John Stone Law
Page 29
“Uh, well. Yes, yes there is, Your Honor,” Benji stammered as he slowly stood up. “The prosecution would like to withdraw all accusations related to the trace evidence of TATP against the defendant.”
“Your Honor,” I stood up and held up one finger. “With all due respect to the court, I believe Mr. Price means to withdraw the chemicals hydrogen peroxide and ammonium nitrate that were submitted as evidence, not TATP, which was never found in my client’s possession.”
The judge raised an eyebrow at me, then nodded, looked over at the prosecutor, and said, “He’s right, Mr. Price. Withdrawal of evidence for consideration has been granted and please try to be clearer with your wording moving forward.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Benji bowed his head and sunk back into his chair as Dodson shot a menacing look at me from across the room.
“Now,” the judge continued as she removed her glasses. “There has been a lot of conflicting evidence presented so far in this case, and I’m eager as I am curious to hear both sides support their claims. We’re going to begin with the prosecutor’s witnesses. Mr. Price, if you will?”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” the silver-haired litigator replied, then stood and addressed the court. “The United States calls its first witness, Amber Stockard, to the stand.”
“That’s one of my co-workers,” Susanna whispered in my ear as a thin blonde woman in a simple black dress walked toward the witness stand and was sworn in by the bailiff.
“Ms. Stockard, do you mind if I call you Amber?” the prosecutor smiled charmingly at his witness.
“Sure,” the petite blonde smiled back at him.
“Alright, so Amber,” he began to stroll around the room as he addressed her. “Where are you currently employed?”
“I work as a flight attendant for Central U.S. Air,” she replied and kept her small eyes locked on Benji.
“And as an employee of Central U.S. Air, do you know that woman sitting right over there?” Benji pointed directly at my redheaded client.
“I do,” the blonde nodded. “Her name is Susanna Jenkins. We’ve worked together for a couple of years.”
“And were you on the flight that landed on the third of July this year?” He probed and moved closer to the witness stand.
“Yeah, I was,” the flight attendant looked down at her lap.
“And was Ms. Jenkins also working on that flight?” the prosecutor inquired.
“She was,” Amber squeaked, then began to shake and cry softly.
I glanced over at Susanna and watched her fight back tears as she listened to her co-worker’s testimony, then tapped her knee lightly with mine under the table.
“Hey,” I whispered and gave her a smile. “Just breathe.”
She nodded and smiled back at me, so I turned my attention back to the teary testimony of Amber Stockard.
“It’s alright,” the prosecutor pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and offered it to her. “I know it’s difficult to think about, but what you have to say is important to this case. Can you tell me what you remember about that day?”
“Well,” the petite woman looked up at Benji and dabbed at her watery eyes. “Everything had gone pretty normally until we started to land. Susanna was in charge of putting everything away in the food prep area in the back, but when I went to check back there I didn’t see her, so I figured she was with one of the passengers or something.”
“Objection,” I stood up and declared. “Conjecture.”
“Sustained,” Judge Williamson nodded at me.
“Please only relay what you saw or heard personally, alright Ms. Stockard?” the prosecutor reminded his witness. “Now, you said you didn't see Ms. Jenkins where you believed she should have been. Where was it that you looked?”
“She was supposed to be in the very back of the plane,” the blonde answered softly. “So, that’s really the only place I looked.”
“Objection,” I stood up again and looked at the judge. “Speculation. How does Ms. Stockard know without a doubt where Ms. Jenkins was assigned to be that night?”
“Well, we--” the blonde witness started to explain hesitantly.
“Hold on, dear,” the judge held up a hand to silence her, then looked at the prosecutor. “Would you like to rephrase that question, Mr. Price?”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor,” he replied then cleared his throat loudly and looked down at the floor for a moment before he spoke again. “Amber, what time do you estimate it was when you realized you didn’t see Ms. Jenkins at the rear of the plane?”
“What time exactly?” Her eyes widened a bit as she touched her face with one hand.
“You don’t have to give me a number,” the silver-haired attorney explained with a smile. “Just a general idea.”
“Well,” the witness replied and pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes. “I’m really not one hundred percent sure what time it was, but I know it was a few minutes before we landed because that’s when I’d have noticed she was missing.”
“Thank you, Amber,” Benji smiled at her, then returned to his seat. “That’s all the questions I have for this witness, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Stone, she’s your witness,” Judge Williamson directed her dark brown eyes at me.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I stated and strode toward the witness stand. “Good morning, Ms. Stockard. So, let me make sure I understand. You said you looked in the food preparation area at the rear of the plane for Ms. Jenkins, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she answered and pushed a string of blond hair behind her ear.
“Alright,” I strolled toward the middle of the room, then turned to face the witness. “Did you look anywhere else on the plane?”
“I did not,” the blonde flight attendant responded.
“Now,” I mused as I made eye contact with the blonde witness. “Are there any other places on the plane that Ms. Jenkins may have been at that time?”
“Objection,” Benji stood and stated. “Calls for speculation.”
“Now Mr. Price, you know good and well you can’t call an objection during cross-examination,” the judge said firmly and frowned down at him from her high bench. “However, Mr. Stone, just to humor the court, please rephrase your question.”
“Ms. Stockard,” I thought quickly as I tried to get the witness to say that one magic word. “Onboard the aircraft you served as a flight attendant on during the third of July, what spaces are enclosed or hidden from view?”
“Well,” the blonde witness’ eyes narrowed as she thought through my question. “There’s the pilot’s cockpit which is fully closed off, the overhead storage, and the restrooms.”
“So, hypothetically, someone could be in the restroom, and you wouldn’t see them if you looked down the corridor to the rear of the plane, is that correct?”
“Yes,” she nodded slowly.
“Thank you,” I smiled at her, then spun on my heel and returned to the defense table.
The next two witness testimonies went almost exactly the same way. The prosecution had called one other flight attendant and a passenger that both swore they hadn’t seen Susanna before the explosion, and for each one I made them admit that she potentially could have been in the restroom. I looked over and saw Special Agent Dodson’s red face as she fumed and whispered angrily to the female prosecutor.
Mr. Price called his next witness, and to my surprise he’d skipped down three numbers on his witness list and called number seven, Mr. Henry Yang. This was not looking good for the old Silver Fox. He asked basically the same questions, then it was my turn to interrogate the witness. The bespeckled Asian man sat straight in the witness stand and mainly spoke in short phrases.
“Mr. Yang,” I began as I strode confidently to the witness stand. “We’ve established that you were on the flight, that you recognize Ms. Jenkins from said flight, and that you personally did not see her before the explosion, is that correct?”
“Yes,” he said and nodded.
“With the green streak?” the man leaned forward and looked across the room. “Actually, I do. She was on the flight as well.”
“She was,” I confirmed. “Now, do you recall anything that she did on the flight specifically?”
The Asian man leaned back in the wooden chair, closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. “Honestly, I had my headphones on for most of the flight, but I do remember looking back at one point, and she was banging on the bathroom door. I only noticed because she was screaming so loudly about having to--”
“Having to what, sir?” I asked and tilted my head. Even though things were going well during the cross-examination, my heart raced, and my hands shook.
“Well,” the dark-haired man hesitated before he responded. “She just really, really had to use the restroom, apparently.”
The courtroom buzzed with immature giggles and scoffs of disgust, then were silenced in an instant by Judge Williamson’s steely glare.
“Do you remember approximately what time that was?” I asked casually and ran my hand through my wavy dark hair as I tried to appear calm while my stomach churned.
The man thought for another moment, then looked up and said, “It was right before we were about to land, because my podcast had just ended, and I’d timed it out to last the whole flight.”
“Ah,” I nodded and smiled knowingly. “Planning ahead. So, in that case, you confirm that Ms. Myrtle Jones, who is that lady over there with the green hair, was banging on the left-hand restroom door right before the flight landed?”
“Yes,” he nodded and matched my gaze.
“Thank you, Mr. Yang,” I said, then turned and strode back to my chair.
If the judge didn’t dismiss my client’s charges after this joke of a preliminary hearing, I may just be in the wrong line of work. The prosecution’s entire case was so flimsy I was shocked the judge even allowed the hearing to take place. I glanced over and Benji had his face buried in his hands, then he shook his head as if to compose himself, and sat up straight in his chair.
“Everyone, we have completed the witness testimonies and cross-examinations for the prosecution,” the judge announced and looked at her wristwatch. “It’s 11:30 now. I’m calling a three-hour break, so we will resume with the defense witnesses and physical evidence at 2:30 p.m.”
“All rise,” the bailiff barked.
The courtroom stood and Judge Augusta Williamson shuffled through the door to her chambers, then I turned and looked at my colleague.
“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel,” Skip said with a grin.
“Almost too easy,” I shook my head. “I keep thinking they’re going to drop a bomb on us, no pun intended, but so far their strategy is just weak. Did you notice how bad Benji looks?”
“Yeah, he looks pretty rough,” Skip agreed, then grabbed his cowboy hat from the table.
“I hope he’s not sick or something,” I murmured.
“Probably just the stress,” Skip said flippantly.
“So, that went well, right?” My naïve client nodded hopefully as she looked up at me with her big emerald eyes.
“It went very well,” I smiled down at her and nodded. “Now, who’s hungry? The Radio Grill is right around the corner.”
“I’m starving,” Susanna said as she stood up and fluffed her curly hair.
“Me too. Let’s go,” Skip replied, and we exited the courthouse and headed toward my black BMW. “On second thought, I’m just gonna take my truck. That back seat of yours won’t fit these old man’s stiff legs.”
I’d called Destinee and invited her to join us for lunch as we drove the short distance to the Radio Grill and got a table for four. Skip walked in the door a few minutes later with Destinee right behind him.
We all ordered our meals, I chose a bacon cheeseburger with onion rings and a sweet tea, and chatted while the waitress passed out our drinks.
“I’m going to hit the little boys’ room,” Skip told us as he stood up from the table and headed toward the rear of the restaurant.
“Actually, me too,” Destinee agreed and bounced after Skip.
“So, what’s going to happen next?” Susanna’s voice wavered as she placed her hands on the table in front of her.
“Well,” I said, then took a deep breath and looked into her scared green eyes. “When we resume the hearing, we’re going to hear Roland and Myrtle testify.”
The redhead nodded and twisted a curl between her thumb and middle finger as she listened intently.
“Then,” I continued and leaned forward to rest my elbows on the table. “The prosecutor is going to present the laptop evidence to the judge, including your thumbprint, which is the only leg they have left to stand on. We intend to knock that leg right out from underneath them.”
She smiled at my attempt at humor, then turned her hands over and invited me to hold them. I gently ran my fingers across her soft palms, then turned her hands over and held them gently in mine while I rubbed her slender fingers. Her thumb felt odd, almost too smooth, so I flipped her hand over and examined it.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” she said and jerked her arm back before I could get a good look. “Just an old cooking injury.”
“Please let me see it,” I requested sweetly, and held out my hand.
“Goodness, okay fine,” she huffed after we’d shared a moment of silence and a staring contest, then placed her ivory hand in mine. A silky pale pink burn started at the tip of her left thumb and continued down to the heel of her hand.
“How have I not noticed this?” I asked aloud, more to myself than to my client. My heart started to pound faster as I quickly connected the dots in my head.
“Well, I usually try to keep it hidden,” she admitted, looked down at her burned thumb, and rubbed it with her pointer finger. “It’s embarrassing. I’m not a good cook, and my entire family thinks a woman’s worth is based on their skills in the kitchen, an--”
“Susanna,” I interrupted her rambling with an intense stare. “When did you start working for CUSA?”
“Um,” she pulled her eyebrows together. “It’s been close to four years now, I think? At least three. Why?”
“And when did you burn your hand?” I asked rapidly as the puzzle pieces fell together.
“It was probably a year ago now,” she said and looked at me curiously. “Why does that matter?”
“Because,” I said and thought my heart would burst from my chest. “The fingerprint on the laptop looks nothing like your left thumb print. If it was purchased in May, and you burned your hand a year ago, how do they explain your old fingerprint being on a newly purchased computer?”
“Oh my God,” the redhead’s emerald eyes expanded, and she put her hand over her mouth. “You are a freakin’ genius, John Stone.”
Skip sauntered back across the restaurant, then stopped a few feet from our table when he saw my enthusiastic face. “What happened while I was takin’ a leak? You win the lottery or somethin’?”
“Even better,” I smiled at him as I jumped up from the table. “We just won this case.”
“Boy, howdy,” Skip leaned his hat back as he grinned at me with twinkling blue eyes. “What’d you find?”
“Look at her thumb,” I said and pointed to Susanna’s hand.
“What in the--” Skip said after he’d put on his reading glasses and examined her burned thumb.
“Exactly,” I nodded. “Susanna, please tell me you had that treated at a doctor’s office or hospital?”
“Oh yeah, it was pretty bad,” she nodded. “I went to the urgent care at Baylor. It’s just right downtown.”
“That’s perfect,” I sighed and looked down at her. “We need to go get those records before court resumes.”
Destinee returned to the table during our passionate discussion, and we updated her on o
ur momentous discovery.
The waitress returned with our food, but my appetite was completely dulled from excitement. Susanna sat and stared at her food, then looked up at me and asked timidly, “Would you mind terribly if we just went ahead and got those records?”
“I was thinking the exact same thing,” I replied, then motioned the waitress over, asked her to box up our meals, and left some cash with Destinee to cover the table’s bill.
“Destinee, please take those boxes back to the office and stick them in the mini-fridge, and Skip, if we’re not back before 2:28, stall,” I declared hastily, then Susanna and I rushed out of the restaurant and sped toward Baylor Medical Center. My car’s clock read 12:16 p.m., which gave us a little over two hours to retrieve this pertinent document.
We found a parking spot after we’d searched for close to ten minutes, then quickly walked toward the administrative records department of the gigantic medical complex. Luckily, Susanna had been there before, so she led me straight to the office for record requests. After we completed a small stack of paperwork, paid the fee, and waited for almost an hour for a clerk to make copies, we had her medical records in hand and hurried back to the courthouse.
We pulled back into the parking lot of the Earle Cabell Federal Building at 2:18 p.m. and quickly made our way through security. Skip stood in front of the double doors of the courtroom with his phone in his hand and a worried expression on his wrinkled face. He relaxed when he saw us and strode forward to meet us.
“You got it?” He asked as he looked at the papers in my hand.
“You know it,” I grinned, then we all entered the courtroom and sat down at the defense table. I looked over at Special Agent Dodson, who sat on the far side of the prosecution table, and gave her an ear-to-ear smile, which made her huff and turn away from me with a scowl.
The courtroom hummed with anticipation, then hushed when the bailiff walked out and announced, “All rise for the Honorable Augusta Williamson.”
We stood out of respect, then she sat down and waved her hand at us to sit down. My hands were sweaty as I pressed them together and took long breaths to calm my rapid heartbeat. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to my father and asked him to guide me and help me choose the right words.