The Victim (45 page)

Knowing that bad jury selection can turn into an appellate nightmare, Morales deferred to Anton and gave him most of the jurors he wanted. In sum, it was a good jury and he felt confident with the six who would decide whether or not Bryan Avery was guilty.

Jack kept a few jackets and pairs of pants in a closet in his office so that his in-custody clients could look presentable in front of the jury. Anton had picked out a checkered sport coat, khakis, and white dress shirt. The jacket was three sizes too large. It bunched and fell off Bryan’s narrow shoulders. The sleeves nearly covered his hands. He had, however, shaved the beard and his hair had grown back to an acceptable length. Other than looking a bit pale and thin, his appearance was passable.

His hands resting in his lap, Bryan massaged his wrists. As he pulled back the sleeve, Anton could see the depressions in his skin where the ratchets had dug in. He had spent so much of the past few weeks being handcuffed and shackled. The time spent before the jury would be the only time where he would be permitted to be free from restraints.

Still, his eyes remained fixed on the table, the sole of his shoe slapping the floor as his leg shook. Trial wasn’t an idea anymore. It was real. His fate rested in the hands of the men and women seated in that jury box. Anton felt the pressure as well. This man’s life was in his hands.

Sylvia wore a long black skirt and matching jacket. She sat at the prosecution table beside Melissa Rhodes, the division chief in Morales’s courtroom and one of the last remaining members of Anton’s prosecutor class. The fact that she was now a DC was a stark reminder of just how much they had grown in their legal careers.

He tugged on the knot of his tie. It was a conservative pattern, burgundy with diagonal blue stripes. It went well with his blue shirt and navy suit. At least Gina thought so, as he was slugging down his second cup of coffee before getting in the car. He held his jaw tight, his expression resonating the solemnity of the legal process. He assembled his documents into neat stacks and folded back the first page of his legal pad so that he could take notes on Sylvia’s opening.

Judge Morales smiled at the jurors and nodded to the state and defense. As in all Miami-Dade courtrooms, a message written in little brass letters hung above the bench:
we who labor here seek only the truth
. Ironic, Anton thought, that the truth would have no place in this forum.

Judge Morales motioned to her court reporter, who poised her fingers above the keys on her stenotype machine.

“
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began. “You have been selected and sworn as the jury to try the case of the
State of Florida versus Bryan Avery
. This is a criminal case. Mr. Avery is charged with attempted first-degree murder, burglary with an assault or battery, and resisting an officer with violence. The definition of the elements of these crimes will be explained to you later. It is your solemn responsibility to determine if the state has proved its accusation beyond a reasonable doubt against Bryan Avery. Your verdict must be based solely on the evidence, or lack of evidence, and the law. Since they have the burden of proof in a criminal case, the state will begin with their opening statement first. For the state, Ms. Kaplan will be giving the opening. Ms. Kaplan, you may begin.”

Sylvia stood up and walked to the podium, which the bailiff had positioned in the center of the courtroom, a few feet back from the jury box. She didn’t bring a notepad or papers with her. She didn’t have to. Her opening would come from the heart. You don’t need notes for that.

She approached the podium like a cocky prizefighter walking out to the ring in a fight they were expected to win. Without saying a word, nearly thirty years of trial experience resonated throughout the silent courtroom. This was her house.

She paused at the podium, casting a sweeping gaze across the jury box, making brief but poignant eye contact with each juror. There was a confidence in her posture, in every breath. Even the way she shifted her weight from one leg to the other was done without the slightest reservation.

Anton wondered whether he was in over his head.

“
This,” she said, her voice sincere and emanating from the pit of her stomach. “This…is Daniella’s story.

“
A girl moves to Miami. A babe—
literally
—lost in the woods.” A few of the female jurors chuckled quietly. “She’s a beautiful girl. She’s young. In a terrifying but equally amazing new city. She finds her calling as an interior decorator. She makes friends. She’s living her life. Just like a bright, attractive girl in her mid-twenties should.”

Sylvia found her rhythm, stepped away from the podium.

“
Like any bright, attractive girl in her mid-twenties, what does she want? Well of course, a bright, attractive man in his mid-twenties.” Some nods and muffled laughter came from the female jurors. Sylvia extended her arm, pointing a sharp finger at the defendant. “Well…she found him.” Sylvia turned, staring Bryan dead in the eyes. A bold but unspoken gesture imitated by prosecutors everywhere, that fearless confrontation of the defendant in open court. “She certainly found that in Bryan Avery.” Sylvia turned and resumed a measured stroll in front of the jury box. “I mean, is there a woman who lives and breathes who wouldn’t be attracted to someone like Bryan Avery? He had the looks. He had the charm. And hey, it didn’t hurt that he had a little money either.”

Both the female and male jurors laughed out loud. Anton had harped on the issue of wealth bias in his jury selection, probing prospective jurors with questions, trying to ferret out who would hold his client’s financial status against him. Since Anton’s defense centered on the fact that Daniella wanted money, he had to nip the issue in the bud in his first at-bat. In turn, Bryan’s wealth was fair game for the state.

“
So they begin a relationship.” Sylvia set a hand down on the railing, building a connection with the jury. “And at first it was wonderful. It was better than wonderful. It was love. And as two people in their twenties who are in love…well…” Sylvia shrugged in an exaggerated
aw shucks
sort of manner. “They got married.

“
Soon after they got married, the problems began. This fairy tale of a life she had been living turned out to be just that—a fairy tale. Reality set in. Like half of all marriages these days, they were at a point where they couldn’t work things out. So, they decided to separate.”

Sylvia paused deliberately, clasping her hands together, pursing her lips.

She reengaged the jury. “You see, Bryan Avery wasn’t who he seemed.” Sylvia lowered her voice, forcing the jurors to instinctively lean forward to hear her. “Handsome? Sure. Charming? You bet. Rich? That, too.
But
…” She wagged her finger. “
But
…he was keeping a dark secret from his wife. A secret that highlights who the real Bryan Avery is.”

Anton’s stomach tightened. The worst part about an opening statement was sitting there, positively impotent, while the prosecution made horrible claims about your client. In nearly all cases, most of those claims were true. Except this one.

“
You see,” Sylvia continued, “Bryan was a husband with a secret. A violent secret. A secret that he had been holding inside since his college days.”

Bryan wormed in his seat, the slapping of his shoe against the carpet growing so loud Anton had to put his hand on his client’s knee.

“
This is not evidence,” Anton said, leaning in and whispering to his client. A few jurors cast their eyes upon the private attorney-client conversation, possibly drawing inferences of guilt. “This is just an opening. I’ll have a chance to get up and do the same in a minute.” Bryan nodded, his eyes straight ahead. They were wide with fear, his nostrils flaring in and out with quick nervous breaths.

Anton doubted that his words calmed his client any. Daniella’s text rang true. This was real. For a confident defendant, trial sounded like the right resolution, as if the courtroom would transform into a theater for the righteous, where the truth would magically be revealed and all those who had cast stones of accusation would be struck down by the gods of justice.

What was glaringly apparent was Sylvia’s interpretation of the evidence. Irrespective of her personal feelings for Anton, she was a career prosecutor who wasn’t about to tarnish thirty-plus years of a fierce reputation for Bryan Avery. She believed in her heart of hearts that Bryan was guilty. Her presentation and theme were such that the jury was starting to do the same, even without having heard any evidence. Sylvia was
that
persuasive.

“
Several years before Daniella met Bryan,” Sylvia said. “There was another girl. Again—bright and attractive. You can see a pattern emerging—”

Anton sprung to his feet. “Objection!”

“
Sustained.”

Sylvia gave a single nod to the judge’s ruling, somewhat acknowledging the improper characterization of the defendant she had made. Anton made a note on his legal pad. It wasn’t an error egregious enough to be rectified by a mistrial but it could score some points on appeal.

“
This girl’s name was Victoria Brandt. Vicki for short. She was a Miami native, born and raised. When she turned eighteen she left home and moved into Panther Hall, over at Florida International University. She wanted to be a nurse.

“
Like any bright-eyed freshman girl, she fell hard for Bryan. Again, folks, that combination of looks, charm, and money is very difficult to resist, especially for a young girl. Bryan was older, drove a fancy car, and seemed to be everything she was looking for in a boyfriend.”

Anton pinched the edge of the defense table until his thumbnails turned white. He had tried to get the judge to issue an order
in limine
to preclude any references to Vicki Brandt, but the similar facts were such that her testimony was legally sufficient for admission. The judge would instruct the jury only to consider the evidence of prior bad acts for limited purposes, such as proving intent and preparation. The jury was supposed to consider it only as it related to those issues and not the defendant’s propensity to commit violent acts.

In an emotionally charged case, Anton knew that jury instructions were mere suggestions, the jurors casting their votes based on their emotions and not on their logic.

“
One night, Vicki was driving the defendant home. Vicki was upset because she had found out that the defendant had been cheating on her with a friend of hers. In the hallway outside of her dorm room they got into an argument. Vicki decided that she had had enough, so she unlocks her door,” Sylvia mimicked the motion, “stepped inside of her dorm room, and tried to shut the door. But she couldn’t, because the defendant,” she pointed at Bryan, “was barging his way in.

“
Vicki tells him to leave but her words are quickly silenced. Hanging over the back of her chair was a belt. Bryan Avery grabs the belt, fashions a loop, and wraps it around young Vicki Brandt’s neck!”

She paused, letting the jury absorb the image. The eyes of some of the jurors swept across the room, glaring at Bryan with disgust.

“
He pulls that belt tight like a noose around that eighteen-year-old girl’s neck. And he pulls and he pulls and he pulls and she can’t breathe! Maybe twenty, thirty seconds pass before the defendant decides to let her go. He releases the belt and leaves. Now, unfortunately, Vicki did not press charges. She called the police, yes, but somehow…some way…financial arrangements were made and Vicki decided not to go forward. Yes, folks, with a rich daddy and a guilty conscience, the defendant was able to buy her silence.”

Bryan nudged Anton with his elbow. “Aren’t you going to object?” he whispered.

Anton leaned in sideways, keeping his eyes on Sylvia. “I can’t. This is all admissible. Since you insisted on a goddamn speedy demand, I have no idea what financial records she plans on admitting showing that her tuition was magically paid the day after you choked her, or what witnesses she’s going to call to authenticate it. That’s the problem with the demand, Bryan. We give up our right to learn these things and prepare for them before they have a chance to really fuck us. It’s all admissible. When you pay off a witness, it’s called consciousness of guilt.”

“
So fast forward to the night of January 13th of this year. After being separated for a short period of time, Daniella and Bryan decide to meet for drinks at Blue Room, in Mary Brickell Village.” Several of the jurors nodded, acknowledging their familiarity with the place. “Daniella walks from her apartment, the Templeton on Brickell, just south of the Miami River. The defendant drives in his Porsche from his office at Biscayne and Flagler.” Sylvia didn’t have to mention the Porsche, but with a welder, a schoolteacher, and a medical assistant on her jury, it was beneficial to her case to demonize Bryan for being rich.