Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (25 page)

“I think we’ve got a pretty good jury,” I said. “You never know how they’ll play, but I feel positive about this bunch.” I told Bill about each of the jurors, why I thought each would be good for our case, which ones I wasn’t too sure about and why. “It’s always a crapshoot,” I said. “You get some you like and some you don’t, but they usually surprise me. The ones you think are good turn out to be patsies for the prosecution, and some of the ones you would have liked to have dismissed are your biggest supporters.”

“I’m surprised this system works at all,” said Abby. “You get a bunch of people who don’t want to be there, you ask them personal questions, put them through a wringer, make them sit there for days listening to witnesses and lawyers argue, and still expect them to do justice.”

“It does seem rather ludicrous, doesn’t it?” I said. “But it works. The system’s cumbersome and not very pretty, but it almost always spins out results that look and feel like justice.”

“What about when it doesn’t?” Abby asked.

“That’s what appellate courts are for. Look, the system isn’t perfect, but then no system is. Ours is just better than any other in the world.”

“What’s up for tomorrow?” Bill asked.

“Swann will start putting on his case. My guess is that he’ll start with Harry Robson, set the crime scene, and bring in the forensics people, set up the fingerprint identifications, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he drags that out so that he can put the FDLE guy Lucas on the stand late in the afternoon, maybe finish with direct but not leave time for cross-examination. That’ll mean the jury will go home thinking about the case the way Swann wants them to.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. I’d rather them go home after listening to some of our evidence, but I can’t control that. The pendulum swings both ways during a trial. We’ll have our time at bat.”

“What are you planning to say on opening statement?” Bill asked.

“I’m not. At least not yet. I’m going to wait until we start our case to give my opening. By then, I’ll have seen all the state’s evidence. My opening becomes a bit of a closing argument, although it’s not supposed to. I can pick at Swann’s case by laying out our evidence that rebuts his. Then on closing, I just hammer it in further.”

* * *

I drove home, tired and looking forward to a quiet evening of doing nothing. Unfortunately, the trial lawyer’s day does not end when court does. He has to prepare for the next day, go over deposition transcripts looking for little tidbits that might amount to a weakness in the state’s case, reviewing one more time the questions he wants to ask on cross-examination of the witnesses that he expects to be called the next day, and then prepare for those he doesn’t expect to be called just in case the other side surprises him and puts the witness on the stand.

It’s a never-ending process. You never get enough done, because there’s just too much information, too many facts, too many personalities. The fear that the other side knows something you don’t is pervasive, always knocking on the edge of your psyche, whispering to you that you’re not good enough, that your client is going to jail because of something you forgot to do. No sane trial lawyer ever gets over the fear of failure, that gnawing dread that he’s left something undone.

The mental stress of hanging on every word said in the courtroom translates to physical stress, ulcers, insomnia, the need for alcohol, and ever more insecurity. Your mind wants to wander during a trial, but you know you can’t let it. You have to focus on every word said for fear of not being ready to object or react or jot down the note that will remind you of something that needs to be asked on cross-examination.

So, as I drove home in the gathering dusk, all I wanted was a couple of drinks, or maybe three or four, and then eight hours of sleep. I knew I would have neither. I’d drunk two beers with Abby and Bill, and that was my limit. I wouldn’t sleep, because I never slept well during a trial. The mind won’t shut down, the fear won’t recede, the dread keeps gnawing at the perimeter of your consciousness. And I had work to do.

I parked in the driveway of my cottage, next to J.D.’s Camry. I opened the front door to the aroma of frying chicken. J.D. was standing at the stove, oblivious to my presence. I put my arms around her and kissed the back of her neck.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“Your friendly neighborhood stud.”

“Oh, goody. I was afraid it was the guy who lives here.”

She turned to hug me. Over her shoulder I could see pots of rice, gravy, green peas, black-eyed peas, and fried okra. Bread was baking in the oven and a chocolate cream pie sat on the counter next to a pitcher of tea. A Southern meal.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“I took part of the afternoon off. I kind of thought my sweetie could use a good meal.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do this.”

“I’m my mama’s daughter and she grew up in Georgia. Taught me how to cook before I got old enough to be interested in boys.”

“Ah, a hidden talent.”

“Don’t let it out. And don’t get used to it. I only cook for special occasions. Like now.”

“Now?”

“Like when my honey needs to relax and get his mind off the trial.”

The meal and the company worked magic. My mind slowed down, the stress evaporated, and I began to feel human again. When we finished, we cleaned up, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and sat on the sofa, nuzzling.

“Thank you,” I said. “You want to hear about my day?”

“Yes, but not now. I want you to go to bed soon, get a good night’s sleep, and get ready for tomorrow.”

“I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

“Sleep, and get up early in the morning and start over. You’ll feel better.”

“Did you make any progress on your murder case?”

“Nothing worth talking about.” She patted me on the chest. “I’m going home now. You go to bed. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She kissed me on the mouth, a chaste touching of lips, and was gone.

I slept like a hibernating bear, with a stomach full of good food and a brain empty of any thought.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

George Swann was at his most pompous, strutting before the jury box, his voice rising and falling in dramatic fashion as he went through the evidence he planned to present. He talked for almost an hour, and while I thought he was a bit long-winded and his emphasis was sometimes misplaced, overall he presented his case in an orderly fashion. I did notice that Judith Whitacre, the fragrance company manager he’d insulted in voir dire, never looked at him. She kept her head down, and I thought I saw slight frowns cross her face two or three times.

When Swann finished, I stood. I was already tired. I’d been up early to do all the work I hadn’t done the night before and the day was already long. I said, “Your Honor, I’ll defer my opening statement until Mr. Swann completes his case.” I would refer to it as “Swann’s case” throughout the trial. No sense in reminding the jury that the state of Florida was the entity prosecuting my client.

The first witness called was the housekeeper who found the body. Swann walked her through her name address and occupation, elicited the fact that she’d arrived for work at eight o’clock on the morning of April first and found Mr. Bannister dead on his living room floor. She immediately called the police. I had no questions for her.

Harry Robson was the next witness. After Swann got his name, occupation, and background into evidence, he asked, “Were you called to the residence of Mr. Nate Bannister on Monday, April first of this year?”

“I was.”

“Why were you called there?”

“I was informed that a body had been found in his condo unit.”

“What time did you arrive at the scene?”

“My log shows I got there at twenty minutes after eight in the morning.”

“Did you identify the body?”

“I did. His driver’s license was in his pocket. It was Mr. Bannister.”

“How did he die?”

“Gunshot to the head.”

That wasn’t technically within the purview of the responding officer, but it wasn’t enough to argue about. The medical examiner would be called and he would confirm the cause of death. I stayed in my chair.

“Did you find a weapon?” Swann asked.

“No, sir.”

“I take it that you ruled out suicide.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you call in the forensics investigators?”

“Yes, sir. Immediately.”

“These are the people who’re often called the crime scene investigators, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did they find?”

“Quite a bit of evidence, but I’d defer to the crime scene supervisor on that.”

“Okay, fair enough,” said Swann. “Did they find any fingerprints?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you recognize the names of any of the people who left those prints?”

“Yes, sir. Two people.”

“Who were they, Detective?”

“Abigail Lester and Maggie Bannister.”

“Who is Maggie Bannister?”

“The wife of the victim.”

“And Abigail Lester?”

“The woman sitting at the defense table.”

“Did you know her personally at the time of the murder?”

“Yes.”

“Were you friends?”

“Acquaintances.”

“How were you acquainted?”

Swann was starting to show a little frustration. Normally, the police officer is quite happy to respond positively and volubly to a prosecutor’s questions. The problem is usually that the defense lawyer has a hard time keeping the officer from going off on a tangent with his answer.

“Mrs. Lester is the wife of the Longboat Key chief of police, Bill Lester,” Robson said.

“And you’re a friend of Mr. Lester?”

“Do you mean Chief Lester, Mr. Swann?”

The answer visibly piqued Swann. His voice was hard. “Do you know of any other Lester we’re talking about here, Detective?”

“No, sir,” said Harry. “But it’s common courtesy to call a police chief by his title, and since you didn’t, I wasn’t sure you were actually talking about Mrs. Lester’s husband.”

It was a smart-ass answer, delivered in a calm, friendly voice. I noticed a smile cross the pretty face of Judith Whitacre.

Swann was getting angry now, his calm demeanor starting to show cracks. That was good news for me. If that little stab by Harry Robson would get his dander up, I was quite sure I could turn him into a raving lunatic before this trial was over. Juries never like lunatics. I think that is an axiom written down somewhere. Maybe not.

“Didn’t you think that your friendship with the defendant and her husband might prejudice you in the performance of your duties?” Swann asked.

“Not at all. However, in an abundance of caution, I took the issue to my chief. He decided, and quite properly I think, to bring in the Florida Department of Law Enforcement to handle the case. He didn’t want any hint of scandal to infringe on the investigation.”

“When was this decision made?”

“Early. I think we got the initial fingerprint findings about ten in the morning, and I went immediately to my chief.”

“Did you ever meet with an FDLE agent?”

“Yes. Agent Wes Lucas.”

“What time did you first meet with Agent Lucas?”

“I’m not sure of the exact time, but it was before noon on the same day.”

“And you formally turned the case over to him at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have nothing further, Your Honor,” Swann said.

I stood at counsel table. “Just a couple of questions, Detective Robson. Did you find a computer in Mr. Bannister’s condo?”

“I did.”

“What did you do with it?”

“The forensics people took it with them.”

“Before they left the crime scene, did they examine the computer in any way?”

“Yes. They pulled up a few days’ worth of emails.”

“Did you see any of those?”

“I did.”

“What were they?”

“Emails to Mr. Bannister that appeared to have come from Mrs. Lester.”

“You used the word ‘appear.’ Were they from Abby Lester?”

“I don’t think so. They didn’t come from her computer.”

That brought Swann to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Outside the scope of direct examination.”

“Your Honor, he opened the door when he asked about evidence,” I said.

“The detective testified on direct about what was in a computer found in the victim’s residence,” Swann said. “Now, he’s being asked about the defendant’s computer that was found in her home.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

Swann looked at me and smiled. I’d just won a small battle and Swann wasn’t even aware of it. I’d planted the thought that Abby couldn’t have sent the emails, and the jury wouldn’t forget that. When we got to the part of the case where Swann would try to put the emails into evidence, I’d be able to get his technicians to testify that they’d found no evidence that the emails had come from Abby’s computer. The jury would have to wonder why Swann had tried to keep that fact out of evidence when Detective Robson was on the stand. Those small wins add up over time.

“Was there anything in those emails of interest to you as the investigating officer?” I asked.

“Yes. There were several that indicated that Mr. Bannister and Mrs. Lester were having an affair. And one of the emails contained a threat to kill Mr. Bannister.”

“Objection,” said Swann, rising to his feet. “This is outside the scope of direct examination.”

It was a poor objection, more designed to knock me off my rhythm than to stop my questioning. But it was an indication that Swann was getting nervous. He hadn’t anticipated that I would bring up the emails. He probably assumed I would try to keep them out. And I was stealing some of his thunder. I was pretty sure his plan had been to use Agent Lucas to put the emails into evidence. Score one for the home team.

“This was part of Detective Robson’s investigation which Mr. Swann covered extensively in direct,” I said.

“Objection overruled,” the judge said.

“Was there any indication that those emails had come from Mrs. Lester?” I asked.

“Her name was typed at the bottom.”

“No signature?”

“No, sir. Just a typed name.”