To Sleep... Perchance to Die

  “Why? I thought I didn’t have to be there for the selection,” Bret challenged.

  “You’re right. We can keep you out of the process, but there are good reasons for you to be there. Potential jurors will get to see you before the trial. Maybe one will bond with you. Another reason is you resided in this area. You may be aware of an important fact about a candidate I’m not familiar with or may notice something I’ve overlooked. As I said, winning or losing is often a function of proper jury selection.” With a sympathetic expression, he added, “We’re talking life without parole.”

  Although his hands and feet would be, as Hubie put it, “tastefully cuffed,” he said Bret would be allowed to wear civilian clothes, not the orange jump suit he had been wearing in the courtroom.

  “There will be the normal contingent of security officers near the exits. If you don’t give them any trouble, they’ll let you be.”

  Hubie continued, “You’ll be sitting in the back of the selection room off to one side where I have a clear view you. If for any reason you’re adamant someone should not be on the jury, casually rest your hands on your left knee. I’ll arrange for that person to be disqualified. Remember, it’s the only time you should place your hands on the left knee.” With a chuckle, he said, “Otherwise, you might have me disqualifying the entire pool. Good jurors, by that I mean those who will vote not guilty, are hard to come by.”

  He became serious, “Lots of people try to get out of jury duty. On the other hand, there are those who want to become part of the jury in a well-publicized case like ours. They plan to get rich writing a book. We try to avoid people like that if we can. A guilty verdict sells more books than an innocent one.”

  Bret snickered.

  “I should mention another thing. Some candidates will say what they think you want to hear in order to get picked. Often, they’re lying because they have an agenda. We’ll avoid them, too, if they can be identified.”

  Shaking his head, Bret said, “I never realized picking a jury was so complicated.”

  Hubie said, “I guess all we can hope for is to find people willing to keep an open mind about our side of the argument. In any event, I’ll periodically confer with you to ensure we’re on the same page.”

  “Why will I be so far away from you? Why the secrecy?”

  “Because if someone we object to gets picked anyway, I don’t want him or her to know it was you who objected. I’d rather have them think it was me. I’m a lawyer and used to being disliked. Jurors are human, and the one you wanted off the jury might get even by finding you guilty.”

  Bret accepted the wisdom of his uncle’s words and said, “I’ll help. It will be sort of like a catcher giving signals to a pitcher.”

  Hubie’s wry answer was, “Sure, just like that.”

  The day’s work had ended. Hubie retrieved his jacket, buttoned his shirt and tightened his tie before going to the door and signaling the corrections officer to open it. He turned to Bret, “Of course, if you have something better to do, I would understand.”

  As his uncle exited the room, Bret quipped, “Ha, ha, you’re so funny.” It was another proof his uncle was a graduate of the Leave Them Laughing School for Lawyers who thought they were stand-up comedians as well as officers of the court. He knew the reason for Hubie’s humorous asides. They were part of his uncle’s many techniques, which included the chess set and bringing the occasional pizza to their meetings, to keep his spirits up. It was critical that he be able to withstand the coming ordeal.

  Selecting a jury took eight business days. There were moments when Bret thought the prosecutors and Hubie’s people were going to come to blows. It never happened. Each side knew when to back off. Bret looked upon it as the legal equivalent of a game of chicken. The last juror was selected on Wednesday and the trial was scheduled to begin the following Monday. The panel consisted of seven women and five men.

  Hubie was pleased more women than men had been picked. “It’s a generalization, but jury research indicates women are more likely to wait until all the evidence is in before making a decision. That means I have the whole trial to plant seeds of doubt.”

  The jurors were admonished to avoid anything pertaining to the case until reporting to the judicial building. They were to be prepared for sequestering for what promised to be a long trial. As for Bret, his stomach was churning acid in increasing amounts as the day of the trial approached.

  The trial was destined to be four and a half weeks of pure agony for Bret. Before it began, prosecutors appeared on most of the news shows hawking their air-tight case. He was certain it was part of a strategy to push his buttons and bring havoc to his sleep patterns

  He was to wear his most conservative suits and was given the herculean task of appearing attentive, relaxed, friendly, and nonaggressive. Angry outbursts were forbidden as was whispering in the ear of any of his defense team.

  The first morning, a small but vocal lesbian group marched in a circle in front of the Superior Court building. Their placards proclaimed Bret was a homophobe and deserved the nastiest of punishments. For them, burning at the stake would have been inadequate retribution. Authorities disbanded the lesbians when it was discovered they didn’t have a permit to protest, but not before they were interviewed by what seemed every media outlet in the world.

  Most of the faces in the courtroom were unfriendly. The pleasant ones consisted of his family and the few true Windham friends who believed in him. Bob Dillon attended a portion of most morning sessions. He sat in an obscure area of the courtroom and monitored the proceedings. The purpose was to refine areas of his ongoing investigation. True to his profession, he took pains to appear he was one of the interested public allowed to observe the trial. Many of Frankie’s relatives were in attendance and their unhidden anger caused a negative atmosphere to permeate the room.

  The morning of the second day, he and Hubie were sitting at their table reviewing strategy. The judge hadn’t arrived and the courtroom was empty except for security personnel. Hubie turned to Bret and said, “You did a good job yesterday by keeping your cool and basically looking innocent.”

  Shaking his head, Bret said, “It isn’t easy when you are constantly being referred to as the most dastardly human being since Jack the Ripper. A few times it took all my effort not to jump out of my chair and shout that the witness was lying.” Bret was agitated, “Especially when they brought up how I supposedly got the cyanide. Their drug enforcement agents testified I could have purchased cyanide when I was in Las Vegas and sneaked it on the plane. As long as I had the money, they said, I could have bought just about anything there, including cyanide. They had the record of my ATM withdrawal, and no one, including the investigators you have on the case, was able to find the call girl I paid with the money, or Sal the Bellman. He no longer works there and left for parts unknown. God, that didn’t endear me to the jury. What must they think of me?”

  Bret shook his head several times, “They don’t know me. I’m a decent man,” he slapped his hand on the table, “As for the cyanide, I’d be afraid to handle it or even be near it. A whiff could kill you.”

  Bret stopped talking, and Hubie gave him a light pat on the back. “Be strong and continue doing what you’re doing. It’s part of their plan. If they break you, they win.”

  Bret continued, “It seems they want the jury to have the impression I’ve been a bad seed since birth, a regular Baby Scarface born with a cigar in my mouth. And what happened to Frankie was the inevitable result of a process begun long ago.” He took a sighing breath, “I’m just hoping you can undo the damage they’ve done.” He placed his hands on the table and rested his head in them.

  The prosecution had presented a flawless case against the young doctor. Their schedule called for more of the expected background witnesses followed by Dr. Moses Grant, the State Medical Examiner. Dr. Grant was known throughout the country for his excellent work in forensics. When a gruesome murder had been committed, he was sought as a talk
ing head on all the major news programs. He never refused an opportunity to give a public rendering of his opinions. Books written by him that dealt with slayings of or by the rich and famous added to his reputation.

  During a recess prior to Dr. Grant’s testimony, Bret and Hubie were in a small conference room reviewing upcoming witnesses. Hubie said, “They’re putting Grant on the stand just to cover their bases.” Rummaging in his witness folder, “He’s not going to add anything to their case. With the well-documented coverage of what happened, everyone on the jury knows Frankie died from a form of cyanide poisoning and an allergic reaction to peanut oil and how they were administered. Only a monk living in a cave wouldn’t know it. But he’s a grandstander, and will put on a good show for them.”

  Bret shifted in his chair at the mention of Frankie. “I dealt with Dr. Grant once,” he informed his uncle.

  Hubie appeared interested, “How so? Maybe you know something that’ll help us?”

  “I identified a burn victim from dental records. A Windham man was in an auto accident in Massachusetts and burned beyond recognition. From the car’s registration they knew who he was, but not officially. Dr. Grant personally contacted me and pretty much begged me to do it. Said he couldn’t get anyone else to go. So I picked up the x-rays from the victim’s dentist and drove two hours to a hospital where I made the I.D. The kicker is he promised to reimburse me for doing the job, but never did. I hadn’t intended to ask for money, but was pissed he didn’t pay after he offered.”

  “Interesting story. Unfortunately, there’s nothing we can use.”

  “I just thought it would give you some insight into the man when you cross examine him.” After a moment, Bret said, “You know what my most lasting memory of the incident was?”

  “What?”

  “When I walked out of the hospital, I took in a deep breath of the clean autumn air and was glad to be alive.”

  As predicted, the medical examiner’s testimony added nothing to the prosecution’s case although the witness’ flamboyant style provided good theatre and sold books.

  Corrie Hunter was the prosecution’s first damaging witness. Sitting in the witness chair, she was calm and deliberate. A dark conservative suit gave her the demeanor of a modern business woman, and hair held in place with an attractive hairclip exposed her full face. The overall impression was of consummate professionalism.

  When questioned, Corrie claimed on the day Frankie Grimaldi was scheduled for wisdom teeth extractions, she went to retrieve the anesthesia drug vials from the drug room as was her custom. She encountered the accused with the vials and syringes filled with what appeared to be anesthetic solutions.

  “What are you doing?” she queried. “The drugs are supposed to be drawn in the operatory.”

  “An inventory,” she claimed Bret replied. “I want to be sure there’ll be enough if the surgery lasts longer than anticipated.”

  At the time, she accepted the explanation without question. “It wasn’t until Ms. Grimaldi reacted so badly to the anesthesia that I became suspicious about what Dr. Manley was doing in the drug room. That’s why the next day I went to the police and reported what had happened.”

  As to what she knew of Bret’s relationship with Frankie, she said, “He disapproved of Frankie Grimaldi’s lesbian lifestyle and wanted his wife to stop having anything to do with her.”

  Hubie’s objection was sustained, but once out, Corrie’s words couldn’t be unheard.

  Upon further questioning, she boasted, “Mrs. Manley and I frequently go to restaurants together. She confided to me that the doctor had a great dislike for Frankie Grimaldi. He suspected Ms. Grimaldi was making lesbian overtures toward his wife.” She looked at the jurors and explained, “Mrs. Manley being so pretty and all.” Corrie took a sip from a glass of water before adding. “Mrs. Manley also said when she told the doctor they were simply good friends and Frankie had never approached her in a sexual way, he wouldn’t believe it.”

  These last bits of information caused a loud drone from the pro-Frankie Grimaldi audience, and the judge asked the bailiff to restore order. The defense’s objection was lost in the noise.

  At one point in her testimony, Bret broke the rule and whispered to his uncle, “I can’t believe the load of shit she’s slinging.”

  Betraying no emotion, Hubie turned, looked at him, and gave a soft, “Shhh,” with unmoving lips.

  When cross-examined, Corrie didn’t budge. As Detective Powell had done during Bret’s interrogation, Hubie pursued a series of questions and repeated them in a different format. Corrie never contradicted herself, insisting she was reporting what she saw and heard. There was no confusion in her mind regarding what had happened on the day of Frankie’s death. When she entered the drug room, she caught Bret placing cyanide and peanut oil in the vials of anesthetic drugs in order to put those tainted fluids into the syringes that would be used on Frankie.

  At the conclusion of her testimony, she walked from the courtroom giving the impression of having accomplished an important mission. Bret feared the poisonous lies that spewed from her mouth would be as deadly to him as the cyanide and peanut oil had been to Frankie.

  In contrast to Corrie’s look them in the eye style of testimony, Mai spent her time in the witness chair sniffling into a white handkerchief. Attired in a simple and tasteful black dress, she radiated an aura of absolute beauty wrapped in a cloak of sweetness and demure bearing.

  Prior to the beginning of the prosecution’s questioning, Hubie said to Bret, “Any last minute advice you might want to share about her.”

  Bret replied as if resigned to the inevitable, “She’s going to fool all the men of the jury, and they’re going to fall in love with her like I did. Our only hope is at least one of the female jurors will want to strangle her in a jealous rage over the power she wields over men.”

  If academy awards were given for Best Actress While Performing On A Witness Stand, Mai would have gotten one. Her emotional distress was enough to engender pity in the hardest heart. Mai’s infrequent looks toward the jury box were tearful. In spite of her suffering, when confronted with the tough questions of the prosecution, she was able to muster courage and provide information that corroborated with Corrie’s. As she gave answers incriminating Bret in Frankie’s murder, there was absolute silence in the courtroom. An occasional cough from a spectator was all that broke the stillness. She never looked in Bret’s direction.

  At the conclusion of the prosecution’s questioning of Mai, Hubie decided to defer his cross. She had won the affection of the jury and the courtroom audience. Cross-examining her would make him a bully picking on a defenseless woman.

  When dismissed from the witness chair, Hubie and Bret half-expected a standing ovation for her performance. As she passed the defendant’s table, Mai flashed Bret a glance lasting no more than a nanosecond. In that instant of time, he saw in her eyes the lowest depths of the Inferno, and the blood around his heart froze.

  Jake was the final member of the conspirators summoned to the chair. He was neither as unwavering as Corrie nor as dramatic as Mai. He completed the final act of their rehearsed three-act play by tossing the jury his version of the pack of lies they were disseminating.

  “What did the defendant tell you about the relationship between Mai Manley and Frankie Grimaldi?” the prosecutor asked.

  “On several occasions he said he wanted his wife to have nothing to do with Frankie … or the half-man, half-woman as he often referred to her.” Gasps were heard in the audience and a juror shook her head at the slur. “He was obsessed with keeping Frankie Grimaldi out of his wife’s life.”

  Hubie objected, and parts of the answer were stricken.

  “Did you ever hear the defendant say he wished Ms. Grimaldi was dead?” The prosecutor paused for dramatic effect. “Or that he wanted to kill her?”

  Another objection was sustained requiring the question to be asked in a different way.

  It didn’t matter. Jake h
ad a prepared answer. “As I recall, I don’t think I heard him say he wanted to kill her, but, I remember him once mentioning he and his wife would be a lot better off if she was dead.”

  Although Hubie’s cross examination of Jake was brilliant, Jake gave no ground to the attacking defense. Hubie let two days pass before he recalled Mai to the witness chair. In contrast to her previous appearance, she was in control of her emotions. When she turned to the jury, she appeared to talk to each individual and made eye contact as she spoke.

  A time or two, everyone in the courtroom was on the edge of their seats thinking Hubie had her on the ropes and was bearing in for a knockout blow. Audible sighs of relief could be heard when, as any champion boxer, she came off the ropes swinging. It was an encore performance as effective as the first.

  Of all the witnesses, Mai was the most difficult. When Hubie was finished, he returned to his seat at the defense table. His hand covering the corner of his mouth, he said to Bret, “Cross-examining her is like trying to catch a soap bubble. It requires extremely gentle handling.”

  “I want you to consider the possibility of your testifying,” Hubie said to his nephew. The trial had recessed for the evening and lawyer and client were in the Superior Court Building’s consultation room. They were drinking diet sodas and munching on potato chips.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to testify, so the prosecution won’t be able to grill me.”

  “I didn’t and still don’t. But we kept the option open, remember, and now that we’re coming to the end of the trial, I believe it would be helpful if you testify.”

  Sitting in his chair, Bret looked at the floor and began to shake his head. “Most of our witnesses were as good as theirs. My former office staff, especially Pearlie Perez, seemed a distinct positive for our cause. None of them ever heard me say a negative word about Frankie. None of them believed I could have killed her.”