Murder One (43 page)

LaBelle left the podium and approached the jury, appealing to them with his calm, logical delivery. Ben could see why he had the reputation he did. He wasn’t showy as such, but showy wasn’t always good in a criminal trial. He was assured and sincere, and in the end run, Ben knew that was much more important to most juries.

“Bear in mind, too,” LaBelle reminded them, “the psychiatrist who testified that Keri Dalcanton fantasized about killing Joe McNaughton long before she did—long before she ever had a reason. Even before his decision to end the relationship, murder was on her brain. Is that the dream of a normal, innocent lover? I should think not. That’s the dream of a twisted, dangerous mind. All she needed was a motive. And when Joe McNaughton finally gave it to her, she made her sick dream a reality.

“When Mr. Kincaid speaks to you, he will no doubt talk at great length about reasonable doubt. For the most part, I’ll leave that to him. But I will suggest to you, that the most important word in that phrase is not ‘doubt,’ but ‘reasonable.’ It is not enough for the defense to create doubts with wild speculations or crazy explanations. It is not enough to provide alternative explanations or—in a particularly crude effort—to pin the blame on the recently deceased who cannot defend themselves. There must be
reasonable
doubt. If there is no
reasonable
doubt that Keri Dalcanton killed Joe McNaughton, then you must deliver a guilty verdict. Indeed, you have a duty to do so. A duty you owe not just to me, or this court, but to everyone.”

Ben made a conscious decision not to protract his closing. He had a real sense that the trial was over, at least in the jury’s mind. In some cases, he felt the jury looked forward to closing; they wanted to hear the attorneys sort out the evidence and try to make sense of it all. But not this time. This time he felt the decision had been made—one way or the other. All he could do was remind them of everything he thought was important—and do them the courtesy of being brief.

Point by point, he identified the refutations made to all of the prosecution’s so-called evidence. “The prosecution wants to make much of the fact that the knife came from Keri’s kitchen—but she admitted that, just as she admitted that the chains came from her bedroom. What’s important is not where they came from—but who used them. Similarly, the prosecution wants to make a fuss about her fingerprints being on the knife and the chains. But why shouldn’t they be? They were hers! Of course she’s held the knife, and she’s admitted she used the chains. This so-called proof tells you nothing.”

Ben leaned against the counsel table. “I want to take an extra moment to discuss the DNA evidence. DNA has been much in the news lately. Possibly too much. It has acquired a veneer of infallibility—because most people don’t really understand it. They assume that DNA evidence equals guilt. But it doesn’t. Not always. All DNA evidence can do is give you a likelihood, that is, the odds that the specimen came from the accused. But as anyone who’s ever been to Vegas knows, odds don’t always play out the way you expect them to. And you have to consider—even if her skin was under his fingernails, does that prove she killed him? Or does that just prove they spent a lot of time together, some of it in close contact, something which has never been in dispute? Keri explained that she and Joe fought briefly when he announced that he was leaving her—an understandable reaction. Is it so hard to believe that the skin got under his fingernails during that struggle? The prosecutor talks about our ‘crazy explanations,’ but isn’t that explanation easier to believe than that this petite young woman killed him? I think it is. And if you’ll look into your hearts, I think you’ll find that it is, too.

“Finally, there is the testimony of Andrea McNaughton. Make no mistake about this—Mrs. McNaughton is a victim in this case, just as Keri is, just as Joe McNaughton was. I don’t condone what she did—but I understand it. I think we all can. Still, the fact remains—she lied about what happened when she saw Keri Dalcanton. She lied consciously and intentionally, for the sole purpose of seeing Keri wrongfully convicted of murdering her husband. Worse, she enlisted the help of police officers, her late husband’s devoted friends, in her single-minded effort to convict Keri Dalcanton. What she did brings everything she said—and everything presented by the prosecutor who knowingly put her on the stand—into question. When you eliminate Andrea McNaughton from the equation, what does the prosecution have left? A lot of evidence linking Keri to Joe McNaughton or proving that devices used in the murder came from her apartment. So what? What do they have that links Keri to the murder itself? What do they have that proves she committed the crime? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing.”

Ben carefully positioned himself directly before the jury. He looked each of them squarely in the eyes, one by one, then continued. “This case is unlike any other I have ever tried, in more ways than you can imagine. But chief among them is this: In most cases, I have to try to convince the jury my client did not commit the crime, without having the slightest idea who did. Not this time. This time I know with absolute certainty who the murderer was. Keri told you why and how it happened, in great detail. And no one has given you any reason to disbelieve what she said. To the contrary, it makes perfect sense and fits all the evidence presented by the prosecution.

“Kirk Dalcanton was unstable and unbalanced, and had been for some time. He had a criminal record. He was unemployed, unhappy. He was living below the poverty level. He had low self-esteem. He was ashamed of himself. He was psychologically tormented about his sexual identity. In short, he was exactly the type of person who might commit a violent murder. What’s more, he—unlike his sister—had the necessary body strength and the motivation to do it. All of the most gruesome aspects of the crime—the mutilation of the body, the public display of the corpse, the word ‘faithless’ written in blood—all point to a male killer. Contrast that with what the prosecution has been telling you—that this hideous crime was committed by a nineteen-year-old girl. Which is more likely? you must ask yourself. Or to put it in the terms the judge will soon discuss with you: Is there any room for reasonable doubt?”

He paused, once again looking each of them in the eye. “I think there is. And I think you do, too.”

After the closings were complete, the judge gave the jury its instructions, a long series of guidelines couched in dense legal language. Ben knew from experience that the instructions rarely made much difference to a jury’s determination of guilt, although they sometimes helped determine which charge would be applied. In this case, except for the instruction reminding them of the importance of
reasonable doubt,
they were worse than useless. Everything would be decided when the jury resolved whether Keri was innocent or guilty. If she was innocent, she would go free. But if they found her guilty of this macabre crime, they couldn’t help but give her the maximum penalty.

Finally, the jury was dismissed, and Ben, Christina, and Keri began the long wait. Ben still sensed that most of the jurors had reached a conclusion, whatever that might be, which would indicate a relatively short deliberation. But you could never be sure. One hour passed, while they sat in the courtroom. After two hours, Christina sent out for sandwiches. After three, the courtroom closed, but the judge let the jury continue to deliberate. Apparently he too held out hope that the case would be decided quickly.

After four hours of waiting, it was dark outside the courtroom, and Ben was beginning to consider the possibility of going home. “If the jury does reach a verdict,” he explained to Keri, “they’ll call. Nothing will happen till we’re back in the courtroom.”

Keri nodded. She was bearing up well, all things considered, but the tension was evident in her face. And who wouldn’t be nervous—when her very life was being decided in the room next door. “You go on if you want, Ben. I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. He glanced at his watch. “You’ll miss
Xena
.”

She smiled a little. “Life is full of little sacrifices.”

Ben decided to remain. He sensed that Keri wanted someone with her. And there was more than that, actually. He sensed that she wanted
him
to stay with her. And he wanted to stay with her.

It was hard to chitchat with someone who knew that twelve persons were in the next room deciding whether she should be executed. Compared with that, everything else seemed trivial. Because it was.

“Any idea what you’re going to do once you get out of here?” Ben asked optimistically.

“Well,” Keri said, “I’m definitely not going back to stripping. That’s over forever. Problem is, I’m not sure what that leaves. I’m not qualified for anything.”

“Why don’t you get a job at a gym?”

“As what? A barbell?”

“As an aerobics instructor. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t require a college degree, and who would be better at it than you? You work out every day, you’re in great shape. Shoot, you’d have people lining up to get in your class, just on the hope that if they exercise with you, they might end up looking like you.”

She smiled, in spite of everything. “You’re sweet, Ben. You know that? Really sweet.” She turned to Christina. “Isn’t he sweet?”

Christina nodded. “That’s why I’ve stayed with him all these years.”

“Really?” An inquisitive, almost mischievous expression played on Keri’s face. “I thought you were in love with him.”

“Excuse me?”

Keri held up her hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was betraying any state secrets here.”

Christina’s eyes went skyward. “Kids. They think everyone’s hormones are raging.”

Keri gave her a sly look. “Methinks you doth protest too much.”

“Put your mind to rest, Keri. He’s all yours. I’m going for some coffee.” Christina stood up and moved rather quickly out of the courtroom. “Sorry,” Keri said to Ben. “Didn’t mean to chase her away.”

“You didn’t. She gets antsy during these long waits.”

“So tell me, Mr. Trial Lawyer. What’s the jury thinking?”

Ben shook his head. “I’ve tried cases long enough to know that, when all is said and done, juries are unpredictable. It’s like betting at the craps table. You know what should happen. But that doesn’t always mean it will.”

A moment later, without warning, Keri’s hand shot out and clutched at Ben’s. “Ben … do you think they believed me?”

Ben peered into her lovely blue eyes. There were words he wanted to say, that he knew she wanted to hear. But he couldn’t tell her something he wasn’t certain of himself.

She’d see the dishonesty in his eyes, and it would be worse than if he’d never spoken.

“I hope so,” he said, finally, simply. “I hope so.”

Hours later, the door of the jury deliberation room cracked open. A word was whispered to the bailiff, who immediately went to the judge. It was well past eleven, but that didn’t stop Cable from reconvening the court. It seemed he wanted this to be over as much as everyone else.

“Bailiff,” the judge said, as he walked back to the bench, “reassemble the court and contact the attorneys. We have a verdict.”

L
ABELLE MUST’VE HAD A
sense that the jury would return soon also, because it didn’t take him and his staff ten minutes to return to the courtroom. Many of the reporters who had been covering the case managed to make it back, too. With astonishing swiftness, the players were reassembled to hear the jury’s final word.

Ben watched the jurors as they filed back into the room. They all had solemn, sober expressions on their faces. They looked tired, no great surprise. But he also noticed that none of them were looking at Keri. Not so much as a glance across the table. Why didn’t they want to make eye contact?

Despite the fact that everyone on earth desperately wanted to know what was written on the scrap of paper clutched in the foreman’s hand, the judge led them through all the solemn formalities. “Madame Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”

A middle-aged woman on the front row, Juror Number Three (the one Ben almost removed but didn’t), spoke out in a clear if somewhat nervous voice. “We have, your honor.”

“Bailiff.” At the judge’s instruction, Brent crossed the courtroom and carried the all-important piece of paper to the judge. He glanced at it briefly. Years of experience had given Judge Cable a practiced stoic expression; there were no clues forthcoming there. He passed the paper back to the bailiff.

“I can’t stand this,” Keri whispered. After being through so much, this final interminable rigmarole was almost more than she could bear.

“We’re almost there,” Ben said.

She thrust her hand into his. “Hold me,” she said quietly. She squeezed so tightly it practically cut off the flow of blood to Ben’s fingers.

“The defendant will rise to receive the verdict.”

Keri did so. Ben and Christina stood beside her.

“Madame Foreman,” the judge intoned, “will you please read the verdict?”

The foreman flipped open the tiny sheet of paper which, at that moment in time, seemed more important than anything else in the world.

“On the first charge, for the willful and intentional murder of Joseph P. McNaughton in the first degree, we find the defendant, Keri Louise Dalcanton …”

Why did they always pause there? Ben asked himself. Did they think they were on television? Get on with it!

“… not guilty.”

Ben felt a tugging on his arm that nearly wrenched it out of his shoulder. “Did she say not guilty?” Keri asked. “I thought she said not guilty.”

“She did,” Ben said, squeezing back almost as tightly. “She did.”

“On the second charge,” the foreman continued, “for the wrongful murder of Joseph P. McNaughton in the second degree, we find the defendant, Keri Louise Dalcanton, not guilty.”

There was no holding back the excitement now. Christina whooped; Ben shouted. Some of the reporters in the gallery actually applauded. And Keri leapt, literally leapt, into Ben’s arms.

“Thank you,” she cried, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Thank you so much.”