A Very Simple Crime (14 page)

“She’s right. There is no blame.” Paula never actually said there was no blame, but it was close enough to what she had said that the jurors now believed she had. “How can you blame a mentally handicapped man who has no awareness of his own actions?”

Now he stood and faced the jury. “You can’t. But the prosecution wants to blame someone. Who? Mr. Adam Lee, whose only crime was to bring home his son to visit his mother. His son’s mother, who was so depressed and sick that she couldn’t even leave her own house to visit her only son. So Mr. Lee brought his son home from the hospital to see his mother. A tragic accident occurred, yes. And Mr. Lee will probably blame himself forever. As we all blame ourselves for mistakes we couldn’t have foreseen.”

From the spectators’ gallery, Leo’s glum moon face caught Monty’s eye, but he quickly looked away from him. He let his eyes meet each of the jurors’.

“Is Adam Lee a perfect husband? No. Is Adam Lee a perfect father? No. Does that make Adam Lee guilty of murder? Again, no.”

Now, just as important as Paula’s finger-pointing, Monty walked over to Adam. He stood behind his brother. He knew that you had to get the jury to look at your client. Let them begin to be comfortable with him. Let them become familiar with him. Later on, they would find it more difficult to convict if it came to that. He had already coached Adam on eye contact. You’ve got to look them in the eye. You don’t stare, don’t make them uncomfortable. Just let them know that you have nothing to hide.

“You may have heard that Adam is my brother. It’s true. I’m here today not because Adam is my brother, but because I know Adam is innocent. Don’t let the prosecution make you think otherwise, because they will try. Have you ever heard of mudslinging? That’s what’s going to happen during the course of this trial. The prosecution is going to sling some mud.”

Monty placed his hands on Adam’s shoulders. You touch your client. Always. Let them know you genuinely like him, genuinely feel he’s innocent.

“They’re going to try to make Adam Lee look like a bad person. Well, guess what? Adam had an affair during the course of his marriage. He’s not proud of it; in fact, he’s ashamed of it. You can be a bad person. You can be a good person. It doesn’t matter. If you’re innocent, you’re innocent. And Adam Lee is innocent.”

“Yes, we were waiting in line together. Herbert, that’s my husband, he offered the girl his coat.”

“By ‘the girl’ you’re referring to Mr. Lee’s companion, Constance Perkins?”

“That’s right.”

“And did you talk with Mr. Lee?”

“Oh yes. Yes we did.”

“Does anything from that conversation stick out in your memory?”

“It certainly does. That man said—”

“You mean Adam Lee?”

“Yes. That man. He said he was a widower.”

Leo felt sick to his stomach. It was making him sick to see Paula getting all the credit for his hard work. This was turning into the kind of trial that makes careers. All the leg-work and tenacity that went behind a slick-as-shit set-’em-up and mow-’em-down murder trial was paying off beautifully. Paula would be remembered for this one, and he would be forgotten. All the hard work and sheer bloody luck that had gone into finding just this one witness would be credited to Paula. No one would ever know how he’d kept pushing to find Violet Perkins when Paula was ready to write the whole thing off. No one would ever know how he kept pushing Violet to tell her story over and over and over again, making sure he had every last detail of that weekend. How he had pushed her until she remembered the nice old man who’d lent her his jacket. Pushed until she remembered that Adam had told the man’s wife that Rachel was dead. Which was great, except there was no way to trace a couple of retirees from a chance encounter at a roadside tourist trap. And no one would ever know how Leo had been ready to accept the fact that he would never be able to find this old couple, that even if he had the resources, it would most likely prove impossible. Except for one thing. Except for the fact that he had, for no real reason, asked Violet whatever happened to the jacket. “It’s hanging up in my closet,” she said. And so it was. A Georgia Bulldogs team jacket. A nice one. The old man was going to be sorry he’d lost it, but he had a smart wife, so getting it back to him wouldn’t be a problem. The wife had sewn the old man’s name and address inside the collar.

“And this was in?”

“October. October second. I remember because it was two days after mine and Herbert’s anniversary.”

“What time?”

“About noon. Right around lunchtime.”

“At noon on October second, six and a half hours before Rachel Lee’s body was discovered, Adam Lee informed you his wife was dead?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else you remember from that conversation?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll never forget it. He said he was glad she was dead. That she was a . . . a . . . a bitch.”

Leo couldn’t help but smile. It was sheer perfection. Paula was even using his prepared, numbered questions. The questions themselves weren’t the important thing, it was the order in which they were asked. So that the last thing the jury would hear was Adam Lee calling his dead wife a bitch.

He watched Monty push back from his chair and approach Mrs. Herbert Watkins, and smiled again. Leo knew exactly what he would ask the woman if he were Monty, and he had coached her accordingly. Mrs. Watkins was a tough old bird; he doubted Monty would be able to ruffle her feathers.

“Mrs. Watkins, I just want to ask you few questions. Now, you say that my client, Adam Lee, said to you that he was a widower. Did you get the feeling that he might be putting you on, having a little fun at your expense?”

“He was serious. Dead serious.”

“October second, that was five months ago. Is there any chance your memory of the incident has faded in those five months?”

“All memories fade with time, Mr. Lee, but this particular memory remains fresh in my mind, because, as I said, it was so close to our anniversary and that man was so rude to me.”

“Yes, all memories do fade over time. And what you perceived as rudeness could have been a slight joke at your expense.”

Paula stood and said, “Objection. Is that a question or a statement?”

“Sustained. Please rephrase as a question, Mr. Lee.”

“Withdrawn.”

Leo watched as Monty nodded deferentially to Judge Cray. He watched Monty turn to sit back down, and then change his mind and turn back to Mrs. Watkins.
Don’t do it
, Leo thought.
Don’t do it. Just accept the fact that you’ve been burned. Badly. By a seventy-year-old woman. Just dismiss the witness and sit back down. Take your lumps.

“Are you a drinker, Mrs. Watkins?”

Oh Christ, not that old chestnut. He was desperate. Almost didn’t coach her against that one, didn’t think the guy would be stupid enough to try it.

“Certainly not.”

“So you had nothing to drink that day?”

Leo saw Paula stand to object, as she rightly should. The question had been asked and answered. But Mrs. Herbert Watkins beat Paula to the punch. She turned to the judge and said, “Your Honor, I object.” The entire courtroom erupted with laughter. The jury, the spectators, the press, even Judge Cray hung his head and covered his face. Anne Hunter would use it in her next day’s headline. Monty walked back to his seat, ridiculed.

And Leo watched it all. Days unwound and he watched the parade of witnesses and evidence, watched the drama unfold and saw the prosecution begin to wrap up its case against Adam Lee. He watched the case he had meticulously put together as it came to its beautiful fruition. He took some bitter satisfaction in knowing he was still a damn good trial lawyer, even if he wasn’t the one getting the glory. And he watched it all play out in front of him, and he took bitter, bitter satisfaction.

 

 

“Your Honor, the prosecution would like to call its last witness. Constance Perkins.”

The courtroom grew quiet as Violet headed for the stand. This was the witness everybody had been waiting for. The other woman. In her strut to the front of the courtroom, Violet’s body language proclaimed to any and all that she was finally, ultimately justified. The world could now acknowledge her role in all of this. She wanted to be acknowledged for what she was. The other woman. The bailiff swore her in, and Leo noted that she was wearing a provocatively short-hemmed skirt despite his strenuous urging that she dress conservatively. It was a small thing, but it was bothersome. So far, it was the one thing that hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Leo saw a male juror crane his head in a less-than-discreet attempt at catching a flash of thigh. When Leo had interviewed her, she had grown more and more excited at the prospect of her part in the trial. She used terms like
a kept woman
,
mistress
, and
key witness
when referring to herself in conversation.

Paula approached her key witness, and Leo noted that even from as far back as he was, Violet’s lipstick was alarmingly red. He began to wish for a cigar.

“Would you state your name for the record, please.”

“Constance Perkins. But you can call me Violet.”

Leo groaned. The beginning of their case had gone better than it probably should have. It looked like they were going to pay for that good luck now. Paula stuck to the questions Leo had prepared, and Violet responded more or less as he had coached her. There were some deviations, a few overly cute asides, but no real harm done. Mostly it was a lot of leg crossing and cleavage thrusting and generally acting like a tart that was blowing her credibility all to hell.

“And what was his response?”

“That he wished his wife would die.”

“Adam Lee said that he wished his wife, Rachel Lee, were dead?”

“Yes. He said that Rachel would be better off dead.”

“Thank you, Ms. Perkins.”

Leo sighed. Not a bad finish. Not bad at all. Considering. Then Monty stood up. Then everything went to hell.

“Ms. Perkins, good afternoon. You go by Violet, is that right?”

“Yes.

“May I call you that?”

Violet smiled at Monty like she was sitting at a bar in a nightclub and he had just bought her a fuzzy navel. She cooed, “I’d like that.”

“Violet. That’s an unusual name. Pretty.”

Leo watched as Paula finally stood to address what was starting to sound like dialogue out of a porno film. “The originality of the witness’s name is without relevance.”

Judge Cray waved his finger at Monty. “This isn’t social hour, Mr. Lee.”

“Well, let me get to the point then. Violet, do you make a habit of seducing married men?”

Paula jumped up and said, “Objection. Argumentative.”

“Just trying to establish the character of the witness, Your Honor.”

“Overruled. Play nice, Mr. Lee. And you may address the witness as Ms. Perkins.”

“Well, Ms. Perkins? Do you often have affairs with married men?”

“No, I don’t.” Violet’s face had taken a pouty turn; her lower lip protruded, full and red.

“But you did know, didn’t you? That Adam Lee was married?”

“Yes, I was aware.”

“Yet you still chose to accompany him on this romantic weekend getaway?”

“I wasn’t the one cheating, he was.”

“Well, it takes two to tango, doesn’t it?”

Monty earned a spattering of laughter with this last remark. He had stolen it from a movie he saw on cable television the night before. Feeling somewhat uplifted, he grew bolder.

“Were you angry, Violet, uh, Ms. Perkins, when Mr. Lee didn’t call you after your tryst?”

“Objection. No foundation,” Paula said.

“Withdrawn. Did Mr. Lee call you after your weekend together?”

“No, I’d changed my—”

“Yes or no will do.”

“No. He didn’t.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t see. I changed my number so he couldn’t call me. I didn’t want—”

“Your Honor, I ask that those last remarks be stricken from the record and the witness be instructed to answer only the questions asked of her.”

“So stricken. The jury will disregard those last remarks. Ms. Perkins, you are not here to volunteer information.”

Monty walked nonchalantly to the defense table, pretended to straighten some papers, and turned back to Violet. “Ms. Perkins, one final thing.”

Here we go
, Leo thought. The one final thing. The one final thing is seldom final and is always, without exception, something that will come as a total surprise to the other side. What will it be? Satanism? Drug dependency? Something fun, no doubt. The one final thing is always fun.