Jessie walked them out of the courthouse. A roar of noise met them as they exited the building. A crowd of protesters stood on the sidewalk. Men and women shouted at the sight of Jessie and the two women. Their faces were charged with rage and indignation. They gripped signs that they waved in the air. Police officers approached the crowd, attempting to push them back.
“Walk with me,” Jessie said quietly. “Stay close and don’t make eye contact.”
They walked. The crowd grew angrier. Something wet flew past Jessie and struck Carrie’s face. The girl recoiled and wiped at her cheek. “Someone spit on me!” Her face flared with anger.
“Just keep walking, Carrie,” Nina said.
For a second, Jessie thought the girl might confront the protesters. But her mother tugged gently at her arm, and in the next moment, she was walking again. Jessie got them into the backseat of a taxi, then told the driver to take them home. Behind her, the protesters began to calm down. The crowd thinned as the police urged them to disperse.
A uniformed officer joined her and asked if she was okay. Jessie nodded. She watched the street until the taxi disappeared in traffic. Her body remained tense. One crisis had been averted, but something told her the worst was yet to come.
16
After pretrial hearings, jury selection, and opening statements, the trial of Brooke Raines began in earnest. Jessie arrived early at Judge Willard Armstrong’s courtroom in the Criminal Justice Center, arranged her workspace at the prosecution table, and mentally prepared for the first day of testimony.
A few minutes later, Aidan Hughes strolled in with his client at his side. Well-rested, with a smooth complexion, makeup, styled blonde hair and a flattering suit, Brooke Raines did not look like a criminal defendant in a murder trial. This was the advantage of house arrest, and Jessie knew it was more significant than it seemed. Appearances mattered. They mattered enough to sway juries and determine verdicts. Aidan Hughes knew this, too. During his opening statement, he had used every opportunity to point at his client, as if to ask, Does this woman look like she belongs in a courtroom, much less a prison?
Nina and Carrie entered the courtroom next. Jessie left her seat to greet them, giving a hug first to the daughter and then the mother. The hugs were genuine, not stage work, although she couldn’t help being aware of the gallery packed with reporters and spectators. Jessie watched the two women take their seats behind the counsel tables before she returned to her own chair.
She looked over her notes as the bailiff called the courtroom to order. A familiar surge of energy rushed through her body. No matter how many times Jessie went to trial, the thrill never got old. From her first moot court competition at Penn Law a decade ago to the murder trial in which she found herself now, her physical and emotional responses were mostly the same—her heartbeat galloped, her nerves tingled with adrenaline, and thoughts fired rapidly through her brain. Excitement mixed with nervous fear.
Only this time, there was something else, too. A feeling of uncertainty, of not being on sure footing. Nightmares and sleeplessness still plagued her. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she might be on the wrong side of this trial.
Judge Armstrong entered the courtroom. His black robes billowed around his lanky frame. He greeted her, Hughes, and the other people in the room, then instructed the deputies to bring in the jury.
As the jurors filed into their box on the left side of the courtroom, Jessie risked a glance over her shoulder at Nina and Carrie. She flashed them a small smile she hoped would encourage confidence in them and her both. So far, they’d come to this courtroom every day in support of the ex-husband and father they’d lost, weathering the dry legal arguments of pre-trial motions and the lengthy jury selection process, not to mention the protesters outside and the media sitting behind them. Jessie knew the first real test for them had been the opening statements she and Hughes delivered yesterday. Both women had quietly cried as Jessie offered the jury the prosecution’s theory of the case—that Corbin Keeley, a far from perfect person, had been murdered by the woman sitting before them. Jessie had not dared to look at Nina or Carrie during Hughes’s opening statement, but as the defense lawyer outlined his theory of self-defense against a violent, abusive aggressor, she had sensed the emotional turmoil of the two women.
Today, Jessie would call her first witnesses. Criminal trial procedure was mostly mechanical, and so were Jessie’s goals for the day. She planned to begin by establishing the facts of the shooting, while also chipping away at the defense’s story by pointing to facts inconsistent with a self-defense scenario.
“Ms. Black, is the Commonwealth ready to call its first witness?”
Jessie rose. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Please proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. The Commonwealth calls Detective Kyle Fulco to the stand.”
Fulco had arrived at the courthouse wearing a dark gray, pinstriped suit that made him look like the competent professional she knew he wasn’t. He appeared to have taken extra time to smooth his hair in place this morning, knot his tie, and strap on a nice-looking watch—probably more time than he’d taken during his so-called investigation before reaching his conclusion. She breathed in and banished the negative thoughts. Today, she would need to present this man as an authority figure the jurors should trust.
As he took his seat at the witness stand and was sworn in, Fulco’s gaze met hers. For a second or two, she saw animosity there—equal to or exceeding what she felt toward him. A moment later, the look was gone from his face and he was reciting his oath like a pro. He watched Jessie as she approached the stand, both of them hiding their feelings behind pleasant smiles.
Get him off the stand as quickly as possible.
Fulco was the lead detective—the only detective in this investigation. She needed to present his testimony in order to build the foundation of her case. But did she trust him? Hell no.
She started with easy questions about his background and career, then got down to business. “Detective Fulco, could you please tell the jury how you became involved with the Corbin Keeley homicide?”
Fulco turned toward the jury. “After uniformed officers responded to 911 calls and secured the scene, I was sent in as the homicide detective.”
“You were the lead investigator?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“October 14. Maybe fifteen minutes after the scene was secured. Things move quickly when a person is shot in a public place. I drove to the scene, a parking lot outside a restaurant called Bistro Cannata, and once there, I began my investigation.”
Jessie walked him through the steps of his so-called investigation, hoping they would seem more thorough to the jury than she’d found them to be. He described the murder weapon recovered at the scene, and Jessie used him to authenticate Brooke Raines’s pistol and admit it into evidence.
“Did Ms. Raines deny that she used the weapon you recovered to shoot Mr. Keeley?”
“No. She told us that’s what she did.”
“I’d like to show the murder weapon to the jury, You Honor.”
“Objection!” Hughes said. “Any probative value would be substantially outweighed by the danger of unfair prejudice.”
A murmur ran through the gallery. She could feel the combined attention focus on the well of the courtroom, where she and Hughes now faced each other.
“Your Honor,” she said, “this is a murder trial, and the weapon is highly relevant evidence. The jury should be permitted to see it. As Your Honor knows, under the rules of evidence, the court must resolve all doubt in favor of admission.”
“Permission to approach the bench?” Hughes said.
Judge Armstrong waved them forward. He touched a switch on his podium that caused white noise to play from a speaker, covering their voices so the jury—and the people in the gallery—couldn’t hear. “I’m inclined to agree with Ms. Black,” the judge said. “The murder weapon is generally consid
ered to be relevant evidence in a murder trial.”
“Generally, maybe that’s true,” Hughes said. “But in this trial, we’re admitting that my client shot Mr. Keeley with that gun. It’s not a fact in dispute. So the only purpose for showing the gun to the jury is to try to stir up an emotional response. Fear, disgust, whatever. That’s Ms. Black’s goal here.”
Hughes wasn’t wrong. Jessie wanted the jurors to touch the weapon, to look at its cold, black shape, and to feel its weight. She wanted to drive home the reality of the case and make them focus on Raines’s violence instead of Keeley’s. But she also had a legal justification. “The defendant’s intent is a fact in dispute, Your Honor. I want to give the jurors an opportunity to put themselves in Ms. Raines’s place. To think about and understand what it feels like to hold her gun. A gun she brought with her on the night of the killing because she intended to use it.”
Jessie kept her expression neutral as she watched the judge mull their arguments.
Judge Armstrong said, “Mr. Hughes is right that the jury is already aware of the fact that Ms. Raines used a gun to shoot Mr. Keeley. I have to agree with the defense on this one. Seeing the gun and holding it in their hands won’t provide them with any additional facts, and could result in Ms. Raines’s being denied a fair trial. The danger of unfair prejudice outweighs the probative value.”
Jessie felt her jaw tighten. In her opinion, the judge had just made a bad ruling, and she wondered if it was indicative of his feelings about the case in general. She forced herself to smile and nod. She and Hughes returned to their courtroom positions.
“We’ll move on,” she said. “Detective Fulco, what did Ms. Raines tell you?”
“She told us she shot Mr. Keeley in self-defense.” Jessie held her breath as Fulco went on to describe Raines’s self-defense claim. If he was going to make a mistake, he would do it now. She relaxed as he delivered a dry recitation of Raines’s claims. The alleged drinking, the alleged pursuit out of the restaurant, the alleged confrontation in the parking lot ending in a thrown rock and a fired bullet.
“Did you find Ms. Raines’s story credible?”
“At first I did. She was very convincing. But afterward, we discovered inconsistencies that led me to doubt her claims.”
“Can you describe some of those inconsistencies?”
He did—conveniently omitting that Jessie had been the one to track them down. “It turned out, based on the toxicology report, that Mr. Keeley had not been drinking that night. Witnesses at the restaurant didn’t report a loud argument, and they saw Keeley walk calmly out after Ms. Raines, rather than chasing her in a menacing way. No fingerprints were found on the rock he supposedly threw at her.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
Jessie returned to her seat, and Hughes popped up. He looked eager to put Fulco to the test.
17
The packed gallery of the courtroom buzzed with anticipation as Aidan Hughes left the defense table, where his client sat rigidly in her chair, and strode toward the witness stand. Kyle Fulco watched him approach. A shadow of trepidation crossed the detective’s face.
“Detective Fulco,” Hughes said, “is it true that when you arrived at Bistro Cannata, Ms. Raines turned herself in voluntarily?”
Fulco leaned forward. His hands fidgeted. “Actually, uniformed police officers brought her over to us.”
“But she had not attempted to flee the scene, isn’t that correct?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“And you stated that Ms. Raines immediately informed you that the shooting was an act of self-defense, correct?”
“Yes.”
“She told you that she shot Mr. Keeley because he was attacking her. He had actually thrown a heavy rock at her head, which thankfully missed. She was afraid that her life was in immediate danger. Isn’t that what she told you?”
“Yes, she said that.”
“You interrogated Ms. Raines, did you not?”
Fulco looked uncomfortable. “Yes. As I said a moment ago, I interviewed her at police headquarters where she offered her confession.”
“For how long did you interview her, approximately? One hour? Two hours?”
“Two or three hours,” Fulco said.
“A long time,” Hughes said. He looked at the jury, then back to Fulco. “Detective, did Ms. Raines tell you why she was afraid of Mr. Keeley?”
“Yes.”
“Did Ms. Raines tell you that Mr. Keeley had threatened her, and been physically abusive with her, during their relationship?”
Fulco glanced at Jessie, hesitating. The urge to object to the question was powerful, but Jessie resisted. She could argue hearsay, relevance, undue prejudice, and a handful of other bases, but Hughes would respond with exceptions to all of her objections. She knew this because the issues had already been argued and decided in several lengthy pretrial hearings. Armstrong would allow the testimony. She had succeeded in keeping Keeley’s abuse of his ex-wife out of the trial, but she couldn’t hide his abusive history with Raines from the jury. She remained in her seat.
“Yes,” Fulco said. “But there was no record to support her claim. Ms. Raines never called in a domestic violence complaint—”
“It was a yes or no question, Detective Fulco.”
“Yes.”
“During the two or three hour interrogation of Ms. Raines, did her story—that she shot Mr. Keeley because she was afraid that her life was in immediate danger—did you find that story believable?”
“No.”
“Really? But you released her, didn’t you? In fact, you didn’t charge Ms. Raines until about a month after the shooting, isn’t that right?”
“The investigation—”
“Yes or no, please,” Hughes said.
Fulco’s gaze darted to Jessie, his expression a call for help. She rose from her chair and said, “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance.”
“The delay between Detective Fulco’s original investigation of the shooting, which did not end in criminal charges, and his sudden change of heart a month later, is relevant to the credibility of his testimony,” Hughes said.
The judge seemed to consider. “I’ll allow it for the time being. Please answer the question, Detective.”
“Yes.” Fulco bit out the word. “The arrest came later.”
“A month later, correct?” Hughes said.
“About a month, yes.” Fulco’s gaze found Jessie again, and for a brief second, his eyes seemed to spark with anger.
“In fact,” Hughes went on, “there was a substantial—some would say suspicious—delay between the shooting, to which Ms. Raines readily confessed, and the arrest, wasn’t there?”
“Objection.” Jessie rose again. “Detective Fulco already testified that there was a delay. Mr. Hughes is attempting to inject argument into his questions.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Please move along, Mr. Hughes.”
“No problem, Your Honor. Detective Fulco, isn’t it true that the reason for this lengthy delay is that the police department, working in coordination with the district attorney’s office, had originally closed the investigation based on your determination that Mr. Keeley had been shot in self-defense, and that therefore no crime had been committed?”
“That was before additional evidence came to light—”
“Yes or no, Detective.”
Both Jessie and Fulco had known this moment would come. As much as Jessie wished she could spare Fulco from the embarrassment—and avoid the doubt it might instill in the jury—there was no way they could avoid the truth. Fulco would need to admit, under oath, that his original conclusion had been wrong.
“Yes.”
“That seems inconsistent. I mean, first you concluded that Ms. Raines did not commit any crime, and a month later you just changed your mind completely?”
“Additional evidence came to light.”
Hughes dismissed the comment with a wave. “I’ll take that as a yes. Is it
true that the decision to reopen the case actually came from the district attorney’s office, rather than from you?”
“No. I don’t take orders from—”
“The district attorney’s office stepped in, didn’t it, because the prosecutor in this case, Jessica Black, disagreed with your findings and believed your conclusions were incorrect?”
“Objection,” Jessie said.
Hughes wasn’t finished. “As I recall,” he said, talking over her, “the DA is up for reelection, isn’t he? Maybe he’s trying to make some kind of dramatic statement, although personally I can’t understand why he would target a victim of domestic abuse.”
“Objection! Mr. Hughes is overstepping—”
Judge Armstrong banged his gavel until they both stopped speaking. Turning to the jurors, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, only witnesses are allowed to offer testimony here, not lawyers. Nothing Mr. Hughes just said constitutes evidence in this case. I am instructing you to disregard what you just heard.” To Hughes, he said, “This is a warning, Mr. Hughes. You only get one. Don’t you dare cross the line again.”
“I apologize, Your Honor. My passion got the best of me.”
Armstrong offered Jessie a sympathetic look. They both knew his instruction could not erase the effect of the defense attorney’s stunt on the jury. It was impossible to un-ring the bell. “Okay,” the judge said. “Let’s move on.”
Hughes turned to the witness stand, where Detective Fulco was fuming. “Thank you, Detective. No more questions.”
“Ms. Black,” Judge Armstrong said, “I assume the Commonwealth would like to redirect?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Go ahead.”
Jessie approached the witness stand, hoping to accomplish some damage control. Fulco glared back at her as if she’d just destroyed his career—and maybe she had. “Detective Fulco, did you see any physical evidence that Ms. Raines had been abused by Mr. Keeley, or by anybody?”
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