Sudden Death (13 page)

A
RRIVING AT THE
courthouse for jury selection day, it doesn’t feel only like a football player is on trial. It feels like a football game is about to take place. Every parking lot within a mile is overflowing, and there’s actually a tailgating environment, with some people even bringing picnic lunches. There’s also a tangible excitement in the air, which I can only liken to a play-off game at Giants Stadium.

I’m good at jury selection; it’s one of my strengths. I’m not sure why, except it is a commonsense process, and that’s how I treat it. But as soon as we get started, it’s quite clear that this is unlike any other jury selection I’ve ever been a part of.

Ordinarily, potential jurors come in armed to the teeth with excuses not to serve. Few people have the time or the inclination to tie themselves down to a lengthy trial, in the process putting their own lives on hold. They all seem to have reasons why their business or their sick relative or their very future cannot survive the ordeal.

Not this time. Jury service in the trial of
New Jersey v. Kenneth Schilling
is seen as a plum assignment, guaranteeing a shot on
Regis and Kelly,
if not a lucrative book deal. This is the first trial-of-the-century trial, and everybody wants a piece of it.

Everybody but me. I’m always a pessimist at the start of a trial, but this time it’s justified. We have done little to counter the physical evidence and could never do anything to counter the image that America has of Kenny holed up in his house with a gun, fending off the police. Things can change within a trial—there is an inevitable ebb and flow—but from my vantage point right now it looks like there will be a lot more ebbing than flowing.

The media have been speculating on whether I am going to play “the race card” and that if I’m going to do so, it will most likely be evident in jury selection. I’m not above playing any cards that are dealt to me, but I honestly have no idea what the race card is. Kenny Schilling and his alleged victim are both African-Americans, so if there is an advantage to be gained, I’m not a good enough card player to pick up on it.

Kevin and I meet briefly with Kenny in an anteroom before the court session begins, and I can tell that he is pumped. The endless waiting is over, and he thinks we can go on the offensive. I have to spend some time educating him on what constitutes jury selection and how boring it can be.

The courtroom is a place where the truth is revered, so it’s a bad sign that at least ninety percent of the prospective jurors here today are full of shit. Almost without exception they claim to have an open mind, to have no preconceived notions about the case. In fact, most of them claim to have had little exposure to it, which means they have been spending the last three months in a coma.

Judge Harrison seems even more cynical about the process than I am. He exercises his right to question the jurors along with the lawyers, and at times he is openly incredulous at their claims of purity of thought and knowledge.

I infuriate Dylan by asking many of the prospective jurors if anyone they know or any members of their family have had any drug problems, or drug-related encounters with the police. The press in the gallery buzzes at the mere mention, knowing that I’m going to be using Quintana as a possible other suspect. Dylan wants drugs to enter this case only in that Preston and Kenny were both under the influence when Preston was killed.

The juror wannabes fall into two categories: those who sit on the stand and stare at Kenny and those who deliberately avoid staring, stealing quick glances whenever they think they can do so without being noticed. Kenny was a popular player before, but he has now achieved true stardom through this case. Somehow these jurors, though professing to be open-minded and barely aware of the facts of the case, seem to understand that.

Dylan seems less annoyed by the dishonesty running rampant in the courtroom than I am, but we both use up most of our challenges. We finally empanel a jury that I can live with, though am not thrilled by. There are eight males, of which three are African-American and one Hispanic. The four females are three whites and one African-American. The chosen group seems to be reasonably intelligent and likely to at least listen to our case, should we happen to find one along the way.

Judge Harrison asks Dylan and me if we want to sequester the jury. We both say that we do not, which is pretty much what we have to say. Neither of us wants to be responsible for imprisoning these people in a motel for weeks; they might take it out on us when it’s time to reach a verdict. Harrison agrees, and the jury will not be sequestered, though he lectures them sternly on the need to avoid all media coverage of the case. Yeah, right.

During a trial I make it a practice to have our team meet every night to prepare for the next day’s witnesses, as well as go over everything, so as not to let anything slip between the cracks. Tonight will be the first of these regular meetings, with the main purpose being to prepare for opening statements.

The regular team for the duration of the trial will consist of Laurie, Kevin, Adam, and myself. Marcus will come when he has something specific to contribute, but these are basically strategy sessions, and strategy is not Marcus’s strong point.

We kick around the limited options open to us in our opening statement, until it gets too depressing. I like to speak more or less off the cuff so as to sound natural and more sincere. The difficulty I sometimes have is when I have a lot of points to make, and want to make sure I don’t forget anything. That is not the case here; I have disturbingly few points to make.

The meeting ends, and Kevin is about to leave when Pete Stanton shows up. Pete lives more than a half hour out of town, and I wouldn’t expect him to be working this late unless something significant had happened. I also wouldn’t expect him to drop by without calling; he knows as well as anyone the intensity with which we work during a trial.

Pete greets everyone, but I can tell by the look on his face that something is wrong. He asks, “What’s the word for when you make a contract with someone and then they die, so the deal can no longer be enforced?”

Kevin answers, “The contract is voided.”

Pete nods and speaks to me. “Then you just got voided. Paul Moreno took a bullet in the head coming out of the Claremont tonight. Pronounced dead at the scene.”

We throw questions at Pete and learn that in recent weeks the situation has grown increasingly tense between Moreno and Quintana on the one side and Dominic Petrone on the other. More and more Petrone has felt his operations being challenged by the Mexican drug ring, and it had apparently become financially intolerable, as well as personally and professionally embarrassing.

Local and federal authorities alike were expecting a war to break out, though the expectation was that it would not be full-scale, but rather a couple of messages sent in the form of killings. No one believed that Petrone would start it by taking out Moreno.

Pete considers it a brilliant stroke by Petrone. Moreno was the absolute brains of his operation, and though Quintana will no doubt respond with violence, Pete doesn’t consider him smart enough to prevail in a war.

Laurie disagrees. In Moreno she believes that Petrone had an adversary smart enough to make a deal when one was called for, a deal that could leave both sides alive and in profit. No deal is possible with Quintana, she feels, and on that Pete agrees.

What hasn’t yet been mentioned is the effect this will have on me. My deal with Moreno to get Quintana to keep away from me is no longer operative. “Anybody want to take a stab at where that leaves my general life expectancy?” I ask.

“I certainly wouldn’t make any long-term plans,” Pete says.

Laurie tries some optimism. “I think Quintana will have his sights set on Petrone and his people. And that should certainly be enough to keep his hands full.”

“But I represent an easier target. He could take me out for practice.”

“I’ve got a black-and-white outside with two patrolmen,” Pete says. “They’ll keep an eye out tonight, but I think that tomorrow you should get Marcus back watching your ass.”

I look out the window, and sure enough, Pete has called for a patrol car to protect me. It’s a sign that he’s worried for my safety, or maybe he’s worried that he’ll have to find new financing for next year’s birthday bash.

The timing of this is particularly terrible. Quintana was pissed off that I brought his name into the Kenny Schilling furor, and my entire strategy in the trial that starts tomorrow is to bring Quintana’s name into the Kenny Schilling furor. Since rational is not one of the many adjectives I’ve heard used to describe Quintana, it could provoke a deadly reaction. Or if he
is
rational, he could well decide it’s a hell of a lot easier to show how macho he is by taking on me rather than Dominic Petrone.

“Maybe I’m just being selfish,” I say, “not thinking about my client.”

“How’s that?” asks Kevin.

“Look at the irony here. We’re trying to convince the jury that Quintana is a killer. If he kills me, or even tries to, it makes our case.” It’s a poor attempt at lightening the mood, yet it actually contains a grain of truth.

“I’d better call Marcus,” Laurie says, and I don’t try to stop her.

The meeting finally breaks up, and though this is Tuesday, not one of the nights that Laurie and I stay together, she says that she’d like to. I can’t tell whether she wants to be with me or wants to watch out for me in Marcus’s absence. I don’t dwell on it for more than a few seconds. Laurie wants to sleep with me, and whatever the reason, passion or protection, it’s more than fine with me.

D
YLAN HAS A
surprise waiting for me when Judge Harrison asks if the lawyers have anything to bring up before he calls the jury in. He introduces a motion asking that the defense be prohibited from bringing irrelevant matters, like the drug underworld, into the case.

“If there is evidence that these people killed Troy Preston,” says Dylan, “then by all means it should come in. However, mere evidence that they simply knew Troy Preston has no place in this trial.”

Harrison turns to me. “Mr. Carpenter?”

“Your Honor, the motion is without merit, and would be so even if it weren’t totally untimely. The prosecution has known for weeks of our intention in this area, yet they chose to wait until opening statements to contest it.”

Dylan responds, “Your Honor, we would submit that the murder last night of Mr. Paul Moreno, which was widely reported this morning, makes this motion more pressing. The potential exists that it can turn this trial into a media circus, without having any real relevance.”

“How about if you rely on me not to turn this trial into a circus?” Harrison responds dryly.

Dylan immediately goes into damage control mode. “I’m sorry, Your Honor, but I was referring to the atmosphere outside of court. I worry about the influence on the jurors.”

Harrison turns to me. “Your Honor,” I say, “the prosecution position is ludicrous on its face. As I understand it, they have asked the court that we not be allowed to present evidence showing that the victim associated with murderers. They choose to make that request the very morning after those same people are involved in another murder. Speaking for myself, the mind boggles.”

Harrison rules promptly, as is his style. He refuses to prohibit our pointing toward Preston’s associates in our defense, though he will not let us go too far afield. Dylan is annoyed; he believed he had a chance to undercut our defense before we even began. Now he has to collect his thoughts and give his opening statement.

He begins by thanking the jurors for their service, praising their sacrifice and sense of duty. He doesn’t mention their future TV appearances and book deals, just as I won’t when it’s my turn. It’s the unfortunate duty of us lawyers to kiss twelve asses and six alternate asses during every trial.

“There is a lot of attention being paid to this case,” Dylan says. “You have only to try and park near the courthouse to know that.” He smiles, and the jurors smile with him.

“But at its heart it’s a very simple case. A man was murdered, and very conclusive evidence, evidence that you will hear in detail, pointed toward this man, Kenny Schilling, as the murderer. The police went to talk to him about it, and he pulled out a gun and prevented them from entering his house. And why did he do this? Because the victim’s body was in his bedroom, stuffed in his closet.”

Dylan shakes his head, as if amazed by what he is saying. “No, this is not a complicated case, and it is certainly not a whodunit. Troy Preston, a young man, an athlete in the prime of life, was shot through the back of the head. And this man”—he points to Kenny—“Kenny Schilling, supposedly his friend, he’s the one who ‘dunit.’

“Mr. Carpenter will not be able to refute the facts of the case, no matter how hard he tries. He will realize this—he does already—and he’ll try to create diversions. He’ll tell you that the victim, who is not here to defend himself, associated with bad people, people capable of committing murder. Some of it will be true, and some not, but I’ll tell you this: None of it will matter. Even if Troy Preston hung out on a street corner every night with Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, it still would not matter. Because those people, bad as they are, did not commit this particular murder, and that’s all you’re being asked to care about. And soon it will be very clear to you that Kenny Schilling committed this murder, and that’s the reason he’s the man on trial.”

Dylan goes on to detail some of the evidence in his arsenal, knowing full well he can back it all up with witnesses and lab reports. By the time he’s finished, he’s done a very good job, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to know that the jury was hanging on his every word. The entire world believes Kenny Schilling is guilty, and as members of this world, that’s the predisposition the jurors brought here with them. Dylan’s words only served to reinforce their belief, so they considered him totally credible.

Kenny looks depressed, and I lean over and whisper a reminder that he is supposed to look interested and thoughtful, but not to betray any emotional reaction at all. It’s easier said than done; the words he’s just heard from Dylan would be enough to depress anyone.

I stand up to give our opening statement with a modest goal. Right now the jury is thinking that the prosecution has all the cards, and though that may be true, I’ve at least got to show that this is not a mismatch, that we are a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m a curious guy” is how I begin. “When something happens, I like to know why. I want things to make sense, and I feel comfortable when they do.

“When the thing that happens is a crime, then the ‘why’ is called motive. It’s something the police look for in trying to figure out who is the guilty party. If there is a reason or a motive for a person to have done it, then that person becomes a suspect.”

I point toward Dylan. “Mr. Campbell didn’t mention motive; he didn’t point to a single reason why Kenny Schilling might have killed Troy Preston. Now, legally, he doesn’t have to prove what the motive was, but wouldn’t it be nice to have an idea? If someone is on trial for his very life, wouldn’t it be nice to understand why he might have done something? And wouldn’t it be nice to know if someone else really did have a motive and a history of murder?”

I walk over to Kenny and put my arm on his shoulder. “Kenny Schilling has never committed a crime, never been charged with a crime, never been arrested. Never. Not once. He has been a model citizen his entire life, achieved a high degree of success in a very competitive field, and as you will hear, has been a good friend to an astonishing number of people, including the victim. Yet Mr. Campbell would have you believe that he suddenly decided to shoot his friend and leave a trail of evidence that a five-year-old could follow.”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. We need to have an idea why.

“Well, let’s try this on for size. Troy Preston had other friends, friends with a record not quite as spotless as Kenny’s. In fact, they were more than friends; they were business associates. And that business was a dangerous one: the importation and sale of illegal drugs. And it turns out that Troy’s other friends kill people.

“Yet you will hear that almost no investigative effort was made to determine whether one of the people they killed was Troy. Kenny was an easy suspect, because he was set up to be one by the real killers. The police accepted everything they saw at face value, and here we are, still wondering why.

“Now, Kenny did a stupid thing, and if he was charged with committing a stupid act, he would have already pleaded guilty. He took out a gun, for which he has a legal permit, and fired a shot in the air. Then he prevented the police from entering his house for almost three hours, before voluntarily giving himself up.

“Yes, it was stupid, but there was a
why
behind it, a
motive
for what he did. He had just found his friend’s body, a bullet through his chest, in the back of his house. Suddenly, men were at the door trying to get in, men who within moments had guns drawn. How could he know that these men were really police? He had no idea why his friend was shot, and was afraid that the same thing was about to happen to him. He panicked, of that there is no question, but it’s easy to understand why.

“Kenny Schilling is not a man capable of murder. You will come to know him, and you’ll understand that. You’ll also hear about other people, people very capable of murder, and you’ll understand that as well.

“All I hope, all Kenny Schilling hopes, is that you keep asking why and keep insisting that things make sense. I know that you will.”

I get a slight nod from Kevin, telling me that it went reasonably well. I agree with that, but I also know that “reasonably well” is not going to cut it. Not in this case.

It’s late in the day, so Harrison tells Dylan that he can call his first witness tomorrow. It’ll give me something to look forward to.