Corpus Delicti (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Book 6)

by Stephen Penner

  ‘Alleged’ victim, Brunelle thought to himself sardonically.

  “Therefore, Your Honor,” Edwards concluded, “the defense urges the court to exclude any reference to alleged pimping activities by Mr. Brown and require the state to proceed based on what little evidence they have and not on insinuations and innuendo. Thank you.”

  Brunelle stood up as Judge Grissom turned her attention to him. “Response?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.” Brunelle straightened his suit and looked down at the first point on his legal pad. “To begin with, Your Honor, the state is not seeking to introduce the evidence to establish any sort of character of Mr. Brown. We aren’t trying to say he’s a certain type of person and people like that would commit murder. Ms. Edwards left off the last sentence of evidence rule 404(b), which states quite clearly, that evidence of other crimes, wrongs, or acts, ‘may, however, be admissible for other purposes, such as proof of motive.’ Here, the motive for the murder was a prostitute who disrespected and disobeyed her pimp. That’s not inadmissible propensity evidence; it’s admissible evidence of motive.”

  Brunelle felt like he’d articulated that rebuttal to Edwards’ first argument rather well. He looked down to his next note. “As far as evidence rule 609 goes, the court knows that rule only governs the admissibility of prior convictions when cross-examining a witness. The pimping activity here is contemporaneous with the murder, not some years-old conviction for perjury or false swearing. We are not seeking to admit it under 609, so 609 doesn’t control whether it’s admissible or not.”

  Brunelle nodded, again pleased with his oratory.

  “Essentially, Your Honor, the relationship between Mr. Brown and the victim, Amy Corrigan, is integral to the state’s theory of the case. As such, it is admissible to show motive and to explain to the jury the entire dynamic between the parties. Accordingly, Ms. Edwards’ motion in limine should be denied. Thank you.”

  Brunelle expected Grissom to turn back to Edwards for the defense attorney’s rebuttal, but instead she kept her gaze on Brunelle. “What about Ms. Edwards’ 403 argument? That even if it’s relevant, it should be excluded as overly prejudicial.”

  Brunelle kept a poker face. Or rather a lawyer face, manufacturing an expression of interest but calm. Not betraying the panic that shot into his heart at the judge giving any credence to that argument. Defense attorneys always cited 403. It was the last gasp of a desperate litigator. ‘Sure,’ the argument went, ‘it’s relevant and otherwise admissible, but please keep it out anyway, because it just hurts my case so dang much.’

  “Well, I think it’s important to note that rule 403 presupposes relevance,” Brunelle began. “And that’s important, because the evidence is relevant. It’s very relevant. Next, the rule doesn’t allow relevant evidence to be excluded just because there might be some prejudice to its admission. That prejudice has to, not just outweigh, but substantially outweigh the probative value. Here, the probative value is to paint for the jury the full picture of these two people, how their lives are entwined, and how that could lead to the violent death of one of them. Finally, the prejudice to be avoided isn’t just any prejudice, but unfair prejudice. So, the court has to ask itself, is it unfair for the jury to hear the truth about Mr. Brown? And I would argue that the truth is never unfair. The court should deny the motion.”

  Grissom chewed her cheek for several seconds, keeping her eyes locked with Brunelle’s then she tore them away to address Edwards. “Any rebuttal, Ms. Edwards?”

  Edwards smiled. Her own version of lawyer-face. “Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Brunelle’s response belies his true intent. He claims the truth is never unfair, but what truth, and told by whom? The mere allegation that Mr. Brown was a pimp is enough to smear him beyond redemption in the eyes of the jury. That is substantial and that is unfair. Mr. Brunelle should have to prove his case based on the facts surrounding the murder, not ancillary allegations of unrelated criminal activity. He can present a sanitized version of his case, mentioning that Mr. Brown and Ms. Corrigan were known to each other, but leaving out the full nature of their acquaintance. That would be fair and that’s what the court should require.”

  Grissom nodded and looked back to Brunelle. “What about that, Mr. Brunelle? You can tell the jury that they knew each other, maybe even that Ms. Corrigan worked for Mr. Brown, but you can’t say anything about pimping or prostitution? That sounds fair.”

  But Brunelle shook his head. “No, Your Honor. With all due respect, that sounds ludicrous. The jury will assume Amy was his secretary or something—especially with him sitting there in a suit—and there’s no rational basis to expect a businessman would murder his secretary for no reason.”

  “Are you commenting on Mr. Brown’s right to be dressed in street clothes, Mr. Brunelle?” Judge Grissom demanded. “He posted bail and can wear whatever he wants. Even if he hadn’t posted bail, he’d still be dressed in street clothes for the jury so they wouldn’t know he was in custody. I, for one, appreciate that his attire shows respect for this court and these proceedings.”

  Fuck, Brunelle thought. He’d pissed off the judge. That was never good.

  “That’s not what I meant, Your Honor,” he defended. “I simply meant that juries tend to fill in details, and if they don’t know the whole story, they might jump to erroneous conclusions.”

  “Like the notion that pimps are bad,” Grissom challenged, “and bad people murder people?”

  Brunelle inclined his head slowly. “No,” he said carefully. “Just that Mr. Brown knew Ms. Corrigan, was Ms. Corrigan’s pimp, and killed Ms. Corrigan.”

  Grissom narrowed her eyes. “Say that sentence again, except replace the word ‘pimp’ with the word ‘boss.’”

  Brunelle bristled. But he knew to follow an order from a judge. “Mr. Brown knew Ms. Corrigan. He was Ms. Corrigan’s boss. And he killed Ms. Corrigan.”

  “There,” the judge said. “Why can’t you just say that?”

  “Because it isn’t true,” Brunelle protested.

  “He wasn’t her boss?” Grissom questioned.

  Brunelle shrugged slightly, although his body remained tense. “In a way, but not the way the jury will think when they hear ‘boss’ instead of ‘pimp.’ It’s not just that they had some sort of business relationship. It’s the nature of that relationship. Him being her pimp is the whole thing. It’s the, the…” He searched for the right phrase. “It’s all part of the res gestae.”

  Brunelle felt his heart drop. Latin was never a good thing to throw around. It was usually employed to cover cracks in one’s logic, like spackling. And ‘res gestae’ was the worst Latin phrase there was. It translated literally as ‘things done’ or ‘deed.’ So really, you were just saying, ‘It should be admitted because it’s part of it.’ Brunelle recalled a law professor who told the class that claiming evidence was ‘res gestae‘ was the last thing an advocate tried when they were about to lose the argument. Brunelle knew this would be no exception to that rule.

  “Res gestae?” Judge Grissom repeated. “Well, yes, it is part of the res gestae. Everything is part of the res gestae. That’s sort of what res gestae means. And then there are a hundred evidence rules designed to restrict and exclude those parts of the res gestae that shouldn’t be admitted. Hearsay, insurance coverage, prior criminal history. All those things are part of every case’s res gestae—and then judges exclude it all because it would be unfair to just let everything in.”

  “Because juries can’t be trusted?” Brunelle snapped. He was getting frustrated. Never good for a trial attorney.

  “Because criminal defendants have a right to a fair trial,” Grissom corrected testily.

  Brunelle didn’t reply. He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth. Edwards was silent too, but it was the silence of a victor. Trying not to rock the boat as it coasted toward the finish line.

  “I’m going to grant the motion in limine,” Grissom declared. “You are permitted to describe Mr. Brown’s and M
s. Corrigan’s relationship as one of employer and employee, but you can’t describe it as pimping or prostitution.”

  “Just another girl from the typing pool, huh?” Brunelle quipped darkly.

  The judge didn’t appear to appreciate the joke. “Do you understand my ruling, Mr. Brunelle?”

  Brunelle submitted a begrudging nod. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Any questions about it?” Grissom pressed.

  Brunelle was about to say, ‘No, Your Honor,’ but then he thought of something. “So I can talk about the entire business enterprise? As long as I don’t call it pimping or prostitution?”

  Grissom hesitated, squinting down at Brunelle with wary eyes. “Yes,” she said carefully.

  “And I can talk about the other girls in the typing pool?”

  Judge Grissom crossed her arms. “As long as you don’t tell the jury they’re prostitutes.”

  “Okay,” Brunelle agreed. “I’ll just tell them that another girl from the typing pool died after she crossed good ol’ Mr. Brown.”

  Grissom’s arms fell uncrossed and she leaned forward sharply. “A prostitute?”

  “Oh, no, Your Honor,” Brunelle replied with an exaggerated wave. “No prostitutes here. Just another girl from the typing pool. Apparently, working for Mr. Brown is a dangerous line of work.”

  Grissom’s nostrils flared. “Did she also disappear, Mr. Brunelle?”

  “No, no, Your Honor,” Brunelle answered cheerily, ignoring the judge’s tone. “She OD’d in the motel room the defendant rented for her so she could, uh, type.”

  Grissom didn’t react angrily. Instead, she tapped her fingers on the bench. “And how would that be relevant to anything at issue in this case?”

  “Well,” Brunelle answered, gaining some confidence in the judge’s reaction to his admittedly sarcastic suggestion, “it goes to show that Mr. Brown’s, uh, ‘business’ isn’t all love and roses, so to speak. That it’s dangerous to work for Mr. Brown. In fact,” Brunelle slapped his forehead in faux epiphany, “she died the very night you, Your Honor, ordered me to provide her name to Mr. Brown’s attorney. What a crazy coincidence, huh?”

  Judge Grissom glared down at Brunelle with furrowed brow and piercing eyes, but she didn’t immediately find words. Brunelle knew that, as a judge, she was angry at his disrespect. But he also knew, as a human being, she would be bothered that someone may have died, at least in part, because of her.

  “May I be heard, Your Honor?” Edwards spoke up.

  Grissom rotated her head toward Edwards, but held her eyes on Brunelle until the last possible moment. “Yes, Ms. Edwards?”

  “I would object to this evidence,” Edwards said calmly, her professionalism contrasting Brunelle’s flippancy. “First, it’s not relevant to the case at bar. Second, this is the first I’ve heard of it. I don’t have any autopsy reports or anything, and trial starts in one week.”

  Grissom raised an eyebrow at Edwards. “Is this really the first time Mr. Brunelle mentioned it to you?”

  Edwards shifted her weight. “Well, this is the first I heard he intended to introduce it at trial. He did mention it to me right after it happened.”

  “I’m sure he did,” the judge muttered. Then, in a louder voice, “So you’ve been aware of this for some time now?”

  Edwards’ face contorted as she considered the best way to reply. “Yes, Your Honor,” she finally admitted.

  Grissom leaned back and steepled her fingers. The attorneys remained silent as she considered her decision. After several more seconds, she leaned forward and spoke. “I’m going to give you a choice, Ms. Edwards. Option one is, I exclude all mention of pimping and prostitution but I allow evidence of the other witness’s death. Option two is, I exclude the second death, but Mr. Brunelle can tell the jury that the alleged victim was a prostitute and your client was her pimp.”

  Edwards blinked up at the judge. Grissom was patient as Edwards weighed her options. And Brunelle knew to shut up while she decided.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Edwards finally responded. “I’ll take option number one. I still object to any discussion of the other woman’s death, but given the choice as the court has framed it, I believe option one is the best for my client.”

  Brunelle couldn’t disagree. Edwards hadn’t taken the bait. His gambit had been to get Grissom to change her ruling and allow in evidence of the pimping. That had failed. And although getting to talk about Linda’s death might help, even when scrubbed of any mention of pimping and prostitution, there was a downside.

  He had to call Kat as a witness.

  Chapter 28

  Brunelle knew he couldn’t just send Kat a subpoena through the mail. Well, actually, he could do that, but he knew he shouldn’t. For one thing, it was cowardly. More importantly, she’d call him anyway to ask why the hell he’d sent her a subpoena.

  He tasked Nicole with ordering Linda’s autopsy report from the medical examiner staff and forwarding it on to Edwards. But the explanation to the witness of what testimony was expected, that fell on the trial attorney.

  So he called Kat’s office number. He didn’t call her private cell number—which was still in his phone contacts—because it was work-related. And because when he called after nine o’clock at night, she might answer her cell phone, but her office phone would go straight to voicemail.

  Cowardly, but effectively so.

  ‘Hello. You’ve reached the voicemail of Dr. Kat Anderson of the King County Medical Examiner’s Office. Please leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’

  Beep!

  “Oh, hey, Kat. It’s Dave. Uh, Brunelle. I was just calling to let you know I’ll be sending you a subpoena about the Linda Prescott autopsy. Uh, the judge is gonna let me talk about it. A bit. Kinda. Well, it’s sorta complicated. I can’t really mention the whole prostitute thing. But yeah, anyway, I just need you to tell the jury that she O.D.’d. I won’t ask you to say homicide. I promise.” He immediately regretted saying that; he didn’t have a good record of keeping his promises to her. “Uh, right. Okay, well anyway, um, I hope you’re doing well. And Lizzy, too.” Ugh, why did he say that? He needed to hang up. “Okay, sorry. Uh, no need to call back. I just wanted to let you know about the subpoena. I’ll have Nicole call you about scheduling. Okay. Uh, bye.”

  Brunelle hung up and ran a hand through his graying hair. His heart was racing. And aching.

  Cowardly, and poorly executed. Perfect combination.

  He needed to do better with the last subpoena. There was no room for cowardice. And poor execution could cost him a lot more than temporary mortification.

  Chapter 29

  Brunelle eventually realized that he should have brought Chen with him again. Not when he first arrived at the Aurora Motel, but definitely by the time he left. And not because it was always good to have a witness to a subpoena being served.

  Again, Brunelle came at night. Not because he particularly wanted to be at a hooker hotel after dark, but because that was when he was going to be able to find Jillian Hammond, a.k.a. ‘Tina.’ And he wasn’t about to try to schedule another date via text, à la Linda Prescott. So, just like the first time he’d gone trolling for a hooker, he pulled into the hotel parking lot alone and drove slowly to a parking spot in the back.

  But unlike that time, Jillian didn’t walk up to his car. No one did. Brunelle had noticed some probable prostitutes loitering near the driveway, but none bothered to follow him in into the lot. He waited for what seemed like forever—but was likely no more than a long minute—then opened his car door and stepped into the cool Seattle night.

  There were a few people out and about, besides Brunelle and the prostitutes. Three guys were outside their first-floor room, leaning against a beat-up car and smoking. There was an overweight woman walking toward the manager’s office. And there was a toddler screaming somewhere. Brunelle walked away from the sound of the wailing child toward the image of the plying women, vaguely aware and mildly n
auseated by the biological connection between them. No wonder he’d never had kids.

  There was one prostitute on the left side of the driveway. It wasn’t Jillian. Too tall. To the right were three or four more and Jillian could have been hidden among them; it was hard to tell in the dark. He slowed his approach and craned his neck slightly to see around the large woman with her back to him.

  “Hey there, handsome.” One of them had spied him. Again, though, it wasn’t Jillian. “You looking for a date?”

  She stepped out from the herd and toward Brunelle. She was average height, skinny, with bleached platinum hair teased up on top of her head. What clothes she wore were designed to come off easily and look like they would.

  “Uh, maybe,” Brunelle answered. “I’m looking for Tina.”

  The woman smiled, although there was a bit of snarl hidden in it. No one likes to lose a sale. “Tina, huh?” She looked back to the other women. “He likes ‘em small and thick.” Then, turning back to Brunelle, “Sure you don’t want to try something long and lean?”

  Brunelle was sure. “Uh, sorry, no. Just looking for Tina. Is she around?”

  The woman frowned at being rejected but then shrugged. There’d be business enough for her that night, Brunelle supposed. She turned back to her group. “Didn’t Tina drive off with that fat guy in the pickup truck?”