A Prosecutor for the Defense (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Series Book 4)

by Stephen Penner

  Brunelle guided Jeremy into his seat at counsel table then sat down next to him. He pulled a legal pad and a pen out of his briefcase and slid them over to his client.

  “Here,” Brunelle said. “This is yours. If you have a question, write it down, If you want to tell me something, write it down. If you have to go to the bathroom, write it down. I need to pay attention to everything that’s being said. I can’t do that if you’re grabbing my arm and whispering in my ear. And besides, that kind of stuff looks shady. The jury won’t like it. Just look like you’re taking notes, as calm and confident as can be, After all, you’re innocent, right?”

  Jeremy hesitated as he processed Brunelle’s verbal barrage. Then, a moment too late, he finally said, “Right. I’m innocent.”

  Brunelle sighed. “Work on that. You’re going to testify. You better be more convincing than that.”

  Jeremy nodded weakly. “Okay.” Then, “Really? I’m going to testify?”

  “Did you do it?” Brunelle asked flatly.

  “No,” Jeremy insisted. “Of course not.”

  Brunelle nodded and started pulling his books and materials out of his briefcase and onto the table. “Then you damn well better tell the jury that.”

  Brunelle was about to expound on his theories about defendant’s testifying and jury assumptions and what exactly does ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ mean anyway, but he noticed Jeremy break eye contact and look over his shoulder toward the door to the hallway. He also noticed the look in Jeremy’s eye.

  Brunelle turned to see Lizzy walking into the courtroom, her mother right behind. They took a seat in the front row, the space reserved for the defendant’s family. Lizzy raised her hand. “Hi, Daddy.”

  Jeremy waved back weakly. “Hey, Liz.” But he didn’t get to say more. The closest corrections officer smacked the back of his chair. “Eyes front,” he commanded. “No interacting with the gallery.”

  A reminder to Jeremy of what he was facing for the rest of his life.

  Jeremy looked askance to Brunelle, but Brunelle nodded in agreement. That was the rule. He needed his client to follow it. “Sorry, Jeremy.” And he was. A little.

  But Brunelle could turn around if he wanted to, and he did. A professional nod and controlled smile to his girlfriend, who offered the same back to him. He looked to Lizzy next, but she only managed a small and unconvincing grin.

  Brunelle turned around again and tried to gather his thoughts before the judge took the bench. But that’s exactly when she decided to. At the stroke of nine.

  “All rise!” commanded the bailiff, and Judge Carlisle ascended to her perch above her onlookers.

  “You may be seated,” she announced after taking a moment to ensure that everyone had in fact risen.

  She was a control freak and probably more than a little crazy, but her O.C.D. had proven its advantages. They had selected a jury in record time and Brunelle had no doubt the trial would go quickly. No lazy ten a.m. starts like some of the older, almost-retired judges he’d been in front of. They were going from nine to five with a one hour lunch and one fifteen minute break each half day—and only then because the court reporter’s fingers would fall off otherwise.

  So when the first day of trial started, the trial actually started. The bailiff led the jurors from the jury room to the jury box, the attorneys sat down at their tables, and Judge Carlisle announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please give your attention to Mr. James Westerly, who will deliver the opening statement on behalf of the People.”

  Chapter 32

  Westerly thanked the judge then rose and took his place standing before the jury. He steepled his hands thoughtfully and nodded to the jurors.

  “This is a murder case,” he started. “Jeremy Stephenson killed his wife. But he’s not a monster.”

  Brunelle frowned. Damn it. Westerly was going the reasonable route. The same one Brunelle would have gone with. Opening statement was about promises. It was defined as a statement of what the lawyer believed the evidence would show. A promise of sorts. And the worst thing a lawyer could do in opening was overpromise.

  “Jeremy Stephenson is a doctor, a businessman, and a father. And he was a husband. But he started to make decisions that didn’t work out for him. And ultimately he made a decision that didn’t work out for his wife, Vanessa Stephenson. Vanessa is dead because of the decisions that Jeremy Stephenson made. And he needs to be held responsible for those decisions.”

  Westerly lowered his hands but didn’t move from his spot rooted directly in front of the jury. He was a seasoned trial attorney. Pacing was distracting. He could afford to just stand there. He had the jury’s attention. He had everyone’s attention. He was the D.A. in a murder case.

  “I’m going to tell you a little bit about Dr. Stephenson. Then I’m going to tell you a little bit about Vanessa Stephenson. Then I’m going to tell you about some of the problems they were having. And then finally I’m going to tell you what happened on the night Vanessa died, and you’ll understand why Dr. Stephenson is charged with murder in the first degree.”

  Brunelle had to hand it to Westerly. Lawyers weren’t allowed to argue guilt in opening statement. That would be ‘argumentative’ and an objection would be sustained. Openings were supposed to simply state what the lawyer expected the evidence to show. Westerly was walking right up to the line without crossing it. Brunelle decided to pay even better attention, not just so he could respond properly with his own opening, but also to see if he could pick up some pointers.

  “Jeremy Stephenson is a physician,” Westerly went on, elevating Jeremy even more by calling him a ‘physician’ rather than simple ‘doctor.’ “In fact, he’s a surgeon. A cosmetic surgeon. He went to four years of college, then four years of medical school, then more schooling for his specialty, followed by long years of residency at several different hospitals. He studied hard and worked long hours to get where he is today professionally.

  “Dr. Stephenson is also a father. Vanessa was his second wife. They didn’t have any children together, but he has a teenage daughter from his first marriage who lives up in Seattle, Washington. And although they live apart, Dr. Stephenson remained involved in her upbringing.”

  Brunelle tried not to shake his head. He was prepared to counter Westerly’s arguments about what happened the night Vanessa died. He didn’t expect to have to call bullshit on a glowing description of his client. Jeremy had been about as involved in Lizzy’s upbringing as a random stranger on the street. But Brunelle was unlikely to tell the jury that. Let them think he was a better father than he really was. Lizzy was in the front row after all. They might actually buy it.

  “And until the night of Vanessa’s death, Dr. Stephenson appeared to be a loving and doting husband. He bankrolled her business, a dance studio Vanessa had always wanted to own. They went on vacations and did all the things a happy couple was supposed to do.”

  Westerly finally moved again. He raised a single hand and pointed to the jury. “But appearances can be deceiving.”

  Westerly lowered his hands and took two steps to his right, closer to the judge. It reinforced his position as the prosecutor, seeker of justice, agent of order, representative of the People. It also gave a chance for a dramatic pause after his last statement. And he could remind the jurors to keep their eyes on him, even if he moved. They did. He had them. They wanted to know the dirt. We all want to know the dirt.

  “All was not well in his medical practice. And all was not well at home. Dr. Stephenson wasn’t a solo practitioner. He had a partner, Gary Overstreet. The thing about partnerships is that all the money goes into one pot, then the partners take out equally. That works out fine if both partners are putting in about half, but things weren’t going so well for Dr. Stephenson. He had fewer and fewer clients, and was bringing in less and less money. That can happen, but it wasn’t just a dry spell. Dr. Overstreet is going to tell you that Dr. Stephenson wasn’t pulling his weight. He was still a good surgeon, but he was neglectin
g his practice. He was distracted. By Vanessa. And her dance studio.”

  Westerly nodded and took one step back toward his original position. He was going to be talking about the victim. Getting back to the center of the jury would suggest reconnection with the jurors. Jurors didn’t know about all these non-verbal aspects of trying a case. Good trial attorneys did. And Jim Westerly, much to Brunelle’s consternation, was a good trial attorney.

  “The dance studio had always been a dream of Vanessa’s. But dreams can’t pay the bills, and the arts are a hard way to make a living. Vanessa loved the studio, and Dr. Stephenson loved Vanessa, so he started borrowing money from his medical practice to keep the studio afloat. The only problem was, he didn’t tell Dr. Overstreet.”

  Brunelle nodded slightly. That was a problem. Although it was hardly the only one.

  “At first, I’m sure Dr. Stephenson thought he’d be able to pay it back. At first, maybe he did. But Vanessa’s studio needed more and more money. But no matter how much he borrowed, the studio needed more. He kept trying, but it wasn’t working. And then the worst possible thing happened. The worst thing for Vanessa. She stopped being thankful.”

  Jeremy grabbed Brunelle’s arm finally. Clearly, he took exception to Westerly’s accusation. But Brunelle shrugged off his client’s grasp and tapped the legal pad he’d given him. He needed to listen to Westerly, not Jeremy.

  “Then the night came when Vanessa died. When Dr. Stephenson killed her. We may never know exactly what words were said that night, but we know this: words were exchanged, Jeremy choked his wife to death, then he set the studio on fire to cover his crime. Dr. Sylvia Tuttle, the medical examiner who performed the autopsy on Vanessa, will tell you that Vanessa was strangled to death, Dr. Stephenson’s fingerprints left as bruises on her neck. And Dr. Tuttle will also tell you that Vanessa’s lungs had no smoke in them at all, meaning she had stopped breathing before the fire was set.”

  Brunelle suppressed a grin. Westerly’s description of the actual murder was noticeably short on detail. That made sense. Jeremy had lawyered up and Vanessa couldn’t speak from the grave. Still, it gave Brunelle an opening.

  “So ladies and gentleman,“ Westerly began summing up, “you will hear from many witnesses, but there’s one witness you won’t hear from. Vanessa Stephenson. But the evidence will speak for her. The evidence will show that her husband, Jeremy Stephenson, lost his temper, and as a result, she lost her life. And at the end of this trial I will stand up again and ask you to return a verdict of guilty. Thank you.”

  Westerly nodded to the jurors then turned and retook his seat at the prosecutor’s table.

  It was a perfectly adequate opening statement. But it wasn’t great. It lacked details, but more importantly, it lacked passion. Westerly was smart, but maybe not smart enough to show he cared.

  Brunelle wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Judge Carlisle announced, “now please give your attention to Mr. Brunelle, who will deliver the opening statement of the defendant.”

  Chapter 33

  Brunelle stood and nodded to the judge and Westerly. Then he took the same spot before the jury where Westerly had stood. Westerly had started by saying Jeremy wasn’t a monster. The temptation was to repeat that. But Brunelle had learned a few things over the years. When Richard Nixon said he wasn’t a crook, people knew that’s exactly what he was. And when that Senate candidate from Delaware said she wasn’t a witch, the one word everyone remembered was ‘witch.’ So Brunelle wasn’t going to say Jeremy wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t going to say what Jeremy wasn’t he was going to say what Jeremy was.

  “Jeremy Stephenson is a doctor, a businessman, a father,” Brunelle repeated Westerly, then paused just a beat before adding, “and a widower.”

  ‘Widower.’ A strange thing to call a murderer. The jurors shook off their ‘oh God, another lawyer is going to talk at us’ expressions and most of them looked over at Jeremy to see if maybe, just maybe, he was real human being after all.

  “The love of his life, Vanessa Stephenson, died tragically in a fire that also consumed her dream, a dance studio she and Jeremy had worked hard to build from the ground up. Vanessa went to the studio that night to attend to things—the way anyone does who’s lucky enough to do work she loves. Jeremy stayed home, reading a book, relaxing from his own job, and waiting for his wife to come home to him. But instead of returning home, she died in a fire, and Jeremy’s world was turned upside down. Not only did he lose his wife—his soul mate—he was suddenly arrested for her murder and sits here now before you, like Alice in Wonderland, trying to understand how he got here, an innocent man, accused of killing the woman he loved.”

  “Objection.” Westerly stood up. “Argumentative.”

  It was argumentative, Brunelle knew. He had called his client innocent. How dare he? He looked up to Judge Carlisle, but didn’t argue the objection.

  “Sustained,” Carlisle ruled. “You will refrain from further argument, Mr. Brunelle, and restrict yourself to a recitation of what you expect the evidence will show.”

  Brunelle nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.” He didn’t need to be held in contempt again, and certainly not in front of the jury. And besides, he’d gotten Westerly to object. The jury might not remember much of his opening, but they’d remember that the prosecutor didn’t like it when Brunelle painted the picture of Jeremy sitting in the Queen of Hearts’ court, no more guilty than a sweet young girl fallen into a rabbit hole.

  “As I was saying,” Brunelle turned back to the jurors, “Jeremy was at home that night. Alone. Reading a book. He doesn’t have a dozen friends he was hanging out with that night who will come in and swear about his whereabouts that night. That’s not how he spends his time. He’s a surgeon, a businessman, a father, and a husband. He doesn’t have time for much else. He doesn’t live his life like he’s going to need an alibi.”

  The weakness to Brunelle’s case, of course, is that his client didn’t have an alibi. He very well could have been at the studio that night, strangled Vanessa to death, and burned her studio down in an attempt to cover it all up. Brunelle only had Jeremy’s word to say otherwise. And juries are naturally suspicious of a defendant’s testimony. A defendant has every reason to lie, they figure. And they’re right. But rather than argue with the jurors that they shouldn’t think that way, rather than try to shame them for not really presuming his client innocent, Brunelle embraced that prejudice, then used it against them. The reason jurors believed defendants must have done something to be charged, is because the thought if an innocent person being charged with a crime is frightening. Make the jury feel that themselves, and they’ll be terrified it could happen to them too.

  “And so when Jeremy’s quiet evening of reading and relaxing was finally interrupted, it wasn’t by the return of his lovely bride, but by the banging on his door of a police officer. When Jeremy answered the door, he learned his wife was dead. Now, keep in mind, the authorities didn’t think it was a murder yet. He simply learned that his wife died in a fire. An accident. At her studio, the one she’d always dreamed of, the one he’d taken great risks to finance and support.”

  Brunelle couldn’t really deny that part of Westerly’s opening, but he could shade it in positive terms. And move on quickly.

  “It wasn’t until the next day that the police and the medical examiner suddenly decided it was a murder. So they arrested Jeremy, for no reason other than he was the husband, and therefore the most likely, or at least the easiest, suspect.”

  “Objection.” Again Westerly stood up at his place at counsel table. “This is also argument.”

  Brunelle turned to look up at Judge Carlisle. “I expect the evidence to support what I just told the jury.”

  Carlisle hesitated. That alone was a victory. Juries notice little things like that. “You’re getting close, Mr. Brunelle. I will overrule this objection, but stay away from any further argument.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.�
�� Brunelle was smiling inside, but kept his features somber as he turned back to the jurors. Westerly’s objections had punctuated his two most important points—innocent client, easy suspect—and Carlisle had validated the last one. Time to wrap up.

  “The evidence will show that there were no witnesses to the death, the scene investigation was woefully inadequate, and the conclusions of the medical examiner little more than rank speculation. Dr. Jeremy Stephenson didn’t murder his wife. He sits here accused of a crime he didn’t commit, no more responsible for Vanessa’s death than any of you. Thank you.”

  That last bit warranted another objection—probably several—but Brunelle sat down before Westerly could stand up again.

  It had been short on details, but that was consistent with someone who had no idea what happened because he was home alone reading a book. It was a defense opening perhaps not worthy of Jessica Edwards, but Brunelle was pleased enough. Westerly looked stoic, and at least a few of the jurors looked worried. He had a fighting chance.

  Carlisle interrupted his thoughts. “That concludes opening statements,” she told the jury. Then she peered down at the prosecutor. “Mr. Westerly, you may call your first witness.”

  Westerly stood up. “The People call Dr. Gary Overstreet.”

  Chapter 34

  Overstreet walked into the courtroom, head down and hands in his pockets. He didn’t glance at Kat or Lizzy as he passed them in the gallery, and he certainly didn’t look at Jeremy as he strode up to the witness stand. He looked every bit the successful California doctor: blue blazer over open-collared shirt, khakis, and shined shoes which suggested something nautical without being actual ‘boat shoes.’ He just needed a white captain’s hat to hide that bald dome of his, Brunelle thought. The bailiff swore Overstreet in and he sat down quickly, locking his eyes on Westerly who took a position toward the back of the jury box.