Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  I pivoted at an angle to the jury box, opening the view to the defense table. As I expected and hoped for, neither Solomon nor Lord was sitting there. They had taken up positions where they could watch me. Calvert was alone, again just as I wanted.

  “That is the defendant, Clark Gordon Calvert.” I pointed an index finger at him, as if it were a rapier.

  Clark Gordon Calvert.

  Conveying the image of other three-named fellows. John Wilkes Booth. Lee Harvey Oswald. James Earl Ray. John Wayne Gacy.

  “The man you see sitting there is a murderer.”

  I paused and took measure of the jurors. No one had fallen asleep. Every juror was staring at Calvert. Three seemed to be glaring at him. Calvert kept his chin up and looked at them head-on with his own dark-eyed gaze. I hoped the jurors found his demeanor as chilling as I did.

  “Let me tell you about the Calverts’ marriage,” I continued. “A marriage between a controlling man with a violent temper and an insecure, emotionally unstable woman. A dysfunctional, toxic mix. And let me be clear about something. Sofia Calvert was no saint. But she did not deserve to die a horrible death at the hands of her husband.”

  I paused and shifted my weight. I had been standing motionless, sturdy as a slab of granite. Some lawyers like to prance back and forth in front of the jury box. It forces the jurors to become spectators at a tennis tournament. I hold their attention with my voice, a throaty baritone, and my size, roughly that of the pillars of the courthouse.

  The jurors were waiting now.

  Just what did he mean, the victim is no saint?

  I would keep them in suspense and hold their attention while they waited for an answer.

  “The fatal flaw of this marriage—and I do mean fatal—was the defendant’s overwhelming need to control his wife in every aspect of her life. Who could be her friends, what she could eat, whether she could take a job, and what would be expected of her in bed.”

  Yep, they were still listening.

  “The defendant disapproved of Sofia’s friends and family, so she stopped seeing them. He forbade her from having ice cream, and when she disobeyed him, he choked her into twilight unconsciousness. He refused to allow her to get a job outside the home. And during sex, he insisted on choking off the carotid artery in her neck on the pretense that she desired it, when in fact, it was for his own sadistic pleasure.”

  I would come back to the phrase sadistic pleasure again in closing arguments. The words echoed with salacious evil.

  Now, what had I overlooked?

  “Oh, there’s one more thing Clark Gordon Calvert sought to control. What pet could Sofia have? To be clear, he didn’t prevent her from acquiring a pet. He killed the one she had! Strangled her beloved cat, Escapar.”

  Several jurors appeared stricken, including one whose Prius had a PETA sticker on the bumper. Yeah, before voir dire, I had Barrios assign a rookie cop to surveil the juror parking lot.

  I was suddenly aware that I had lost my place. Working without notes, I couldn’t remember where I had planned to go next. Seconds passed. I knew my order of proof. The first 9-1-1 call would kick off the testimony. So that’s where I would go now.

  “You will hear two 9-1-1 calls made by the defendant. The first came in March, not quite three months before Sofia disappeared. You will hear from paramedics called to the house after the defendant choked Sofia into unconsciousness. He squeezed her neck so severely that the blood stopped flowing to her brain, and she stopped breathing. She could have died on that occasion. You might ask yourselves: Was that a dress rehearsal?”

  “Objection!” Victoria vaulted out of her chair. “Mr. Lassiter is commenting on the evidence.”

  “Sustained. The state is reminded that this is opening statement. Run the ball up the middle. No double reverses, no hook and ladders.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, nodding politely.

  “Now, I’ve been using the term choked a little loosely,” I said to the jurors. “You’ll hear testimony from a physician that what the defendant used was a ‘vascular hold,’ a grip to cut off the flow of blood from arteries to the brain. Police departments used to do this to restrain unruly suspects . . . until the suspects started dying.”

  Again, I lost my train of thought. For more than twenty years, I’d done opening statements without a legal pad or notes of any kind. Closing arguments, too. I wanted the jurors to think I believed what I was saying, not just reading from a script. But now I needed cue cards. Where was I?

  I looked around the courtroom, as if seeking guidance. I was aware of the clock mounted on the wall above the door at the rear of the gallery. The clock face was fuzzy, the second hand moving way too slowly, as if plowing its way through a snowbank. I blinked once, twice, three times. And the clock came into focus. Conscious thought returned. I took a breath, exhaled, recovered some semblance of a train of thought, and got back to business.

  “Despite the troubles, Sofia Calvert did not give up on the marriage. She went to a noted and experienced psychiatrist, Dr. Harold Freudenstein, who formerly was on the staff at Mount Sinai.”

  Before he was shitcanned and now practices out of a chickee hut while stoned out of his gourd.

  “Dr. Freudenstein analyzed both husband and wife.”

  “Talked a couple of hours” is probably more accurate than “analyzed,” but a lawyer shades the truth the way an eclipse shades the sun.

  “The doctor concluded that Sofia suffered from borderline personality disorder and lived in constant fear of abandonment. The defendant is both a narcissist and a psycho-sociopath who feels unbound by the laws of society and had a propensity for violence. So those were the diagnoses. Then the doctor made a startling prognosis.”

  They waited, and I milked the moment. But the moment stretched on. I had lost my way yet again.

  What the hell is going on?

  One explanation: I wasn’t prepared to discuss Dr. Freudenstein. I never would have mentioned him in opening if Victoria hadn’t surprisingly waived her objections to his testimony. Oldest rule in the book: never promise what you can’t deliver. Another explanation: my brain was not operating on all cylinders.

  “Mr. Lassiter,” Judge Gridley said, “would you kindly continue?”

  “Of course, Your Honor.”

  But my mind was as blank as a slate-gray sky.

  “Mr. Lassiter, I believe you were about to tell the jury the psychiatrist’s prognosis,” the judge prodded me. “‘Startling prognosis,’ you mentioned.”

  “Yes, of course, Your Honor.”

  I had notes back at the prosecution table, but fumbling through them would make me look ill prepared, a bumbler. Just what the hell was I going to do?

  -52-

  Two Prophecies Fulfilled

  After thirty excruciating seconds that seemed like hours, I had no choice but to walk back to the prosecution table. I did so purposefully, as if I’d always intended to pick up a file. I felt a presence beside me and turned. Victoria Lord leaned close to me.

  “Are you all right, Jake?” she whispered.

  “What are you doing? Sit down.”

  “You just seem confused.”

  “Trial tactic.”

  “Do you want a recess?”

  “Stop hovering!”

  She placed a hand on my arm, and I swung around to meet her gaze. “Please take care of yourself, Jake. It’s just another case.”

  “Is it? For you, I mean.”

  With that, Victoria’s jaw went slack. She returned to the defense table, where Solomon sat, looking as confused as I felt.

  What just happened? Was Victoria messing with me? No, her eyes showed real concern. And why did I say that to her? I don’t feel in full control.

  “Mr. Lassiter,” the judge said, “are you ready to continue?”

  I scanned my table. On top of a stack of documents was Dr. Freudenstein’s letter. Ah, that will do.

  “You bet, Your Honor,” I said.

  I pic
ked up the letter and turned back to the jury. In a tone that conveyed both solemnity and sadness, I said, “Dr. Freudenstein’s prognosis was chilling. He concluded that Clark Gordon Calvert was likely to kill Sofia. Kill her!”

  The jurors were back in the game. Wide-eyed, waiting for more. And I seemed to have a grip on myself, for the moment at least.

  “The doctor did not just say this idly. He signed his name to it! Yes, he put his reputation on the line, perhaps all of psychiatry on the line. You will see the entire letter when he testifies, but for now, I’ll give you a preview.” I read aloud.

  “Mrs. Calvert, it is my considered medical opinion that you are in danger of great bodily harm or death if you continue to reside with your husband. I urge you to immediately separate and refrain from all personal contact.

  “Dr. Calvert, it is my further medical opinion that you constitute a clear and present danger to your wife’s safety and indeed her life.”

  I watched the jurors exchange Holy shit glances. If Freudenstein didn’t come off like some hippie-pothead-guru on the stand, maybe this strategy would work.

  “So very sad to say, the learned Dr. Freudenstein was correct. His prognosis was prophetic.”

  I let the jurors feel their own sadness a moment, then continued, “Let me take you now to the first week of June of this year. Much was happening in the Calvert household. Tired of her husband’s controlling nature and abusive conduct, Sofia had decided to leave him. She told this to a man named Billy Burnside, one of the state’s witnesses. Billy was Sofia’s tennis instructor, but he was more, too. He was her friend, her confidante, and, yes, as someone who would listen and let her be herself, Billy became her lover.”

  None of the jurors scowled or appeared ready to mark Sofia with a giant red A. I had prepared them by saying she was no saint, but now who could blame her for seeking solace outside the marital bed?

  I glanced toward the bench. Judge Gridley appeared to be listening. Usually he reads the sports section of the Miami Herald during the parts of trial where his constant attention isn’t a necessity.

  “Sofia told Billy a few days before she disappeared that she would tell her husband that weekend the marriage was over. She had already consulted with a divorce lawyer. Now Billy urged her to leave, not to remain in harm’s way. But tragically she stayed, and we now know what happened.”

  At least that’s my theory. We don’t really “know” anything.

  A couple of jurors shook their heads sadly, and I decided to play up the moment. “Mr. Burnside will testify to something else Sofia told him, and it’s a crucial piece of evidence.”

  At the word crucial, three jurors straightened in their seats. I had them. I could feel it. If I were a preacher asking for millions to build a cathedral, they’d be reaching for their checkbooks.

  “Sofia said, ‘Billy, if I ever disappear, don’t bother looking for me. Clark will have dumped my body in the Glades, and I’ll already be gator shit.’ Unfortunately, Sofia did not follow Billy’s advice or her psychiatrist’s advice. Like so many abused women, she stayed in that lion’s den a day too long. She told her husband she was leaving him. And how did he react, this controlling man with a narcissistic personality, this man with an inflated sense of his own importance, this man with a habit of choking his wife into unconsciousness?”

  The jurors waited. Some seemed to be holding their breaths.

  “He killed her!”

  At least two jurors gasped. I don’t like to repeat myself, but sometimes it’s useful to underline the high points.

  “What, then, have we heard?” I asked the jurors. “A noted psychiatrist predicted the defendant would harm his wife, perhaps kill her. And she predicted that if he did so, her body would never be found. And now, ladies and gentlemen, just look where we are. Two prophecies fulfilled.”

  I paused again. When you’re drinking fine liquor, you don’t guzzle it. When you make a point in opening or closing, give the jury a few seconds to digest it.

  “As I told you in voir dire, this is a circumstantial case. Now let me tell you, before Ms. Lord and Mr. Solomon do, what we don’t have. We don’t have a body or body parts. We don’t have blood or fingerprints. We don’t have bloody clothes or a murder weapon or an autopsy. But we don’t need any of those things. We need only to prove that Sofia is dead, and she is dead because the defendant killed her. And that is precisely what we will prove. That Sofia told her husband she was leaving him, that he decided to wipe her off the face of the earth, and that he did so. We shall prove the charge beyond and to the exclusion of every reasonable doubt.”

  I sneaked a peek into the gallery. At least a dozen journalists. Newspapers, television, Internet outlets. Pepe Suarez and his thug, J. T. Wetherall, sat in the front row, grim looks on their faces. For the first time, I noticed Ray Pincher standing just inside the door to the courtroom, arms folded across his chest. He smiled at me.

  Yeah, Ray. Just like you told me, this old lion still has his teeth.

  “What should you be looking for in this case?” I asked the jury. “One thing is to examine the credibility of the defendant. If a man’s wife disappears, shouldn’t he be truthful when he speaks to the police? Surely an innocent man would want his wife to be found, while a guilty man would not.”

  “Objection!” Solomon popped out of his chair. “Mr. Lassiter is arguing the case.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Gridley said. “Save it for closing, Mr. Lassiter.”

  I turned back to the panel. “Remember when I told you a few minutes ago what the defendant did the day his wife disappeared?” I was pretty sure they remembered, but I would remind them. “He went to a strip club sixty miles from his house. Bought himself a lap dance, with his wife’s corpse in the trunk of his car. Who does that? A socio-psychopath, as described by Dr. Freudenstein. The defendant stayed at the strip club thirty-one minutes, then drove to the airport. But that’s not what he told the police. He lied about his whereabouts. He claimed to have stayed on Miami Beach all day, looking for Sofia in her favorite places. Stores, the beach, restaurants. One lie after another. All meant to cover his true whereabouts and his actions, the disposing of his wife’s body.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Solomon leaning forward, so I switched gears before he could lob another objection, like a hand grenade, into my foxhole. I told the jury they would hear from an expert witness, a pilot, hired by the state for an experiment. He had filled a large duffel bag with 110 pounds of sand and placed it on the passenger seat on a Bellanca Citabria, the same model plane used by Calvert. He took off from Pompano Beach Airpark, flew northeast over the Atlantic, and with the plane on autopilot, successfully tossed the bag into the Gulf Stream. I told the jury they would see a video of this demonstration, and in my heart, I knew they would think of Sofia sleeping with the fishes when they saw it.

  I wandered back to the prosecution table and saw a yellow Post-it with one word scribbled on it: Cavendish. Jeez, I’d forgotten. So now I told the jurors they would hear from a woman named Ann Cavendish who would describe how the defendant also rendered her unconscious several years earlier in an incident that could only be called date rape. That caused two jurors—both middle-aged women—to exchange glances. I think they were ready to hang Calvert, perhaps even before I was finished. Time to round up the horses, head back to the barn, and call it a day.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I won’t directly speak to you again until all the evidence is in. After each side has argued its case, Judge Gridley will instruct you on the law, and you will retire to the jury room. I have no doubt at that time that you will conclude that Clark Gordon Calvert is responsible for Sofia’s death by an act of murder in the second degree.”

  -53-

  Last Rodeo

  When I sat down, Victoria Lord surprised me yet again.

  “The defense reserves opening for the beginning of its case,” she told Judge Gridley.

  It’s not unheard of, but I never do it when I’m on that s
ide of the courtroom. After the state talks trash about my client, I spring to my feet and counterpunch. I don’t want the jury to go days—or weeks—without hearing my theory of the case.

  Just what are you up to, Victoria? What’s the student’s secret strategy for defeating her teacher?

  I wasn’t expecting any twisty tactics. For the defense, this was a traditional reasonable-doubt case. With the state lacking a body, forensics, and clear motive, there could hardly be a better strategy. Cross-examine the state’s witnesses, poke holes in their stories, expose gaps in the evidence. Then fire up the smudge pots and create a smoke screen. Pepe Suarez and Billy Burnside had financial motives to want Sofia dead, enough to create flickers of doubt. No need for fancy footwork.

  Judge Gridley called for the lunch recess, and I headed for the lawyers’ lounge. No time during trial for the drive to Brickell or South Beach or even downtown for margaritas and grilled snapper. Detective Barrios was waiting for me with two grease-stained paper sacks. Cheeseburgers and fries.

  We found a quiet corner table and set upon the food like ravenous wolves. “All the witnesses subpoenaed?” I asked between bites.

  “Third time you asked. Answer’s still yes.”

  “Everyone knows what day and time to show up?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “You tell Billy Burnside not to wear tennis shorts?”

  “Jeez, Jake, you think I’m a rookie?”

  “Sorry. I know. I know. Not your first rodeo.”

  Barrios took a long pull on an iced coffee. “But probably my last.”

  “Huh?”

  “Gonna put in my papers. Take the pension and go fishing in the Keys until I’m dead or they run out of snapper.”

  “Aw, you been saying that for years.”

  “I’ve lost a step, Jake. And it’s not as much fun as it used to be. Too much staring into computer screens instead of pounding the pavement.”

  I finished off my burger and wiped the grease off my lips with a paper napkin. “We’re gonna be a poorer society without you. All I can say.”