The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  “Because he didn’t want the baby to be born, you see. The defendant told the detective he didn’t want to be stuck with it. He was afraid—­” and she dropped her voice, for effect. “Afraid he’d be made to pay child support.”

  Done, she thought. She looked at the jurors a final time, from one end of the jury box to another. She nodded. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what the evidence will show.”

  As Elsie walked the short distance to her seat, the thought pounded in her head: What was the defense doing? Where were the objections? Claire and Josh Nixon had permitted her to get away with murder: she’d delivered an Opening Statement that had bordered on Closing Argument. They should have been on their feet, shouting her down. If the situation was reversed, Elsie would be on them like a duck on a June bug. Like flies on shit.

  Though it was tough, she resisted the urge to turn her head and glance at them to try to read their faces. But that would be an admission of the defense table’s power. She strode by them, keeping her eyes straight ahead, on her own cocounsel.

  Sitting, she flipped to a blank page and wrote without looking down. WTF??? She pushed the pad in front of Madeleine. She and Madeleine exchanged a look. Madeleine lifted her shoulders.

  Judge Callaway spoke. “Mr. Nixon, Ms. O’Hara, are you prepared to give the Opening for the defense at this time or do you wish to reserve it for later?”

  Nixon stood. “We’re ready, your honor.” He adjusted his tie and strode to the jury box. Like Elsie, Josh Nixon carried a legal pad. The hand that held it trembled slightly.

  Elsie stared at the back of his head as he faced the jury, clearing his throat. He didn’t bother to get a haircut for trial, she noticed with surprise. But Josh was a public defender; the rules were different for attorneys who wore the black hat. If a prosecutor appeared before a jury with shaggy hair, Madeleine would have his head on a platter like John the Baptist.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, Larry Paul, has been charged with the murder of his girlfriend and his unborn son.”

  Nixon paused. The silence stretched for long seconds. Elsie had an urge to fidget; she repressed it, clenched her hands together in her lap.

  “The prosecution just outlined evidence that will be presented in this case, the evidence that will support the State’s accusation.”

  Again, he stopped. Elsie heard Parsons whisper to Madeleine, “What’s his problem? Does this guy know how to try a case?”

  “Ssshh,” Elsie said with a hiss. She scooted to the edge of her seat.

  Josh Nixon took a deep breath. “The penalty under law for these charges is either life imprisonment without possibility of parole, or death by lethal injection. The prosecution has indicated that they will ask you for the death penalty.”

  Parsons rose, resting his fingertips on the table before him. “Objection! Your honor, these comments are premature. This is not the punishment portion of the trial. Defense counsel is out of order.”

  Josh Nixon didn’t turn, just swiveled his head. “How is the comment out of order? Is this not a death penalty case?”

  Parsons stepped away from the table, approaching the judge. “Is this argument? I’m stumped.”

  The judge said, “Mr. Nixon—­” but Josh cut him off, facing Parsons and saying: “If you are not asking for the death penalty, we’d all like to know that right now. Right this minute.”

  Josh Nixon’s complexion had reddened and his voice shook with emotion. Elsie’s heart rate started to increase as the tension mounted in the courtroom.

  Parsons’s face wrinkled with frustration. “Ask that counsel approach the bench.”

  Claire O’Hara called out from the defense table, where she sat with her arm draped over the back of Larry Paul’s chair. “What for? What do you want to talk about that this jury can’t hear?”

  Parsons wheeled around and shot daggers at her. “Judge, I ask that Ms. O’Hara be censured.”

  She laughed. Crossing her legs, she swung a foot encased in a candy-­apple-­red high-­heeled shoe. The sole of the shoe was shiny and black. What does a pair of shoes like that cost, Elsie wondered. She was certain that Claire didn’t acquire them at Shoe Carnival.

  Claire adjusted the bracelets on her wrist and asked, “What are you afraid of, Parsons?”

  Parsons clenched a fist. “Objection!”

  Claire sighed with dramatic weariness, and slowly stood. “Your honor, this is just Opening Statement, and we’re already at a standstill. I entreat you: tell Mr. Parsons to sit down so that Josh can give his opening to the jury.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Parsons.”

  His mouth went agape, then Parsons recovered and said, “He can’t talk about punishment in this phase of trial, your honor.”

  Callaway nodded. “Mr. Nixon,” he began, but Nixon interrupted the judge a second time.

  “It’s no secret, Judge. This jury was examined on the death penalty during voir dire, back in Greene County. They know they are here to decide whether my client will be executed.”

  The timbre of his voice raised during the speech. Judge Callaway lifted a hand to halt him, and spoke as a man used to giving commands.

  “Confine your statements to the evidence that will be presented in this stage. You may continue, sir.”

  Nixon returned his attention to the legal pad that rested on the ledge of the jury box. He flipped two pages, examined the text, and set the pad down again.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, sometimes ­people think defense attorneys try to trick jurors. That we set out to deceive you, pull the wool over your eyes. Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you, with all honesty in my heart, that is not my intention.”

  Elsie stared at his back, her face wearing a skeptical expression that she hoped some jurors would note. But she was hiding her internal surprise. She’d gone to trial against Josh Nixon before; this was not his standard defense presentation.

  “You’ll understand just how open, how up front we are determined to be, when I tell you: we do not contest the evidence that Ms. Arnold outlined in her opening.”

  Elsie’s jaw went slack. Never, in the most outlandish speculation she might have entertained, would she imagine that Nixon would open with a blanket admission. He had essentially admitted his client’s guilt. And he did not appear to be following up with some justification or rationale that would excuse the defendant’s action or shift the blame elsewhere. Elsie, in her Opening, had painted a detailed picture of Larry Paul’s murder of mother and child; and Larry Paul’s defense attorney stood before the jury to agree with her version of the facts.

  Then in Elsie’s mind, the parallel surfaced. In the Boston marathon bomber case, the defense counsel tried the same tactic. They waved the white flag from the outset, and then begged the jury for mercy, to spare the man’s life.

  But it didn’t work, Elsie thought. The jury in Boston recommended death. Why would Nixon duplicate a losing strategy?

  Josh continued, pacing in front of the jury box with his hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers.

  “So now that I’ve established that I’m shooting straight with you, I’ll tell you something else the evidence will show. My client, Larry Paul, is a dying man.”

  The room was so quiet, Elsie could hear the buzzing of the large clock on the wall as its hands ticked off seconds.

  “Regardless of what you do, whatever you decide as a jury in this case, my client has a death sentence already.”

  Every eye in the room focused on Larry Paul. As he sat in the wooden chair at the counsel table, his uncuffed hands clenched the arms of the chair with the grip of a man hanging onto a lifeline with his last vestige of strength.

  His face was pasty white, but scarlet patches stood out on his face and neck. He drew a breath that rattled.

  He looked like a dying man. If the defense was blowing smoke, they had
everyone fooled. Including Elsie.

  Chapter Thirty-­Six

  Late that afternoon, Elsie stood near the witness stand, holding a large manila envelope in both hands. She gave her witness, an x-­ray technician, a small smile before asking: “On the morning of September seventh of this year, did you have occasion to take x-­rays of a deceased woman named Jessie Dent and her infant son?”

  “I did.”

  “Where were the x-­rays performed?”

  “At Barton Memorial Hospital, here in Barton, Missouri.”

  She handed him the manila envelope. “I hand you what’s been marked for identification as State’s Exhibit 31 through 36. Do you recognize it?”

  The young man examined the envelope and confirmed that the exhibit contained x-­ray pictures that he had taken of the injuries to Jessie Dent and her unborn son.

  “How do you know?” Elsie asked.

  He held up the envelope and pointed. “These are my initials, that I signed on that occasion; and I dated it.”

  The witness had a husky build, and was dressed in his scrubs from the local hospital. Elsie knew without checking that Madeleine wouldn’t like his garb. She always wanted State’s witnesses dressed in clothes that they would wear to a funeral: somber, respectable attire, to impress the jurors with their solid respectability. But the man worked at the hospital, Elsie thought. Dressing in hospital scrubs would add weight to his testimony, not detract from it.

  Not that any of Elsie’s witnesses could make or break the Larry Paul case.

  Madeleine and Sam Parsons had divided the juicy parts between them. They were examining the coroner, the officers who responded to the scene, Detective Ashlock, the forensic technicians from the crime lab. Elsie got the grunt work: the chain of custody witnesses. The x-­ray technician, laying the foundation for the coroner to discuss what the x-­rays revealed. And Ivy, of course.

  But Ivy might not be testifying in the State’s case in chief, after all. This trial was broken down into two parts. In the first, evidence was presented so that the jury could decide whether Larry Paul was guilty or not guilty of murder.

  If they found him guilty of murder, the second stage of trial would begin. The jury would determine punishment, and the prosecution and defense would provide evidence and argument as to which penalty the defendant should receive: life or death.

  The tech in the green scrubs had identified and authenticated all of the x-­rays to be used in the prosecution’s case. Elsie turned to the bench and said, “Your honor, the State offers State Exhibits 31 through 36 into evidence.”

  Judge Callaway looked over at the defense table. “Any objection?”

  Josh Nixon rose partway out of his chair. “No objection, your honor.” He sat back down.

  Elsie nodded at the witness. “No further questions.”

  As she sat, the judge asked the defense, “Cross-­examination?”

  “No questions for this witness,” Josh Nixon replied.

  The judge nodded at the man in green. “You are excused.”

  Elsie peeked at the defense attorneys on the way back to her seat; but they sat poker-­faced. Nixon’s only tell, his one indication of nerves, was the drumming of the fingers of his left hand on the tabletop. Claire O’Hara was cool as a cat, nodding at the jury with a satisfying half smile, as if to indicate that everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

  When Elsie settled back into her seat, she whispered to Madeleine, “This is nuts. Are they setting themselves up for a claim of ineffective assistance of counsel? Is that the master plan?”

  “Be quiet. And be grateful. No one can mess up this case. Not even—­” Madeleine paused, but Elsie bristled at the implication. Yeah—­not even Elsie, she thought. Not even me. She could have cited her win/loss record for Madeleine’s benefit, because it was impressive. But it would be a futile effort. Madeleine couldn’t be won over. She had placed Elsie in a box, years ago, and she liked keeping her within its confines.

  Parsons was calling the doctor to the stand. He would discuss his findings in the autopsies and give his opinion of cause of death. The coroner would describe and point out for the jury what the x-­rays revealed.

  Elsie studied Dr. Gray. He was a good doctor, a generous soul; serving as coroner was a sideline to his practice, and he did the duties out of loyalty to McCown County. The doctor was not a fashionable figure; his thinning hair was shaggy on his neck, and the untucked white shirt he wore was wrinkled. Gray fuzz sprouted from both of his ears. But he had a loyal following in the county. Elsie’s mother refused to see anyone other than Doc Gray when she was ailing.

  Parsons established the doctor’s expertise, eliciting testimony regarding his educational background, medical license, and hospital privileges. Then Parsons said, “Please describe the condition of Jessie Dent when you examined her. And if you will, sir, please refer to State’s Exhibits 14 through 24.” He handed the doctor the stack of glossy photographs, blown up to 12 x 14 images. Elsie knew what they depicted. They were gruesome.

  “The deceased woman—­Jessie Dent—­suffered external trauma: to the head, the back, and the abdomen. The observations can be seen in these pictures by the bruising and contusions here—­” and he pointed to an area on the photograph “—­and here.”

  “Will you mark those areas, Doctor? Circle them with a pen?”

  Doc Gray did so, marking on the glossy photos with a careful hand.

  “Were x-­rays taken of the deceased, Jessie Dent, to your knowledge?”

  “They were. I ordered them.”

  “What did the x-­ray of Jessie Dent reveal?” He handed Dr. Gray the large manila envelope.

  The doctor slipped the first x-­ray from its envelope and held it up to the light. With the blunt end of his pen, he said, “This x-­ray reveals a skull fracture; you can see it here.” He tapped gently with the pen.

  “Do you have an opinion as to the cause of Jessie Dent’s death?”

  “I do.”

  “What is that opinion?”

  “The skull fracture resulted in a subdural hematoma, which caused her to die almost immediately. Of course, the other injuries almost certainly would have killed her, anyway. But the skull fracture is, in my opinion, the cause of death.”

  “What are the other injuries you refer to?”

  “Her abdominal injuries—­I refer to her ruptured spleen.”

  “So the deceased had a ruptured spleen, in addition to a skull fracture.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the ruptured spleen could have caused her death, on its own?”

  “Oh yes, indeed. More slowly of course. But the injury to the skull was the fatal blow, as they say.”

  “Is the ruptured spleen depicted in an x-­ray?”

  “It was.” Doc Gray fumbled with the envelope before pulling out a second x-­ray. “This one—­it says State’s Exhibit #33.”

  “Doctor, did you also have occasion to examine the deceased’s infant son?”

  “I did.”

  “Please describe the condition of the deceased’s unborn son when you examined him.”

  “There was no fetal heartbeat. No respiration. We attempted a delivery by Caesarian Section, but the child—­the baby boy—­ was dead.”

  “Did you see evidence of bruising or injury to the fetus?”

  “No, not that kind of injury. No.”

  “But Doctor, if the mother of the child sustained the grievous injuries to her abdomen that we see in State’s Exhibit #23 and #24, how is it possible that the child didn’t exhibit similar bruising, contusions?”

  “The trauma to the mother’s belly was grievous. But inside her womb, the baby was in a bag of fluid—­amniotic fluid. That bag of fluid provided a buffer, you see. The boy was afloat.”

  “But he died.”

  “Because the mother died.
While he was in utero.”

  Parsons said, “Let’s go back to the injuries that Jessie Dent sustained. What might have caused the injuries you described?”

  “The injuries, the contusions and bruising I observed were consistent with blows from a blunt object.”

  “Like a baseball bat?” Parsons asked.

  Elsie tensed for the objection from the defense. The question was premature; Parsons hadn’t asked it correctly, hadn’t laid the proper foundation. She mentally corrected Parsons, asking the proper questions in her head: Doctor, from your expertise, observations, and examination, did you form an opinion as to the manner of death? And what is that opinion? But silence still reigned at the defense table.

  “The skull fractures you described. Could they also have been made by the baseball bat?”

  In her head, Elsie anticipated the reaction from the defense. Objection: leading. Objection: the prosecution has not laid the proper foundation for the witness to offer an expert opinion. She glanced again at Claire O’Hara. Claire caught the look and winked at Elsie, while toying with her bangle bracelets.

  Parsons handed Dr. Gray the photos. “Are those pictures fair and accurate representations of the deceased Jessie Dent and her son on the date of your examination?”

  “They are.”

  Parsons held up the photos. “Your honor, the State offers State’s Exhibits 14 through 24 into evidence.”

  Claire spoke. “No objection.”

  Judge Callaway blinked. “Don’t you want to take a look at them first, Ms. O’Hara?”

  “No need.”

  The judge cleared his throat, as if he was debating whether to say more. “Photos can be inflammatory at times, Ms. O’Hara.”

  “Judge Callaway,” she said, rising slowly and putting her weight on the balls of her feet. Elsie peeped again at Claire’s high-­heeled shoes. Just as shiny as a candy apple at the county fair. “We want this jury to have all the information they need to decide this important case.”

  Josh Nixon’s fingers were drumming again, making a rapid beat on the wooden tabletop. Pretty sure this is Claire’s idea, Elsie thought. Nixon generally put up a whale of a fight. Claire O’Hara must be calling all the shots. Since Josh joined forces with Claire, Elsie detected a change in his demeanor. Claire had pulled out the lion’s teeth and cut his claws. It was unsettling to see Josh under Claire’s thumb. Elsie decided that she liked the old Josh Nixon better, the one who sometimes kept her off-­balance with his defense advocacy.