by Kenneth Eade
Jack wasn’t there, and Brent had been unable to reach him on his cell phone. It was absolutely critical to William’s case to know whether Jack had been able to finally serve Trixy and whether he could stake out her location to make sure she didn’t skip out on the subpoena, which ordered her to appear on the first day of trial. If Jack could bring her in, Judge Schwartz could order her back on the day of Brent’s case-in-chief.
Sarah arrived with two of William’s best lawyer-like suits, to dress him for the trial. Appearances were everything for a jury. It was important for them not to see “just another prisoner” in a jumpsuit, but a successful, functioning member of society. Sarah sat down next to Brent on a bench outside the courtroom. She was dressed conservatively, but nicely, as if she was going to a job interview or a PTA meeting. The jury would discover who she was, and her presence as well as her appearance was just as important as William’s, even though she was the wrong color (for them.)
“Brent, I brought the clothes, but I’m so nervous I feel as if I’m going to throw up.”
“That’s normal, Sarah. Trials aren’t fun. I often feel the same right before one.”
“You do?”
“Yes, but don’t worry.” He touched her hand. We’re well prepared, and I’m not going to throw up.”
That brought a little smile out of Sarah. Brent opened his briefcase and pulled out one of his trial notebooks to show her. He opened it to the tab marked “voir dire.”
“This is where we’ll start today, with jury selection, after the judge has had a chance to go over all his rules with us.”
When the Bailiff finally opened the doors to Department N at about ten to nine, Jack was still nowhere to be found. Brent hung behind the people shuffling into the courtroom to make one last phone call to try to reach him, but it went straight to voice mail.
Benjamin Taylor came into the courtroom, looking confident and ready for battle, shortly before the Judge took the bench, after having bathed in the river of reporters outside the courthouse which Brent had avoided completely by coming in early. Judge Schwartz would have no cameras in his courtroom: only reporters and sketch artists. He was not going to have an O.J. Simpson trial on his hands.
Before he took the bench, Schwartz called the attorneys into chambers for a pretrial conference. Seated at his desk without his robes, he greeted Brent and Taylor in a friendly manner. It was the first time Brent would appear before Judge Schwartz, who was a short, balding man who appeared to be in his 60s. Jack’s background check showed him to be a former prosecutor, like most of the other judges in the Superior Court who had succeeded in being reelected on a “tough on crime” platform.
“Hello, gentlemen; please come in.”
Brent and Taylor had a seat in the two chairs in front of the judge’s desk. The judge eyed both of them. Despite his reputation, Brent had the impression that he was a fair jurist. He didn’t put on airs and he smiled as if he was at a local Bar Association meeting among friends.
“We’ve already done all the preliminaries: are you two ready to pick a jury?”
“Yes,” replied Taylor.
“As soon as I can get my client into some decent clothes,” responded Brent.
“Good; then let’s do that and be ready to go in about 15 minutes. I don’t suppose this is going to settle?”
Both Taylor and Brent responded in the negative. The fight was on.
“Are there any issues you can stipulate to in order to save court time?”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, this is a capital case. I can’t even stipulate as to the color of the sky,” said Brent.
As he exited the Judge’s chambers, Brent went into the corridor, waving to Sarah that he would be right back. He turned on his phone and impatiently waited for a cell.
Brent’s first call was to Jack, which went instantly to his voice mail.
“Jack, it’s Brent. Where the hell are you, man? The trial’s started. Please call the office and check in with Melinda immediately.”
His second call was to the office. Melinda had not heard from Jack at all. Brent gave her the most important task of her day: to find Jack.
“Call everyone on the contacts list who knows him. And call all the hospitals in the area – see if he’s shown up there.”
Brent started to hang up, then hesitated. “And Mimi?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Call the morgue.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“All rise!” called the Clerk. The buzz of the crowd instantly fell silent and everyone stood up as the judge entered the courtroom.
“The Superior Court for the State of California for the County of Los Angeles is now in session; the Honorable Adam Schwartz, Judge, presiding.”
“Good morning ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge. “Please be seated. We are on the record today in the case of People v. Thomas. Counsel, please state your appearances.”
Brent and Taylor both stood up.
“Good morning, Your Honor. Brent Marks for the Defendant, William Thomas, who is present in court.” William stood next to Brent at the counsel table.
“Good morning, Your Honor. Benjamin Taylor for the people.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. The record will reflect that counsel and the Court have conferred in chambers. Madame Clerk, please call in the first jury panel.”
The Bailiff opened the door and both Taylor and Brent stood up again as an assortment of people began to file in and take seats in a section of the gallery that had been reserved for them. The Clerk had given an informational sheet to both Brent and Taylor regarding the identity of all the prospective jurors in the panel. As they took their seats, Brent looked at each one. There was not one black face in the bunch. As Brent sat down, William whispered, “How am I going to get a trial by my peers without any peers?”
“You knew the jury would most likely be white, William.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know there’d be no blacks for him to kick off the jury.”
Judge Schwartz gave the jury panel introductory instructions about the trial, what it was about, and the jury selection process. He made inquiries to eliminate people who were somehow connected to William, Brent, Taylor or Albright. At the judge’s instruction, the Clerk then called the first twelve names at random, and the potential jurors were instructed to sit in the jury box for the voir dire process of jury qualification.
Benjamin Taylor had the first bite at the panel. Brent could see that he already seemed to be pleased with the color composition of the jury. It appeared to Brent that Taylor thought his job was already half over. Taylor posed his questions in a way which he hoped would educate the entire jury panel. Since his case, like most prosecutions, was not based on direct evidence, he explained the concept of circumstantial evidence and asked the jurors if they could be comfortable deciding William’s fate based on a collection of circumstantial evidence that they would construct to put together like a puzzle of what really happened that night. All of the jurors seemed to understand this and were fine with it.
Then he explained that this was a capital case, in order to ascertain if anyone in the panel would be averse to making a decision on the guilt of the defendant knowing he could be sentenced to death in a later penalty phase of the trial. Only one of them seemed to be adverse to that: Virginia Knight, a 72-year-old retiree from the telephone company. Even those who professed to be devout Christians were comfortable with the idea, which gave William a chill down his spine.
Taylor continued his questioning; and with it, continued to seed the jury with elements of his case – a kind of legal brainwashing. When he was finally done, the judge kicked back into his role.
“Mr. Taylor, do you have any challenges for cause?”
“Pass for cause, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Marks?”
“Pass for cause.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “The first peremptory challenge is with the People.”
“The People would l
ike to thank and excuse Mrs. Virginia Knight,” said Taylor, as he kicked off the lady from the phone company who didn’t feel right about the death penalty.
“Wonderful,” whispered William to Brent.
“It’s a long process, William. And, remember, they’re watching your every move; so don’t be so negative.”
Brent knew that even though the judge would charge the jury that they should listen to all the evidence before they made up their minds, the chances were likely that 100% of them would have already decided if William was guilty or not sometime before the trial was over, and probably in its early stages.
* * *
After school, Dale Felder mostly wanted to hang out with his friends; but before that, he always had to do his dreaded chores. Cleaning up his room was the one task that ranked up there with doing his homework, so he opted for the low-lying fruit. He took out the trash. As he swung the garbage bag into the container in the alley, he saw what looked like a human hand protruding from behind it. Upon closer inspection, what Dale saw horrified him. He ran into the house screaming.
“Mom! Mom! There’s a man out in the alley, and I think he’s dead!”
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
When it was Brent’s first turn to speak to the jurors, his initial questioning centered on the concept of reasonable doubt and that they had to presume William to be innocent unless the D.A. proved every element of the crime beyond a reasonable doubt. This was a difficult idea for Brent, who had a legal education and background, to convey to twelve people with no legal background whatsoever.
“Juror number three,” he asked a 30-year-old female customer service representative from Department of Water and Power. “Do you understand that the defendant is presumed innocent?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you can set aside the natural human tendency of being suspicious of someone accused of a crime and treat him as innocent, unless the prosecution proves every element of murder beyond a reasonable doubt?”
“Yes.”
People tended to regard lawyers as sneaky and manipulative. Brent’s job during the trial would be to poke holes in each and every piece of the prosecution’s evidence in order to plant the seed of reasonable doubt in the minds of the jurors but, at the same time, not look like he was trying to be tricky or deceitful.
Brent explained that the defense did not have to put on a case at all. It was all up to the prosecution, who had the entire burden of proving every element of the crime beyond a reasonable doubt. He described the concept of circumstantial evidence as if it were an ugly disease, and continued to question the jurors at length, exercising his peremptory challenges whenever he could spot an inkling of prejudice and praying for a person of color on the next jury panel.
* * *
At the end of the first day of trial a jury had not yet been selected, and Brent had not heard from Jack. His worry had evolved into distress. Not satisfied with Melinda’s efforts alone, Brent called every hospital in the Los Angeles area for news of Jack and left his number with every one of them, not knowing if anyone would call back or not. Before leaving the courthouse, he stopped by the local police station (located in the complex) and put out a missing person report on Jack. He spent too much precious time at the police station, but it had to be done.
He then set up shop at the local Starbucks, going over Jack’s reports for any clue of his whereabouts. It was a little hard to concentrate because of the music and the baristas constantly calling out names between the steaming musical pipes of the espresso machines. But the coffee smell was pleasant, it had a bathroom and free Wi-Fi, and it allowed Brent to be mobile; kind of like Charles Stinson’s ‘bare rear end’ office.
After darkness fell, Brent hit the streets and cruised the working girls, showing them each a picture of Jack; but none of them recognized him – or they weren’t talking. Taking the opportunity, he also showed them a photo of Albright. Finally he hit pay dirt (not the one he expected) from a pretty young African American prostitute who looked to be no more than 18, whom he had lured into his car with the prospect of offering her a trick.
“Don’t know that one; but this one I do – yes, yes.” She stabbed at the photo and looked up at Brent with her blue shadowed eyes.
“Who is he?”
“That’s John. He’s a scary son of a bitch, that one. I stay far away from him.”
“Why?”
“He beat up my girlfriend really bad. Put her in the hospital.”
Brent scribbled her name, Daisy McGovern, along with every phone number and address he was able to squeeze out of her, and even took a picture of her with his iPhone.
* * *
Brent made notes during his investigation, but although he had unexpectedly uncovered a lead in the case, he was no closer to finding Jack, which was his primary goal. Finally, after midnight, he gave up. The trial took priority over everything, even his missing friend. It was too late to go home, so Brent checked in to a local hotel and called Angela to ask her to take care of the cat.
At about three in the morning, Brent’s phone rang. He groped for it on the nightstand like a blind man.
“Mr. Marks?”
“Yes,” Brent said, opening his pasty eyes.
“This is Mary Priest from Presbyterian Hospital. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but you left a note to call you at any time, day or night.”
“That’s fine, fine. Is it about Jack Ruder?”
“Yes, sir. He’s here with us, in intensive care. Does he have any family?”
“No, I’m the closest.”
“In that case, could you come down in the morning, please?”
“Sure, sure. I’ve got a trial, but I could stop by before. What’s his condition?”
“He’s in critical condition, sir.”
“Is he conscious?”
“No.”
“Is he…”
“Sir, I’m just the night nurse. You’ll have to discuss the particulars with his doctor.”
“Of course. Court starts at nine. I can be there before eight.”
“That will be fine.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
What little sleep Brent did get was broken by worries of Jack. Dreams about Jack dominated his light sleep and he could never be sure whether he was asleep or awake until the alarm on his cell phone went off at 6:00 a.m. Thankfully, the day would be reserved for choosing a jury; otherwise it would be impossible for Brent to survive the combat of trial. Brent gathered his trial notebooks and files and left the key in the hotel room as he took off early for the hospital so he could try to grab a quick breakfast later on the way to court.
Jack lay in a bed in the intensive care unit, hooked up to monitors and life support systems. They allowed Brent to go in and visit him for a moment, but Brent was not even sure whether Jack was aware of his presence. It seemed as if he was in a coma, and he looked very beat up.
“You’re going to get better, buddy, and then we’ll find out who did this together,” Brent said to Jack as he touched his shoulder.
“Does anyone know what happened to him?” he asked the nurse.
“A kid found him among the garbage cans in an alley. He’s been pretty badly beaten.”
“Can I see his records?”
“I’m afraid I can’t let anyone but his closest relatives see them.”
“He doesn’t have any relatives. Not alive, anyway. He’s my friend and my investigator. We were working on a case together, and I’m sure that’s why this happened.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Then, can I speak to his doctor?”
“Dr. Liu isn’t in yet. He’s due at 9 o’clock.”
“I’ll be in court at 9. When does he take his lunch break?"
“Usually around 1.”
“Court breaks from 12 to 1:30. Tell him I’ll be here at 12. Were the police called on this?”
“Yes.”
Brent left a message for his secretary, to prepare and have se
rved on the hospital a subpoena for all Jack’s medical records and personal effects and to also obtain the police reports.
* * *
Brent paid for the deficit of sleep with a lack of sharpness at the trial. Having to take on the role of his missing investigator, who was on a valuable lead that could aid William’s defense, was something that had to be dealt with. Jack was obviously onto something, and that was the reason he had ended up in the hospital. But what was it? For now, Brent had to divert his mind from that question and focus on trying to pick a jury that wouldn’t decide against his client in the first minutes of the trial.
As jury selection continued, Brent asked questions of the prospective jurors based on current events in the post-September 11th world. The War on Terror, in Brent’s opinion, had created a trend in American society to tolerate more interference by the police in exchange for a promise of physical safety. His interrogation ventured into that arena.
“Can I see a show of hands from the panel, please? How many of you have been stopped by police at a traffic stop?”
Nearly every hand went up.
“How many of you believe that, at a traffic stop, you must follow the commands of a police officer without question?”
Brent made a note of the three hands that went up to exercise his peremptory challenges.
“How many of you believe that the police treat African Americans differently than Caucasians?”
There was one hand from a young man who worked at the GM plant, which Brent noted.