MD04 - Final Verdict

by Sheldon Siegel

  “Yes.”

  “And my client has acknowledged that the lighter belonged to him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve testified that my client was found unconscious next to the Dumpster, and not in the car, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  So far, so good. “How did his lighter get into the car?”

  He takes a deep breath and says, “We believe that your client was in the car at some point during the events that took place that night.”

  “Other than the lighter,” I say, “do you have any evidence that he was? Fingerprints, for example?”

  Another hesitation. “The car was burned beyond recognition. It was very difficult to find any evidence that was salvageable.”

  “I understand, but you’ve just testified that you have no way of knowing how my client’s lighter got into the car.”

  He tries to correct me. “Based upon the state of the evidence, we have no way of knowing for sure.”

  It’s all I need. Now for a little more speculation. “Isn’t it possible that the person who killed Tower Grayson also placed the knife in my client’s pocket and took his lighter?”

  “Objection. Speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “And isn’t it possible that the same person drove away in the car and set it afire a couple of days later in order to destroy the last remaining evidence relating to this case?”

  McNulty’s objection is emphatic and justified.

  “Sustained,” Judge McDaniel says.

  “And isn’t it possible that the murderer left the lighter in the car on purpose in order to destroy it in the fire?”

  “Objection. Speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  All I do at this point is speculate. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  She tells Banks that he may step down, then asks McNulty if he has any other witnesses.

  “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”

  She looks at me and says, “I take it you wish to make the customary motion?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” I move for dismissal of the charges based on lack of evidence.

  “Denied.” She gives me an impatient look and says, “I trust you’ll be prepared to call your first witness after lunch, Mr. Daley?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  She bangs her gavel. “See you at one,” she says.

  # # #

  Leon is agitated in the consultation room during the lunch break. His spurts of adrenaline are often followed by periods of ambivalence. He’s leaning forward in his wheelchair as he asks, “Why didn’t you nail Banks?”

  “He wasn’t going to say anything that points toward another killer. I asked him as many speculative questions as the judge would allow. I was surprised she gave me so much leeway.”

  “Are you going to call him as a witness during our defense and take him apart?”

  “No.”

  He gives me a troubled look. “Why the hell not?

  “It will serve no useful purpose to put an experienced homicide inspector on the stand at a prelim and try to get him to admit he was wrong.”

  Leon leans back in his chair. His tone is modulated when he asks, “What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll call everybody who was with Grayson on Thursday night and Friday morning to see if we can shake them. Homicide cops are used to talking in court, but people like Grayson’s wife and son aren’t. Neither are guys like Artie Carponelli and Lawrence Chamberlain. Maybe I can tie them up or get them to point the finger at somebody else.”

  It’s a polite way of saying that we’re going to wing it.

  Leon remains skeptical. “And what happens if you can’t win this little battle of wits?”

  “We’ll hope that Pete can find Alicia Morales.”

  “What are the chances?”

  Slim. “I don’t know. He’s very resourceful.” I leave another issue unsaid. If this doesn’t work, we have no Plan B.

  *****

  Chapter 47

  “Are You Prepared to Call Your First Witness?”

  “Unless Michael Daley and Rosita Fernandez hit a grand slam, it appears unlikely that the charges against Leon Walker will be dropped.”

  — Legal analyst Mort Goldberg. Channel 4 News. Thursday, June 9. Noon.

  The mood in Judge McDaniel’s courtroom is subdued as we return to our places at one o’clock on Thursday afternoon. Bill McNulty may have scored enough points already to move the case forward, and it will probably take what Rosie calls a Perry Mason Moment–where somebody confesses on the stand–to get the charges dropped.

  My normal instinct to do everything that I can to get my client off has been replaced by a desire to find out what really happened. Leon’s agitated state at lunch has given way to a serene expression. He looks like a man on death row who has accepted the inevitable and wants to die with a modicum of dignity. He exchanges a tired glance with his ex-girlfriend, then he leans back in his wheelchair. His blank stare suggests he’s losing the will to fight.

  The murmuring stops as Judge McDaniel takes her seat. McNulty is sitting at the prosecution table and staring at a blank legal pad. Nicole Ward’s hands are folded. Their body language suggests they’re going to drop back into a prevent defense and run out the clock.

  “Mr. Daley,” Judge McDaniel says, “you may call your first witness.”

  “The defense calls Dr. Robert Goldstein,” I say. We’re going to play it by the book. We’ll try to show that Leon was physically incapable of committing the crime, then we’ll attack the physical evidence. Finally, we’ll give Judge McDaniel some plausible options. It’s the “SODDI” defense: Some other dude did it. If none of this works, we can always trot out Nick the Dick for comic relief.

  Bob Goldstein is a full professor at UCSF whose sole purpose in this melodrama is to offer his expert opinion that Leon did not have the strength to stab Grayson. He’s a chatty hired gun who is here today because I got his nephew off when he was caught selling crack at Sixteenth and Mission. He graciously agreed to waive his fee of four hundred and seventy-five dollars an hour. If you play your cards right, even doctors will work pro bonoonce in awhile.

  It takes Goldstein longer to recite his credentials than to elicit his testimony. McNulty offers only token objections as the good doctor confirms that he’s examined Leon and says that his terminal illness is likely to result in his death within four weeks. His jowls shake with authority when he offers sage wisdom that Leon could not possibly have stabbed Tower Grayson repeatedly. “He was far too ill,” he concludes.

  Goldstein’s diagnosis is good for Leon’s case, but bad for his health prospects. “No further questions,” I say.

  McNulty correctly surmises that he doesn’t need to browbeat Dr. Goldstein to serve his objectives. “No questions, Your Honor,” he says.

  We go through a similar exercise when I call a friendly evidence expert to poke holes in Kathleen Jacobsen’s fingerprint analysis. McNulty offers little resistance as the portly PhD with the huge head, gray beard and John Lennon spectacles concludes that the fingerprints that Jacobsen identified as Leon’s were smudged and therefore inconclusive. Smoke and mirrors.

  McNulty continues to feign disinterest and offers a half-hearted cross, during which Rosie leans over to me and observes, “McNulty thinks he’s already won.”

  “He has better cards,” I whisper.

  Our next witness is a college classmate of Rosie’s who spends her time analyzing blood spatter patterns. She’s attractive, authoritative and trying to build up her résumé by working on the cheap. She encounters token resistance from McNulty as she assures us that the spatters on Leon’s jacket were inconsistent with stab wounds. In a full-blown trial, the battle of the experts would have come out about even. In a prelim, the evidentiary requirements are relatively low and a tie goes to the prosecution.

  I run through a string of witnesses who offer expert opinions on everything from the pr
opriety of the collection of the evidence to the time of death. McNulty appears disinterested and in a display of confidence, Ward leaves the courtroom to prepare for a news conference. I’m racking up points, but losing the war. I finish our expert testimony at three-thirty and Judge McDaniel calls a recess. If I’ve impressed her in any meaningful way, she isn’t showing it.

  The deputies wheel Leon outside and we meet in the consultation room. He looks at me through tired eyes and says, “Do you think the judge has already made up her mind?”

  Probably. “I don’t know.”

  “Put me up on the stand right now.”

  “We’re saving you for our grand finale,” I say. “You always want to finish strong.”

  *****

  Chapter 48

  “Was Your Marriage a Happy One?”

  “My husband was one of the visionaries of the Silicon Valley.”

  – Deborah Grayson. San Jose Mercury News. Thursday, June 9.

  “Please state your name for the record,” says the bailiff.

  “Deborah Grayson.”

  I need to show that Debbie Grayson was so angry at her husband that she hired Kaela Joy to watch him. I want her to admit that she was looking for him on Sixth Street. Ideally, she’ll confess to his murder. Realistically, she’ll set the table for my next witnesses–all of whom had their own axes to grind against her husband. It’s a delicate high wire act. She’s the grieving widow and it will cut against me if I appear antagonistic.

  “Mrs. Grayson,” I begin, “I want to start by expressing my deepest sympathies to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Daley.”

  She’s wearing a black dress. You never crowd someone who’s lost a loved one. I’m at the lectern when I say, “Was your marriage a happy one?”

  She sips water and says, “For the most part, yes.”

  “But there were some problems?”

  “We had our ups and downs like every couple.”

  Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. “Mrs. Grayson,” I say, “is it fair to say that you and your husband were going through one of your down times in recent months?”

  She offers a barely-audible, “Yes.”

  I’ll need to draw her out slowly. “Could you please explain why?”

  McNulty objects in a respectful tone, “Relevance, Your Honor.”

  My voice remains equally deferential when I say, “Your Honor, Mr. Grayson was under a great deal of stress in his personal and business affairs. These issues are difficult, but they relate to the events of Friday morning.”

  The judge mulls it over, then says to her, “I’m going to ask you to answer the question.”

  Debbie Grayson’s dark eyes turn down. “The venture capital business has been slow,” she says. “His investors were becoming impatient.”

  It’s the opening I wanted. “Were they putting pressure on your husband?”

  “The largest investor, Mr. Lawrence Chamberlain, wanted Tower to step down as the fund manager. My husband was against it.”

  “Were you aware that your husband met with Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Bradley Lucas on Thursday night, and that he had dinner with them immediately thereafter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know what they were talking about?”

  McNulty’s up. “Objection,” he says. “Hearsay.”

  “Overruled.”

  She shrugs and says, “I have no idea.”

  I ask her about Paradigm and the relationship among Grayson, Chamberlain and Lucas. She says things were strained at times and forthrightly admits that her husband was accused of pilfering a hundred grand. She acknowledges that the episode did little to enhance his status with his investors.

  I segue into another touchy area. “Mrs. Grayson, were you aware that your husband’s fund had made an investment in a conglomerate called BNI?”

  McNulty doesn’t like it. “Objection,” he says. “Relevance. Foundation.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “BNI owns an adult theater called Basic Needs, which is down the block from Alcatraz Liquors.”

  Judge McDaniel gives me a troubled look, but then goes my way. “Overruled.” she says.

  Debbie Grayson exhales loudly, but she doesn’t fudge or parse. “I was aware of the investment in BNI,” she says, “and that it is the owner of Basic Needs.”

  Good enough. “Were you aware that your husband was frequenting the theater?”

  She hesitates slightly before she comes clean. “Yes. I hired a private investigator named Kaela Joy Gullionto watch him. She informed me that he was spending time at the theater.”

  So far, so good. “Did you confront him about it?”

  “Yes.” Her demeanor is impassive when she says, “He promised to stop.”

  “Did he?”

  Her shoulders slump as she whispers, “No.”

  I let her answer hang. I don’t want to appear too anxious, and I’ll look like an ass if I go into barracuda mode. I offer her a glass of water and give her a moment to regain her bearings, then I say, “How did you find out that he was still going to the theater?”

  “I met with Ms. Gullion on Thursday night. She brought photos. I felt betrayed.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My husband was having dinner at Boulevard. I wanted to confront him with Mr. Chamberlain and Mr. Lucas, but I lost my nerve. I went to the restaurant, but I didn’t go inside.”

  Her story is matching up with Kaela Joy’s. It’s a good strategy to stick with the truth–especially if you’re innocent or it can be confirmed by a PI. I ask her what she did next.

  “I saw my husband drive away with Mr. Chamberlain. I decided to go to Sixth Street to see if they were going to Basic Needs. I was going to confront him there. I waited near the entrance to the theater for about an hour, but he didn’t show up.”

  “Did you recognize anyone else?”

  A hesitation. “No.”

  I try to surprise her. “Did you see your son enter Basic Needs?”

  Another hesitation. “No.”

  She’s lying. I give her one more chance to come clean. “Are you sure, Mrs. Grayson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would your testimony change if I told you that other witnesses have told us that your son was seen at Basic Needs early Friday morning?”

  She takes a deep breath and says, “No.” She isn’t going to budge. She may be willing to acknowledge that her husband was hanging out at a strip club, but she isn’t going to place her son there, too.

  I ask, “Did you see your husband pull up to Alcatraz Liquors?”

  Another pause. “No. I was down the block.”

  I wait as she takes another sip of water, then I change directions. “We met over the weekend at your house, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I asked you about your whereabouts on Thursday night, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You never mentioned to me that you were down on Sixth Street did you?”

  She skips a beat before she says, “No, I didn’t.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “I was embarrassed.”

  I’ll bet. “Have you left out anything else, Mrs. Grayson?”

  “No.”

  I have to push. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like to get off your chest?”

  McNulty cuts it off. “Objection,” he says. “Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mrs. Grayson,” I say, “were you planning to file papers to divorce your husband?”

  “I had considered the possibility.”

  “Was there a life insurance policy?”

  She says it was two million dollars.

  I pursue it briefly, but there is little to be gained by browbeating her and a Perry Mason Moment is not forthcoming. I glance at Rosie, who closes her eyes. I thank Debbie Grayson for her cooperation. Then I look at the judge and say, “No further questions.”

  McNulty decides not to cross-exam
ine her.

  Judge McDaniel says, “Please call your next witness, Mr. Daley.”

  Debbie’s son hasn’t been allowed to hear his mother’s testimony and I don’t want to give him a chance to compare notes with her. “The defense calls J.T. Grayson,” I say.