The Justice Game

by Randy Singer

  Lassiter came out to the reception area about halfway through Jason’s explanation, requiring that Jason repeat it from the beginning. Bella cross-examined Jason for a few minutes and gave unsolicited advice on how to treat his injuries. Eventually, Jason managed to change the subject back to the day’s agenda. Both Lassiter and Bella were anxious to go over feedback from the shadow jury. Proposed jury instructions had to be drafted. And Jason needed to prepare his closing argument.

  “How good is Brad Carson?” Jason asked.

  The question about her former boss seemed to surprise Bella. “You mean in court?”

  “Yeah. Do you think he could come over for a few hours and help me with my closing? I need an outside perspective.”

  Bella lit up at the idea. “He’ll come,” she said confidently, “if I have to drag him here myself.”

  Before they got down to the day’s business, Bella handed Jason an envelope. “Somebody slid this under the door last night.”

  It had Jason’s name on it and it was marked personal and confidential. Jason recognized his dad’s handwriting. “I’ll meet you guys in the conference room in a minute,” Jason said.

  He went into his office, closed the door, and ripped the envelope open. His hands shook a little as he read the one-page note.

  When we get together, it usually doesn’t turn out the way I planned, so I thought I would leave this note instead. I’m sorry about Thursday night. I don’t remember everything I said, but I remember enough to apologize for it.

  I think I’ve helped about as much as I can. I wish you trusted me enough to tell me what’s really going on. Watching you do your thing this week and getting to know Case has been good.

  I want you to know that I’m proud of you.

  I’m going back to Atlanta and I’m going to get help. Thursday night was the last straw. I thought about staying for the verdict but I realized that I’m a distraction. The best thing I can do for you is get better.

  Maybe after a few weeks in rehab, you’ll get your old man back. Maybe we could get together then.

  Good luck.

  Dad

  Jason stared at the note for a long time. He wasn’t really sure how he should react. He knew how it made him feel—thankful, proud, confused. He tried dialing his dad’s number but ended up in voice mail. Later in the day he would call both his sister and Matt Corey. But for now, he just stared at the letter and read a single line over and over and over.

  I want you to know that I’m proud of you.

  His dad needed help, and today he had finally admitted it. Maybe in a few weeks, they really could get together. Maybe there was hope.

  So long as Jason didn’t blow it all up by forcing Luthor’s hand.

  Jason thought about how hard it had been to write the intervention letter to his dad a few months ago. For the Noble family men, swallowing your pride and being vulnerable did not come easy. It must have been even harder for his dad to write this letter. But admitting that he had an addiction was the first step toward recovery.

  What kind of son would turn on his dad at a time like this?

  Part VI: The Verdict

  82

  On Monday morning, Jason swallowed hard and called Chief Ed Poole as a witness for the defense. Poole was a large and powerfully built man with the sloped shoulders of a football lineman. He moved slowly and methodically to the stand, glancing at the jurors as he did so.

  Poole was mostly bald with undersized facial features, gray hair on the sides of his head, and wrinkles that radiated from his eyes and creased his forehead. He was dressed in a gray blazer and white shirt, his tie so tight around his neck that the skin bulged at the top of his collar.

  He seemed comfortable and self-assured. He was a former police chief of a large city. He had seen a few things.

  Jason began by taking the witness through his impressive list of credentials. Like any good expert, Poole seemed reluctant to mention everything he had done and managed to come off as both highly qualified and charmingly humble. When Jason moved to have Poole qualified as an expert on the issue of gun trafficking, there was no objection.

  As Poole testified, he turned periodically to face the jury, throwing in a few wisecracks to keep them amused. He told them that 80 percent of guns used in crimes were purchased by criminals on the street or from their friends and family members. Those sales, of course, were entirely unregulated. Only 11 percent were bought legally at gun stores, and 9 percent of guns used in crimes were purchased illegally at retail stores like Peninsula Arms.

  “What about the designs of the guns?” Jason asked. “The jury’s heard a lot about semi-automatic assault weapons like the MD-9. In what percentage of crimes are these types of guns used?”

  “Actually, not very often,” explained Poole. He proceeded with a lecture about gun nomenclature and how he didn’t even like the phrase “semi-automatic assault weapon” because it was so misleading. At the end of his lecture, he looked back at Jason. “What was the question again?”

  “In how many crimes are these types of guns used as compared to other types of guns?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Poole, smiling. “Less than one in ten.”

  Jason ended with his payoff question. “Do you have an opinion, to a reasonable degree of certainty, as to whether Larry Jamison could have obtained a gun from the black market even if every gun store in America had refused to sell him one?”

  Poole laughed. “Surveys show that nearly 60 percent of high school boys say they can obtain access to a gun if they need to. That’s high school, Mr. Noble. For an adult like Jamison, give him a few hundred bucks and a few hours on the streets of downtown Norfolk, and you can take your pick.”

  Jason didn’t return the witness’s self-satisfied smile. “Thank you, Chief Poole. Please answer any questions that Ms. Starling might have.”

  Kelly stood quickly, anxious to attack. She was wearing a blue pin-striped matching jacket and skirt, navy blue heels, and a white blouse. She looked even leaner than normal, professional and sophisticated. Unlike Jason, she looked well rested.

  How did she sleep at all last night? Jason wondered. In the mirror that morning, his own bloodshot eyes had reflected another sleepless night. He had thrown on a suit that he had worn three times in two weeks without taking it to the dry cleaner and barely made it to the courthouse on time.

  “Are your answers, given under oath and under penalty of perjury, all truthful and correct?” Kelly asked.

  Poole leaned back a little and grunted, as if Kelly didn’t know whom she was accusing. “Of course.”

  “Have you ever lied under oath?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Are you presently in the midst of divorce proceedings?”

  Jason stood and objected. But it was merely a formality; he knew Garrison would overrule him.

  “I’ll link it up,” Kelly promised. “It goes directly to his credibility.”

  “You’re on a short leash, but go ahead,” Garrison said.

  Poole sighed heavily and shot daggers at Kelly. “Yes. Though I consider it none of your business, my wife and I are getting divorced.”

  “Did you have to file an accounting in your divorce case, under oath, that detailed all your assets?”

  Poole started to turn a little red around the ears. “Yes… and I did.”

  “All of your assets?”

  “Of course.”

  “You didn’t hide any secret accounts that you had used, let’s say… to pay a mistress?”

  The courtroom buzzed, and Poole’s brow furrowed—indignation giving way to concern.

  “Objection!” Jason said.

  “Overruled.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Poole said. “Or what it has to do with this case.”

  Kelly smiled. She walked over to Jason’s chair and handed him a copy of the bank documents he had seen the week before. She asked the court reporter to mark for identification a copy of a bank statement as
Plaintiff’s Exhibit 33 and a cell phone bill as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 34. “May I approach the witness?” she asked Judge Garrison.

  “Yes.”

  She handed the documents to a stricken Poole. “Can you identify what’s been marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 33 and Plaintiff’s Exhibit 34?”

  Poole took his time looking at both documents. Kelly stood in front of him, unmoving, like an avenging angel. “Well?” Kelly asked.

  Poole looked at the judge and then back at Kelly. “I’m invoking my Fifth Amendment privilege against self-incrimination,” he said. “I refuse to answer the question.”

  There was an audible gasp in the courtroom, followed by murmuring and the banging of Judge Garrison’s gavel. “Order! Let’s have it quiet in here.” Juror 7 had her arms crossed and her lips pursed in disgust. Jason could feel the stares of the courtroom audience. It was painful watching your case go down in flames.

  “Plaintiff’s Exhibit 33,” Kelly said. “Isn’t that a statement from a bank account you own that was not declared in your divorce case?”

  “I’m invoking the Fifth.”

  “Where did the deposits come from? Isn’t this more money than you were making from your consulting work?”

  “I’m invoking the Fifth.”

  “And what about Plaintiff’s 34? Does that show cell phone calls to the same woman who was receiving payouts from this account?”

  Poole’s face was crimson now, as if he might explode at any moment. His lips barely moved when he talked. “I’m invoking the Fifth, Counselor.”

  “Let me ask you one more time,” Kelly said, “because you forgot to invoke the Fifth Amendment for this one earlier. Have you ever lied under oath?”

  “I plead the Fifth Amendment,” Poole said.

  83

  Ed Poole was off the stand by 10:30. He left the courtroom with his tail between his legs. He would fly back to Atlanta and probably face perjury charges or at least an irate divorce-court judge.

  Though Kelly had gone after him hard, she actually felt a little sorry for the man. With everything going on in her personal life, Kelly found no pleasure in watching somebody else’s past catch up with him.

  Jason stood and announced that the defense rested. Kelly told the judge that she had no rebuttal witnesses. Everybody could sense that the jury was anxious to begin their deliberations.

  Judge Garrison announced that his jury instructions and closing arguments would begin after a fifteen-minute break. The tension in the courtroom increased exponentially.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, after Judge Garrison read the jury instructions, Kelly walked to the front of the jury box and surveyed the panel. She caught the steely-eyed gaze of Marcia Franks, Juror 7, and the attentive look of Rodney Peterson, Juror 3. All of the jurors had benign looks of encouragement, as far as Kelly could tell. She sensed that the case was hers to lose.

  “We’re not here to raise Rachel Crawford from the dead. I wish somehow we could, but her warm and cheerful light has been extinguished forever—at least this side of heaven.

  “We are here to correct a grave injustice. As my client so eloquently reminded us, quoting the words of Dr. King: ‘An injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’

  “Mr. Noble doesn’t want to talk about justice. He wants us to focus on the left brain. Remember what he said during opening statements? Use logic, not emotions. So let’s humor Mr. Noble for a minute. Let’s talk left brain.

  “What could be more left brain than statistics?” Kelly hit a button on her remote, and numbers flashed up on the screen. “One percent of gun stores sell 57 percent of the weapons ultimately traced to crimes. I know, Chief Poole testified that most guns used in crimes came from street sales. But if you trace them back far enough, how did they get on the streets in the first place? Through a few renegade gun dealers who specialize in illegal sales.

  “According to MD Firearms’s own study, four renegade dealers accounted for approximately 50 percent of the MD Firearms guns linked to crimes. One of those dealers was Peninsula Arms. That gun store accounted for 251 guns linked to murders or aggravated woundings in Washington, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and New York during 2006 alone.”

  She took a few steps, and the screen flashed one more time, displaying another number: $2,763,960.00. “This is the reason why MD Firearms keeps selling guns to dealers like Peninsula Arms. Two million, seven hundred sixty-three thousand, nine hundred sixty dollars. That’s the amount of revenue that MD Firearms made from Peninsula Arms in the last three years.”

  She turned to squarely face the jury again. “You want left brain? Let’s talk legal definitions. A few minutes ago, Judge Garrison read a set of jury instructions to you. He told you that negligence is a careless act or omission by the defendant.

  “An act or omission.

  “In other words, it’s no defense for MD Firearms to do nothing if a reasonable manufacturer would have acted.

  “Oh, they’re good at pointing fingers.” Kelly turned and stared at her three adversaries—Jason Noble, Case McAllister, and Melissa Davids, who had obviously decided to be present for closing arguments—all sitting in that ridiculous position off to the side of the defense counsel table. She walked over to the table. “Mr. Noble is great at putting everybody else on trial.” She pointed to the empty chairs. “Larry Jamison. Peninsula Arms. Jarrod Beeson. He even added a seat for the ATF.”

  She turned back to the jury. “Larry Jamison already got his verdict—at the hands of the SWAT team. Beeson’s in jail. Peninsula Arms is bankrupt. The ATF has qualified immunity. But for these individuals representing MD Firearms, this is their judgment day.”

  Her voice grew tighter, angrier, more intense. “And it’s no defense for them to sit back smugly and say, ‘We did nothing. We hid behind the Second Amendment. We knew people were dying, we knew this dealer was supplying the black market, but we also knew we made nearly three million dollars from them the past three years, so we did nothing.’”

  Kelly stopped. Took a breath. Lowered her voice. She thought about her dad leading Communion, about the words of the liturgy that applied to her own life. We have sinned against You by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.

  “MD Firearms didn’t pull the trigger. They didn’t make the illegal sale. Those were the wrong things that were done. But MD Firearms is guilty by what they have left undone. They knew about this renegade dealer but didn’t act. They knew people were losing their lives because Peninsula Arms was supplying the black market, and they turned their heads. They came into court and brought out the proverbial bowl of water and washed their hands of the matter, blaming everyone else.”

  The jury was anxious to start their work; Kelly could see that. And most jurors had probably made up their minds already. She needed to keep this short. But she also needed to end with a little emotion.

  “And so if you do what Mr. Noble suggests and use only your left brain, I respectfully submit that you will find in favor of the plaintiff. But I must say, ladies and gentlemen, that there’s a reason the left brain and right brain are connected. Because, you see, justice is not just a matter of the head; it’s a matter of the heart.”

  Kelly stepped in front of the jury and turned to a dry erase board. She pulled the top off a red marker and wrote the name of Larry Jamison. “Follow the trail of blood,” she said, drawing an arrow. “From Jamison to Jarrod Beeson.” She wrote names and drew arrows as she spoke. “From Beeson to Peninsula Arms. And from Peninsula Arms to MD Firearms.

  “No amount of fancy lawyering can remove the blood from their hands.”

  She put down the marker, the red ink staining her fingers.

  “Follow the trail of blood, ladies and gentlemen. It will take you straight to the door of Melissa Davids and MD Firearms.”

  84

  Jason stood and took only a few steps from his chair, trying to look calm and relaxed. His insides churned from the tension.

  “In
the ancient Jewish tradition, the priest would lay his hands on the head of a goat during the Day of Atonement and confess the sins of the people. The goat would then be cast out into the wilderness to make atonement for the people’s sins.

  “The ancient Greeks had a similar custom when a natural disaster, like a plague or famine, would occur. They would pick a beggar or someone crippled from inside the city, place the blame on that person’s head, stone and beat him, and then cast him out of the community.”

  Jason stepped into the middle of the courtroom, keeping his eyes on the jury. He would do his closing without notes. For the most part, he would keep his voice even and measured—the very picture of reasonableness.

  “Scapegoating. It’s been around for thousands of years. But American plaintiffs’ lawyers have perfected it.”

  “Objection!” Kelly said, and Jason wanted to thank her. “That’s improper argument, Judge.”

  Judge Garrison looked a little perplexed. He told Jason to tread lightly and reminded the jury that this was just argument from the lawyers, not evidence in the case.

  “A tragedy occurred on August 25, when Larry Jamison broke into the WDXR studios and executed Rachel Crawford in cold blood. A family was destroyed. A career was cut short. A wife was killed. A baby was lost. Somebody has to pay. And so Ms. Starling comes over and lays her hands on the head of my client, the manufacturer of the gun, and declares them responsible for all of this evil.”

  Jason shook his head in disbelief. “Why? Because they pulled the trigger? No. Because they committed an illegal act in selling the guns? No. All they did was manufacture a perfectly legal gun and sell it to a perfectly legal dealer in a country that protects the constitutional right of its citizens to do so.”

  By the skeptical looks on their faces, Jason could tell that some of the jurors weren’t buying this. Marcia Franks was not. Rodney Peterson was not. But Jason didn’t really care about them any more. He was talking to other jurors now.