The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bailey

  A plump black man wearing a green sports coat escorted Bo to the table closest to the piano on the left and asked him what he wanted to drink.

  “Hurricane,” Bo said. When in Rome . . . Then he scanned the crowd, looking for Robin “Jeannette” Osborne. Before she had hung up with Robin the previous night, Laurie Ann had given her Bo’s telephone number and told her to look for “a huge black man with a bald head.” Here I am, Bo thought, subconsciously running a hand over his smooth noggin. He took out his phone and pulled up Robin’s personal Facebook page, making a mental image of her profile picture. Brown hair. Medium height. There wasn’t anything physically about her that stood out to him. He started to look around again and then felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up, and a woman who was every bit of six feet, two inches tall with oversized breasts and gobs of blue eyeliner all over her face smiled down at him. “Are you Mr. Bocephus Haynes?” Instead of a woman’s voice, the sound that came out of the stranger’s mouth was a deep Southern twang.

  “Yes . . . ma’am,” Bo said.

  “I have a delivery for you.” The person handed Bo an envelope and then whispered hot breath in his ear. “If you’re sticking around the Quarter tonight, sugar pie, come see me down at the Cat’s Meow. I’m gonna sing ‘Dancing Queen’ sometime after eleven.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Bo managed.

  She giggled. “Anybody ever tell you that you look like that boxer Marvelous Marvin Hagler, only bigger?” She touched his arms. “Umm-hmmm. You ain’t no middleweight, though, are you?”

  Bo didn’t know what to say and thought better of asking her if anyone ever told her that her voice sounded like Captain Woodrow F. Call in Lonesome Dove.

  “Thanks again,” Bo said, holding up the envelope.

  “If you don’t see me in the Cat’s Meow, you ask the bartender if he’s seen Desiree, you hear, sugar pie?”

  Bo bobbed his head, and Desiree ambled out of the lounge. She blew him a kiss before disappearing behind the wall.

  Bo opened the envelope as the waiter with the green sports jacket placed his hurricane on the table. His stomach twisted into a knot as he read the title of the xeroxed sheet: “Change of Beneficiary Form.”

  Bo quickly scanned the contents. On March 18, 2012, a month and a half prior to his murder, Jack Willistone signed a change of beneficiary form listing Barton Daniel Willistone as the beneficiary to his three-million-dollar life insurance policy.

  Bo took a sip of his drink and wrinkled his face up as the alcohol burned his throat going down. He pulled out his cell phone and was about to call Tom when it began to ring in his hand.

  “Hello,” Bo said.

  “Did you get it?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “Yes . . . Robin, wait! Give me thirty seconds.” Bo slung a twenty-dollar bill on the table and shuffled as fast as he could through the mass of patrons until he reached the bathroom. Once inside a locked stall, he whispered into the receiver. “Robin, it’s not enough. We need you to testify at trial. That still might not get us past the evidentiary objections, but we’ll at least have a fighting chance.”

  When there was no response on the other end of the line, Bo closed his eyes and made one last plea. “Robin, Greg Zorn was murdered because of this form. We need you to bring Bully Calhoun to justice. Otherwise, the momma of that girl you spoke with last night is going to ride the needle. Please . . . I’m begging you.”

  “He’ll kill me too,” Robin said. “Why do you think I just had a transvestite hooker give you the form instead of meeting you myself?”

  “We can protect you,” Bo said.

  “Like you protected Greg? No, thanks.”

  “Look, please—”

  “No, you look. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I guess I feel sorry for Jack’s son and that boy’s momma. I had a cousin that was autistic. Plus the girl that called last night, Laurie Ann, she sounded so desperate.”

  “Robin, you won’t be able to help Laurie Ann Newton save her momma or Danny Willistone obtain the proceeds of his father’s life insurance policy unless you testify to this form in court.” He spoke in an urgent whisper. “Robin, this has all been a complete waste of time unless you agree to testify. Greg died in vain. Danny won’t get any money. Bully will get away with everything, and Wilma Newton will be put to death for a crime she didn’t commit. This form is worthless without you there to testify about it. You might as well have wrapped up a plate of beignets from the Cafe Du Monde and stuck them in the envelope.”

  For almost thirty seconds, Robin said nothing, and Bo pressed the phone hard to his ear to make sure he didn’t miss her response.

  “When would I take the stand?”

  Bo thought about all the witnesses for the prosecution. “Thursday afternoon or Friday morning. It’s hard to tell this early on.”

  Fifteen more seconds passed before Robin replied. “See you Thursday.”

  71

  On Tuesday morning at 8:30 a.m., Tom sat on a bench in the hallway outside the courtroom. Next to him, Laurie Ann Newton clasped her hands together to keep them from fidgeting. “Mom still won’t talk,” Laurie Ann said, looking at Tom with eyes filled with regret. “I’m sorry. I’ve really tried.”

  “Me too,” Tom said. “She just won’t budge. Me and Bo have talked with every single tenant at that apartment complex, and none of them can provide her with a credible alibi.”

  “She’s not going to take the stand, is she?” Laurie Ann asked.

  “That’s her call, but I’m probably going to advise against it. If she can’t remember what happened that night, then she can’t rightly testify to things she didn’t do.”

  Laurie Ann’s chest heaved and she put her face in her hands.

  Tom patted her shoulder to comfort her, noticing that she had lost a good bit of weight since he had first met her on the top step of his office back in May. He knew that Wilma had likewise lost weight.

  “Laurie Ann, you did a hell of a job tracking down Robin Osborne, and your persistence paid off. We’ve got a copy of the change form, and Osborne’s going to testify. That gives us a puncher’s chance. I’ve just got to figure out a way to get that document in front of the jury.”

  “Well, you’re the evidence guru, aren’t you?”

  “At one time.”

  “You’ll get it in,” Laurie Ann said.

  Thinking that he would like his chances a lot better if anyone besides Braxton Poe were making the ruling, Tom tried to keep a positive outlook. “I hope you’re right.”

  72

  Two hours later, at just past 10:30 a.m., Powell Conrad concluded his opening statement with the theme of his case. “By the time Judge Poe turns this case over to you to render a verdict, we will have shown you that the defendant had the necessary motive for murder—she killed Jack Willistone because he owed her money. That she had the opportunity to commit the crime—she was seen entering and leaving the subdivision where the murder happened during the estimated time of the victim’s death. And finally, and most significantly, she had the means to do the deed. It was her gun.”

  Powell retrieved the evidence bag containing the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson, holding it up for the jury to see. “As you sit through this case and hear all of the evidence presented, never lose sight of the undisputed fact that this gun was the means used to murder Jack Daniel Willistone.” He turned and pointed at Wilma. “By the close of this trial, I am confident that you will find that we have proven beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant intentionally murdered Jack Willistone, while also robbing his person and his vehicle. For these reasons, I know that you will reach the only just verdict, which is a finding of guilty on the charge of capital murder.”

  After Powell thanked the jury for their time, Judge Poe turned to the defense table. “McMurtrie, are you ready to give your opening statement?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Tom said, standing to his full height and clipping the top button of his coat. His back now ached on an e
ver-present basis, but he was wolfing down ibuprofen every four hours and he thought he could make it to Friday. “May it please the court,” Tom began, coughing and clearing his throat. “Your Honor . . .” Tom glanced at Poe. “Counsel . . .” Tom nodded at Powell. Then he strode into the well of the courtroom, pausing just for a second to observe the packed gallery. He was relieved to see no former teammates; he had asked Bo to spread word of the court’s order to all the former players he was still close to so that there would be no violation. Many of the spectators appeared to be reporters, and he recognized various lawyers and courthouse staff.

  But sitting along the two rows directly behind the defense table was a group of people whose presence warmed Tom’s heart. His son, Tommy, had taken the day off work to see the old man’s last opening statement. He was dressed in slacks and a button-down, and when he met Tom’s gaze, he gave the slightest of nods. Next to Tommy on the front row was Jackson; Number Forty-Nine wore a navy-blue blazer, khaki pants, and a red clip-on tie. He shot Tom a thumbs-up signal. His mother and sister had stayed home, as Tom and Tommy both agreed that Nancy, now eight months pregnant, had no business sitting on a hard bench for several hours, and Jenny was too young.

  Rufus Cole, his loyal friend from Butler, Alabama, and retired circuit judge Art Hancock, a.k.a. “the Cock,” Tom’s mentor when he first started practice, sat side by side in the second row. Next to them, making her first trip out of Henshaw since her husband’s death, was Rick’s mother, Allie Drake. Finally, in the place nearest the aisle, Helen Evangeline Lewis sat bolt upright with her hands in her lap. The General wore her trademark black suit with red lipstick. Her face was ghostly pale and her expression all business, giving Tom the nudge he needed to address his last jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen . . .”

  Tom focused his presentation first on the heavy burden the prosecution bore to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Wilma Newton was guilty of intentionally killing Jack Willistone. “If you have even a single doubt, a single question, as to the guilt of Wilma Newton, it is your duty to come back with a verdict of not guilty.”

  Then he launched into the defense story, first highlighting the discrepancies in the evidence. “As Mr. Conrad brings forth the state’s case, ask yourself why there were no fingerprints belonging to Wilma Newton anywhere in Jack Willistone’s car, on the dock where his body was found, or in Greg Zorn’s boathouse or lake home. None. The only fingerprints were on the gun itself, and the only DNA to speak of was on Jack Willistone’s clothing and cap. You will learn that Wilma Newton had an encounter with the victim several hours before his murder that concluded with an altercation outside the Oasis Bar & Grill. Ask yourself, as you listen to the testimony of the bartender Toby Dothard, whether this saliva mentioned by the prosecution could have gotten on the victim’s clothing during this altercation as opposed to later on that evening. Do you have doubts?”

  Tom ended by planting the crop that he hoped the court would allow Robin Osborne to harvest. He had to be careful, because it was fifty-fifty whether Poe would allow the change form into evidence. If Poe sustained the state’s objections, then Tom didn’t want to make a promise to the jury he couldn’t keep. So he kept his theme general and vague, which he knew would be even more effective if the document came in, and less painful if Poe kept it out.

  He walked to the defense table, remembering the instructions he had given forty different trial teams, spanning four decades.

  “In your opening statement, always lay hands on your client. The jury has heard about the heinous things he or she has done, and it is important that they see you touch the defendant. It reminds them that your client is a human being capable of emotions and feelings.”

  Tom asked Wilma to stand, and he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Members of the jury, this is Wilma Christine Newton. She is a mother of two girls and a widow. She is also a convicted prostitute. She is not a saint, and you won’t be asked to determine her moral character. Instead you will be asked whether this woman killed Jack Daniel Willistone on May 8, 2012. It is our position that she was framed for this crime. That others with much more to gain—and much more to hide—committed this atrocity.” He tapped her shoulder, and Wilma returned to her seat. Then, ignoring the pain that throbbed down both his legs, Tom walked to the edge of the jury railing and moved his gaze over each of the twelve jurors. “It is not the defendant’s burden today to prove that Wilma Newton was framed. The burden of proof never leaves the prosecution table.” Tom turned and pointed at Powell Conrad. Then he looked again to the jury and spoke in a soft but firm voice. “We are not obligated to present a defense, but we will do so. And I’m confident that by the end of this trial you will have more than one doubt . . . You will have many doubts as to who really killed Jack Willistone on the night of May 8, 2012.” He paused and took two steps backward, his eyes never leaving the jury box. “And when you do . . . it will be your sworn duty to return a verdict of not guilty.”

  73

  Powell was meticulous and thorough in prosecuting the state’s case in chief. On Tuesday afternoon, he called Detective Wade Richey to the stand to summarize his investigation, focusing primarily on the nine-millimeter pistol found below Greg Zorn’s dock. Wade testified that the weapon was registered in Wilma Newton’s name and only had her prints on it. He also summarized the cell phone texts and calls exchanged between the victim and the defendant leading up to the murder.

  During Tom’s cross-examination, Wade admitted that no fingerprints of Wilma Newton were found anywhere in the victims’ vehicle or on Greg’s Zorn’s property.

  “Can you explain those omissions?” Tom asked, breaking one of the cardinal rules of cross-examination.

  Never ask a witness a question you don’t already know the answer to . . .

  But there was an exception to every rule, and Tom thought one applied here.

  . . . except when the answer doesn’t matter or is clearly asking for information the witness cannot know.

  “No, I can’t,” Wade said. “I could only give my opinion.”

  Tom looked at the jury. “No further questions “

  On Wednesday morning, the prosecution’s first witness was the medical examiner for Tuscaloosa County, Dr. Ingrid Barnett, who testified that the cause of Jack Willistone’s death was a combination of fatal bullet wounds to the head and sternum. She further provided her opinion that the victim’s time of death was between 10:00 p.m. on May 8, 2012 and 12:00 a.m. on May 9, a period of two hours. Also, because he knew that Tom would bring this information out on cross, Powell asked Barnett to describe any existing disease processes going on with Mr. Willistone at the time of his death.

  “Based on the autopsy I performed, it was my conclusion that Jack Willistone had a cancerous tumor in his prostate which had spread into his liver. I have also reviewed his prison medical records, which indicate that Willistone was diagnosed with stage four prostate cancer about eight weeks prior to his release.”

  Though Powell had softened the blow a little, Tom still managed to squeeze a sound bite into his one-question cross-examination. “Dr. Barnett, would you agree with the conclusion that as of May 8, 2012 Jack Willistone was dying?”

  Dr. Barnett hesitated for several seconds before answering. “Yes, I believe Mr. Willistone’s prognosis was grim.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  On Wednesday afternoon, Powell called his specialists. First, his ballistics expert confirmed that shell casings found on the dock and the intact bullet taken from the victim’s thoracic cavity matched Wilma Newton’s pistol. Then his DNA expert opined that saliva strands found on the victim’s cap and shirt collar matched DNA samples provided by the defendant. During his cross-examination of the DNA expert, Tom confirmed that none of Wilma’s DNA was found anywhere in Jack Willistone’s vehicle or on Greg Zorn’s property.

  Powell’s last witness on Wednesday was Othello Humphrey, the security guard of Zorn’s subdivision, who authenticated the guardhouse v
ideo. Then Powell played the tape, which showed Wilma Newton’s Mustang entering the subdivision at 10:07 p.m. on the night of May 8, 2012 and leaving at 10:38 p.m.

  On Thursday morning, Powell conducted brief examinations of Happy Caldwell and Todd Shuman, the two fraternity brothers who discovered the body. Both recounted the events of their night, and their drunken tale of trying to find a spot along the shore where they could hit a golf ball over the river was some of the only testimony that elicited any laughter from the jury. Of primary importance, both kids pinpointed their location when they stumbled upon Jack Willistone’s corpse in the water.

  The final witness for the prosecution was Toby Dothard, the bartender from the Oasis, who testified that he saw Wilma threaten to kill Jack if he didn’t pay her the money he owed her. Dothard also authenticated the video of the altercation between Jack and Wilma outside the bar, which Powell then played for the jury.

  At three o’clock on Thursday afternoon, as Dothard left the witness stand, Powell stood and cleared his throat: “Your Honor, the state rests.”

  74

  At 3:30 p.m., after the jury and attorneys had returned from a short recess, Judge Poe looked at Tom. “Is the defense ready to call its first witness?”

  Tom looked at Rick, who gave the thumbs-up sign as he walked down the aisle of the courtroom. “Yes, Your Honor,” Tom said. “The defense calls Ms. Robin Osborne.”

  Robin Osborne, Greg Zorn’s paralegal and onetime lover, walked briskly down the aisle and took her place on the stand.

  As she was sworn in, Tom again appraised the gallery, which had whittled down a good bit since opening statements on Tuesday. The first two rows were now barren except for Laurie Ann Newton, as Tom’s son and friends had to get back to their lives and jobs, and Jackson couldn’t miss a whole week of school. Tom understood, but he still felt a pang of sadness. He also couldn’t help but notice that the trial was beginning to wear him out. He was strongly considering having Rick give the closing argument, because he wasn’t sure he could stand in front of the jury for that long again. As he made eye contact with Laurie Ann, the teenager held up her hands, showing him that her fingers were crossed. She knew, as did Tom, that her mother’s future likely rode on the outcome of the next few minutes. This is it.