Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (40 page)

“I was home, alone.”

“Where was your husband, Chief Lester?”

“He was visiting his mother.”

“Is that a regular thing?”

“Yes. She’s in a nursing home in Bradenton. He and I go to visit every Wednesday evening and then he goes back alone on Sundays. It gives them a little time by themselves. He never misses those visits.”

“Did you ever have any email correspondence with Mr. Bannister?”

“No.”

“Did you ever have any email correspondence with Ms. Madison?”

“No.”

I stood for a minute, looking at Abby and watching the jury out of my peripheral vision. Abby appeared calm and relaxed, and the jurors had been attentive to her and her testimony. I thought we’d brought it off. I’d tailored my questions so that Swann wouldn’t have much to cross-examine on. He could go back into the areas he’d covered in his case, but I thought, despite all his inadequacies, he was a better lawyer than that. Abby would refute each piece of the evidence against her, and it would just emphasize her testimony in my direct. There was nothing for Swann to gain by taking her on. I looked up at the bench. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Swann stood at counsel table, looked at the jury, and said, “I have no questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Royal?”

“The defense rests, Your Honor.”

“Rebuttal, Mr. Swann?”

“Yes, sir. One witness.”

I was surprised. I ran through a mental list of all the people who might have some knowledge of this case, some evidence to present. I couldn’t come up with anybody. Then it hit me. A jailhouse snitch. If someone who had been in jail with Abby came forward and testified that Abby had admitted to the murder, it would be troublesome, but not devastating, to my case. She’d only spent one night in jail, the night she’d been arrested, and that was in isolation. Still, I couldn’t prove that Abby had not been in a cell for at least a few minutes with whomever the witness would be.

I looked behind me. The reporter, Robin Hartill, was sitting in the gallery, notebook in hand. Several chairs were lined up inside the rail that separated the gallery from the area where the trial participants sat. These were for members of the bar who had no part in the case being tried, but could come inside the rail and sit. I motioned Robin up to the rail and asked her to come inside and take one of the chairs right behind me. I leaned over and whispered. “Hide your notebook, and when I lean back to talk to you, pretend we’re in conversation.”

“What’s up?”

“No time to explain. Just follow my lead.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

I turned to Abby. “I want you to leave the courtroom right now. Just go outside and wait in the hall. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come back in.”

“What’s going on?”

“Trust me. Go. Don’t talk to anybody.”

Abby got up and left. Swann called his next witness. The court deputy stuck his head into the hall and summoned a woman who was probably in her early twenties. She was dressed in a conservative business suit, white blouse, and high-heel pumps. She took the stand and was sworn.

“State your name, please,” Swann said

“Stephanie Bramlett.”

“Do you know Abigail Lester?”

“I met her.”

“Where did you meet her?

“In the Sarasota County jail.”

“Why were you at the jail?”

“I was serving a six-month sentence.”

“What were you arrested for?”

“Prostitution.”

“Have I or anyone else offered you a reduced sentence on that conviction in return for your testimony today?”

“No, sir.”

Swann was being very careful in how he phrased his questions. Too careful, I thought. He had specifically asked her about a reduction of the sentence on
that conviction, the one she was serving time for on the night Abby was jailed. Was there another conviction? Maybe a more recent one that would merit a little help from the state in reducing the sentence?

I knew that prostitutes were arrested regularly. They would rotate through the system, paying a fine, doing a little community service, and in the rare case, a few days or weeks in the county jail. But, on occasion, they were looking at hard time. That was usually when they were arrested for prostitution but had drugs in their possession, or were selling drugs to their johns, their customers.

I leaned over the back of my chair and said, “Robin, nod your head and talk back to me for a minute. Then write something on a piece of paper and pass it up to me.” She nodded and made mouth movements like we were talking. I turned back to the front.

“How did you meet Mrs. Lester?” Swann asked.

“We briefly shared a cell on the night she was arrested.”

“Did you have any conversations with her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I asked her what she had been arrested for. She told me murder. I asked her if she had done it.”

Robin passed me a note that had a smiley face on it. I looked at it, and turned to her and nodded.

“What did she say?” Swann continued.

“She told me that she’d killed the dirty bastard because he was dumping her. She said he had it coming, but that her husband was a cop, and no one could ever pin the murder on her. She said she would be able to cover it up and blame somebody else.”

“Did you have any other conversation with her?”

“No, sir. She made bail very quick, and was out of there.”

“I have nothing further, Your Honor.”

I stood and looked at the piece of paper Robin had handed me. Then I leaned down and pretended to speak to her again. She nodded, and I turned back to the witness stand. “Where do you live, Ms. Bramlett?” I asked.

“Downtown Sarasota.”

“In the Sarasota County jail?”

She swallowed hard, hesitated for a moment, and said, “Yes.”

“You mentioned that you were in the jail on a prostitution charge when you met my client, Abby Lester.”

“Yes.”

“That was not the same charge that you’re presently in jail for, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“So, you finished the sentence you were in jail for at the time you supposedly met Abby Lester.”

She swallowed again. It was like a tell, a reaction to a question that she found threatening. “Yes. I finished that sentence.”

“So, tell the jury why you’re in jail now?”

“I was arrested for prostitution.”

I took a blind swing, asking a question I didn’t know the answer to, but a question that only had two possible answers. One would help and the other wouldn’t hurt. “And you’ve also been charged with possession of drugs with intent to sell, haven’t you?”

She swallowed again. “Yes.”

“You testified that Mr. Swann had not offered you any deals on the charge for which you were in jail on the night that Abby was arrested. What about on this charge, the drug charge? Have you been offered anything in return for your testimony here today?”

Again, the swallow.

“Tell us what you’ve been offered.”

“Mr. Swann told me that he would get the drug charges dropped if I testified.”

“You were arrested here in Sarasota County?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re being prosecuted by the state attorney’s office here in Sarasota County?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Swann is a prosecutor in this county?”

“I guess so.”

“Did he tell you that he’s a prosecutor in Jacksonville and he’s here trying this case because the Sarasota state attorney felt that he had a conflict and his office could not prosecute?”

“No.”

“Are you aware that Mr. Swann has no jurisdiction here and that he had no power to offer you a deal?”

“Oh, my God.”

“You didn’t know?”

“No. Does that mean that the drug charges aren’t going to be dropped?”

I didn’t answer her question. I glanced quickly at Swann. He sat stone-faced, not moving a muscle, still as a statue. I thought he must have glimpsed his future and found it dismal. He’d taken a chance, a stupid chance that risked his career, and he’d lost. He had bet his future against one more win and now he’d face the consequences.

I turned back to the witness. “Do you know how Mr. Swann came up with you as a witness?”

“No, sir. He came to my cell last night and offered me the deal.”

“Did he bring you the clothes you’re wearing today?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what perjury is?”

“Lying under oath.”

“Right. Do you know the sentence for that?”

“Not exactly.”

“You never met Abby Lester, did you?”

“Yes, sir. I did.” She was going to ride it out, hoping that I was lying to her and that Swann would fix things.

“And she never told you the tale you testified to today, did she?”

She swallowed. “Yes, she did.”

“And you remember her exact words?”

“I do.”

“You’ve got an exceptional memory, I guess. It’s been two and a half months since that night at the Sarasota County jail.”

“Objection.” Swann was on his feet. “That’s not a question.”

That’s what we in the profession call a dumb-ass objection. “I’ll rephrase, Your Honor.”

“Proceed,” Judge Thomas said.

“Do you have a phenomenal memory, Ms. Bramlett?”

“I do. I remember her exact words.”

“Okay. Can you point out the woman in this courtroom who admitted to you that she killed Mr. Bannister?”

The witness pointed to Robin Hartill and said, “The woman with you. The one sitting right behind you at counsel table.”

I smiled at her, taking a second to enjoy the sound of the trap springing closed on her neck. “Your Honor, for the record, would the court take judicial notice that the lady behind me is not my client, that she is a newspaper reporter named Robin Hartill, that Abby Lester has blond hair and is forty years old and that Robin has dark hair and is obviously in her twenties?”

“Objection, Mr. Swann?” the judge asked.

Swann shook his head.

“Anything else in rebuttal?”

“No, Your Honor. The state rests.”

Robin left her seat and went to the door of the courtroom, and in a moment Abby came back to the counsel table. “What was that all about?”

“Just a little sleight of hand. I’ll tell you about it when we break, but you don’t have to worry about that last witness.”

I could tell by Swann’s hangdog look that he was totally defeated. He’d tried a hail-Mary pass with this witness, and it had been batted down. The witness had been completely discredited, but so had Swann. It was not lost on the jury that he had gotten a witness to lie under oath, suborned perjury, which is a criminal offense. There would be consequences for him, probably a criminal charge and disbarment, his license to practice law revoked by the Florida Supreme Court. His career was over, and I thought the legal profession would be better off as a result.

“Okay then,” Judge Thomas said and turned to the jury. He explained to the jury that they could discount Ms. Bramlett’s identification of the witness. He told them that this concluded the evidentiary portion of the trial, and that he and the lawyers had some matters to confer upon. He told them the court would be in recess until one o’clock at which time the lawyers would give their closing arguments.

We stood as the jury filed out of the courtroom. The lawyers and the court reporter gathered in the judge’s chambers for the charge conference. Ten minutes later I was walking into one of the small conference rooms to meet Abby and Bill Lester. Abby hugged me, and to my surprise, so did Bill.

“What can I say, Matt?” Abby asked. “You were magnificent.”

“Let’s hope the jury thinks so,” I said. “We’re not home free, yet.”

“Matt,” Bill said, “Win, lose, or draw, we’ll be forever grateful to you. There’s not a lawyer in the state who’s competent to carry your briefcase.”

I was a little embarrassed by such an accolade, but my ego seemed fine with it. Beach bums don’t often get compliments on their abilities to do much of anything. I was probably glowing a bit as I tried to bring my client and her husband down from their highs. The jury hadn’t spoken yet, and until they did, Abby was still at risk of spending the rest of her life in prison, or worse.

“Thanks, guys. I appreciate your thoughts, but let’s wait for the verdict before we celebrate. Y’all go on to lunch. I’ll grab a sandwich and work on my closing argument.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Swann’s closing argument was disjointed and devoid of passion. He hit the high points of his case, but never mentioned the lows. He ignored the testimony brought forth in my case, never mentioning the testimony of Lucas and Favereaux. He droned on, almost in a monotone, for the better part of an hour. I thought he’d lost heart, that he had resigned himself to the probability that his record of wins was about to be compromised. I wasn’t so sure. There’s an old saw that says it’s not over until the fat lady sings. In this case, the jury was the fat lady and her repertoire contained only two songs; “guilty” and “not guilty.”

I had tried too many cases to try to outguess the jury. It’s a losing battle. You do your best and hope for a win. More often than not, I’d won, but I’d also lost cases that I thought I should have won. And sometimes, I won cases I thought I should have lost. The trial lawyer’s thoughts often drift to his relief valve, the notion that there’s always an appellate court. In the end, the mental machinations mostly result only in ulcers for the lawyer.

When Swann finished, I rose and walked empty handed to the center of the courtroom. I stood there for a moment, looking at each of the jurors individually, my eyes moving from one to the other, sometimes making contact. Judith Whitacre looked straight at me. No smile, no facial expression. Had I lost her? No telling. Maybe I never had her.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Abby Lester is not guilty of this terrible crime. Simple as that. She didn’t kill Nate Banister.

“Let’s look at the evidence. The only witness who really tied Abby to Nate Bannister was Tori Madison. She lied. You remember her. The one who saw the scar on Abby’s hip. The scar that wasn’t there. Did Ms. Madison see some other woman that night in Mr. Bannister’s bedroom? Possibly, but she testified that she was certain it was Abby.