Fox is Framed (20 page)

“And they have the temerity to accuse the
defense
of conjuring imaginary killers. Ms. Crowder went so far as to claim that the real killer didn't leave a trace behind. Her words—you just heard her say it. A killer who didn't leave a trace, none except for his semen in Caroline's body, which is the evidence that Gary Coles wrongfully hid from the defense, evidence that was subsequently destroyed. Angela Crowder wants you to forget that such physical evidence existed. She wants to conjure up a mystery lover for which there is no evidence whatsoever. But doesn't it make the most sense that the rapist who left his semen behind in Caroline Maxwell's body was the person who killed her, that someone with that blood type is the person we're looking for? It's the only logical explanation, yet the prosecution refuses to consider it.

“People, this case broke down twenty-one years ago, and they're still sitting behind the wheel with their arms crossed.” She looked squarely at the jury, waiting for this to sink in. Then she went on to discuss the confession, showing the jury just how little evidence there was that my father had killed Russell Bell.

“You heard my client tell you that this so-called confession was a lie told by Mr. Bell, that Bell panicked after realizing that he'd made at least one incriminating statement to Mr. Maxwell, and that my client was going to turn him in to the police. Detective Shanahan swallowed Bell's lies, because they were exactly what he'd wanted to hear, coming exactly when he needed them. Those lies were what the detective knew he'd hear if he beat the bushes loudly enough.

“Mr. Maxwell's guilty, Detective Shanahan wants you to believe, because the state couldn't have made a mistake. Or perhaps because it would be too painful and embarrassing to admit that a mistake had been made. In his mind, it makes us weaker to admit that we were wrong. He's like my father refusing to admit that he'd forgotten to fill the tank. I happen to think it makes us stronger to admit mistakes, even terrible mistakes like this one, a mistake that resulted in my client serving twenty-one years for a crime he didn't commit.

“What a weak man my father was when he couldn't bring himself to admit that he'd forgotten to fill the tank with gas. What a weak man Detective Shanahan must be, for refusing to face the obvious fact that Lawrence Maxwell should never have been convicted, should never have been charged again, that there was never evidence of guilt. Mr. Maxwell and I are asking you today to be strong for the rest of us, to point out what should have been obvious from the start. The tank is out of gas. The car won't go. Return a verdict of not guilty and end this ordeal for my client, his fiancée, and his sons.”

~ ~ ~

Crowder spent most of her rebuttal time on Lawrence's confession and the evidence, scant though it was, that he'd murdered Bell, dwelling on the phone calls between them, even on Lawrence's appearance at the funeral home. “His alibi, even if you believe it, is beside the point. We're not saying he pulled the trigger. Remember what Bell told Detective Shanahan, that Maxwell had orchestrated reprisals before, that he had a network of associates who would do his bidding. Men who'd kill for him. And remember, also, that the only evidence of this supposed alibi comes from Mr. Maxwell's fiancée, a woman with an obvious interest in the outcome.”

Next she focused again on the technical aspects of the jury instructions, a tactic often effective for the prosecution in straightforward cases, with the question of guilt already sewed up. Then, seeming to realize that she was losing the jurors' attention. Crowder flipped forward in her notes, then set them aside and went on without them, speaking directly to the jury.

“Listening to Ms. Schuyler's argument, you'd think that the state has maliciously set out to frame Lawrence Maxwell for the murder of his wife. But what motive does the state have to persecute an innocent man? He's
not
innocent. He confessed to murder, and then he murdered the man to whom he had made that confession. Ask yourself, who in this courtroom has the most at stake? It's not Detective Shanahan, and it's not me. No matter what happens here, we get to go home tonight to our families, to our beds.

“Who has the motive to lie? Obviously, the defendant does. After the last few days it should be clear to you that he'll say anything, anything at all to avoid being convicted of murder. Don't be deceived. Don't buy into his lawyer's conspiracy theories, into his desperate stories about what Russell Bell supposedly told him. The truth is that Russell Bell had put the past behind them, and he wanted nothing to do with Mr. Maxwell. But Mr. Maxwell wanted something from him.

“Mr. Maxwell has received due process of the law. No one in this courtroom disputes that he deserved this new trial after what happened twenty-one years ago. We've admitted our mistakes and we've made them right, and we've conducted this prosecution with dignity and fairness. The ultimate injustice would be if those mistakes were to result in the acquittal of a guilty man. Don't allow that. Return a verdict of first-degree murder and give Caroline Maxwell the justice she deserves.”

Chapter 24

The jury instructions were complex and took more than an hour to read. In a droning, patient voice, Judge Liu instructed the jurors on the presumption of innocence, the burden of proof, and the charged offenses: first-degree murder, second-degree murder, manslaughter. Then, giving the state's version of the forfeiture instruction, he instructed the jurors regarding the circumstances under which they would be allowed to consider Lawrence's alleged confession.

My heart raced as Liu navigated this complicated instruction. I watched the jurors. Who knew what they were thinking, or if they even understood what they'd just heard? Liu had denied Nina's request to put blanks on the verdict form requiring the jurors to check
yes
or
no
in response to various questions, meaning that in the event of a conviction, we'd be unable to show that the jurors had failed to follow his instructions. We would know only the end result.

~ ~ ~

The courtroom was ours. The jurors were in the jury room. Judge Liu was in his chambers, and Shanahan and Crowder were presumably in the offices upstairs.

While Nina worked on her laptop at the counsel table, my brother, father, Dot, and I lounged in the gallery, our jackets folded over the back of the bench in front of us, our legs outstretched.

“The Grand Canyon,” my father suggested. He and Dot had been throwing out ideas for the honeymoon they meant to take after their marriage.

“Europe,” she countered, echoing Crowder's suggestion that they tour the world. “The Italian coast.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

“And then Spain,” he told her. “Then ferry across to North Africa. Morocco. Casablanca. Tangiers.”

He kept talking as if he'd have the chance to see all these places—the words rolling out of him with the lazy unflagging momentum of a person used to filling sleepless nights with harmless untruths.

In contrast with my father's apparent acceptance of whatever was to come, I was a wreck, unable to sit still with my second-guessing of Nina, thinking that Lawrence shouldn't have waived his right to a hearing before the confession came in. Since our conversation this morning, I'd begun to doubt that there'd be issues for appeal; more likely, our agreement meant that the appellate court wouldn't overturn a guilty verdict. There was no point in having that discussion with Lawrence now, after I'd just talked him into rejecting the DA's offer.

It was nearly six. In the world outside, commuters were boarding their trains, starting their cars, beginning their journeys home. Going back to their lives, their families. Teddy had phoned Tamara and told her he wouldn't be home for dinner. Jeanie had gone home, Teddy said, but Debra was there and able to stay.

The jurors could have left and resumed their deliberations in the morning, but the door to the jury room remained closed. We heard murmurs of raised voices behind it, intimations as heart-quickening as they were impenetrable. Often, juries would send written questions asking for clarification on a point of law, or for certain testimony to be read back to them. Such questions often provided clues as to which way the jury was tilting. This jury sent none.

No doubt Crowder and Nina each had their proxy in that room. Nina's would be the social worker in her twenties, with the tattoo and the vegan complexion. Crowder's proxy would be the stockbroker who worked in the Financial District and was always thumbing away at his BlackBerry during the breaks. The other jurors didn't appear to like him, but his voice would carry weight.

The social worker, by contrast, seemed on good terms with everyone, yet I guessed she'd have little experience imposing her views. I knew nothing about her, had nothing but my own stereotypes and prejudices to judge her by. But I was heartened by the sense I'd gotten from observing her over the past several days that she would care deeply that an innocent man not be convicted, while at bottom the stockbroker wouldn't mind at all. Of course I was just applying my preconceived notions. It could easily have been the other way around.

At seven fifteen, there was a firm knock on the jury room door. The deputy answered it and spoke a few words to the foreperson, a confident young manager at a software company whose sympathies I'd been unable to read. After that, things went quickly. The courtroom deputy phoned upstairs, and a few minutes later Crowder appeared, with Shanahan not far behind. Judge Liu came out, buttoning his robe at the neck, and took the bench. My father, in his coat again, straightened his tie, kissed Dot on the lips, pressed his sweaty hand into mine, then Teddy's, and came out of the gallery to take his place at counsel table with Nina.

As he passed through the swinging door into the well of the courtroom I was painfully aware he was taking steps he might never retrace. If he were found guilty, Judge Liu would almost certainly order him taken into custody. If that happened, he'd be shackled and led out the secured entrance at the front of the room. That damp handshake might be the last contact I had with him as a free man.

I put my arm around Teddy's shoulders and squeezed briefly. Then we rose as the jurors came in. My eyes sought Nina's juror, the social worker. She looked exhausted. She didn't meet my gaze but didn't avoid it, either. The stockbroker, his tie loosened, looked like he just wanted to get out of there, impatient but not triumphant, as I thought he might be if he'd gotten his way.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Liu asked.

“We have,” the foreman answered. The stockbroker shot a look at Crowder.

The judge instructed him to hand the verdict form to the deputy, who brought the document to the bench. Liu studied it, and said, “I'll now read the jury's verdict into the record. ‘As to count one, the charge of first-degree murder, we find the defendant
not guilty.
'”

Dot sagged beside me, catching herself on the back of the bench in front of her. I saw Lawrence's hand find Nina's. She looked down in surprise but didn't take her hand away.

“‘As to count two, the charge of second-degree murder, we find the defendant
not guilty
.'”

At the DA's table, Crowder and Shanahan were stone-faced.

“‘As to count three, voluntary manslaughter, we the jury find the defendant
not guilty.
'”

Lawrence lowered his face onto his hands, trembling with sighs, then sat up straight and let his head fall back. Then he was on his feet, turning to look for Dot.

Amid the chaos, they went to one another and kissed in a lingering embrace. A few of the jurors were smiling. One woman even wiped away tears. I wondered when their sympathies had turned to him, and realized it must have been during Dot's testimony. She'd humanized him, allowing the jurors to believe in him as she believed in him. That had been the difference.

For the first time in twenty-one years, Lawrence was truly free.

~ ~ ~

“I'd have thought you'd be with your family tonight.”

We were at Tony Nik's in North Beach. “Teddy's with his family. Lawrence is with Dot. I seem to be the odd man out.”

I'd already told Nina what a tremendous job she'd done, how wonderful she'd been. But I told her again, and added, “We ought to try a case together sometime.”

“Sure, sure,” she said. Eventually I paid the bill and we left.

“It isn't the end, you know,” she told me after a bit, slipping her arm companionably through mine. “I didn't want to mention this to your father today. Let him catch his breath. But I'm pretty sure they're still going to try him for Russell Bell.”

I nodded, her cool appraisal sobering me. In her company, with drinks in me, I'd begun to relax. Now I felt my shoulders tighten, though I'd already recognized the likelihood of what she was telling me.

“He won't be able to go through that experience a second time. Or third.”

“With any luck, he won't have to. But we don't have to think about that tonight.”

We walked up Columbus. At one point, as we paused for a light, I turned to her and tried to kiss her. She stopped me with a finger on my lips.

To cover the awkwardness of her rejection, I asked her if the story about her father running out of gas was true. “It might have happened,” she said, looking at me with something like regret. “Maybe just not like that.”

At the next corner we said good-night.

I was getting off the BART in Oakland half an hour later when my phone rang. It was Eric Gainer. I'd been half expecting his call, though maybe not so soon. It was clear to me that we had unfinished business between us. I pressed the Talk button. “Eric?”

He gave a cough, then spoke as if with effort. “I guess congratulations are in order. From the news reports, the consensus seems to be that after so long, the evidence just wasn't there.”

“The evidence never was there. He's innocent.”

“Well. Congratulations.” His voice was tense.

“Are you calling just to tell me that?”

He breathed in sharply. “Look, can you come over to my place? Tonight? You see, something's happened, and you and I are the only ones who know the whole story. Lucy Rivera's alive, and she's here. She's told me some shocking news about my brother and Russell. The things she's telling me could be very significant to your father's case if the DA prosecutes him for Bell's murder. I think you ought to hear what I've heard.”

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “I'll be right over.”

I ought to have suspected a trap, but the bait he'd laid out for me was too tantalizing to resist, especially after my conversation with Nina about the second case still hanging over my father's head. On the drive from the MacArthur BART back into the city, in a belated fit of caution, I called Car. I asked him to get to Eric's place as fast as he could, then park with a good view of the front, and be prepared to follow us if we left. And if things went bad, to call the police.

I didn't think things would go bad. With Lucy's help, I hoped to convince Eric that Jackson was behind Russell Bell's murder. Then, according to my half-formed plan, we would call the police and put the matter to rest. In ten minutes I pulled into Eric's garage. He came out to stand in the doorway, then turned to go inside. As I followed him inside, Lucy stepped from behind the kitchen wall and put the gun to my head. Too late, I realized my error.

Eric turned at the doors that led to the patio out back. “Thanks for coming over.”

“I guess you didn't kill her,” I said. “That must have been welcome news.”

He gave me a warning in the form of a glance at Lucy. “You'll need to leave your car keys on the table there for me. Sorry, but Jackson may need to borrow them later. And your cell. Turn it off. Are we ready?” he said to her when I'd complied.

“Where are we going?” I asked, though I'd already guessed.

“Back to the house out there,” Lucy said. “And then we're going to make a phone call.” To Eric she said, “You're sure your brother can come up with the money tonight?”

“Normally, we wouldn't keep that kind of cash on hand. But this isn't exactly ordinary times. I knew we might end up having to pay someone, but I didn't know when. I thought it'd be Leo's father, but it doesn't really matter to me who gets paid, as long as this is the end of it. Jackson will have the money before morning.”

I sat in the passenger seat of Eric's Cherokee, with Lucy behind me. He drove. “What's the plan?” I asked once we were out of the city.

Eric glanced over at me. “Don't you know? I thought you were the one who gave her the idea. The body in the freezer, I mean. This was supposed to be your show, not mine.” After his experience in the courtroom, he wasn't above taking pleasure in asserting his power over me.

Car had been at his place in the Western Addition when I called. If he'd hurried, he might have made it to Eric's in time to follow us as we pulled away. But the Friday night traffic had probably prevented him from making it in time. In any case, if he was there as we left, I didn't see him.

“Russell could have been lying about the body, too,” I said. “Maybe she went in the ocean and never came up.” I didn't want to say, Lucy's lying. She was using Bell when he thought he was using her. She was in on the scam, and she shot him not for revenge, but so she wouldn't have to share the payout you're making tonight. There's no body.

Lucy touched the gun barrel to my ear. “Then it's your lucky day.”

Eric's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. From time to time he glanced at my face. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. On the coastal highway, when we reached it a few hours later, we found long stretches where I saw no other headlights in either direction, just the dark curve of the headlands blotting out the sky, and the moonlit, seething Pacific.

“What'd she mean it's my lucky day?”

Eric glanced at me. “This is one of those times when it's good to be the one who picks up the tab. Nothing is settled until every­thing is settled. That's what Jackson always says. I'm no lawyer, but I think the principle applies.”

“I'm a loose end, is what you're telling me.”

“Jackson will be coming with your car. If there's no body in the freezer, you drive it home after we hand over the money.”

“And if there is . . .”

“He doesn't need to know,” Lucy interrupted.

“Sorry,” he told her. “It's not really about you, Leo. It's just that she's got to have some insurance. We struck a deal. She'll help us take the body away, get rid of it. That's her end of the bargain. If her hands weren't dirty before, they will be now. And yours will be, too. You'll help her take the body away, and you'll dump it together somewhere where it'll never be found. Then your hands will be dirty, too. Either that, or we can do this the hard way. It'll look like self-defense. You'll be found with a gun. The window will be jimmied.”