Ben made a conscious decision not to protract his closing. He had a real sense that the trial was over, at least in the jury’s mind. In some cases, he felt the jury looked forward to closing; they wanted to hear the attorneys sort out the evidence and try to make sense of it all. But not this time. This time he felt the decision had been made—one way or the other. All he could do was remind them of everything he thought was important—and do them the courtesy of being brief.
Point by point, he identified the refutations made to all of the prosecution’s so-called evidence. “The prosecution wants to make much of the fact that the knife came from Keri’s kitchen—but she admitted that, just as she admitted that the chains came from her bedroom. What’s important is not where they came from—but who used them. Similarly, the prosecution wants to make a fuss about her fingerprints being on the knife and the chains. But why shouldn’t they be? They were hers! Of course she’s held the knife, and she’s admitted she used the chains. This so-called proof tells you nothing.”
Ben leaned against the counsel table. “I want to take an extra moment to discuss the DNA evidence. DNA has been much in the news lately. Possibly too much. It has acquired a veneer of infallibility—because most people don’t really understand it. They assume that DNA evidence equals guilt. But it doesn’t. Not always. All DNA evidence can do is give you a likelihood, that is, the odds that the specimen came from the accused. But as anyone who’s ever been to Vegas knows, odds don’t always play out the way you expect them to. And you have to consider—even if her skin was under his fingernails, does that prove she killed him? Or does that just prove they spent a lot of time together, some of it in close contact, something which has never been in dispute? Keri explained that she and Joe fought briefly when he announced that he was leaving her—an understandable reaction. Is it so hard to believe that the skin got under his fingernails during that struggle? The prosecutor talks about our ‘crazy explanations,’ but isn’t that explanation easier to believe than that this petite young woman killed him? I think it is. And if you’ll look into your hearts, I think you’ll find that it is, too.
“Finally, there is the testimony of Andrea McNaughton. Make no mistake about this—Mrs. McNaughton is a victim in this case, just as Keri is, just as Joe McNaughton was. I don’t condone what she did—but I understand it. I think we all can. Still, the fact remains—she lied about what happened when she saw Keri Dalcanton. She lied consciously and intentionally, for the sole purpose of seeing Keri wrongfully convicted of murdering her husband. Worse, she enlisted the help of police officers, her late husband’s devoted friends, in her single-minded effort to convict Keri Dalcanton. What she did brings everything she said—and everything presented by the prosecutor who knowingly put her on the stand—into question. When you eliminate Andrea McNaughton from the equation, what does the prosecution have left? A lot of evidence linking Keri to Joe McNaughton or proving that devices used in the murder came from her apartment. So what? What do they have that links Keri to the murder itself? What do they have that proves she committed the crime? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing.”
Ben carefully positioned himself directly before the jury. He looked each of them squarely in the eyes, one by one, then continued. “This case is unlike any other I have ever tried, in more ways than you can imagine. But chief among them is this: In most cases, I have to try to convince the jury my client did not commit the crime, without having the slightest idea who did. Not this time. This time I know with absolute certainty who the murderer was. Keri told you why and how it happened, in great detail. And no one has given you any reason to disbelieve what she said. To the contrary, it makes perfect sense and fits all the evidence presented by the prosecution.
“Kirk Dalcanton was unstable and unbalanced, and had been for some time. He had a criminal record. He was unemployed, unhappy. He was living below the poverty level. He had low self-esteem. He was ashamed of himself. He was psychologically tormented about his sexual identity. In short, he was exactly the type of person who might commit a violent murder. What’s more, he—unlike his sister—had the necessary body strength and the motivation to do it. All of the most gruesome aspects of the crime—the mutilation of the body, the public display of the corpse, the word ‘faithless’ written in blood—all point to a male killer. Contrast that with what the prosecution has been telling you—that this hideous crime was committed by a nineteen-year-old girl. Which is more likely? you must ask yourself. Or to put it in the terms the judge will soon discuss with you: Is there any room for reasonable doubt?”
He paused, once again looking each of them in the eye. “I think there is. And I think you do, too.”
After the closings were complete, the judge gave the jury its instructions, a long series of guidelines couched in dense legal language. Ben knew from experience that the instructions rarely made much difference to a jury’s determination of guilt, although they sometimes helped determine which charge would be applied. In this case, except for the instruction reminding them of the importance of reasonable doubt, they were worse than useless. Everything would be decided when the jury resolved whether Keri was innocent or guilty. If she was innocent, she would go free. But if they found her guilty of this macabre crime, they couldn’t help but give her the maximum penalty.
Finally, the jury was dismissed, and Ben, Christina, and Keri began the long wait. Ben still sensed that most of the jurors had reached a conclusion, whatever that might be, which would indicate a relatively short deliberation. But you could never be sure. One hour passed, while they sat in the courtroom. After two hours, Christina sent out for sandwiches. After three, the courtroom closed, but the judge let the jury continue to deliberate. Apparently he too held out hope that the case would be decided quickly.
After four hours of waiting, it was dark outside the courtroom, and Ben was beginning to consider the possibility of going home. “If the jury does reach a verdict,” he explained to Keri, “they’ll call. Nothing will happen till we’re back in the courtroom.”
Keri nodded. She was bearing up well, all things considered, but the tension was evident in her face. And who wouldn’t be nervous—when her very life was being decided in the room next door. “You go on if you want, Ben. I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. He glanced at his watch. “You’ll miss Xena.”
She smiled a little. “Life is full of little sacrifices.”
Ben decided to remain. He sensed that Keri wanted someone with her. And there was more than that, actually. He sensed that she wanted him to stay with her. And he wanted to stay with her.
It was hard to chitchat with someone who knew that twelve persons were in the next room deciding whether she should be executed. Compared with that, everything else seemed trivial. Because it was.
“Any idea what you’re going to do once you get out of here?” Ben asked optimistically.
“Well,” Keri said, “I’m definitely not going back to stripping. That’s over forever. Problem is, I’m not sure what that leaves. I’m not qualified for anything.”
“Why don’t you get a job at a gym?”
“As what? A barbell?”
“As an aerobics instructor. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t require a college degree, and who would be better at it than you? You work out every day, you’re in great shape. Shoot, you’d have people lining up to get in your class, just on the hope that if they exercise with you, they might end up looking like you.”
She smiled, in spite of everything. “You’re sweet, Ben. You know that? Really sweet.” She turned to Christina. “Isn’t he sweet?”
Christina nodded. “That’s why I’ve stayed with him all these years.”
“Really?” An inquisitive, almost mischievous expression played on Keri’s face. “I thought you were in love with him.”
“Excuse me?”
Keri held up her hands. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was betraying any state secrets here.”
&n
bsp; Christina’s eyes went skyward. “Kids. They think everyone’s hormones are raging.”
Keri gave her a sly look. “Methinks you doth protest too much.”
“Put your mind to rest, Keri. He’s all yours. I’m going for some coffee.” Christina stood up and moved rather quickly out of the courtroom. “Sorry,” Keri said to Ben. “Didn’t mean to chase her away.”
“You didn’t. She gets antsy during these long waits.”
“So tell me, Mr. Trial Lawyer. What’s the jury thinking?”
Ben shook his head. “I’ve tried cases long enough to know that, when all is said and done, juries are unpredictable. It’s like betting at the craps table. You know what should happen. But that doesn’t always mean it will.”
A moment later, without warning, Keri’s hand shot out and clutched at Ben’s. “Ben … do you think they believed me?”
Ben peered into her lovely blue eyes. There were words he wanted to say, that he knew she wanted to hear. But he couldn’t tell her something he wasn’t certain of himself.
She’d see the dishonesty in his eyes, and it would be worse than if he’d never spoken.
“I hope so,” he said, finally, simply. “I hope so.”
Hours later, the door of the jury deliberation room cracked open. A word was whispered to the bailiff, who immediately went to the judge. It was well past eleven, but that didn’t stop Cable from reconvening the court. It seemed he wanted this to be over as much as everyone else.
“Bailiff,” the judge said, as he walked back to the bench, “reassemble the court and contact the attorneys. We have a verdict.”
48
LABELLE MUST’VE HAD A sense that the jury would return soon also, because it didn’t take him and his staff ten minutes to return to the courtroom. Many of the reporters who had been covering the case managed to make it back, too. With astonishing swiftness, the players were reassembled to hear the jury’s final word.
Ben watched the jurors as they filed back into the room. They all had solemn, sober expressions on their faces. They looked tired, no great surprise. But he also noticed that none of them were looking at Keri. Not so much as a glance across the table. Why didn’t they want to make eye contact?
Despite the fact that everyone on earth desperately wanted to know what was written on the scrap of paper clutched in the foreman’s hand, the judge led them through all the solemn formalities. “Madame Foreman, have you reached a verdict?”
A middle-aged woman on the front row, Juror Number Three (the one Ben almost removed but didn’t), spoke out in a clear if somewhat nervous voice. “We have, your honor.”
“Bailiff.” At the judge’s instruction, Brent crossed the courtroom and carried the all-important piece of paper to the judge. He glanced at it briefly. Years of experience had given Judge Cable a practiced stoic expression; there were no clues forthcoming there. He passed the paper back to the bailiff.
“I can’t stand this,” Keri whispered. After being through so much, this final interminable rigmarole was almost more than she could bear.
“We’re almost there,” Ben said.
She thrust her hand into his. “Hold me,” she said quietly. She squeezed so tightly it practically cut off the flow of blood to Ben’s fingers.
“The defendant will rise to receive the verdict.”
Keri did so. Ben and Christina stood beside her.
“Madame Foreman,” the judge intoned, “will you please read the verdict?”
The foreman flipped open the tiny sheet of paper which, at that moment in time, seemed more important than anything else in the world.
“On the first charge, for the willful and intentional murder of Joseph P. McNaughton in the first degree, we find the defendant, Keri Louise Dalcanton …”
Why did they always pause there? Ben asked himself. Did they think they were on television? Get on with it!
“… not guilty.”
Ben felt a tugging on his arm that nearly wrenched it out of his shoulder. “Did she say not guilty?” Keri asked. “I thought she said not guilty.”
“She did,” Ben said, squeezing back almost as tightly. “She did.”
“On the second charge,” the foreman continued, “for the wrongful murder of Joseph P. McNaughton in the second degree, we find the defendant, Keri Louise Dalcanton, not guilty.”
There was no holding back the excitement now. Christina whooped; Ben shouted. Some of the reporters in the gallery actually applauded. And Keri leapt, literally leapt, into Ben’s arms.
“Thank you,” she cried, pressing her head against his shoulder. “Thank you so much.”
“Thank the jury,” Ben said, nodding toward the twelve people in the box, all of whom were now making eye contact. “They did it.”
Keri looked across the courtroom and mouthed a heartfelt thank you. But she hugged Ben’s neck all the harder. “You’re the one who made it happen,” she said. “You believed in me. You were the only one.”
Judge Cable pounded his gavel. “We’re not quite done yet, ladies and gentlemen. If you could please put the party on hold a few more moments.” Judge Cable rattled through the final cautions and instructions to the parties and the jurors. He thanked the jury for their time and effort with a sincerity that surprised Ben, since he suspected Cable almost certainly disagreed with the verdict. “Ms. Dalcanton, the State apologizes for the ordeal you have been put through. You are now free to go.” He slammed down his gavel, and at long last, it was over.
Keri stood beside Ben, poised like an anaconda ready to spring. “All right, Christina,” she said. “I need your permission.”
“My permission?”
Keri nodded. “Can I kiss him now?”
“Be my guest.”
Keri sprang. Her lips pressed against Ben’s with an intensity that took both of them by surprise. The kiss did not last long, but the passion behind it was strongly felt, just the same.
“And that’s just a preview, big boy. Let’s get out of here.” She tugged his collar, urging him toward the back door.
“Wait a minute. We’ve got all these documents to transport. There’s paperwork to be filed …”
“I’ll do it,” Christina said, with an expression not unlike a disapproving mother on prom night. “You two go … smooch. Or whatever.”
“Thanks, Christina. I’ll call you in—”
That was all he got out before the insistent tugging lifted him off his feet and halfway toward the door. And he was out of there.
Three
Never Simple
49
HIS EYES CLOSED, FATHER Danney sprinkled a fine layer of dirt into the gravesite.
“We need not grieve for this man, for we know that God cares.”
Ben watched as the assembled mourners filed past the grave. Keri was holding up well. He had been concerned; after all the stress she’d been through of late, the last thing he wanted her to have to endure was a funeral. But tragic though it was, her tormented brother was dead. What she needed now was closure, and Ben knew that would never come until the funeral was finished and Kirk was laid to rest for eternity.
The priest said a few more words, then concluded the ceremony. The time to pay last respects had come. There were only ten people present, and some of them, Ben knew, worked for the church. Still, there was a tangible sense of tragedy in the air—tragedy and relief, as if this was acknowledged to be horrible, but was simultaneously perceived as the final chapter in a mercifully ended episode.
Keri paused by the open grave. She laid her hand gently in the dirt surrounding the opening. Tears sprang to her eyes, but for once, it seemed to Ben, they were not tears of terror, not the horrified reflex of a young woman overwhelmed by circumstances outside her control. This time, they were simply the tears of a sister who much loved and now much missed her only brother.
After a long moment, Keri scooped up a handful of dirt and poured it into the grave. A short beat later, she walked away.
Ben met her
at the perimeter of the site. “How are you holding up?”
Keri leaned close to him, bracing her cheek against his shoulder for support. “I’m fine. Really.” She hesitated. “But oh God I’ll miss him.”
Ben pressed her head against him. He felt her warmth stirring his blood into hyperdrive. He felt more than a little guilty, feeling such emotions at a funeral, but it was beyond his control. “The pain will fade. In time.”
“I know,” she said. He could feel her moist cheek through his shirt. “That’s what bothers me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Kirk loved me so much. He deserved better than he got.”
“Keri.” He pulled her away and looked at her levelly. “I know Kirk was your brother, and you’ll miss him. But in many respects—this is for the best. What kind of life did he have to look forward to? Kirk killed someone.”
“Yes, Kirk killed someone—but he did it out of love. Because of me.”
“Keri, it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame.”
“I know that.” I didn’t say I was. But I still wish that somehow, some way, we could go back in time. I could do everything differently.”
“Don’t torture yourself, Keri. What you need to focus on now is the future.”
Her eyes closed briefly, as if in prayer. “You’re right.” She graced him with a tiny smile. “Can I see you later?”
“Of course. I have a couple of chores to attend to. Life as a landlord, you know. But maybe later …”
“Just give me a call when you’re ready to come over.”
“It’s a date.”
She pressed her firm body against him and gave him a long sweet kiss. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Ben watched as her black-clad figure moved away. It seemed as though the further she went, the sharper and more intensely her taste lingered on his lips.
“So, kemo sabe. Hitting on women at funerals now?”
Ben pivoted around. “Mike!” He reached out and clapped his friend’s arms. “When did you get back in town?”
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