“Detective Banta will testify as to another significant fact. When Mr. Wyatt was searched in the early morning hours of Sunday, April thirteenth, his pocket contained a medal. A small Russian military medal,” Jaime went on, showing them a size with his hands, “very old, a gold medal which had been buried with Constantin Zhukovsky.
“Very briefly, then, this is what we will prove to you in the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen. One: that Miss Zhukovsky was strangled by a killer who premeditated the crime. Two: that in fighting for her life Miss Zhukovsky wounded the defendant, who left his blood behind in her apartment. Three: that the defendant was stopped soon after the murder, driving away from the cemetery with remains from a grave in which her body had been buried. And four: that the defendant had in his pocket a medal stolen from the same grave.
“There are many other facts which we will prove in the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen. We will prove, for instance, that the defendant actually left his footprints at the grave site. But I have found that it is best to have in mind the ones which irrefutably must lead to a finding by you that this defendant killed this lady.
“This isn’t a complex case. The defendant was sloppy enough to drive around with his taillight out. All you need to remember right now are three facts about the defendant: bones were found in the back seat of the defendant’s car, an unusual medal was located in his pocket, and he left blood at Ms. Zhukovsky’s apartment.”
Jaime steepled his fingers and held them to his mouth. “It is a serious responsibility,” he said, “to sit in judgment on another human being. Yet you have accepted this awesome duty and I know you will carry it out with diligence and fairness. Thank you.”
The jurors, heads inclined toward Jaime Sandoval as if bent by a powerful wind, nodded, every last one of them. What a fine, upstanding prosecutor, their expressions told Nina. He’s only after fairness for this poor lady who that bastard-sidelong looks at Stefan-probably killed.
Somebody needed to correct that impression. Klaus, unruffled, ostentatiously examined his fingernails. Nina had been trying to write down Jaime’s main points, trying to keep the flood of anxiety down.
“Miss Reilly will make the opening statement on behalf of the defendant,” Klaus said.
“It’s customary for lead counsel in a trial to make the statement,” Salas said, thick eyebrows knitted over his reading glasses.
“We are an equal-opportunity defense team,” Klaus said, on his feet again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaime asked.
But Klaus, now seated, was enjoying a sip of water. Nina rose and looked down at the notes she had taken while Jaime was making his statement, which seemed so grossly inadequate she had to look up again, swallow, and read them one more time.
Flowery greeting. Right. She introduced herself and Klaus, and presented Stefan, who looked seriously at the jury, biting his lip.
She blanked her mind and waited for the words to flow like magic, unsummoned. This had happened to her many times before. In fact, she could almost rely on the trick, but apparently it only worked when she had already stuffed her unconscious with a prepared statement. Nothing came out, so she walked over to the jury box, put her hands in the pockets of her jacket, took them out again, and put them on the railing, clammy with fear. She forced herself to think about what the jury would want to hear and need to hear.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have already gone through a long process in which you yourselves were judged. You have filled out a questionnaire. His Honor Judge Salas, Mr. Sandoval, and Mr. Pohlmann have each talked to you and asked you questions. Many of the people who were called to jury duty did not become jurors, but you did.
“You were selected because you have demonstrated an ability and a willingness to listen with open minds to the testimony you will hear. You can be jerked left and right, but ultimately, your minds are open and you are thinking and weighing, and coming to the conclusion that fits the evidence you will hear. You have also shown us that you will be able to come to your verdict based on the legal standards that must be followed.
“There may even come a time when you don’t want to follow some of those standards. Like, for instance, the most important of those standards: the weighty burden borne by the prosecution-to show guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Please remember throughout this trial-you cannot convict Stefan Wyatt of the charges against him unless you find that he is guilty of them beyond a reasonable doubt.” She stopped to let the words gather their full effect. She knew the jurors had heard them a thousand times before, but here was a solemn context, a court case, a life at stake.
No, don’t get into the law any further, she told herself. Salas had begun to fidget on the bench. She anticipated the interruption forming in his mind and changed direction.
“I am not here this morning to talk to you about the specifics of the law, however.” She just had. She hoped she had gotten that all-important standard etched into their brains. “I’m here to tell you about the factual case which is about to be presented to you by the prosecution, and about the defendant’s case.
“Let me explain first that Stefan Wyatt will not be testifying in this case. He has the right not to testify, and later the judge will tell you that his failure to testify cannot be held against him by you.” Nina swiftly continued as Salas again opened his mouth and she moved out of line. “He will not testify in this case. It is up to the prosecution to prove its case, and Mr. Pohlmann and I will be responding to each and every point Mr. Sandoval makes.
“Before I tell you what some of our responses will be, let me point out important issues that will not be explained by Mr. Sandoval: no evidence, no facts, no witness will tell you that Mr. Wyatt, the defendant here, knew the victim in the case.” Pause. “No evidence will prove that he hid the body for a full day before burying it. No witness will tell you that they met or had a relationship, or that they had an argument and that there was bad feeling. Mr. Wyatt and Ms. Zhukovsky did not know each other. You cannot speculate that they did.
“Ask yourselves throughout this trial, Why would Stefan Wyatt kill this woman? He didn’t know her. You will learn that valuable goods and gold jewelry were left untouched in the apartment. In short, you will not hear that this murder occurred as a result of a robbery.
“Why, then, would this defendant kill this woman?” Nina held out her hands and shrugged, but the effect was lost when Jaime, behind her, said, “Approach the bench?” to the judge. It was payback time for Klaus’s interruption of Jaime’s opening statement. Salas motioned to her and, willy-nilly, she was pulled from the picture she was drawing for the jury.
Nina walked up to the bench, heels clacking.
“We don’t have to prove motive,” Jaime said. “Motive isn’t a required element. I request a corrective instruction so the jury sees this is all smoke and mirrors.”
He should talk about smoke, mirrors, and dirty work, but tit for tat, he had to object in order to keep the point count even, and she had to deal with it. “I am sticking to fact,” Nina said. “The prosecution has no idea why this woman was murdered. They can’t link the defendant to the victim. It has nothing to do with motive, it goes to the basis of the prosecution’s case, and we have a right to mention it.”
So no enterprising reporter could read his lips, Salas hid his mouth with his fingers, saying, “Stick to the facts. You’re arguing the case. I know what’s going on. You take your cues from the old man. You’re arguing the law and trying to prejudice the jury from the get-go. Listen. I won’t stand for it. You understand? Talk about what you’re going to prove and then sit down. Is that clear?”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Nina said, hoping she sounded truly grateful. The old game was afoot. The jury must think the judge approved of her whenever she could pull it off. Salas waved them away, and she went back to the witness box.
“Er-as I was saying…” What had she been saying? Something that had got her slammed against a wal
l-talk about the facts-take control, be bold…
“Four facts,” she said. “The prosecution claims that four facts will show Mr. Wyatt committed this murder. Well, three of them do link Mr. Wyatt to a grave in Cementerio El Encinal.” That got the jurors’ attention.
“Mr. Wyatt’s footprints were indeed found near the grave. Mr. Wyatt did indeed place the remains of Constantin Zhukovsky in his car. When stopped by Officer Jay Millman of the Monterey Police Department, Mr. Wyatt did in fact have a medal in his pocket which had been buried with Constantin Zhukovsky in 1978. Those facts link this defendant to that grave, the grave where the body of the victim in this case was found.
“The evidence also will show that Mr. Wyatt, who had been unemployed for the previous three months, had five hundred dollars in his pocket. It will be up to you to draw a factual inference as to why Mr. Wyatt had that money and whether it was related to disinterring the remains of Constantin Zhukovsky.”
Right, keep the fact that he dug up an old man’s bones and stuck them in a grubby duffel bag at a distance by using words like “disinter.”
Hmm, the forewoman’s face said.
“Digging up a grave for someone is not murder,” Nina told the jurors. “Someone paid five hundred dollars. Who? Who else knew Mr. Wyatt would be digging up the grave that night? Ask yourselves that question as this trial progresses.”
Nina stopped. She could not accuse Alex Zhukovsky of anything outright, because Stefan Wyatt wouldn’t be testifying to say he had hired him in the first place. Zhukovsky denied he had hired Stefan, and all the defense had was five hundred bucks floating around in a pocket that never otherwise sported such riches to show Stefan hadn’t acted on his own.
She had said all she could on that topic. “Ask yourself this, too,” she went on. The inner logician reappeared, unexpectedly. She wasn’t thinking ahead of the words that came out. Silently, she applauded that part of herself that worked in the background, a silicon chip, amassing information, collating, and on top of that, doing the work of a creative artist, figuring out how to adapt the information to best effect. “Where was Mr. Wyatt taking those bones? What earthly use could he have for them? If he just murdered a woman and went to hide the body in a grave, why pick Christina Zhukovsky’s father’s resting place? Why make a spectacle of himself, driving around Monterey with a taillight out and a set of human remains in his car?”
The jurors appeared flummoxed.
Excellent. As the trial progressed, somebody would have to come up with a coherent theory about Stefan Wyatt and that duffel bag full of bones, and it better be Jaime. Thank goodness that wasn’t her job. The burden of proof was on the prosecution. Sometimes the defense’s main job was to sow confusion, and that was the one thing she felt absolutely qualified to do in this case.
“Now, you will also be presented with blood evidence, ladies and gentlemen,” Nina said. “A forensic technician will testify for the prosecution that some small amount of blood found in the victim’s apartment turned out, after all kinds of newfangled DNA testing, to be similar to Mr. Wyatt’s blood. It’s always tempting to accept what a scientist tells you about a test that’s very hard to understand. I ask you not to do that uncritically.
“Instead, I ask you to listen with discerning ears to the testimony of the defense expert, Dr. Ginger Hirabayashi, a top forensic pathologist, who will tell you that-that mistakes can be made.” It was weak, but she had to say something about the blood. Actually, the blood evidence would convict Stefan if Ginger didn’t come up with an alternative explanation, and she hadn’t been able to do that right up to this moment, so…
Forget about Ginger. There was something else about the blood she wanted to say, something helpful. She turned toward Klaus, hoping he would be able to mouth some crucial word at her to help her remember, but Klaus simply waved, the king approving of his resourceful lackey.
“Right,” Nina said. Someone stifled a yawn in the back, which set the tip of her tongue to tickling. The blood, and oh, yes, where there was blood there had to be…
“Mr. Wyatt was arrested the day after this murder, booked, searched, and examined, but please note: here’s the evidence. He didn’t have a single cut or bruise on his body. He was not wounded. So how could he have bled at Christina Zhukovsky’s apartment late the previous night?
“Where did that blood come from?”
Nina put her hand on the railing and asked them the question she had been punishing herself with for the past two weeks. “How could blood possibly come from Mr. Wyatt when he had not bled?” She heard Ms. Frey’s jaw click as she processed the question. Nina didn’t move, holding them in that moment, Stefan’s chance.
Finally, Ms. Frey looked away. The other jurors cleared their throats and stabilized themselves in their chairs. Nina stepped back. “Thank you for your time.”
“We’ll take the mid-morning recess.” Judge Salas rapped his gavel.
Nina recovered from the haze of her thoughts to face the bald glare of the courtroom, smelling the sweat of people too long confined and the ordeal of their thinking. She felt worn out, as if she had run a long way on a boiling hot day. Gulping for breath, dry-throated and unable to speak further, she left the courtroom ahead of Klaus, who stayed behind to talk with Stefan. Her mouth tasted of burnt pudding, cinders, dust. Today stood out among the worst days of her life. She had winged an opening statement in a homicide case. She felt angry, relieved, used, and plain confused.
Making the curve outside the courtroom door in record time, she headed for the ladies’ room, hoping the reporter Annie Gee wouldn’t follow.
She washed her face and hands, got out her brush, bent over so her hair hung toward the floor, and started brushing her hair from the roots up. This ritual blood-stirring always calmed her.
The door opened. Annie’s inquisitive eyes reflected brightly in the mirror behind her.
6
Tuesday 9/16
“STATE YOUR FULL NAME FOR THE RECORD.” TUESDAY WAS A NEW day, and the courtroom smelled of smuggled coffee. The high windows let in a flood of marine light, reminding Nina that the Pacific Ocean, even in inland Salinas, was only fifteen miles away.
The young police officer, a new father whose eyes sagged with lack of sleep, said, “Jay Arthur Millman.”
“You may be seated.”
Millman, in full uniform except for his weapon, which had been checked, sat in the witness box and looked around curiously, as if unsure where the questions would come from. Jaime didn’t get up, but, marshaling his files and his papers, he let his witness know where he was.
Beside Nina, Klaus sat in his black suit, starched white shirt with gold studs, and a blue-on-red tie. Right on time and sunny as usual, he had brought nothing but a leather notebook with a large brass clasp and a fountain pen. Nina had set up the files in front of him. Watching him come up the central aisle as he greeted Paul, the reporters, clerks, and other lawyers, and seeing the affection and respect he received, Nina felt comforted. He was a legend, and there was inherent dignity in acting as his minion.
From the report Officer Millman had filed, they already knew what he had to say. Nina took rapid notes as Jaime whisked the witness through his graduation from the Police Academy and his two years as a patrolman on the City of Monterey police force. Talking about these familiar topics, Millman relaxed. He was shockingly young, twenty-three years old, thin-shouldered under his uniform jacket, his chin scraped clean.
“Now, directing your attention to the early morning of April thirteenth, were you on duty that night?”
“Yes, sir, third watch, twelve to eight A.M.”
“What were your duties on that particular night?”
“Patrol the downtown Monterey area, check the patrons at the nightclub on Alvarado when the club closed to make sure they weren’t driving away intoxicated, respond to any incident calls at the hotels or burglar alarms going off at any of the downtown businesses. Make traffic stops as needed. Keep an eye out,” Millman s
aid. Ms. Frey nodded, apparently liking this fresh-faced young man.
“You were patrolling with a partner?”
“Officer Kyle Graydon. He joined the force last year.”
“Did your patrol area include the city cemetery?”
“Yes, and the Catholic cemetery right next to it. The cemeteries are located about a mile from downtown, along Lake El Estero, just across from Dennis the Menace Park.”
“And during the first two hours of your shift did you pass by the cemetery? The city cemetery?”
“Yes, sir, once on the Fremont Avenue side and once on the Pearl Street side, where the park is.”
“Did you observe anything unusual during those drive-bys?”
Millman thought, then shook his head. “It was a quiet night. Occasionally, we get teenagers climbing the fence into the park to get onto the locomotive at the kids’ playground or just to party on the grounds there. Right across from the cemetery there’s a parking lot, and a grassy area with picnic tables where people come to feed the ducks in the daytime. Late at night, some come to make drug deals or sit in their cars. But that lot was empty on Saturday evening, April twelfth, and going on into Sunday. Like I say, it was a quiet night.”
“What about the parking lot for the city cemetery?”
“There isn’t one. You just drive through the gates-which are closed at sundown, by the way-drive through and park along the paved ways by the grave you want to visit. Or there are a couple of spots at the manager’s shack in the middle of the cemetery. But we don’t ordinarily patrol inside there at night, since the gates are closed.”
Unlucky in Law Page 7