the judge began his summation, Abrams wondered if he had presented it as well as he could.
He was brooding about his performance when a tall burly man barged past him on the way to the washroom. He was angered by this, and considered remonstrating with the man.
But the stony look on the other man
’
s face gave him pause.
He looked like the kind of man who wouldn
’
t mind having to do a few hours of community service for the pleasure of punching an Assistant District Attorney on the nose.

He took his anger out, instead, on the short man who followed the big one, deliberately not moving as the other man edged around him, apparently in a hurry to get to the washroom too.

Court hearings are a curse on people who have weak bladders, Abrams thought with wry amusement.

*     *

In the washroom, Declan, who had just barged past Daniel Abrams, closed the door to the water closet where he had stashed the gun.
He opened the tank and took out the plastic bag with the pieces.
He knew that he had to act quickly.
The judge was taking advantage of Justine
’
s cooperation to expedite the proceedings and clear the backlog on his docket.
So he had decided to give his summation after a short twenty minute recess, rather than the following day.
Declan realized that the judge had probably prepared it in advance.
More to the point, he also realized that he didn
’
t have long to assemble the gun.

He closed the tank and rested the bag on to of it.
Then he took out the pieces and using his small screwdriver began to assemble them quickly.
He was an expert at stripping a gun and reassembling it, despite his size and somewhat pudgy fingers.
But the flow of adrenalin was pumping his heart to a frenzy of excitement as he could almost smell the bitch
’
s blood, and he couldn
’
t keep his hands steady.

The presence of some one else at the urinal outside also made him nervous.
He had several people come and go out, but one man was still there, he could sense it.
It wasn
’
t that he could hear him, the man seemed rather quiet in fact.
But there is a kind of sensation one gets, when one can tell if another person is there.
And Declan had this feeling now.
Only it wasn
’
t just the feeling of another human presence, it was the feeling that this man w
asn
’
t actually doing anything.

There was no sound of a flow of water, nor a sound of any other kind.
And for some reason, Declan had the feeling that the man had been the first to enter after him.
He didn
’
t know why he had this feeling, he just did.

He had, in fact, subconsciously sensed the man
’
s presence for some time.
At first he had dismissed it as a man waiting to use the WC.
But their other cubicles there which he could have used, and they couldn
’
t all have been out of order, although some of them looked decidedly unsanitary.

Perhaps they found the parts of the gun in the tank
,
he thought.
But he realized that it was highly unlikely that they opened the tanks unless they actually became clogged up.

What if it did clog up, thought Declan.
It could happen easily enough and then they
’
d certainly have a plumber open it to check.
But they probably wouldn
’
t recognize the
parts, he reasoned, especially as he had kept some back in his pockets.

But he couldn
’
t be sure.
There was always the possibility that he would step out and find himself facing a whole posse of armed law enforcement officials.
But the eerie silence outside the cubicle didn
’
t testify to the presence of an army.
It spoke of one man, and the man was still there.
Years of survival in the war zones of
Belfast
and
Derry
had taught him to sense danger, to smell it.
And right now the odour was overwhelming
.

He finished assembling the gun and knew that the moment of truth was here.
He had fitted the silencer and now all that remained was the moment of
truth.
He transferred the gun to his left hand and slid it inside his partially unbuttoned jacket.
Then he reached for the door latch.

Suddenly he realized that he had forgotten something, something that would arouse immediate suspicion if he didn
’
t correct it!
Leaning back and twisting his upper body slightly, he reached back to the toilet handle and flushed it.
As the water came cascading down, he quickly unlatched the door and stepped out.

He saw himself facing a small man with his hand in his pocket who was looking straight at him and appeared to be smiling.
He knew in an instant that he had been right, that this man had been waiting for him, that this man was his enemy.
In that same instant he noticed the bulge in the man
’
s pocket, a bulge too big to be explained by the presence of a diminutive hand there.
He saw a movement in the pocket and he knew that he was looking death in the face.
But he had one thing going for him.
In his escape plan, he had allowed for the possibility that he might come under fire after executing the Levy bitch.
So he has taken the small precaution of availing himself of the rich culture of self-defence that
America
has to offer and bought himself what used to be called a “bullet-proof vest” but was now known more commonly as “soft body armour.”
It was, in essence, a waistcoat made of aramid fibre, a composite polymer sold by Du Pont under the proprietary name of Kevlar.
And although light, it could stop the bullets of most handguns, certainly the bullet from a light two-two of the kind Thomas was wielding.