Prosecution: A Legal Thriller (25 page)

"Must be a little frightening to know that your
husband has been accused of something as awful as this, and that
you yourself are under some kind of suspicion?"

She lowered her shoulders. "Yes." She sighed. "
'Frightening' " would be a good word for it."

"You've been under a lot of pressure, not only
because of what your husband has been going through but because the
prosecution has made it clear to you that if you didn't change your
testimony they were going to try to indict you for this crime as
well. Isn't that true?"

"Yes," she acknowledged, her eyes locked on his.

"As a matter of fact, you've had two meetings with
Mr. Antonelli in which all this was discussed, isn't that
true?"

"Yes, but—"

Jones held up his hand, the smile still on his face.
"No, that's enough. No further questions," he added, without so
much as a glance toward the bench.

On redirect, I simply asked, "Was the testimony you
gave here today truthful?"

"Yes," she said, staring down at the floor, "it
was."

"No further questions," I announced wearily, with a
brief, dismissive wave of my hand.

Jones just shook his head when he was asked if he had
anything more.

As she rose from the witness stand, Kristin tried to
catch her husband's eye, but he refused to look at her. She let her
gaze linger a moment longer, as if she were giving him one last
kiss good-bye, and then, turning away, walked out of the courtroom
as quickly as she could.

It was time for closing arguments. The prosecution
always goes first and, because it has the burden of proof, is given
a second chance, after the defense has finished, to convince the
jury that it has proven the guilt of the defendant beyond a
reasonable doubt. In less than thirty minutes, I outlined the
evidence that had been presented and then sat down, waiting to see
how Richard Lee Jones would try to argue that his client had been
wrongly accused.

Among the unexamined propositions that pass
thoughtlessly from one generation of lawyers to the next is the
advice to argue the law if the facts are against you and to argue
the facts if the law is against you. For the better part of three
hours, Richard Lee Jones made his closing argument to the jury and
seldom mentioned either one. Instead, he talked about trust and
insisted upon suspicion. He described every graphic detail of the
rape and murder of Nancy Goodwin and then reminded the jurors of
what they had seen on the face of the man who had done it.

"Was there any remorse? Was there any regret? Did
Travis Quentin leave you with anything except the certainty that,
given half a chance, he'd do it all over again?" Then he reminded
them of what they had seen on the face of the man who was accused
of hiring the killer. "The prosecution claims that Marshall Goodwin
had Travis Quentin brought to his office, that he spent an hour
with him, that he knew everything about him, his record of
violence, his record of murder, a record that would leave no doubt
at all that he was completely indifferent to human life, and that
then, knowing all this, he paid him to kill his wife."

Gripping the railing of the jury box with both hands,
he dared them to believe it."You've seen them both: Travis Quentin
and Marshall Goodwin. Do you really think a husband could have done
that? You've seen them both," he repeated, "Travis Quentin and
Marshall Goodwin. Which one of them would you believe on anything
that was of serious importance to yourself?"

Moving away from the jury, he tossed his head back.
"But the prosecution claims corroboration. The prosecution wants us
to believe that we can take the word of a murderer and a rapist
because Marshall Goodwin withdrew ten thousand dollars from his
bank account." Pausing just long enough to cast an accusatory
glance in my direction, he turned back to the jury.

"Now, how do we know Travis Quentin was paid ten
thousand dollars to murder the defendant's wife? Why, because
Travis Quentin told us so. And it must be true, because it matches
perfectly, including the hundred-dollar denominations, the money
that everybody agrees the defendant had in cash. Travis Quentin
couldn't have just made that up, could he?" he asked. "After all,
he couldn't possibly have known that the defendant had removed
exactly that amount in exactly that denomination unless someone
told him, could he? And we certainly wouldn't want to suggest that
the police or the prosecution might just have happened to mention
that little piece of information to him during one of their lengthy
conversations, would we?"

I considered objecting, but instead I scribbled a
note to myself and then sat back and watched the rest of his
performance. His words laced with condescension, Jones ridiculed
the evidence and insisted that the only reason a case was brought
against the defendant was the malice and incompetence of the
prosecution. The most savage criticism was reserved for the very
end, when he tried to explain away the testimony of the defendant's
own wife.

Even more than the defendant, Kristin Maxfield was
the victim of an "overzealous prosecution begun by the police, who
were embarrassed because they had failed to catch a killer, and
continued by the powerful political enemies of a decent man they
knew they could never otherwise defeat." Perspiring, a curling
shank of black hair plastered to his forehead, Jones waved his hand
in the air.

"She came into this courtroom and she told the truth
and the prosecution did not like it and so they threatened her with
prison until she came back in here and told a lie. And the only
question left is whether we're going to let them get away with it!"
There was a dead silence when he stopped, as if, all emotion spent,
everyone was too exhausted to breathe.

Facing away from the jury, I began to beat the second
knuckle of my finger against the hard edge of the table, a tangible
reminder that there was something yet to come. Peering down from
the bench, Judge Holloway invited me to give the second closing
argument. "Mr. Antonelli?"

Ignoring her, I continued to tap my finger against
the hard wood surface, as if I were mesmerized by the sound.

"Mr. Antonelli?" she repeated, more loudly.

My head snapped up and I looked at her, a startled
expression on my face. "Yes?" I asked.

Everyone was watching, concentrating now on what was
playing out in front of their eyes, Richard Lee Jones's incendiary
words already receding from the forefront of their conscious
minds.

"The prosecution gets to make two closing arguments,
Mr. Antonelli. Or did you decide to call it quits with one?"

I was on my feet, walking toward the jury box, before
she had finished. Standing in front of the jurors, I started to say
something, then closed my mouth, shook my head, and stared at the
floor.

"I was about to summarize again the evidence that has
been given in this case," I said, glancing up. "But I've already
done that. You heard the evidence, you watched the witnesses, and
you can tell for yourselves who told the truth and who did not. No,
I'm not going to summarize the evidence again," I went on, looking
across at the counsel table. "The truth of it is, I'm almost
embarrassed to stand up again after what we've just heard from Mr.
Jones. It seems somehow unfair. I shouldn't be able to address the
jury twice," I said earnestly. "He should. I'm not the prosecutor
in this case, he is. He's not defending a client charged with the
murder of his wife, he's accusing everyone else involved in this
case with a conspiracy to ' "murder' " his client."

My eye stayed a moment longer on Richard Lee Jones,
and then, turning away, I paced back and forth in front of the
jury. Repeating each allegation he had made, I offered the same
rebuttal, tedious and infallible: There was not a scintilla of
evidence to support anything he had said.

"But of course," I reminded them, with a sidelong
glance at Jones, "that only proves his point, doesn't it? What
better demonstration that a conspiracy—those powerful political
enemies—is behind everything that's happened than the very fact
that there's no evidence that it ever existed?

"Well, that isn't quite right, is it?" I asked,
searching the eyes of the jury. "Mr. Jones did not just accuse
unnamed political enemies, he also accused the prosecution. And he
did more than just name me, he told you what I had done to further
the ends of this conspiracy. He told you I had threatened a witness
with prison if she didn't change her testimony, change it in a way
that would be helpful to the prosecution and damaging to the
defense."

Pausing, I pivoted a half step back and faced Richard
Lee Jones. "Let me say this just once. Kristin Maxfield was not
threatened with anything, and the only thing I ever asked her to do
was to tell the truth." I turned back to the jury. "What does it
all come down to? The defense insists she was lying when she told
you that she delivered the sealed envelope to Travis Quentin; lying
when she told you that she first had sex with Marshall Goodwin the
night his wife was being murdered and then again the day his wife
was buried; lying when she said he confessed to the hired murder of
Nancy Goodwin. And what is the best reason they can give you to
explain why she decided to lie? Because I threatened her with
prison. For what? If none of it happened, what could she have been
sent to prison for?"

I began to walk away and then stopped and turned
around. "Mr. Jones told you in his closing argument that all you
really have to decide in this case is whether you should believe
someone like Travis Quentin or someone like Marshall Goodwin."

One at a time I looked at them, twelve ordinary
people summoned to decide if someone else should live or die.

"There really isn't that much difference between
them, is there? They were both willing to kill to get what they
wanted. Travis Quentin got his freedom and ten thousand dollars.
Marshall Goodwin got Kristin Maxfield and a million dollars. I'll
bet not even Richard Lee Jones would try to tell you it was worth
it."

Chapter Seventeen

Late the next morning, the case went to the jury.
With nothing left to do but wait, I took the elevator two floors
down and, as quietly as I could, slipped into the back row of
Horace Woolner's courtroom, the only observer of what appeared to
be a routine request for attorney's fees.

"The contract plainly states that, should a dispute
arise between the parties, the losing side must pay the reasonable
attorney's fees of the other side, your Honor," a young
sallow-faced lawyer explained.

Horace rolled his head toward the other lawyer and
waited. A paunchy, round-shouldered man, the shiny elbows on the
sleeves of his tight-fitting dark-blue suit coat betrayed the
dismal career of a sole practitioner forced to take whatever case
he could get.

"That's just the point, your Honor," he replied. "It
says reasonable attorney's fees."

Horace moved his eyes from one side to the other.

"These are reasonable attorney's fees," the younger,
expensively dressed lawyer insisted. "A complete account of the
time records kept in this case has been supplied to the court."

His eyes still hooded, Horace rested his elbows on
the bench and scowled. "This case was settled out of court, wasn't
it?"

"Yes, your Honor," he answered proudly.

Horace ran his left thumb up along the rough-edged
side of the voluminous court file. "There's enough in here to write
a textbook on civil procedure."

"I tried to be thorough, your Honor," he said.

Lifting up the file cover, Horace withdrew a two-page
document that was on top. "Yet the whole thing started with this, a
simple page-and-a-half complaint in which Mr. Barkley there"—he
gave a quick nod toward the older attorney—"filed an action for
breach of contract on behalf of his client." Folding the first page
over the second, Horace went on, "Now, I'd like to point out that
right at the very end the plaintiff asks for damages in the amount
of seven thousand two hundred and fifty dollars."

"Yes, but—"

"And the first thing you do," Horace continued,
extracting another document from the folder, "is file a
counterclaim in which your client alleges damages in the amount of
one hundred thousand dollars. And then you proceed to file motion
after motion, until finally the plaintiff can't afford to pursue
it. Instead of his day in court, what he gets is a chance to buy
himself out of any more expenses. And now you come in here and
submit a bill for attorney's fees for thirty-six thousand four
hundred and fifty dollars!" Horace was as angry as I had ever seen
him.

"Well, you'll get your attorney's fees. One hundred
dollars. That's the amount I consider reasonable. And let me tell
you one other thing. You want to practice law like some game where
the side with the most money wins? Try it again, and I'll see
you're brought up on charges. Now, get out of my courtroom!" And
Horace lurched to his feet and stalked out of court.

I went around the other way and entered his chambers
unannounced. He was standing next to the coat rack, tugging at the
clasp that held his robe together. It would not come undone, and he
clamped his thick fingers around it and pulled down as hard as he
could, ripping it off. Grabbing the first book on the shelf nearest
him, he sent it sailing across the room. Glancing off the top of
his desk, the book hit the wall and fell, face down, pages bent, on
the floor.