Falls the Shadow

by William Lashner

  “You should let him help you any way he can if you have the chance,” said Whit. “I sense he’s a bit of a sad case, actually, a lonely man who likes to do good.”

  “I don’t know how lonely,” I said. “Not with Tilda to keep him company.”

  “Oh, you don’t think…” He paused for thought and then burst out into laughter. “Oh, my, you might be right. But what an odd couple. She must give him quite the workout.” More laughter. “I’d bet she could twist him into a pretzel. But, Victor, enough gossip. Old men talk about what others are doing because we can’t do it ourselves any longer. But a young man like you—”

  “Not so young.”

  “Bosh. So about the trial, did you find anything new to argue? Have you a theory of the murder that might sway the jury?”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, nodding, “we’ve stumbled onto something. Remember when you said your biggest problem at the first trial was that you had no suspects? Well, we found one.”

  “Really?” His eyes brightened with interest, he leaned forward. “Who?”

  “Someone not mentioned in the first trial at all,” I said. “A man named Clem.” And then I told him of what we had learned, about Leesa’s good friend Velma, about their attempts to relive their wild youth, about the man with the motorcycle whom Velma took on as a lover and then passed on to Leesa, about the fights, the intimations of violence, and the way Clem had up and disappeared suddenly after the murder. I watched closely as I told him everything. I worried that he might act defensive, might wonder how he had missed such a suspect, might think I was accusing him of failing at his prior representation of my client, but the only expression I could see on his face was relief.

  “That’s extraordinary, Victor. Do you have evidence for all of this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Simply extraordinary. And the prosecution, Ms. Dalton, does she know about Clem?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said with a smile.

  “Marvelous.” He clapped his hands and laughed. “I am so proud of you, boy. You have taken the case and made it your own. I thought I might be able to help, but I can see that I am not needed at all.”

  “Well, there is one thing,” I said.

  “Pray tell.”

  “François says the landlord sold off all his possessions while he was in jail, but I think there was stuff missing even before the murder. Any idea what might have happened to it?”

  Whit pursed his lips, thought about it. “No, no idea. Is it important?”

  “I don’t know, that’s the point. I’m just curious.”

  “Curiosity. Very good,” said Whit. “That’s always the key to being a good lawyer.”

  “Or a dead cat. Can I ask you something else?”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “This is a bit awkward.”

  “Go ahead, my boy.”

  “François. Is he…how should I put this?” I glanced around, stood, walked over to close the conference-room door. When I sat back down, I leaned close and spoke softly. “In your experience with François Dubé, have you found him to be a creep?”

  “A creep?”

  “Is that too loose a term?”

  “No, I think I understand. Why do you ask?”

  “My partner.”

  “Ms. Derringer.”

  “I think maybe she’s…I don’t know for sure, but…”

  “You think she’s become emotionally involved with your client?”

  “In some way, yes.”

  “That’s bad, Victor. Very bad.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. How serious is it?”

  “I think damn serious.”

  “François has a certain power. My wife felt it when she met him. She was in her seventies, way past menopause and already ill, and still she felt it. She said it was something in his eyes. The way he looked at her. Maybe it was his French sincerity, maybe it is that little flaw of gold. But you have reason to be worried.”

  “Why?”

  “Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the Shadow.”

  “Whit?”

  “It’s from a poem by Eliot, called ‘The Hollow Men.’ François Dubé can be a charmer, but there is something hollow inside him.”

  “Whit, she’s my partner, she’s my best friend.”

  “Between the conception and the creation, between the emotion and the response, falls the Shadow.”

  “What shadow?”

  “There are things I cannot tell you, Victor, you understand. My relationship with François remains as protected as yours. But these things, if you knew of them, in the context of which now we speak, would disturb you greatly. And these are not just stories I am talking about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There may be evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Physical evidence. I never saw it, mind you, but in the course of my representation, I came to learn of its existence. And the whole of the trial, I was terrified that it would somehow show up. I knew that its presence before the jury would be devastating.”

  “Where was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Whether it has been destroyed or hidden, I have no idea. But under any circumstance, you cannot let this evidence be exposed to the jury. At the same time, Victor, and I tell you this as a friend, you have good reason to be worried about Ms. Derringer.”

  “Whit, you need to tell me more.”

  “Between the desire and the spasm, between the potency and the existence, between the essence and the descent, falls the Shadow.”

  “Whit, what are you trying to say?”

  “I’m answering your question as best I can, within the bounds of my duty. You asked me if François was a creep. And what I’m saying is that you can’t imagine the half of it.”

  47

  I know how to open a bottle of wine—twist the corkscrew until the cork disintegrates, pour through a strainer. And I know how to open a new CD in its theft-proof package—fire up the chain saw. But the right way for a defense attorney to open up a murder trial, now, that’s always a bit of a puzzle.

  Some parts are simple. When the judge calls your name, you stand and button your jacket, step toward the jury. You smile at the fourteen of them, twelve jurors and two alternates, as if they were your bestest, bestest friends, even though all the time you’re thinking, How did we end up with these bozos? And then you begin.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Victor Carl. My partner’s name is Beth Derringer. And today we stand before you with the awesome responsibility of defending our client, François Dubé, against the charge of murdering his wife.”

  Now you have to describe the crime scene. You have to talk about Leesa Dubé sprawled on the floor of her bedroom, lying in a pool of her own blood, her neck torn apart by a bullet fired at close range. You even let your voice choke when you talk about the blood soaking her beautiful auburn hair. You can’t minimize the murder, you can’t dismiss it or avoid it—she’s dead, baby, ain’t no use denying that fact—so instead you embrace it. Don’t ever let the prosecution possess the murder, snatch it from them and make it your own.

  Then, and this is important, then you have to step over to your client. You have already put him in a suit, a nonyellow tie, you’ve had him don a pair of studious-looking glasses. Now you have him stand and face the jury while you put your arm around his shoulders. The prosecutor has already stuck his finger in your client’s face and called him a murderer, you have to do him one better. You’ve just barely held on as you described the crime, now you stand with your arm around the man the Commonwealth has accused of committing it. You don’t have to say a thing, the jury understands. How could you embrace this man unless you were sure he was innocent. How indeed?

  Because it is the job, ladies and gentlemen. If he smelled like a dog dipped in shit, I’d stand
just as close. But you don’t say that. Instead you wait there silently, letting the image sink in, before you start the usual tap dance.

  “I want to introduce you to François Dubé, a loving father and a loving husband. He is a chef, he owned his own restaurant, he is an artist with artichokes and duck, with butter and lobster and vanilla beans, with the very sustenance of our lives. But most of all, this is a man who loved Leesa Dubé. She was his wife, had been his lover and best friend, was the mother of his beloved daughter. He loved her with all his soul. He loves her still.”

  Now you have your client sit back down again. You don’t want the jury to look too closely, after all, you don’t want the jury to see his scarred hands, the insolence in his eyes, you don’t want the jury to feel the same way you feel about him. So you sit him down and slowly walk back to the front of the jury box.

  “Was the marriage perfect? Whose is? Certainly not the marriage of the Dubés. Yes, they were having troubles, we won’t deny that. They were young, and François worked crazy hours in his restaurant, and the pressures of a young child in the household often take a toll on newlyweds. And unfortunately, yes, there was infidelity, and yes, they had separated, and yes, they had decided on a divorce. But, you see, they had decided, and they were working it out, and they were both parents to the same beautiful little girl, and they were making accommodations one to the other. This happens every day, everywhere, to half of all marriages in this great country.”

  You look over to François and say, “It is a reason for sadness and regret, absolutely.” And now you turn back, raise your voice just enough to show your indignation. “But, ladies and gentlemen,” you say as you slap the rail for emphasis, “this is not a motive for murder.”

  Step back now. Take a moment to compose yourself, a little dramatic pause to let the bite of righteous anger settle upon the courtroom. As you calm yourself, you rest your hand on the railing and lean on your straightened arm. This last bit is quite important, as you want to look completely at ease when you begin to mention, however obliquely, the prosecution’s evidence. The prosecutor has stood before this same jury and listed the great gouts of evidence she has against your client. You’d like to ignore it, let it disappear, but you can’t.

  “Ms. Dalton spoke about the evidence collected by Detective Torricelli.” You step over to the prosecution table and stand right in front of him as you continue. “She told of all the things he so conveniently found after he determined that my client was the primary suspect. And you shake your head at such convenience, because it never happens like that in your own lives, only in books or movies, pieces of fiction created by quite imaginative folk.” As you make your point, you give the detective a smile, which is in stark contrast to the ugly sneer he gives you back. “But let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, what you won’t be seeing during this trial. No one will testify that he saw this crime happen. There will be no video or photographs submitted showing the murder. No one will testify that he saw my client anywhere near the scene of the crime at the time of the crime. None of those fancy forensics tests you see on television will prove that François Dubé was in any way involved in this terrible murder that shattered his family and separated for all time his daughter from her mother.”

  It’s time to pop a jab at the prosecution. “Ms. Dalton told you that the evidence in the case is wholly circumstantial. And we all know, ladies and gentlemen, what circumstantial means. It means that no one really knows what the heck happened, we’re all just guessing, and when anyone tells you otherwise, she is lying.”

  This is when the prosecutor hops up and objects. It’s fun to see her jump, like a frog poked with a stick. Hop, hop. And her objection is a good thing, even when the judge sustains it, because it allows you to shrug, and smile a little half smile, and act as if you and the jury are all in on a little secret that the prosecution is trying to hide.

  “Ms. Dalton told you that direct evidence is when you go outside and see for yourself that it’s raining, but unfortunately for her, she doesn’t have any of that type of evidence in this case. No one saw the murder of Leesa Dubé. And Ms. Dalton also told you that circumstantial evidence is when you see someone come in the front door and his hair and clothes are soaked, and from that you can infer that it’s raining. But the problem with circumstantial evidence is that the inferences drawn are only as sharp as the person drawing them. Now, we know that Ms. Dalton is a very sharp lawyer, otherwise why would she be pulling down the big bucks at the district attorney’s office and driving a Chevette?”

  This time, as the jury chuckles, you glance back at the prosecutor, so the whole jury follows your gaze. The prosecutor will be doing a slow burn. You wait, patiently, until her obligation to the truth forces her to her feet and she says, through clenched teeth, “Objection, Judge. Mr. Carl knows full well I drive a Civic.”

  Then you turn back to the jury, raise an eyebrow, watch as they all crack up at that. “A Civic,” you say, raising your hands high in the air. “I stand corrected. But even a lawyer as sharp as Ms. Dalton, tooling around town in her Civic, ladies and gentlemen, can see someone walk through her front door all sopping wet and assume that it is raining outside, when really she simply forgot to turn off her sprinkler.”

  Bada-bing.

  A fun little gag, sure, but all of this is routine, all of this any legal hack could pull off without breaking a sweat. But what to do now, there’s the puzzle.

  Do you play it safe and do the old Reasonable Doubt Shuffle, a sort of jazzy dance in which you raise your arms and shake your legs and repeat those two words over and again, as if the jury had never heard them before? It is the safe opening, the no-opening opening, which leaves you free to create your theory of the case on the fly. But with no story of your own to tell at the outset, you’re playing defense the whole trial, and by the time you figure something out, the jury might have already made up its mind.

  Or do you go right out and tell the jury your story from the get-go? If the story is convincing enough, and the evidence doesn’t contradict it, then the jury will do your work for you. On the downside, it’s like one of those cigars Curly Howard used to smoke—one contradictory piece of evidence and it can all blow up in your face.

  What to do? What to do? Do you play it safe? Or do you take the gamble? Oh, what the hell. It’s only François’s neck on the line.

  “Now, Ms. Dalton told you about François’s affairs, as if that was some big revelation. Yes, François had affairs. We admit it. He was a hound dog, even in his marriage. Nothing to be proud of, certainly. But now I need to tell you the other side of the equation. I’m not here to cast aspersions, the Dubés were separated, this is not a matter of blaming the victim, this is just the truth. Leesa Dubé, lonely after the separation from her husband, found solace of her own with another man. You will hear testimony about that, and about the nature of their relationship, and about the violence that was lurking within it.

  “Why did Ms. Dalton not tell you this? I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t think it important enough to mention to you in her opening. Maybe she’s a little too eager to discount anything that doesn’t fit neatly within her theory. Or maybe so quick was the rush to judgment against François Dubé that she and Detective Torricelli never took the time to even learn of this man who had entered Leesa Dubé’s life. But he existed, and you will hear all about him, and it is far more likely that he, rather than the loving husband, committed this horrible crime.

  “So this is what I beg of you, ladies and gentlemen. Listen carefully to all the evidence, and as you do, ask yourself who is the more likely culprit, Leesa’s husband, the father of her child, or the violent stranger who swept into her life shortly before her murder and swept out of it just as quickly. And when this is over, and you’ve heard everything, I’m going to come back to you and ask you to return the only verdict you possibly can, a verdict that finds François Dubé not guilty of the murder of his wife.”

  Mia Dalton was livid at my argument
.

  You could tell by her easy grin as she came up to me after the jury had been dismissed for the day, by her insouciant pose, by the hand calmly resting in her skirt pocket. Dalton didn’t grin unless she was angry, she was one of those lawyers who snarled at good news and smiled at trouble. At least I hoped so, because if Mia Dalton wasn’t livid after my opening, then I had done something seriously wrong.

  “You going to bring it into the courtroom?” said Dalton. “Give it a number, lay a foundation to introduce it into evidence?”

  “Bring in what?” I said.

  “My Civic.”

  “Liked that, did you?”

  “It’s always fun when opposing counsel claims I’m too stupid to figure out the truth of a case because of the car I drive.”

  “I wasn’t blaming the car. It’s not the car’s fault.”

  “Why don’t you tell us the name of the deceased’s lover who you claimed murdered her?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “If he’s a murderer, shouldn’t we take him off the street as a matter of public safety?”

  “You’ve waited this long to get the right guy, I suppose a few more days won’t matter.”

  “I suppose not,” said Dalton. “It’s never good practice to make a promise to the jury you won’t be able to fulfill.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Oh, I will, Victor, believe you me.” She winked. “And I’ll enjoy it, too.”

  I didn’t like that wink. There was something in it that gave me a chill. Probably the usual Mia Dalton intimidation, but still, as I watched her walk out the courtroom door, I suspected she wasn’t as livid as I had hoped.

  48

  Mia Dalton wasn’t a rock star in court. She didn’t hold the jury spellbound in her fist, didn’t shoot off pyrotechnics in the middle of the trial, didn’t croon out like a crooner her sad, sweet ballad of blood and murder. More stonemason than Rolling Stone, she left the fireworks to the defense attorneys trying to bring down the house as she slowly and carefully laid her bricks of evidence. And that is precisely what made her such a devastating prosecutor. In the confines of the courtroom, never underestimate the riveting brilliance of sheer competence.