Saving Ferris

by A R Kennedy

  Sewell watched the jurors. The eldest juror who took notes of all the legal points had taken several notes during Briscoe’s questioning. He took none during Sewell’s. Sewell turned his attention back to the sergeant. “Why do you think that is?” Sewell asked.

  “People like dogs more than police, I guess.”

  “Last year, did you buy your patrol car a Christmas gift?”

  “No. Unless you count a deodorizer.”

  Mr. Sewell, as well as the rest of the room, laughed. Before returning to the defense desk, he said. “No, I don’t think that’s a gift for the car. That’s a gift to the other people riding in the car.”

  The defense team returned to the Chandler home. Cecilia had thought they’d had a good day. But there was a tension in the car. It was coming from Wyatt.

  She unlocked the door and Ferris jumped on her. “Missed you too, buddy.” She hugged him, then followed him to the kitchen to let him out into the backyard.

  “Office, now,” Wyatt ordered his assistants. “Good night, Cecilia,” Wyatt said before closing the dining room’s glass doors. “Who is juror number one?” Wyatt asked the moment the door was closed.

  “The foreman?” Michael asked.

  “Yes,” Wyatt snapped back.

  Michael glanced at Abigail, surprised by the tone. He flipped through his notes and found juror number one. “Donald Derby, sixty-two, retired.”

  “And…”

  Michael looked back at his notes. “Accountant.”

  “Jeez…” He paced the dining room. “Why didn’t we get rid of him?”

  Abigail answered, “No credible reason.”

  “Why didn’t we use one of our—”

  Abigail shook her head. “We were out of exceptions by the time he came up. He was the last juror chosen.”

  “What else do we know?” Wyatt asked.

  Michael shrugged.

  “Does he have pets?” Wyatt asked.

  “You got that question excluded, remember?” Michael answered.

  Abigail cringed, waiting for Wyatt’s backlash. Through a clenched jaw, Wyatt answered, “Yes, I remember everything about this case, like all my cases. Abigail?”

  “We don’t know. I couldn’t find anything else about him.”

  “No Facebook? No social media?” Wyatt asked.

  “He’s a sixty-something grandpa. There’s no social media,” Michael answered.

  “My ninety-year-old aunt is on Snapchat, Michael,” Abigail told him. “But Mr. Derby, no social media accounts.”

  “How’d he get to be foreman?” Wyatt asked.

  “Who knows,” Abigail answered. Foreman selection was performed in the jury room. “I thought they’d pick juror six.” She grabbed Michael’s folder and flipped until she found the juror’s information. “Mrs. Welby. Former teacher. Retired as an administrator.”

  Wyatt sighed. He pictured the white-haired, seventy-year-old woman. She had reminded him of his second-grade teacher. Tough but loving. He feared Mr. Derby would have too much weight with the other jurors.

  “What’s the problem?” Michael asked.

  “Haven’t you noticed him?” Wyatt asked, looking at both of them.

  Michael shook his head. Abigail didn’t answer. All the jurors had arrived in their Sunday best on the first day. As the days progressed, their attire began to slack. But not juror number one.

  “He’s precise. Every day, he shows up neatly dressed. Suit, bow tie, pocket square. He sits with perfect posture. He keeps precise notes.” All the jurors had notepads. Some never touched them. Some wrote down everything. Some doodled on their pads. Not juror number one. He recorded each legal point made.

  “And precision is bad?” Michael asked.

  “In this case, yes.” Wyatt plopped in a dining room chair. “He’s a letter of the law kind of man.”

  “And?” Michael asked.

  “And that means we’re in trouble.”

  CHAPTER 51

  The defense team arrived at the courthouse the same as they arrived every other day. In quiet, the driver drove them from Cecilia’s and dropped them in front of the courthouse. The scene was the same as the last few days. Organized chaos with protestors and media being monitored and contained by the police.

  Cecilia pulled her coat close over her chest as she exited the warm car into the chill December air. She had learned the defense team’s skill of tuning out, and ignored the shouts as she headed up the stairs into the courthouse.

  Briscoe stood and announced his last witness. “The prosecution calls Judge Harry Olsen to the stand.”

  A distinguished man with white hair entered the courtroom. Cecilia expected him to be wearing a judge’s gown but instead he wore a black suit, white dress shirt, and a red tie. He took the oath and sat in the witness box.

  From the podium, Briscoe asked, “Can you please tell us about a case you ruled over two years ago, Carlson versus Carlson?”

  “It was divorce proceedings,” he answered. He turned to the jurors and added, “A particularly acrimonious divorce.”

  “And what did they fight over in particular?” Briscoe asked.

  “Flambo.”

  With eyebrows furrowed, as if he didn’t know the answer, Briscoe asked, “And what is a Flambo?”

  “A six-year-old Pekingese.”

  Briscoe nodded and asked, “And what did you rule, Your Honor?”

  “The Pekingese went to Mr. Carlson.”

  “And how did you decide on awarding Mr. Carlson with the dog?” Briscoe asked.

  “I decided as I always do.” He looked to the jurors. “I took in the accounts of both parties, reviewed the overall value of the estate, and determined the value of the contested property.”

  “Are you saying the dog is property?” Briscoe asked.

  “The law says the dog is property,” Judge Olsen answered.

  Briscoe paused to allow the jurors to let that sink in. “And what did you ascertain a Pekingese is worth?”

  “The original cost of the dog was four thousand dollars plus training costs of over one thousand dollars. I approximated Flambo’s value to be five thousand dollars.”

  “So, if Mr. Carlson got Flambo, what did Mrs. Carlson receive?”

  “The used Mercedes.”

  “How did you come to this ruling?”

  “Their assets were dispersed equally between the two parties. Each received one vacation home. Their main home, with its contents, were sold and the proceeds evenly divided. Each kept the car they called their own. That left one additional car, which had the same value as Flambo. Mrs. Carlson got the Mercedes. Mr. Carlson got the dog.”

  Briscoe remained at the podium but glanced at the jurors before asking his next question. “And why not the other way around?”

  “Mrs. Carlson reported the Mercedes was hers before getting her new Mercedes.”

  “Why do you think the Carlsons fought over this particular item, this dog?”

  “Objection,” Sewell yelled.

  “The judge sat on this trial. He’s clearly capable of surmising why they argued over this asset in particular,” Briscoe explained to the judge.

  “Overruled,” Judge Lowe ruled.

  “To cause pain,” Judge Olsen explained. “It was a dog when they went to the breeder to buy it. It was a dog when they boarded it in a cage when they went to Europe for six weeks. But when they knew keeping it from the other one would cause pain, suddenly it was more than a dog. It was family. Under the law it’s property and that’s how I ruled.”

  “Your witness,” Briscoe said to Sewell before sitting.

  Sewell got up and stood at the podium, preparing to ask his first question. Judge Olsen scowled at him.

  “How are you today, Judge Olsen?”

  “Fine,” he answered. He glared at the defense attorney.

  “Are you ready for the holidays?”

  Judge Olsen looked at Briscoe and then to Judge Lowe. “How is this relevant?” He returned his attention
to Sewell. “I’m a busy man, Mr. Sewell. Let’s get on with this.”

  Sewell nodded and proceeded with his questioning. “Are you familiar with legislation in Alaska regarding pet custody?”

  “No. I do not reside over cases in Alaska, so no. It bears no relevance here.”

  Abigail handed Sewell a paper, with yellow highlighted lines. He walked it to Judge Olsen and asked, “Can you read the highlighted passages?”

  The witness read the lines silently. “No, I will not read into the record laws from a different state.”

  “Your Honor?” Sewell asked Judge Lowe.

  “Why aren’t you objecting?” Judge Olsen asked Briscoe.

  “Objection!” Sewell yelled. “Judge Olsen can’t order the prosecutor during my examination!”

  Briscoe stood. “Your Honor, I see no reason why the jurors need to know Alaska law.”

  “Agreed.” Judge Lowe ruled in favor of the prosecution. “Alaska law has no place in my courtroom.”

  Sewell nodded and moved on. “Did you take into account Flambo’s best interests when deciding his new home?”

  “No,” Judge Olsen answered.

  “Why not?” Sewell asked.

  “Because Flambo is property.” He looked at the jury and further explained, “I also do not take into account how they will treat the mahogany dining room table when deciding who gets it.”

  Sewell returned to his notes. “Did the Carlsons have children?”

  “No.”

  “If they did, would you have taken in their best interests on their custody status?”

  “If they had children, I would have.”

  “Then why not do that with Flambo?” Sewell returned to the defense table and Abigail handed him another piece of paper. He glanced down at it before asking, “Did they not each refer to Flambo as family?” He tried to hand the paper to Judge Olsen.

  He did not take the paper and answered, “They can call Flambo whatever they want in court papers. The law says he’s property and that is how he was treated.” Sewell nodded and returned the paper to the podium. As he walked away, Judge Olsen added, “I also do not take into account the best interests of a 1968 Mustang even when a claimant referred to it as his ‘baby.’”

  “Objection,” Sewell shouted. “Judge Olsen knows to only ask questions asked of him.”

  Judge Lowe hesitated, as Judge Olsen stared at him, and then ruled. “Sustained. Strike that from the record.”

  Sewell sat down. Briscoe smiled, glad to not have to hear a ridiculous question about Christmas.

  Holden sat at the bar, alone, drinking his beer. He didn’t want to go to his home, where no one was waiting for him. He wondered if he should get a pet.

  Pugliese straddled up next to him at the bar. He signaled to Marla for a beer.

  “How do you think it’s going?” Vinnie asked.

  “The case?”

  “Is there anything else going on in this town?” He looked around the bar. “Everyone in here is either media or someone wanting to talk to the media.”

  Holden shook his head. “I don’t know. Briscoe’s proven his case. Now it’s Sewell’s turn.”

  “But if you had to put odds on it, what would you choose?”

  “That’s inappropriate, Pugliese.” He returned to his beer. Home was sounding better and better.

  “How’s it going with Cecilia?” Vinnie asked.

  Holden looked around, glad no one was close enough to hear them. “Lay off about CeCe.”

  Vinnie ignored him and continued, “What’s the saying, ‘We got no beef with a happy chief’?”

  Holden shook his head and tried not to smile. “I have never heard that saying.”

  “I’m just saying before I go to the big city I want to see you happy.”

  Marla dropped off Vinnie’s beer and he took a long swig. “Cecilia is a nice lady,” he added.

  “That you thought should be arrested for murder,” Holden reminded him.

  He shrugged. “Well, we all make mistakes.” He grabbed a few nuts from the bar’s bowl and popped them in his mouth. “That’s why you are the chief. I’ve learned from you.”

  “Not enough,” Holden said, watching Pugliese. Through the mirror, he was watching the reporter, Cheryl Milson, strut around the bar. “You shouldn’t be carousing with the media.”

  Their eyes met in the mirror. With his eyebrows raised, Pugliese asked, “Need I remind you who you shouldn’t be carousing with?”

  Holden finished his beer and stood. “Don’t speak her name to me again. Are we clear?”

  “Or what?” Pugliese stood. Holden stood four inches taller but Pugliese did his best to not look intimidated.

  “Maybe Briscoe would like to meet Ms. Milson. Could you arrange that? You met her when? The day before the story about Ferris broke?” Holden put his jacket on. “Who’s the better detective now, Pug?”

  CHAPTER 52

  Usually, Cecilia was the first one up in the house. Today, the first day of the defense’s case, Wyatt was already in the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and brought the carafe over to Wyatt, offering to refill his cup.

  He didn’t look up from his paperwork, shook his head and mumbled, “No.”

  Cecilia returned the carafe to the coffeemaker and sat across from him. As he studied his papers, it was the first time she saw the deep lines in his forehead. After a few minutes, Wyatt felt Ferris and Cecilia watching him.

  He looked up and she asked, “How do you think it’s going?”

  He paused and removed his glasses. “Briscoe’s made some good points. There’s no doubt about that. The judge…Judge Olsen was powerful stuff. He looked right at that jury.” He paused. “He’s done what I would have. I’d be impressed if—”

  “If what?” she asked.

  He tried to smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine. I have a plan. We’ll be fine.”

  Reiterating “we’ll be fine” planted a pit in her stomach. She felt he was trying to convince himself, not her. And if he needed convincing, she was in trouble. Big trouble.

  “All the jurors have to find me innocent for me to be free?” Cecilia asked.

  “To be found not guilty,” Wyatt corrected her. “Yes, they all have to find you not guilty.”

  “And what if they can’t agree on not guilty?” she asked.

  “Mistrial.”

  “And what happens then?”

  “Depends on Briscoe. He could refile the murder two charges and we go through this again. He could refile under a lesser charge. He could plead it out. He could choose not to refile the charges at all. I don’t know.”

  “Why do you think he charged me with second-degree murder?”

  “I don’t know. I think his political aspirations, or his campaign manager, forced his hand. I think he overshot. And that’s our best shot.” Wyatt put his glasses back on and returned to his papers.

  And not that I’m innocent, she thought. That was what I thought was my best shot. She swallowed hard and asked, “So, you don’t think it’s because of his hatred of dogs?”

  Scowling, he looked up. “His what?”

  “He doesn’t like dogs. Do you think that’s why he’s prosecuting me? He seems like a hold a grudge kind of guy. The story…it seemed compelling,” Cecilia explained.

  Abigail entered the kitchen and Wyatt cut her off before she could greet them. “So, Cecilia here was telling me something very interesting about Briscoe.” Abigail’s good morning smile slipped off her face. “I was thinking maybe after this case is over, we should hire her. She’s seems to be pretty good at digging into people’s past.” He glanced back at Cecilia, smiling. “I always thought Abigail was the best, but maybe I was wrong.”

  “I told you everything that was relevant to the case, Wyatt.” She headed to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup.

  Smile gone, he whipped back to looking at Abigail. “I pay you to tell me everything.”

  Cecilia’s head ping-ponged back and
forth between the two lawyers. She’d never seen them argue before.

  “It’s not relevant,” Abigail repeated.

  “I’ll decide what’s relevant.”

  Michael walked in and sensed the tension. They bickered back and forth a few more times before they each left the kitchen.

  “Jeez, I knew yesterday was a bad day in court but I didn’t think they’d get into a fight over it.”

  Michael didn’t see the horror on Cecilia’s face. “Driver’s here!” Michael yelled, startling Cecilia, who was lost in her thoughts.

  She kissed Ferris on his head. “I’ll see you later, boy.” She got him a treat and threw it to him. He jumped for it, hitting it with his nose. The treat flew toward the sliding glass door and he chased after it, crashing into the door. She smiled, fearing it would be one of the final smiles she would have with him. She met the others in the foyer and walked out the door.

  Abigail stopped her. “Cecilia, you need more than that blazer. It’s getting cold. They’re predicting snow today.” Abigail grabbed a coat from the coat closet and handed it to Cecilia. She put it on, remembering the last time she wore it. A year ago. To Joey’s funeral.

  Cecilia felt she was heading to her own.

  The defense team and Cecilia sat in silence at their table, waiting for the judge and jurors to come in. The silence continued until the first defense witness was called.

  “The defense calls Martin Frasier to the stand,” Sewell announced.

  Mr. Frasier walked stiffly from the doors to the witness box. He was clearly uncomfortable by the large group watching his every step. His hand shook over the Bible as he took his oath for truth.

  “Happy holidays,” Mr. Sewell greeted Mr. Frasier. “Do you have a large list of people to buy for?”

  The personal question distracted him from the stresses of testifying. “Two children, David and Tyler. Five grandchildren, Connor, Bonnie, Frances, Junior, and Alyson. And of course the wife.”

  Briscoe held his objection while the witness prattled on. Briscoe had given up on the objections on the ridiculous holiday questions. Marcy pointed out it annoyed the jury, and Judge Lowe, when Briscoe interrupted. Sewell was disappointed that he didn’t. He wanted to move on as well.