The Letter Of The Law

by Tim Green

  CHAPTER 11

  The DA used the first two days of the trial to unveil the evidence that linked Professor Lipton to the scene of the crime. For the most part, Casey did little on cross-examination. She wanted to lull the opposition into a false sense of security before she poured it on. Except for the actual murder, Casey was conceding that Lipton had done everything the police said. Her theory was that, yes, he was at the scene. Yes, he raced away, hitting a car in the process. Yes, he lied to the police and he even tried to flee.

  The only point she got aggressive about had to do with the blood on Marcia Sales's underwear. Casey wanted it clear that the women's underwear Lipton was carrying might not have any connection to the murder at all.

  "So," she had asked a witness from the crime lab, "while you know this blood belonged to Marcia Sales, you don't know when it got there, do you?"

  "No," the tech had answered.

  "It's perfectly possible," Casey continued, "that this blood came from a bite in her tongue or the inside of her mouth, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "So it's possible that Marcia Sales, gagged with that underwear as part of a sexual idiosyncrasy, bit into her tongue or her cheek and bled on that underwear, isn't it?"

  The lab technician had to admit that it was possible.

  At the time, Donald Sales had twisted his face into a silent snarl. Rawlins had allowed him back into the courtroom after giving him a strong warning that another outburst like the first would land him in jail. Since then, he had spent his time shifting his hateful glare between Casey and Lipton and sometimes even Patti. Instead of avoiding eye contact, Casey stared right back at him, taking in his hatred and allowing her own anger to smolder. She would bring it to a flame when she cross-examined him on the witness stand. And with the information that Tony had gathered, it was going to be a hot flame indeed.

  It was the night of that second day when Casey received an unusual call at home from the judge's clerk. Casey was requested in chambers before trial the next morning. The clerk wouldn't say what it was about.

  "What's the matter?" her husband asked her absently from his side of the plush velvet couch when she hung up the phone. It was nine-thirty at night. Casey was sitting with him dutifully in their cavernous walnut-paneled den while he watched a rented action movie that she had no interest in.

  "I just don't like being called to chambers without knowing why," she said.

  "Yeah," he told her, "I know. It'll all work out."

  Then his attention was back on the movie. Casey knew he hadn't even really heard her. It was his mantra. It'll all work out. That was how he dealt with any unexpected bumps in Casey's world. He dismissed them, presuming she could take care of it.

  She wondered if it was some deficiency in her that caused the people closest to her to act that way. She'd experienced the same thing with her parents while growing up. Whether it was an award for something she did in sports or school, half the time her parents weren't even there. And just recently, after she had won the Texas Trial Lawyers Association's highest honor, her father had responded over the phone by saying, "That's real nice. What'd they eat at the dinner?"

  "Did you ever think you might like to know why or what I'm upset about, Taylor?" she asked, suddenly mad at her husband for a lifetime of underappreciation.

  "Yeah," he said. "Sure." But his feet remained on the coffee table, his eyes on the screen.

  "Can you shut that off for a minute?" she said.

  "Honey, it's a good part right now," he told her, eyes still glued to the set. "Give me a minute…"

  "Fine," Casey said. She shot off the couch and stomped all the way up the broad spiral staircase to get ready for bed. When she was in her nightshirt, she went to the top of the stairs. She could faintly hear the movie echoing through the long hallways and off the marble walls of the magnificent entryway. He was still watching. She returned to the bedroom and lay down but couldn't sleep. He was obviously going to watch to the conclusion. She was in the middle of an enormous case, a case everyone in all of Texas was talking about, and her husband couldn't even pause his sophomoric action movie to discuss her concerns. It was infuriating.

  When he finally did come to bed, she gave him a good dose of silence and the stiffest body language she could muster. He kissed the back of her head anyway, pulled on his sleeping mask, and dropped off to sleep like a champion. Casey twisted under the covers in an attempt to wake him and let him know she was still unsettled, but to no avail. Taylor was out. She lay alone for almost an hour and then felt her way past the fluted columns supporting the archway into the bathroom. She carefully closed the door before feeling for the light switch. Beside the sink on her side of the bathroom, she fished through the ornately carved cabinet until she found a sleeping pill. It wasn't something she liked to do, but with the trial tomorrow and the mysterious conference in chambers, she needed some sleep.

  In the morning, it was obvious to Casey that Taylor was now mad at her for being mad at him-so she was mad right back.

  On her way into town, Casey turned up the music on the radio louder than normal. She found a song she could sing along with and tried to lose herself in the music, but it kept coming back to her. Her marriage was a farce. It wasn't the fight. It was what was behind the fight. There was nothing there. He didn't really care about her. She was a trophy. She had to face that fact. Her career, her efforts, her cares and concerns were simply interesting novelties for conversation at dinner parties. She saw the way he looked at other women. She was no fool.

  Or was she? Had she been kidding herself when she brushed off his roving eyes as a man who simply appreciated beautiful things? There had been other signs as well, now that she allowed herself to think about it. Sometimes he would go on trips and she wouldn't hear from him for a day or two. Then there were phone calls to the house late at night. When she answered, the callers would hang up. Was that just chance or was something there? When they argued, how could it not affect him if she was the only thing in his life? Well, maybe she wasn't the only thing in his life.

  That wouldn't be fair. He was the only thing in hers. Yes, she was attracted to the notion of hobnobbing with the social elite. She felt comfortable with his set of friends and the things they did, weekends in New York, holidays in Tahiti or Paris, cocktail parties at the Ritz. And his friends accepted her. She liked that, and she liked his suave manner, his money, and his good looks. But those things were frivolous charms. Beneath all that, she really loved him. She loved him and now she wondered for the first time if he loved her back. Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Without a sniff she wiped them away and turned the music even louder.

  Casey was thankful when she finally reached the courtroom steps. Most of her waking hours were spent being a lawyer, and in that world, despite its inevitable disappointments, she was a happy woman. She locked away her haunting suspicions and focused on the unusual request by the judge to see her. When she entered his office, Hopewood was already sitting opposite the judge's imposing desk. His hands were folded patiently across his prodigious belly. His smile told her something bad was coming.

  "Sit down," Rawlins told her.

  Casey did.

  "Glen has some information that he wants brought into evidence," Rawlins said, looking down his nose through his reading glasses at a document on his desk. "Obviously, you need to know about it."

  Rawlins looked at the DA, who unfolded his hands and said, "We have a like crime that we've linked Lipton to. About six months before Marcia Sales was murdered, a young woman was killed in Atlanta. Like Marcia Sales, she was a law school student. Like Ms. Sales, she was disemboweled and her gall bladder was missing. Also as with Marcia Sales, the crime, although heinous and bizarre, apparently wasn't sexual in nature."

  "You have hard evidence linking my client to that crime?" Casey demanded, cloaking her distress in hostility.

  Hopewood looked at Rawlins, then back to Casey before saying, "Not physical evidence, but the girl atten
ded a seminar given by Lipton two months before her death. It's a crime so similar that even you would have to agree that there is only one killer…"

  "I agree to nothing," Casey said tempestuously. "You have no basis to submit this into evidence."

  "Well, that, Ms. Jordan," Rawlins interjected, "is for me to decide. I am the judge…" He let his scowl sink in before saying, "I'm adjourning the trial until tomorrow afternoon. I'll hear arguments from you both at one o'clock."

  "How can you even consider a hearing?" Casey cried. "This is totally immaterial! If you let him parade that out in front of a jury, they'll take it as a propensity. Thousands of people attend Professor Lipton's seminars every year."

  "I'd like to have it admitted as a common plan," Hopewood told her. "To show the common scheme here. The pattern is quite relevant."

  "Both of you save it for tomorrow afternoon," Rawlins barked. "I told you there's a hearing, so there's a hearing. Now, I have work to do."

  With that, the judge dropped his head like a puppet and began going through his mail as if neither attorney was even there. Casey shot a dirty look at Hopewood, then got up and left.

  Lipton had been moved from the county jail to the public safety building across the street for the trial. And although it irked her to give in to his overbearing demands to know every detail of the case, this was a development any client had a right to know, so Casey went directly over to apprise him of the situation. As she crossed the street in front of a police cruiser with two officers who'd stopped to gawk at her legs, she wondered if what Hopewood was saying was true. She really believed Lipton's story, not just because it was her job. She thought his story was quite credible. But now, even though she was confident that she could have the information about the dead girl in Atlanta suppressed from the jury, the knowledge of it made her own convictions about his innocence seem almost ludicrous.

  Because he was at the safety building, Casey had to talk to her client through a glass window in a smelly little cubicle whose corners were dark with ancient scum.

  "What's going on?" he demanded even before he was in his seat on the other side of the glass. He already knew from the guards that he wasn't going to court that morning, but he didn't know why.

  Casey looked at him carefully. While his facial expression and body language were under control, there was a wild light in the professor's eyes that she hadn't seen before.

  "The DA found a girl in Atlanta who was killed the same way as Marcia Sales," she said, watching him closely.

  Lipton showed no outward reaction. But while he digested the news, Casey could see from his eyes that his mind was spinning. She thought that was a bad sign until he said, "So, they know now that it's not me."

  Casey was confused and couldn't hide it. It was the last thing she had expected him to say. She thought she read guilt in his eyes, but the words he spoke were stunningly innocent.

  "If it happened again," he said, with the smile of a man who has learned a small trick, "and I'm in jail, then whoever it is, is still out there. I am exonerated."

  "No," Casey said, shaking her head, but understanding that she had neglected to say when the girl had been murdered. "The girl was killed before Marcia Sales, six months before… and about two months after attending one of your seminars at Emory."

  Lipton furrowed his brow and brought his hand up to his chin, a professorial pose.

  "It must have been Sales," he said, looking up. "Who else could have done it? He must have planned to kill Marcia well in advance…"

  Casey didn't know whether she could buy that idea or not, but she didn't want to waste her time thinking about it. It was improper of her, really. The professor was her client, and she was sworn to advocate for him as best she could.

  "Maybe it was him," she admitted. "But, as you know, I don't think there's any way even Van Rawlins would allow that information into court, even if they had conclusive proof against you, which they don't."

  "Listen," the professor said. "They're going to use People v. Molineux to try and get it in under common plan or scheme. It's an old case from New York around the turn of the twentieth century. But you're right, it shouldn't succeed, although with Rawlins we'll want to make your brief airtight. Go right to Krulewitch v. U.S., it's a Supreme Court decision, and make sure you pay careful attention to Jackson 's concurring opinion. From there, well, you know how to search out other relevant cases…"

  Casey nodded that she did. She couldn't help being impressed by his instant recollection of specific cases on an isolated legal issue. She had always known he was brilliant. Students at the law school invariably said he had a photographic memory. She had doubted that until he appeared at a third-year student's graduation party one May afternoon. After a few drinks, Lipton began to show off his memory by answering questions about the phone book. Casey didn't believe it was anything more than a trick until she took the book and showed him page 187 for all of three seconds. After taking the book away, Casey eyed him warily and asked what was the number of Alan Cutler. Lipton rattled it off at once.

  Suddenly she was ashamed of ever having doubted her former professor's innocence. She hoped the suspicion in her voice hadn't been noticeable.

  "How is everything?" she said haltingly, hoping to rebuild any rapport she might have damaged with her suspicious questioning. "I mean, in here, in the safety building."

  "Oh, it's not unlike the county jail," he told her with a forced smile. "But I'm looking forward to being out. I"-a silly little chortle escaped Lipton's throat and he looked at her slyly-"I'm looking forward to having a woman again, my dear. I am a man of passionate humors. I want a woman and a good Cuban cigar, a Cohiba to be exact, and a bottle of Opus merlot.

  "Is it difficult for you to think of my earthly desires?" he said, laughing softly again. He was obviously enjoying himself.

  "Of course not," she said uncomfortably. In truth, any talk about someone else's sex life made her cringe. Just as unsettling was his sudden gleeful conviviality, and she wished she'd never taken their conversation into personal territory. During all their previous interactions, he had maintained the detached posture of a pedagogue, treating her like an eager student. She much preferred that, however, to his intimacy.

  "Good," he said lightly. "I like a woman who isn't a prude. Is your little assistant a prude?"

  Casey was stunned by the question.

  "I don't think Patti's personal characteristics are anything we need to discuss, Professor Lipton," she said reservedly.

  "But why not?" Lipton said. "Why can't we have a little gossip between us? It's always business, but we know each other well enough now to be beyond that. Is she an aggressive young woman? I know she is subordinate to you, but I presume she must have some tenacity or you wouldn't tolerate her."

  "Really, Professor," Casey said with an uncomfortable laugh that was aimed for levity. She got up from her chair and said, "I have work to do. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon for the hearing."

  "What are you going to do about the media?" Lipton asked her before she could get away.

  "In what way?" she asked, turning.

  "Hopewood will leak this story," he told her, "about the girl in Atlanta. Rawlins won't let this into the hearing, but everyone will know about it. People will pass judgment, the same way you did…"

  "I… I can't help you there, Professor," she said. "I can only win your case."

  "Yes, well, a good word from you on the record might go a long way," he said wistfully, "for when I'm out…"

  CHAPTER 12

  After her expected victory in the hearing on whether to allow the Atlanta killing into evidence, Casey focused all her energy on preparations for the prosecution's final witnesses. Since the silence between her and Taylor had continued, she didn't bother to call, even though she didn't get home until long after he was in bed. With the help of Tony and Patti Dunleavy, she went over every possible turn the following day might take. She knew Hopewood had saved the best for last.

 
; The next day, the prosecutor played his two final cards. Donald Sales was his ace. He would go last and hopefully elicit the jury's inexorable desire to punish someone. But first up was Detective Sergeant Bolinger. He was as credible a witness as Casey had suspected he would be. A seasoned cop who'd been on the stand hundreds of times, Bolinger came across as tough and smart, the kind of police officer people wanted out there keeping the streets safe.

  Casey watched him carefully. With Hopewood's lead, the two of them wove a perfectly cohesive tale unveiling the prosecution's theory as to how Lipton had committed the crime. They skillfully rehashed the gruesome testimony already given by Alice Vreeland of the medical examiner's office, re-creating the picture of a young girl who was choked into submission, horrifyingly bound with tape, and then slowly and painfully eviscerated with a sharp instrument until she died.

  When the physical evidence was out of the way, Bolinger then helped the DA paint a damning portrait of Lipton as a lying egomaniac who thought he could outsmart the rest of the world because of his intellectual powers. Bolinger was obviously proud of the way he had noticed Lipton's slip of the tongue, proving his knowledge of the crime during their very first encounter, and of the way the police had been able to match the murder with Lipton's unrelated hit-and-run. Farnhorst had already given a vivid recollection of Lipton's attempted escape, but Bolinger added to that by recounting the professor's snide remarks when questioned about Marcia Sales's bloody panties.

  When Casey stood for the cross, Bolinger turned her way with a reptilian gaze that made her waver. But it was only a moment before she honed in on destroying the detective and his testimony. That's what she did best, and even the formidable Bolinger wasn't going to keep her from doing her job. Casey stood up. She had pulled back her hair and piled it high on her head. Her long white neck and her regal bearing made her seem taller than she really was. Dressed in a tailored chocolate suit and heels, she was an impressive sight to the jury. She was a woman in total control.