The Guilty Plea (37 page)

“You keep telling us that you were in shock.”

“I was.”

“You’re not a doctor, are you, Ms. Wyler?”

“No.”

“So how can you identify yourself as being in shock?”

“It’s the only explanation I can find.”

Raglan turned to Greene. They’d carefully choreographed this. Greene had a cardboard box on the edge of the table, and one by one he pulled out copies of thick medical textbooks. Five of them. Their spines were turned so that Wyler, the judge, and the jury could see their titles.

Wyler stared at the table.

Raglan knew that there was nothing more effective in a court of law than physical evidence. Props like this were worth their weight in gold.

Up on her dais, Judge Norville was practically jumping out of her seat with curiosity.

“Ms. Wyler,” Raglan said. “You’ve been living with your mother and brother for the past months in your hometown of Cobalt, correct?”

Wyler nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the books.

“You need to answer yes or no, ma’am.”

“I’ve been living in Cobalt.”

“Detective Greene took a trip up there last night and stopped in at your local library. The one a few miles away in New Liskeard. You know the place well, don’t you?”

“I teach reading there to adults.” Wyler’s voice was monotone.

“You recognize these books?”

“I took them out when I was at home.”

Raglan went back to the table and pounded her hand on top of the pile before wheeling back to Wyler. “Five medical texts. All books about shock. Right?”

“That’s right.” Wyler’s face was white. “Lil, the librarian, had them shipped in for me.”

“Studying up, weren’t you?”

“I was doing research. Trying to figure out what happened to me.”

“So you could make your story fit.”

“No. It was like when my dad died. I couldn’t talk and I don’t remember anything.”

“Oh, another time you couldn’t remember.”

“I know it seems like—”

“It seems you wanted to study up.”

“No, I—”

“An ‘A’ student. So you could come before this jury and fool them.”

“That’s not—”

“Pull the wool over everyone’s eyes.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Ted DiPaulo was up on his feet. “Ms. Raglan keeps cutting off my client. Ms. Wyler is trying to explain herself.”

Raglan grabbed three books from the top of the pile, stormed up to the witness stand, and slammed the top one down. “Okay, Ms. Wyler, explain to this jury why you were reading a book called
Shock, How the Human Mind Works Under Duress
.”

“Objection,” DiPaulo said.

Raglan slammed the second book down. “
Shock, Trauma and Memory
.”

“Objection,” DiPaulo yelled this time.

“
An Alchemy of Mind
.” Raglan tossed the third one on the pile.

“Your Honor,” DiPaulo pleaded.

“Counsel, both of you,” Norville shouted, taken aback by the sudden flash of heat in her courtroom.

“I have no more questions for this witness.” As DiPaulo had done when he was finished with the pathologist, Dr. Burns, Raglan made sure the jury heard her sarcasm when she said “witness.” Made it clear that to her the word meant one thing: liar.

Ted DiPaulo had spent the longest five days of his life waiting in the barristers’ lounge for the jury to reach a verdict. It was Sunday afternoon, and the jury’s lunch break had just ended. The courthouse was empty except for the odd cleaner who came through with a vacuum. DiPaulo was required to stay in the courthouse while the jury was deliberating, and since the call could come at any time, he stayed in his court clothes. During the day, when the jury stopped deliberating—over lunch or dinner—the registrar would call him, and for an hour or so he’d be free to leave, go for a walk, sit by himself in a restaurant, and try not to sulk. Try not to think of all the things he should—and shouldn’t—have said and done. A dripping tap he couldn’t stop.

Nancy Parish, Chiara, and Lauren were all supportive. They dropped in to see him, brought him homemade brownies and snacks. There was everything to talk about, but really nothing to say. DiPaulo knew he wasn’t very good company. Mostly he wanted to be alone.

He’d just finished lunch and was trying to do a crossword puzzle without much luck. His gown was off, his shirt collar and tabs undone. His cell phone rang. It was the registrar.

“Mr. DiPaulo, we have a verdict.”

“Oh, okay.” His voice sounded loud, foolish.

“Her Honor wants you in court in twenty minutes. I’ve notified the press as well.”

DiPaulo called Nancy Parish, got her voice mail, and left a message. He ran into the washroom and threw cold water on his face, did up his shirt, put on his tabs, tossed on his robes. For a moment he stopped to look at himself in the mirror. What were his chances? A Herbert Hoover twenty-five percent? An Eisenhower fifty? A Gerald
Ford seven-five? He had no idea. But the next time I’m back here in this washroom, he thought, I’ll know.

In court there was a rattle of the door handle and the jurors walked in single file. There are as many theories about how to read a jury when it comes back with a verdict as there are about how to pick the jury. Watch the jurors’ eyes, some people said. If they’re afraid to look at your client, you’re in trouble.

DiPaulo preferred to look at their hands. Were their fingers relaxed or tense? Fists open or closed? As they filed in, he saw sets of hands that looked tight. Even worse, the last juror, number twelve, had hers in a closed, angry ball.

It was only seconds away now.

Where does your mind go at turning points in your life? DiPaulo asked himself. His memory went into rewind. His mother: “
Lando, Papa is in the hospital
…” A letter from Osgoode Hall Law School: “
Dear Mr. DiPaulo, we are pleased to inform you …
” His wife, Olive: “
It turned pink, darling. I’m finally pregnant …
” The oncologist: “
I wish I didn’t have such horrible news …
”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, will the foreperson please rise,” the registrar said. His desk was clear of all signs of crossword puzzles, sudokus, brain twisters.

The Vietnamese engineer rose to his feet. Juror number three. One of DiPaulo’s two guesses for who would get the job.

“Have you reached a verdict?” the registrar asked.

“We have.” The juror looked straight at the registrar.

Don’t cross your fingers, DiPaulo told himself, his own reverse superstition.

“There are a number of possible verdicts that relate to the same incident,” the registrar said. “I will go through them in descending order, commencing with the most serious charge. If you say ‘not guilty’ to a charge, I will move on to the next one. If you say ‘guilty,’ then there will be no need to ask any further questions. Is that clear?”

His face was impossible to read. “Yes.”

“To the charge of first-degree murder, what say you all?”

“Not guilty.”

A deep shudder went through DiPaulo’s spine. He could hear Wyler exhale.

“To the charge of second-degree murder, how say you all?”

“Guilty.”

The word landed like a rock on concrete. Wyler sagged at his side. Every part of DiPaulo’s body ached all at once.

“Thank you,” the registrar said. “You may be seated.”

Juror number three sat down. It had all happened so fast, yet in a peculiar, clear, slow motion.

Wyler’s breathing was sporadic.

“The defendant may be seated,” the registrar said.

DiPaulo turned to her. Tears pooled in Wyler’s eyes.

“Here, sit down,” he whispered.

She shook her head. Not hearing him, he thought. He touched her arm. It felt like a dead weight. She turned to him. Those magnificent eyes. Dark. In such pain. “But … but I didn’t.”

“Sit, please sit.”

Wyler fell into her chair. DiPaulo saw two court officers approach, like a pair of sturdy castles on a chessboard, brought out from their corners for the endgame.

“Mr. DiPaulo?” Norville said.

He stood up. “Thank you, Your Honor. May I please poll the jury?”

“It’s your right to do so.”

This was the grimmest of tasks. After your client is convicted, the defense had the right to ask each juror individually if they agreed with the decision. Except when the foreperson stated the verdict, it was the only time the jurors were allowed to speak once the trial began.

The problem was, in ninety-nine point nine percent of the cases, the jurors all confirmed that yes, your client was indeed guilty. “Feels like twelve people individually hammering a nail into the coffin,” was how his professor, Parker Graham, had put it.

Still. He had to hold out for that zero point one percent chance.

“Juror number one.” DiPaulo approached the jury box and looked her straight in the eye. “How say you?”

“Guilty.” It was a thin woman.

“Juror number two?”

“Guilty.”

He kept asking each juror. The word “guilty” repeated over and over, like an echo chamber in a bad movie. Your wife is dying, dying,
dying. Your client is guilty, guilty, guilty. But if you’d insisted that she not testify, it might have been different. But you did. You did. You did. Guilty, guilty, guilty. In unceasing rhythm.

“Juror number twelve, how say you?” DiPaulo wanted more than anything to be out of this courtroom, out of his gowns, back home in bed, the covers over his head, the world locked out, Kurt Cobain banging away on his guitar. Singing: “A denial. A denial. A denial …”

DiPaulo looked at the woman’s narrow eyes. He remembered her clenched fists when she walked in the door. Her hands were still tight. Why the hell did I pick her? he wondered.

Then DiPaulo heard it. The silence. She wasn’t speaking.

My God, he thought.

Juror number three, the foreperson, looked at her. If he’d had a pair of scissors, DiPaulo felt he could have reached out and cut the tension between the two engineers. In all his years in court, he’d never seen this.

Juror number twelve took another deep breath. “Guilty.” She tore the word from inside, as if it had ripped out a piece of her soul.

DiPaulo saw what had happened. The verdict had been eleven to one to convict Wyler of first-degree murder. The twelfth juror had held out for acquittal for five long days. Second-degree was the compromise deal.

He turned back to his counsel table. There was a clambering noise in the body of the court, and he had a vague notion that the reporters were scrambling to get outside. The two police officers had already turned Wyler around, fastening the handcuffs.

“I’ll come down and talk to you,” he heard himself say. Samantha looked back at him for a moment before they led her out the side door.

“I’d like to thank both counsel,” Norville said as she packed up her books. At least she had the dignity not to flee the courtroom.

“Ted.” There was an arm around his shoulder. It was Parish. He didn’t realize she was in court. “I ran over when I heard your voice mail. I’m so sorry.”

“Did you see that last juror?” he said. “She almost …”

He felt weak. Exhausted, the way he’d felt when the last visitor finally left the funeral home after Olive’s visitation. He looked at the courtroom clock. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. That was the thing
about trials. When they ended, there was a sudden blankness to the day. Empty time. He felt so tired.

“I miss working with you,” another woman’s voice said. It was Jennifer Raglan, putting her hand out to him. “It was a tough case. Don’t eat yourself up about it. You did everything you could.”

Shock, anger, denial, bargaining. All the emotions were running wild through his system, like a roaring train. The words from a few minutes ago still reverberating. Not guilty. Then guilty. And then guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty … guilty.

“Thanks,” DiPaulo said to Raglan. “You didn’t miss a beat getting back in court.”

“I felt rusty,” she said.

“Didn’t show.”

He sat down and Raglan sat beside him. “I didn’t want to prosecute that poor woman,” she said. “I was terrified they’d come back with a first.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“Damn it.” She banged the counsel table with both fists, just as Samantha had done during the bail hearing in September. Five months ago. Felt like a year, maybe two. “Why didn’t she take that deal?”

DiPaulo closed his eyes and put his head back. He had no answer for her. Already he could feel a series of what-ifs lining up to invade his sleep, like an army of fighter ants. He had no idea how he was going to defend himself and, even worse, how he was going to live with Samantha Wyler’s final words. “But I didn’t …”

“April Fools. I’m flying in,” Margaret Kwon said to Ari Greene the moment he picked up the phone. She didn’t bother to say hello or introduce herself. “Plane leaves in five minutes.”

“Margaret?” Greene asked.

Kwon chuckled. “Yeah. I keep forgetting, I’m supposed to be polite, say hi, how are you, and stuff like that. I’ll be in Toronto in an hour.”

“This time you’ll get some real Canadian cold.”

She laughed again. “But it’s April.”

“The cruelest month,” Greene said. “Last week people were out bicycling, but today the north wind’s blowing. March went out like a lion. What’s up?”

“April Goodling. It’s her fortieth birthday today. Remember, ‘April Fools’? My source, a limo driver, tells me she arrived in Toronto early this morning.”

“Where is she?”

“Don’t know. She told the guy to drop her off at a car-rental place downtown.”

“You have the name?”

“You think?” Kwon gave Greene the name, address, phone, fax, and e-mail of the rental company.

“Where’re you landing?”

“Island Airport. I can take a cab.”

“Don’t be silly,” Greene said. “I’ll be there.”

“Get this,” Kwon said before she hung up. “When she rented the car, Goodling ordered a car seat.”

A little more than an hour later Greene watched Kwon get off the ferry that took passengers on the short trip to and from the airport.

“Boat’s freezing,” she said. “Why don’t they build a goddamn bridge? This city’s full of bridges.”