Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (40 page)

For the next two-plus hours, everyone played their roles with skill and seriousness. Cameron presented the prosecution’s case:
the defendant had systematically stolen from, defrauded, and betrayed his employer. Cameron’s lack of imagination served him
well. He avoided hyperbole, supporting every allegation with testimony and evidence. Murph approved of this approach. Leopold
was such an arrogant, unrepentant schemer, he was almost larger than life already. If Cameron had tried dramatics, the jury
might have begun to wonder if Leopold really could be that blatant, or that stupid.

In fact, that was Jefferson’s defense strategy. In addition to calling Cameron’s case largely hearsay and opinion, he tried
to plant doubt in the minds of the jurors as to whether anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have stepped so
far outside such clearly defined lines. The guy was a great talker, and Murph saw a frown on a juror every now and then.

But Jefferson lost. Deliberations were short, and Leopold was convicted. Because he was guilty. He was so effing guilty, Murph
could have sentenced him two weeks ago when his duplicity and greed came to light, without going through the hassle of night
court. But it had been worth it. Jefferson had wowed the jury, the witnesses, the guards. He’d lost because this case was
unwinnable, but word would get out. He’d be treated with a new respect, and that had been Murph’s real aim: to raise Jefferson’s
profile. So when Murph began to make it clear Jefferson was the heir apparent, opposition, if it existed at all, would be
minimal.

Murph thanked the jury, banged the gavel, and passed his sentence. Leopold blanched and started shaking. Murph stifled an
irritated sigh. The sentence couldn’t have come as a surprise.

Guards clasped Leopold’s arms and propelled him from the courtroom. His eyes were wild; if it hadn’t been for the gag, he’d
be howling for sure. Everyone else could be trusted to keep quiet, but after they’d had such trouble at the first night court,
Murph had ordered that the defendants be silenced before sentence was read.

He checked his watch. Three thirty. Not bad at all. He dismissed the jury, thanked the attorneys with a particular nod to
Jefferson, and waited for everyone to stand so he could leave the bench and return to the robing room. He shed the black robe,
listening to the quiet sounds of the courtroom emptying. The rule was, when court was done, everyone out fast; but he was
Murph, so, hanging the robe, he gave himself a moment to reflect on the trial, and all the past trials, his years presiding
here in this institution he’d created. He felt a twinge of nostalgia at the thought that he might not be back, and a glow
of satisfaction at the thought of his protégé, Jefferson. He left, quickly and silently.

He didn’t check on the guards, who were responsible for carrying out the sentence. They knew their jobs. They’d wait with
the prisoner in the alley until everyone was gone. By morning, when the real judges, the real juries—the people who legitimately
occupied this courthouse—arrived, Leopold would have been found. This time where in the rotation? That’s right—down by the
creek. The headlines would scream about “execution-style” killings. The mayor and the county executive would make fiery statements
decrying lawlessness. There’d be a flurry of activity, but it would fade. Lawlessness. Hardly. That’s what had been wrong
with this county in the crazy days, before Murph took over the meth labs, the girls, and the gambling. Now citizens could
walk the streets without fear of stray bullets, and revenue flowed in an orderly stream. Every now and then a mutt like Leopold
thought he saw his main chance, and order had to be reestablished.

In a way everyone would understand.

Night court.

Murph ambled down the dark street, pleased with the peace and quiet of this town.

BY MORLEY SWINGLE

W
hich one is yours?”

The raspy voice was an unwelcome intrusion. Jack Hogan glanced at the man sitting next to him on the bleachers at Star Power
Gymnastics. Jack suppressed his irritation. The guy had no way of knowing he had just interrupted the closing argument Jack
was rehearsing in his thoughts for next Thursday’s jury trial. His inquisitor was just one more father of a budding gymnast,
trying to make conversation while waiting for his daughter’s practice session to end.

“She’s the one in the bright blue leotard,” Jack said, pointing to Amber.

Jack refrained from posing the reciprocal question requesting the man to identify his own daughter. Jack did not want to participate
in an extended conversation. He would barely be able to carve out sufficient minutes between now and next Thursday to adequately
prepare for the Porterfield jury trial, a particularly tough rape case certain to boil down to a swearing match between the
victim and her rapist. At a key point in his closing argument, Jack was going to recite a list of factors showing that the
teenage girl should be believed when she said she did not consent to the sexual intercourse. He had come up with seven good
reasons so far. He was hoping to add three more. Ten would pack a more biblical punch for the jury.

As a prosecutor with a heavy caseload, Jack was always in the throes of preparing for one trial or another. He had discovered
long ago that if he chose a seat on the bleachers farthest from the gymnasium door, most of the other parents would stay away
from him during his daughter’s gymnastics lessons and he could silently practice his opening statements and closing arguments
in relative privacy. By necessity, Jack was a master at using his time efficiently.

It had almost worked on this weekday evening. Most of the parents were clustered on the bleachers near the entrance to the
cavernous room. Only Jack and the one talkative father sat on this side of the gymnastics academy. A former warehouse, its
high ceilings and mat-covered, spacious floor made a serviceable gymnasium.

“She sure knows what she’s doing on that balance beam,” the man said. “She’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. He forced himself to refrain from bragging about Amber’s gymnastics talent. She had always been one of
the best gymnasts in her age group. She’d been doing perfect round-off cartwheels since she was four years old. She was fearless
on the balance beam and the parallel bars. She was naturally graceful on the floor exercise. Jack was proud of her. He enjoyed
watching her practice sessions, even if he did use the time to hone his courtroom oratory. He stole a look at the gymnastics
instructor, Leesa Beecher, a former national champion. It didn’t hurt that the teacher typically wore a tube top and tight
gym shorts during the lessons. She had the best-looking ass he’d ever seen. That’s what twenty years of gymnastics would do
for you, he supposed. Since he was happily married, he always tried not to openly gawk. “Happily married” did not mean you
did not look. It meant that out of consideration for your wife you tried not to get caught looking.

Jack wondered if Wendy had gotten home yet. After seeing a few patients at the hospital, she had gone to St. Louis for a training
seminar for speech pathologists. He looked forward to hearing about her trip. His wife had a knack for turning any episode
of her life into an entertaining story. That was one of the things he loved most about her. Maybe the three of them could
pick up some Chinese takeout when he and Amber got home from gymnastics.

“What do you do?” the man asked.

Once again, Jack hid his frustration. Apparently a conversation was going to be unavoidable. So much for the closing- argument
rehearsal.

“I’m a prosecutor. Jack Hogan, county prosecuting attorney.”

Jack held out his hand. Most likely the guy had heard of him. Jack was frequently in the news.

The man stared at the outstretched hand. For a moment Jack thought he might not shake, but the man eventually clasped his
hand. Jack practically winced at the power in the grip.

“Prosecutor, huh?” the man said. “Sounds like an interesting job.”

“It is,” Jack said, examining his hand for broken bones and bruises. “I know it sounds corny, but there’s a lot of job satisfaction
in knowing you’re helping make your community a safer place.”

“I’ll bet there is.”

Jack watched Amber as she moved to the parallel bars and began dusting her hands amid a cloud of chalk. The lithe twelve-year-old
girl moved with the grace of a seasoned athlete. It gave him tremendous pleasure and pride just to watch his only daughter
walk across the mat. It would be interesting to see which sports she chose to play in high school. Unlike her father, she
was good at them all. So far, gymnastics was her true love.

“Do you ever worry you might send an innocent man to jail?”

Jack glanced at the man, so determined to engage in chitchat. Alert gray eyes were staring at him a bit too directly. Did
he detect a hint of insolence in the tone of voice? Jack was not sure. The man’s face was strong-jawed and clean-shaven. The
iron-gray hair was longish, hanging over the ears but not touching the shoulders. The man was slender, but his muscle-bound
torso rippled with power. He wore a skin-tight black Grateful Dead T-shirt, stiff new blue jeans, and a red St. Louis Cardinals
warm-up jacket. He had the look of an aging bodybuilder.

“A prosecutor has an ethical duty not to prosecute an innocent man,” Jack said. “I teach my assistant prosecutors to dismiss
a case if they develop a reasonable doubt about a defendant’s guilt. Better to dismiss it than risk the chance that an innocent
man might be convicted.”

The man raised his eyebrows.

“Well, I sure didn’t know prosecutors thought that way. I assumed you
all
just collected scalps and sought convictions at any cost.”

“Real life isn’t like it’s portrayed on TV,” Jack said. “In fact, most prosecutors take to heart the famous quote from Justice
George Sutherland that the prosecutor should strike hard blows but fair ones. Our duty is not simply to convict but to achieve
justice.”

Jack had quoted the line so many times it came out of his mouth like a speech. He debated whether to elaborate by discussing
the equally famous comment of Justice Robert Jackson that the prosecutor had more control over life, liberty, and reputation
than any other person in America. By simply filing a charge, a prosecutor could destroy the reputation of any member of his
community. If Jack mentioned the quote, though, it might sound like he was bragging about the importance of his job. On the
other hand, if he took the time to fully explain his deep sense of responsibility to make sure he did the right thing in every
case, his conversation with this man might last a very long time. The gymnastics lesson was only half over. A full hour still
remained. He really did not want to spend the entire time talking with this guy. If he could somehow extricate himself from
the conversation, he might still be able to hammer out a few more kinks in the Porterfield closing argument. The trial was
going to be upon him before he knew it.

He glanced again at the man. The pale gray eyes were fixed on Jack’s face. Didn’t the guy know it was rude to stare?

“Do you ever worry that someone you sent to prison might get out and come after you?”

This guy was asking all the typical cocktail-party questions thrown at a prosecutor. Jack decided to give his standard answer.
It happened to be the truth.

“I suppose that’s a risk of my job. I’ve had a couple of threats over the years. But very few of the people I prosecute are
truly evil. Most committed their crimes because of temporary weakness, greed, or lust, or because they were drugged out or
mentally imbalanced at the time. Once they’re caught and get their heads screwed on straight, they realize they did wrong
and deserve some punishment. They don’t hold it against the prosecutor.”

“You ever prosecuted a truly evil man?”

“Oh, sure. I get a few sociopaths every year: the sexual predators, the murderers who stalk their victims. They usually get
such long sentences you don’t have to worry about them getting out.”

They sat in silence for a full minute, watching the gymnasts. Jack was beginning to think he might be able to get back to
his closing-argument rehearsal, but the next question drove away all thoughts of the impending Porterfield trial.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Jack’s attention ratcheted up to red alert. He turned and studied the man’s face with renewed interest. He was supposed to
know this guy? What was he, about fifty years old? Six feet tall? Maybe one hundred and seventy pounds? He was fit, with a
torso that seemed almost too big for the rest of his slender frame. His hair was the boring gray color of a steel frying pan.
His nose had clearly been broken once upon a time.

“Have we met?” Jack asked.

The man laughed. It was an unpleasant sound, loud and jarring. Jack glanced at the other parents on the far side of the room,
but no one was paying any attention to them.

“Have we met! That’s funny, Mr. Prosecutor. Look at me again. Closer. Surely you recognize me.”

Although the man had laughed, he was not smiling. His gray eyes glittered with something, either excitement or rage. A faint
scar ran from the left eyebrow up a jagged course across the man’s forehead and disappeared into his hairline at the left
temple. Nothing sparked a memory for Jack. For all he knew, this man was a complete stranger.

“I’m sorry, but as far as I can tell, I’ve never seen you before in my life,” Jack said. “Keep in mind, I meet lots of people
in my job—witnesses, defendants, cops, lawyers, judges, jurors. I’m just not remembering you.”

The gray eyes were cold and shiny, glittering like a metal railing sheathed in winter ice.

“I sure remember
you
, Counselor. For fourteen years I’ve thought about you every single night. I’d lie in that prison bed, remembering the way
spittle flew from your mouth during your closing argument, and especially that smug, self-satisfied look on your face when
the judge read the jury’s guilty verdict out loud. I’d recognize you anywhere, anytime, Jack Hogan.”