Final Exam: A Legal Thriller (58 page)

As expected, Judge Wilson dutifully considered the evidence and the briefs and denied the Motion.
 
In the meantime, Ben’s explosion in Court was the talk of the TV pundits and legal talking heads.
 
Some praised his cross-examination of
Dorlund
as among the best they had ever witnessed, while others deemed his display of anger inappropriate and likely unpersuasive before the jury.
 
Ben knew that despite his thorough dismantling and humiliation of
Dorlund
, the seeds of paternity had literally and figuratively been planted.
 
The idea was now in the minds of the jury and try as he might, Ben would not easily remove it.
 
Every time the jurors looked at Megan, Ben thought, they would look at her with a question, wondering whether she believed the child was Greenfield’s and to what lengths she would go to keep the question of paternity, and maybe even the relationship itself, from her husband and son.

For her part, Megan expressed her support for Ben’s outburst and genuinely seemed moved and appreciative of his desire to fight so hard on her behalf.
 
Ben noticed a sense of serenity in her on the eve of the defense opening, as though she had come to terms with her lot in this trial and was ready to accept her fate without hesitation.
 
Ben and Mark spoke with Megan for a long time on Tuesday evening, with Ben’s opening scheduled for the following afternoon.
 
They discussed the various aspects of the defense, which witnesses they intended to call, and even broached the possibility of calling Meg to testify.
 
She seemed more willing to testify now, but Ben told her that he preferred to take a wait-and-see attitude and did not want to call her unless absolutely necessary.
 

“There are too many pitfalls associated with cross-examination,” Ben insisted.
 

Ben stayed around the office for awhile after Megan and Mark left, putting the finishing touches on his opening statement.
 
Judge Wilson had a hearing he needed to attend to in the morning, so Court would not resume until one-thirty in the afternoon, giving Ben a little extra time in the morning to do some necessary polishing.
 
He got home in time for a nice meal and some quality time with his kids.

The following afternoon, Judge Wilson looked down at him and said, “Mr.
Lohmeier
, are you ready to proceed with your opening statement?”
 

“Yes, I am,” Ben said coming to his feet.
 
He stood behind his client, his hands on her shoulders and began.
 
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, as you know, my name is Benjamin
Lohmeier
, and I am proud to represent my friend and client, Megan Rand
Cavallaro
.”
 
He patted her once more on the right shoulder and moved out from behind the counsel table and walked slowly to the center of the room.
 
He carried no notes of any kind.
 

“On or about December 28th, 2001, Daniel Greenfield drove downtown to finish grading the final exams taken by the students in the Criminal Procedure class he had taught for many years at the Chicago College of Law.
 
He had meetings scheduled that day as well.
 
We know this because there was a notation to that effect in his appointment book.
 
Unfortunately, we don’t know who the meetings were with.
 
As you might expect at a school of this type during the holidays, the Chicago College of Law was pretty empty on December 28th.
 
There were very few people there, few people coming and going, and as far as we can tell, Daniel Greenfield’s floor was empty, save for Professor Greenfield working alone in his office grading those final exams.
 

“Sometime on that fateful day, most likely in the afternoon, Daniel Greenfield had one or more of those meetings, probably with the person who murdered him.
 
During the course of this meeting, while Professor Greenfield was bending over to put something in his briefcase or maybe pick something up off the floor, the killer picked up the Professor’s prized possession, an autographed Sammy Sosa Louisville Slugger and struck the Professor on the back of the skull, above and behind his left ear.
 
The Professor collapsed to the ground.
 
The killer struck him again, and again, and again, and again, as many as ten to twelve times, crushing the Professor’s skull and killing him.
 
Bits of skull, tissue and bone painted the walls, the shelves, the desk, the floor and the filing cabinet of Professor Greenfield’s office.
 
Blood was everywhere.”
 

The jury sat transfixed as Ben described in calm, measured tones the death of Daniel Greenfield.
 
He paused, eyeing the jurors carefully, then continued.
 
“Then the killer left him there, carefully fled the scene, and probably escaped around the corner and through the door into the library.
 
From there, the killer returned to the 9
^th
floor and out through the front of the library, down the elevator to the first floor and out the back entrance, unseen by Charles Powell, the security guard on duty.
 

“That Friday night, December 28th, the law school closed for the New Year’s holiday.
 
It reopened five days later, on January 2nd, 2002.
 
Professor Gordon Hyatt was one of the first people back in the building that morning, he too seeking to finish grading final exams.
 
Sometime in mid-morning, Professor Hyatt stopped by Professor Greenfield’s office to drop something off, only to discover his colleague dead on the floor of his office.
 
The police were summoned.
 
The security cameras examined.
 
They were useless.
 
Their seventy-two-hour capacity, known only by a few, was too short to reach back to the time of the murder.
 

“We are here today because the State believes my client, Megan Rand
Cavallaro
, a well-respected member of the legal community, a former Hearing Officer in child custody matters, a clerk for an Appellate Court Justice, committed this heinous act.
 
Nothing could be further from the truth.
 
The State’s case is based largely on a couple of drops of blood, a few strands of blond hair, two fingerprints and the story of a man who said one thing right after his best friend’s murder, then something altogether different the other day in this courtroom.”
 

Ben shook his head slowly as though the mere thought of it sickened him.
 
“All of these elements, the fragile underpinnings of a faltering case, are easily explained.”
 
Then Ben briefly laid out a simple outline of the defense case before concluding, “In this country, in courtrooms just like this one,” he said looking around the ornate courtroom and gesturing at its wide expanse, “courtrooms large and grand and courtrooms simple and small, juries make promises.
 
You made promises when we selected you.
 
You said you’d wait until you heard all the evidence, all the testimony, before you made up your minds.
 
You said you’d make the State prove its case beyond a reasonable doubt.”
 

He gestured in the direction of Bridget Fahey.
 
“We chose you because you made those promises.
 
We know you’ll keep them.
 
That’s all Megan asks.
 
That’s all she needs.”
 

When he finished, Ben looked into the eyes of each juror, one by one, looking for the affirmation that this promise would be kept.
 
Then he nodded once and sat down.

52

Ben and Mark sat in the garage trying to convince
themselves
they hadn’t forgotten anything.
 
Brad Funk had left about half an hour earlier and Dan Conlon was on his way out the door now, so it was just the two of them amidst a sea of paper, scattered files and a couple of empty pizza boxes.
 
Ben leaned back in his chair and plopped his feet up on the conference room table while sipping the last remnants of his watered-down root beer.
 
He looked across the room.
 
There, in front of the bookshelves, stood the easel with the poster paper and Ben’s notes scrawled all over it.
 
Some of the notes dated back to that night a couple of months earlier when Ben had hoped that seeing the pieces in front of him could help him assemble the true picture of Daniel Greenfield’s death.
 

Over the following weeks, additional notes, ideas and thoughts had been added, but the picture didn’t seem any clearer now than it had been then, or even clearer than it was on the day Daniel Greenfield was found laying dead in his office.
 
Still, Ben thought that most of the pieces were there and hoped that something would click in his head and allow him to see what really happened.

Mark stuffed some papers into a file and looked up to see Ben studying the easel on the other side of the room.
 
“What?” he said.
 

Ben shook his head.
 
“I don’t know …
nothing
.”
 
He paused, then said, “Do you ever think we’ll really know what happened?”
 

Mark didn’t hesitate.
 
“No, I don’t.
 
And to tell you the truth, if we get a not guilty, I don’t give a shit if we ever know.”
 

“Yeah, I guess,” Ben reluctantly agreed.
 
“I’d still kind of like to know though.
 
I’d like to know who did it and why.”
 
He paused.
 
“I’d also like to know who had me beaten up.”

Mark stood and hitched up his pants.
 
Unlike Ben, who had lost weight during the previous several months, Mark seemed to be putting it on with astonishing ease.
 
He was one of those guys who handled stress by eating.
 
Mark turned and looked at the easel.
 
“What I’d like to know,” he said, “is what Bridget Fahey has up her sleeve for rebuttal.”
 

Ben stood and nodded.
 
“That would be worth knowing,” he said.
 

Mark laughed.
 
“My view is arguing last is worth everything, or at least almost everything.
 
I’ve heard some big-time criminal defense lawyers say they would give up reasonable doubt if they could just argue last.
 
Anybody who has ever been married knows that arguing last is the key.”

“Yep,” Ben said.

“That’s why wives never give it up,” Mark added.

Ten minutes later, after clearing away the remnants of their dinner and packing up for Court, Ben and Mark headed home.
 
Since the attack on Ben, they tried not to leave one person alone at the office at the end of the day.
 
The last two guys would typically leave together, and they’d call ahead of time to let the Ithaca Police know they were leaving.
 
That way, an Ithaca squad car
cruised
the parking lot as the last of them left for the night.
 
The police also helped keep the media away.

Libby was surprised to see him when he got home.
 
“You’re home kind of early,” she said.
 
“Just in time for bath.”
 

Ben heard feet on the stairs and then his daughter, clad only in her underwear, turned the corner and ran straight toward him and jumped into his arms.
 
Ben scooped her up and gave her a big hug and several kisses on the head.
 
Then he carried her upstairs for the bath and bedtime ritual that he had missed so many times in the previous weeks.
 
It was ten-fifteen before Ben got back downstairs, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and ambled into the family room where Libby was watching television.
 

Libby clicked the pause button on the
Tivo
and tossed Ben the remote.
 
“How far did you get today?” she asked.
 
“I’ve been busy and I haven’t been watching the news shows.”

“The opening and we did the blood splatter guy.”
 

“How’d that go?”
 

“The opening was good.
 
It was shorter than Fahey’s, but I thought it was pretty good.
 
Mark said it was good, so we were pretty happy with it.
 
The blood splatter guy did okay.
 
He testified that there was a big mess and whoever did the whacking probably got quite a bit of blood and other shit on him.
 
Of course, we knew all that.
 
Bridget Fahey didn’t do too much with it, probably because he really didn’t disagree with her guy.
 
We’re trying to undercut the idea that Meg could have done it and only gotten two drops of blood on the scarf.”
 

“Unless, of course, the scarf was wrapped all the way around her neck,” Libby said.
 

“
Shh
,” Ben said.
 
“Thank God you’re not on the jury.
 
Don’t even suggest ideas like that.
 
Somebody may be listening.”