Hell, they kick me off the job and I’m still the best damn homicide detective they’ve got.
Leary didn’t stop smiling the whole way home.
20
The trial of Brooke Raines proceed. Jessie called Deputy Medical Examiner Andrew Dale to the witness stand, established his credentials, and asked him to explain his role in the investigation.
“I performed an autopsy on Mr. Keeley.”
“Can you please summarize your findings for the jury, Dr. Dale?”
“Yes.” He turned to the jury box. For the trial, he’d manage to suppress his usual smile. Looking suitably grave, he guided the jurors through his findings, starting with the age, height, and weight of the victim and then getting to the more interesting facts.
“The bullet created an entrance wound just above Mr. Keeley’s left eye.”
“Your Honor, at this time, I’d like to introduce a series of exhibits,” Jessie said. “Images from Dr. Dale’s autopsy of Mr. Keeley.” She lifted two stacks of glossy photographs from a folder on the prosecution table and handed one set to Hughes and the other to the judge. She waited as both men flipped through the images.
“Your Honor, permission to approach the bench?” Hughes said.
Judge Armstrong looked from Hughes to Jessie, then waved them both forward.
Hughes met Jessie at the judge’s bench, where the defense attorney slapped the photos face-down. The judge flipped the switch that emitted white noise from a speaker so that their voices would not be overheard by the rest of the courtroom. “Go ahead.”
“Your Honor,” Hughes said quietly, “this is the same issue as the gun. My client admits to shooting Mr. Keeley. It’s not a fact in dispute. Ms. Black is obviously trying to shock and disgust the jury. These images are unnecessarily prejudicial. They are also cumulative, since Dr. Dale is here and can offer testimony describing the appearance of the victim’s gunshot wound without the shock value of the actual photographs.”
Jessie shook her head. “Your Honor, the photos are highly relevant and the jury, as the ultimate finders of fact in this case, are entitled to see and draw conclusions from them.”
Judge Armstrong raised his hands for silence.
“I agree with Mr. Hughes,” the judge said. “The jury doesn’t need to see the photos.”
“But Your Honor—” Jessie didn’t know what to say. Hughes was right that she wanted the jury to be shocked. She wanted to disgust them. She wanted the jurors to look at the starkly lit photo of Keeley’s head, showing the hole that had been punched into his skull. She wanted them to see images of his brain, which Dale had removed—the violent damage wrought by the bullet evident and horrific. She wanted them to feel sick, to gag, to squirm in their jury box. She wanted them to see Keeley as a victim.
Armstrong arched an eyebrow. “Something you want to add, Ms. Black?”
“Mr. Keeley is dead. He can’t testify about what happened to him. The pain he must have felt when the defendant shot him. The surprise and fear. But his body can testify. By looking at these photos, the jury can hear him—”
“That’s very poetic, but it’s not a legal argument,” Hughes said. “Judge….”
Armstrong nodded. “My ruling stands. Ms. Black, you’ll need to make your case without using the photographs.”
Jessie returned to the counsel table and reluctantly placed the photographs back in their folders. Then she took a breath and returned to face the witness stand. “Dr. Dale, a moment ago you testified that you examined Mr. Keeley’s body. Can you please describe your findings for the jury in more detail?”
Dale explained the cause, mechanism, and manner of death, then walked the jury through the same analysis he’d shared with her at the morgue. He noted the stippling on Keeley’s forehead and explained that it had been caused by gunpowder burns and bullet fragments. He estimated, based on the stippling, that the bullet had been fired from a distance of approximately ten feet. His testimony was dry and lacked the visceral impact of the photos, but she soldiered on anyway. What choice did she have?
“Based on your experience, is it typical for a gunshot fired in self-defense to hit such a precise target from that distance?”
“Objection,” Hughes said. “Dr. Dale is a medical examiner, not a ballistics expert.”
“I’ll withdraw the question,” Jessie said. “Dr. Dale, approximately how many victims of gunshot wounds do you see in a typical week?”
“Objection,” Hughes said. “This isn’t relevant.”
The judge eyed Jessie warily. “I’ll give you a little leeway here, but not too much. Go ahead and answer the question, please, Doctor.”
“It varies. Some weeks, none, some weeks, as many as ten.”
“So it’s fair to say you’ve examined a lot of gunshot wounds?”
“Objection,” Hughes said. “Ms. Black is leading the witness.”
“I’m going to allow the witness to answer the question,” Judge Armstrong said.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” The barrage of objections was meant to disrupt her and distract the jury. Jessie hoped the tactic would backfire and annoy the jury instead. She asked the court reporter to read the question back to Dale.
Dale said, “I’ve examined a lot of gunshot wounds.”
“How did Mr. Keeley’s gunshot wound compare, in your experience, to other gunshot wounds you’ve examined?”
“Most of them aren’t headshots, except for the ones fired at point blank range. Unless the shooter is an experienced marksman, hitting the head is difficult. Most shooters aim for the body—center mass—or just fire wildly. Especially where self-defense is concerned—”
“Your Honor,” Hughes said, “I object to the witness’s answer in its entirety.”
Judge Armstrong sighed. “Sustained. That’s enough, Dr. Dale. I think you’re straying from expert opinion into speculation. Jury, please disregard the witness’s answer.”
Jessie felt her hands tighten into fists. She quickly opened them, hoping the jurors and spectators hadn’t seen her frustration. “Your Honor, at this time, the Commonwealth wishes to introduce additional exhibits into evidence.”
The exhibits included the articles of clothing Keeley had been wearing the night he was shot—which were splashed with blood and brain tissue. Hughes objected, and they went to the judge’s bench again. White noise crackled through the speaker.
“Your Honor, I’m trying to establish the facts of the murder.” She heard the plaintive whine in her voice and winced inwardly.
“You’re trying to prejudice the jury,” Hughes said.
“I’m allowed to prejudice the jury.” Now she heard anger in her voice—which was better, but still not good. She forced herself to take a breath. “The rule excludes unfair prejudice and then only if it outweighs the probative value of the evidence.”
“What’s probative about Keeley’s clothes?” Hughes said.
Usually, the combination of autopsy photos and physical evidence from the crime scene was enough to drive home the grave reality of murder to even the most aloof jurors. In many trials, Jessie had seen firsthand the rows of pale, queasy-looking faces. But this trial, apparently, would be different.
She knew before he spoke that Judge Armstrong was ruling against her. She could live with that. The gun, crime scene photographs, and clothing would all have been helpful, but they were not necessary. She knew she could win the case without them.
“Dr. Dale,” she said, returning to the witness, “you are aware that the defendant in this case, Brooke Raines, has asserted a claim of self-defense. During your examination of Mr. Keeley’s body, did you find evidence that would support that claim?”
“No. I did not find any evidence supporting Ms. Raines’s defense.”
“Objection,” Hughes said. “Dr. Dale is not qualified—”
The judge raised a hand, cutting him off. “Dr. Dale, just to be clear, we’re talking about medical forensic evidence.”
“Yes, Your Ho
nor,” Dale said. “That’s what I meant.”
“Okay,” the judge said. “Go ahead, please.”
“Could you elaborate, Dr. Dale?” Jessie said.
“Ms. Raines claims that Mr. Keeley was physically abusive toward her. Generally speaking, physical violence usually leaves marks on the aggressor as well as the victim of the violence—bruises on the hands, for example, blood under the fingernails, or defensive wounds such as scratches or cuts. My examination of Mr. Keeley did not reveal any such injuries.”
“So there was no physical evidence on the body to indicate Mr. Keeley had ever been in any fights with the defendant, much less a life-threatening one on the night of the murder?”
“No.”
“Was a toxicology screen also performed on Mr. Keeley’s body?”
“Yes. The toxicology report came back with a zero percent blood alcohol content.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Mr. Keeley was not drinking on the night of his death.”
Jessie ended her direct examination of Andrew Dale on that note, hoping she’d made an impact despite the evidentiary rulings against her. She returned to her seat as Hughes rose for cross.
“Dr. Dale,” Hughes said, approaching the witness, “I only have a few questions.”
“Okay.”
“Based on your examination of Corbin Keeley’s body, can you rule out the possibility that Mr. Keeley physically abused my client Ms. Raines?”
Dale’s gaze turned briefly to Jessie, then returned to Hughes. “Well, I mean….”
“It’s a yes or no question, Doctor,” Hughes said.
“No.”
“And based on your examination of Corbin Keeley, can you tell the jury today that Mr. Keeley was definitely not shot in self-defense?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.”
21
Andrew Dale’s testimony ended on Friday afternoon. After the deputy medical examiner stepped down from the witness stand, Judge Armstrong adjourned court for the week. The jurors filed out of their box. Jessie watched them closely, looking for any outward signs of their thoughts, but all she saw was relief that they were being released from their duty for a few days.
Back in her office at the DA’s building, she tried to convince herself that she’d ended the first week of the trial on a high note, and that the jurors would spend the weekend questioning Brooke Raines’s self-defense claim. But as Warren and Rivera had warned her, it was clear she was fighting an uphill battle. Would the jurors even question whether Raines had really been in mortal danger that night in the restaurant parking lot, with no other option but to shoot Corbin Keeley in order to save her own life? Would they consider the possibility that Raines had she brought a gun with her in the expectation—maybe even the hope—that she’d have a chance to use it? Just getting the jurors to ask those questions was a challenge. The killing of an abusive man struck many people as a form of justice, whether or not it was a crime. Had Jessie managed to break through that belief? She didn’t know.
She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. The face of Carrie Keeley appeared in her mind. The teenage girl had broken through Jessie’s prejudices and convinced her to see her father as the crime victim he was. Now Jessie owed it to Carrie to do the same with the jury.
“Hey.”
Jessie looked up. Warren stood in her doorway, holding a mug. The pungent stink of his tea drifted into her office. His face looked tired, but a grim smile appeared when their gazes met. If he were anyone else, she might ask him why he was working late on a Friday, but he was Warren Williams—he spent every Friday night here. He didn’t ask her, either, and probably for the same reason. She and Warren were different in many ways, and similar in even more.
“I hope you didn’t come here to tell me about all the trouble I caused,” she said.
Warren sipped from his mug. “You caused a shit-load of trouble. Rivera’s approval rating isn’t just in the toilet, it’s halfway to the sewage treatment facility. His advisors are going nuts. It’s 24/7 damage control.”
“I’m sorry.”
His response was a shrug. “Don’t be. If we’re going to go down, I’d prefer it be because we insisted on doing our jobs—upholding the law.”
She had to laugh. “You don’t believe that.”
“No, not really. But I know you do, and I respect that about you. A lot. So does Rivera.”
“Thank you.” She tilted her chin at his mug. “Is that stuff working?”
He looked insulted. “You can’t tell?”
His body looked exactly the same to her, but she said, “Looks like you lost a few pounds.”
“Now you’re the one saying what you don’t believe. Forget the tea. Tell me about the trial. Are you making headway?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to tell. Like you said, this isn’t a typical case where all I need to do is prove the elements of the crime to the jury. This jury might not care if what Brooke Raines did was a crime. I need to make them care, and I’m not sure if I’m succeeding.”
“Is the police department backing you up? Where’s the lead detective?”
“Fulco? Probably submitting his resume to every law enforcement agency he can find.”
“Too bad Leary’s not with the department anymore.”
“No kidding.” Leary would understand. If he were still on the job, he’d be all over this case, working overtime to find enough evidence to make the jury’s decision a no-brainer. But Leary wasn’t a cop anymore, and even though she was tempted to call him for help, she knew doing so would be a selfish move. Leary was struggling to move on and to accept life as a civilian. If she recruited his help on this case, she’d only set back his progress and cause him more pain and regret. She’d rather lose the trial—and her own job—than do that to him.
“Anyone else you can call?” Warren said.
Jessie perked up. There was someone. A good friend, and a good detective. She picked up her phone and called Emily Graham.
When Graham showed up at Jessie’s office, she had a bag in her hand—white plastic over brown paper. She reached her free hand to Jessie’s desk, pushed some files aside, and withdrew several containers of Chinese food. A mouthwatering aroma filled the small office.
“You’re a life saver,” Jessie said, “in more ways than one.”
“Nope. Just a friend.” Graham dropped into one of Jessie’s guest chairs and pulled two sets of chopsticks from the bag. She smiled as she passed one set across the desk.
Jessie smiled back. “You certainly are that.”
The two women had first met working on the case of a school shooting, an incident that had traumatized the city. They had not liked each other much at first, but trauma has a way of bringing people together. By the time they’d beaten the odds and won justice for the dead, Graham had become a close friend.
Graham leaned forward and opened one of the containers. Mongolian beef. Steam rose into her face and her short, blonde hair. Jessie opened the other container and found chicken lo mein.
“I thought we’d share,” Graham said.
“You thought right. Thanks for bringing this. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d forget to eat. What’s Leary up to tonight?”
“Still at work, I think.”
“That’s good, right? He’s getting more enthusiastic about his new job?”
“I think so.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Graham said, “So, I’m here. You said you wanted my advice. Safe to assume this is about the Corbin Keeley trial?”
“I knew going in that it would be a difficult case. But.” She let out a sigh. “I guess I didn’t realize it would be this hard.”
“Probably not a great time to tell you this, but you’re not the most popular prosecutor around the PPD Homicide Division right now.”
“If I could have avoided embarrassing Fulco, I would have. Yo
u know that.”
“No one cares about Fulco. It’s the case. The detectives—especially the ones who’ve been around for awhile, don’t think you should have brought charges.”
“They’re wrong.” Jessie felt a swell of defensiveness. She didn’t like the feeling, and forced herself to push it aside. “Brooke Raines broke the law. Her shooting of Keeley wasn’t self-defense.”
“That’s what you say.” Graham jabbed her chopsticks in Jessie’s direction. “But some a-hole starts hitting me, I’m not going to stand there and take it, either.”
“Yeah, but would you shoot him?”
“Maybe. If he was bigger and stronger than me, and beating the hell out of me.”
“Keeley wasn’t beating Raines that night. The most he did was throw a rock at her, and even that hasn’t been established with any evidence other than her statement. There were no prints on the rock.” She stopped speaking when she saw the look of horror on Graham’s face.
“Are you listening to yourself? I read her statement. She tried to leave and he tried to stop her. He was angry and she knew damn well what he was capable of when he was angry. I mean, look at that photo of the ex-wife. What would you do? Hope to God you can get to your car before he bashes your head in with a rock? Or use the gun you’re licensed to carry?”
“Are you angry at me?” Jessie said. Her appetite, powerful a moment ago, was gone now.
Graham looked surprised. “No, I…. I don’t know. Maybe I am.” Graham put down her chopsticks. “I just never thought you’d be one of those lawyers who make domestic abuse victims look like liars.”
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