“Kent Edley was also a son, a brother, a cousin. His mother and father are sitting in this courtroom right now, awaiting justice for their son’s brutal slaying. A few of his cousins also made the trip, even though they live out-of-state.”
Her face turned to the gallery. Several of the jurors twisted in their seats to follow her gaze to a group of family members, their faces wet with tears.
“Now, the defense attorneys are probably going to tell you that Kent Edley was a lecherous womanizer. Before the Nolans try to paint that picture, I’m going to admit to you that Kent Edley was single, and, as you can see from his picture, quite attractive. He dated many women, and at least one of those women was the defendant’s wife, Maxine Hazenberg. I’m not going to pretend that I think adultery is okay—I don’t, but this question is irrelevant. Because the fact that Kent Edley was sleeping with the defendant’s wife cannot justify the defendant bursting into Kent Edley’s home with a serrated blade and doing this.”
Now Jessie put the happy photo of Kent Edley aside and showed the jury a photo from the crime scene. The room filled with noise—several people gasped, one woman screamed, and at least one person gagged. Hal struggled to maintain his neutral expression.
“Let me tell you what happened,” Jessie said. “Kent Edley was having an affair with the wife of the defendant. They met several times over the past year for sexual trysts. The defendant found out about his wife’s infidelity, but instead of confronting her, or Kent Edley, he began to plot. He carefully planned out a scheme of revenge, which he designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain to both Maxine and Kent. He was patient. He took the time to collect the tools he would need for the job—disposable clothing, coverings to minimize the chance of leaving shoe prints or fingerprints or DNA evidence, and the murder weapon.”
She held up another picture, this one an artist’s rendering of a nasty-looking knife.
“A knife with a seven-inch, serrated blade. Although the police were unable to locate the weapon, the Medical Examiner’s Office was able to re-create its exact shape through a study of Mr. Edley’s numerous wounds.”
The way she carefully navigated around the holes in her case was obvious to Hal—talking about “coverings” without any mention of gloves, use of a drawing instead of the actual weapon, no mention of the confession to Maxine—but he doubted the jurors would pick up on it. She was good with words, he had to admit.
“On the night of the murder, the defendant parked several blocks away from Kent Edley’s house in the Northern Liberties neighborhood, presumably so that he could make a less visible approach on foot. We will show you video footage captured by a local security camera showing the defendant approaching Mr. Edley’s house and later making his escape in the other direction. And you will notice a telling detail—the defendant is wearing different clothes. The evidence indicates he changed out of his bloody clothing, took a shower, and put on clean clothes before leaving his victim’s home.”
She paused again, letting the jurors process these details.
“You will hear from a witness who saw the defendant knock on Mr. Edley’s door. Mr. Edley, maybe expecting a friend or a delivery, opened the door. The defendant pushed him inside and followed. What happened next is almost too horrific to describe. But we know exactly what happened from the body that we found at the scene. The defendant attacked Mr. Edley’s body with the knife, stabbing him multiple times in the chest, arms, neck, and face, slashing him, cutting him. But that wasn’t enough for the defendant. He also carved Mr. Edley’s genitals off of his body. His penis and testicles.”
A sudden burst of sobbing erupted from the gallery, where Kent Edley’s parents sat.
“I know this is awful to listen to,” Jessie said. She cast a look at Hazenberg, and her expression was one of disgust and outrage. Hal couldn’t tell if it was real or manufactured—not for sure—but he sensed her sincerity.
“Mr. Edley, by the way, was conscious for much of this torture. We know that, because, as you will hear from the assistant medical examiner, Mr. Edley was screaming so hard that he ruptured his vocal cords. At some point, Mr. Edley mercifully bled to death. The defendant left his house, going away the same way he had come, passing beneath the same video camera—only this time, wearing different clothes. Mr. Edley’s penis and testicles were not located at the scene. We believe the defendant took them with him as souvenirs.”
She’s going to end her story there, Hal realized. Leave them with the image of his client walking down the street with another man’s dick and balls in his pocket.
“Again, I thank you for your jury duty and I apologize for the grisly nature of the trial. Let’s all accomplish what we’re here to do. Bring justice to Kent Edley and his family. Thank you.”
Jessie walked to the prosecution table and sat down.
“Mr. Nolan?” the judge said.
Hal gritted his teeth.
“Mr. Nolan, is the defense ready to present its opening statement?”
Hal put a reassuring hand on Hazenberg’s forearm—in clear view of the jury—and stood up. It took all of his willpower to look and sound upbeat and undeterred. “Yes, Your Honor.”
He walked to the jury box. The faces staring out at him ranged from skeptical to downright hostile. The balding sales executive who had nodded to him earlier now averted his eyes.
It’s fine. Every defense attorney faces an uphill battle.
“Hello. My name is Hal Nolan. The lovely woman sitting beside me at the defense table is my law partner, and my wife, Kristina Nolan. We are the attorneys representing Oscar Hazenberg.”
They stared at him as if he were some unpleasant specimen in a lab.
“Oscar Hazenberg has been accused of the revolting crime that the prosecutor just described to you in … well, in a lot of detail. But the key word is accused.”
Hal hesitated. He had prepared a blistering speech ripping apart a senile detective’s shoddy police work, and shaming the slutty behavior of Hazenberg’s cheating wife. But something inside him warned that what he’d planned to say would not serve him now, not after Jessie Black’s opening statement.
The jurors stared at him, visibly impatient as he stood in silence. A woman in the front row shook her head.
Hal licked his lips. He knew what Kristina would say. Have faith in our plan. But he didn’t have faith in it. He hesitated for two, three seconds.
There was so much riding on this trial. Everything was riding on this trial.
Screw it. Sometimes you have to go off-script.
“Listen.” He looked at the jury. “What makes America a just society is that the government can’t simply throw a person in prison. The government has to meet a high burden, a high standard to show someone is guilty of a crime. And they need to show it to you, regular people with common sense, who can see through all the fancy legal arguments and evaluate what’s important—the actual, hard evidence. Do you agree?”
He received some nods in response, although they looked reluctant.
“So. Why are Kristina and I here today representing the man accused of this horrific crime? Because the government does not have enough evidence to prove that he is guilty, and we need to show you that in order to avoid a terrible miscarriage of justice.”
He turned to look at his client with a warm, protective gaze that he absolutely did not feel.
“Guess how much evidence the government has that Oscar Hazenberg committed this crime? None. Zero. Hard to believe? The prosecutor just admitted it to you. She said Mr. Hazenberg used a serrated knife, but all she could show you was a drawing of a knife. Unless you believe my client inflicted those wounds with paper-cuts, this is not evidence. The prosecutor told you that Mr. Hazenberg was at the crime scene, but she admits that all she can show you is video footage of him in the neighborhood, and the testimony of one woman who thinks she saw him knock on the victim’s door. The prosecutor told you Mr. Hazenberg changed his clothing to hide the blood that anyone who inflicted those wounds would ne
cessarily be covered in, but where is the clothing? She doesn’t even know where the victim’s missing body parts are.”
He sensed some of the jurors coming around, or at least considering his arguments.
“You know what I can tell you? I can tell you where the clothing and the body parts were not found. They weren’t found in multiple searches of my client’s home, workplace, and vehicle. Look.” He spread his hands in a gesture of reasonableness. “The prosecutor apologized for confronting you with the gory details of the crime, but we all know she’s not sorry. Shock value is all she has, and she wants you to focus on it. She wants to distract you from the fact that this is an accusation without evidence.”
He felt Jessie’s glare on the back of his neck and dared not look at her. Hey, it’s nothing personal.
“The prosecution will not be able to meet its burden of proving the guilt of my client beyond a reasonable doubt. Far from it. So ask yourselves—do you want to live in a country where a person can be convicted of a crime based on the government’s say-so? Or do you want to live in a just society where a man or a woman is innocent until proven guilty? Think about that. I know which one I’d pick. That’s why Kristina and I are here. Thank you.”
Hal stepped away from the jury box and sat down between his wife and his client.
“What happened to the speech we spent all night writing?” Kristina whispered.
“Sorry. I—”
She found his hand and squeezed it. “You nailed it.”
Kristina tilted her head toward the jury box. Hal followed her gaze. Many of the jurors had changed their expressions. He realized his words had struck home. He had opened the jurors’ minds to the possibility that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was not to be taken at its word, that Jessie Black might not be as trustworthy as she looked and sounded.
He had created reasonable doubt.
24
Hal Nolan walked out of the courtroom with a strong desire to lift Kristina up, press her against the courthouse hallway wall, and lock lips with her. For some reason, courtroom action always turned him on—he was freaky that way.
But surrounded by lawyers, witnesses, victims and their families, and reporters, it seemed like a bad idea, so he settled for a chaste peck on the lips. Later, he would give her a victory lap she’d remember.
“That was nice,” she said, smiling up at him after the kiss.
“Just wait till we get home.”
“I need to run out and pick up the dry cleaning,” Kristina said. “Meet you back at the firm later to prep for tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
He watched her walk away and let out a sigh. Trial prep wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do right now, but Kristina was right—they needed to be ready for tomorrow.
“Hey, lawyer man,” a voice said behind him.
Hal turned and saw a creepy-looking bald guy coming toward him. He wore a ratty T-shirt, jeans shorts, and sandals, and much of his exposed skin bore crude tattoos. Hal felt himself perk up. First day of trial, and the new clients were already pouring in. This guy wasn’t exactly the cream of the crop, but the quality would improve after they won.
Hal extended a hand as the man came up to him. “Hal Nolan. Criminal defense.”
“Yeah, I know,” the man said.
“You need a lawyer?”
The man barked out a laugh. “You need me, lawyer man. I’m Ivan Coakley. Oscar told you to reach out to me, but I haven’t heard from you. Thought I’d make a personal appearance.”
Hal felt his enthusiasm deflate. Not a new client. Just Hazenberg’s ex-con buddy. His thug, to use Kristina’s term.
Hal had meant to call the man and explain to him that he wasn’t the right person for the job. But somehow Hal had managed to put off the task for days. Now, the man was in his face, right here in the courthouse. Not an ideal situation.
Up close, the tattoos were obviously of the handcrafted variety—handcrafted by convicts. They emphasized Coakley’s wiry but muscular arms and legs, his veiny neck.
“So, lawyer man, what do you need me to do?”
Hal cleared his throat, stalling for a few seconds. “Actually, Mr. Coakley, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I know your intentions are good and you want to help your friend, but the thing is, we can’t just use anyone as an investigator. We use private investigators that are licensed by the state, preferably ones with previous law enforcement employment or similar experience. So, while I definitely appreciate the gesture and will tell Oscar that we spoke, I really don’t think—”
“Stop talking. Jesus, you lawyers love to hear your own voices. You’re giving me a headache.”
“I’m trying to explain—”
“Explain what you need me to do.”
“What I’m trying to say—”
Coakley’s face hardened. Hal took a step backward before he realized what he was doing. There was something about Coakley, something threatening in the way he held Hal’s gaze, in the way he flexed his arms.
“I am your investigator,” the man said. “Now, tell me what you need.”
Hal tried to work some saliva around his suddenly dry mouth. “Well, I guess we could use some help.” Giving the man a task to handle wouldn’t hurt, he thought, and would buy Hal some time to talk Hazenberg out of using the man.
“Good. Let’s hear it.”
Hal looked around, then lowered his voice. “One of the prosecution’s witnesses is a woman named Angelica Witherell. She works as a caregiver who looks after a woman who lives across the street from the man Oscar has been accused of murdering. She claims she saw him at the house.”
“Did she?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t been able to find out much about her. Maybe you can dig something up.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something that would make her testimony less credible. Like maybe she has bad eyesight.”
“How would I know that? I’m not an eye doctor.”
Hal tried to control his rising frustration. “You’d investigate. You know. Look around. People throw away all kinds of receipts. I’ll give you her home address. Look in her garbage. Maybe you can find medical bills, something that can show she has glaucoma, that sort of thing.”
Coakley nodded. “On it, chief.”
Hal thought he heard an edge of sarcasm in the man’s tone. He didn’t like it. Watching Coakley stroll away from him down the hallway, he had a bad feeling he had just made a big mistake.
Later, Ivan Coakley sat in his Kia Rio outside the caregiver’s home. His gaze was on the plastic garbage can next to her driveway. To hell with that. No way was he going dumpster diving for some shyster lawyer. If the legal eagle wanted to rummage in the trash, he could get his own hands dirty.
Coakley would do this his way.
Witherell wasn’t home. She was working, which meant babysitting the old lady on the other side of town. Her house looked empty.
Coakley climbed out of his car. Before driving out here, he had changed into an electric company uniform he’d purchased on the web for just this type of activity. In broad daylight, he walked right across Witherell’s property. To anyone watching, he would seem like an honest working man doing his job.
He found a back door to the house that looked like it opened onto a laundry room. Squatting in front of the lock plate, he pulled out his picks and went to work. The lock was decent, but nothing he hadn’t seen before. Within a minute and a half, he had the door open. He put away his tools and walked inside. He closed the door behind him.
Let’s see a licensed private investigator do that, lawyer man.
Being a caregiver apparently didn’t pay very well. The house was shabby and the furniture well-worn. Is also smelled like cat. He walked past a recently-used litter box and wrinkled his nose.
He toured the house, looking for the kind of stuff the lawyer wanted—medical bills or whatever—while also checking for jewelry and cash, of course. Hey, just because h
e wasn’t charging Oscar didn’t mean he had to work for free. But he came up empty on both counts. On top of that, her medicine cabinet held nothing stronger than Tylenol. Total bust.
His stomach rumbled, so he returned to her kitchen and checked the fridge. He saw a bag with a restaurant’s logo on it and smelled fried chicken. Bingo, baby. Coakley carried the doggie bag to the table and ate the chicken cold. He loved eating fried chicken cold.
When he finished, he felt another biological urge, so he walked to her bathroom and took a dump. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
Time to get out of here. He stepped out of the bathroom and a loud hiss assaulted his ears.
Coakley jumped, banging his shoulder against the bathroom doorframe. An orange cat bore its teeth at him. Its fur stood on end. It let out a series of hisses and spitting sounds, filling the otherwise silent house.
The toe of his shoe connected with the animal’s face with a thump that vibrated up his calf. The cat left the ground and slammed against the opposite wall. Then it dropped to the floor, not moving.
Oh crap.
The cat’s neck was bent at an angle, and its spine didn’t look right.
Guess they don’t always land on their feet.
Now what? Leave it here? No, that would be a bad idea. Killing a pet was a crime, he was pretty sure. The last thing he needed was his parole busted because he killed some stupid cat.
He went upstairs to the woman’s bedroom, stripped the pillowcase from her pillow, and returned to the dead cat downstairs. He shoved the furry corpse into the pillowcase. He’d take the evidence and dispose of it in a dumpster on his way home.
Satisfied with his plan, Coakley drove away with the pillowcase on the seat beside him. Then he got an idea. It was such a good idea that it immediately lifted his spirits. He smiled all the way back to his rented room.
He waited until that night, when Witherell would be returning home from the old lady’s house. Then he made himself comfortable, sitting in front of his computer with a beer in one hand and a burner phone in the other.
Jessie Black Box Set 2 Page 53