CHAPTER 47
DAY OF RECKONING
At 7:00 a.m. the alarm went off and I opened my eyes. A sinking feeling came over me as I realized it was the first day of the Dusty Thomas' trial. The first few hours of a trial was always the worst. Gripped with fear, I'd make my way into the courtroom expecting the worst. But once the trial got underway, there wouldn't be time to worry or fret about anything. I'd be too busy presenting evidence, cross-examining witnesses, and making my opponent follow the rules by making timely objections. Now, however, I was worried about everything. Would my witnesses show up? Would they testify the way I expected? Would the jury be fair and unbiased? These and many more questions always haunted me those first few hours.
Jodie had loaded everything I needed in my car the day before so I didn't have to go to the office. After taking a long shower, I got dressed and went into the kitchen to eat breakfast. Rebekah had made French toast, bacon, eggs, and hot coffee. I usually didn't eat this much for breakfast, but it was going to be a grueling day and Rebekah knew I might not have time for lunch. She and the children were all very supportive, smothering me with hugs and kisses before I left for the courthouse.
It was a cold and dreary day. It had rained all night and the streets were wet and slippery. Fortunately the temperature had remained above freezing so there wasn't any ice. Dusty, Martha, and Jodie were to meet me at the courthouse at 8:30. The trial was set to begin at nine, so that would give us thirty minutes to discuss last minute strategy in the coffee shop downstairs, get through the crowd of reporters, and get up to the courtroom to set up at the defense table before the trial began.
A tinge of fear ran through me as I got in my car. Ever since the ambush I worried about General Moya's assassin putting a bomb in my car. As I put the key in the ignition, I saw in my mind's eye my car exploding. I hesitated, closed my eyes a moment, and then turned the ignition. The engine turned over smoothly and I breathed a sigh of relief as I waved goodbye to Rebekah and the kids. The ride to the McKinney courthouse was long and grueling through rush hour on Highway 75. As I got close to the courthouse, I saw the streets lined with TV vans and trucks with big satellite antennas. A crowd had already assembled in front of the courthouse—sightseers, picketers, reporters, cameramen, and police. I drove past the courthouse parking lot, saw it was full, and parked on the street.
Jodie met me at the west door of the courthouse. She said Dusty and Martha were waiting in the snack room. She said she had taken all our files upstairs already, so we went in directly to meet Dusty and Martha. They both had dressed modestly as we suggested and looked clean and respectable. I explained to them that the first few days of trial would be spent picking a jury. During that time it was important for them to smile, look attentive, and appear upbeat. Then I went over our trial outline so they would know exactly what to expect once testimony began. As we were getting ready to go upstairs, Dusty asked the question that all defendants ask on the eve of trial.
"What are my chances?"
I swallowed hard and replied. "Well, you were found standing over the body with a shotgun in your hand. It's not going to be easy getting past that, but we have developed a quite interesting defense that ought to get the jury's attention."
"So, what do you think? Fifty-fifty? Sixty-forty? Eighty-twenty?" Dusty pressed.
"This isn't Las Vegas. I can't give you precise odds other than to say it's realistically less than fifty-fifty."
Dusty's face dropped and Martha closed her eyes in response to my assessment of their chances of escaping the ordeal unscathed. As we left the snack room, photographers began crowding around us, snapping our pictures, and asking questions. At this point I simply told them we had no comment. While we waited for the elevator with the press crowded around us, two bailiffs showed up and told the reporters to move aside. When the elevator opened, they commandeered it, shoved us inside, and took us to the sixth floor.
Inside the courtroom the gallery was filled with prospective jurors talking excitedly. A bailiff handed me a thick envelope as I walked by. It contained the jury panel list, individual cards on each juror, and an instruction sheet. We sat down at the defense table and started the impossible task of evaluating hundreds of prospective jurors. How could anyone really get to know a juror in such a short time? Their motivations were so mixed and varied it was hard to read them. Few of them wanted to be there. Most were trying to figure out what they could say to insure they wouldn't get picked. I often thought it would be better to put the jury list on a dart board, give each side six darts, and let them throw them at the list. The lucky jurors who were hit would make up the jury. A jury picked in this manner would probably be just as good or better than one picked in the conventional fashion.
Before long, the bailiff called for silence and announced that court was in session. The judge took the bench and asked Trenton Lee to start voir dire. Trenton got up and introduced himself to the jury and started telling them his version of what had happened on July 11. The jurors seemed enthralled by the story he was weaving. Of course, they had already seen it on TV but they hung on Trenton's every word like it was the first time they'd heard of it. When he was done with his story, he started asking individual jurors questions calculated to elicit any prejudices that they might have, one way or the other, that could unfairly influence their deliberations as a juror.
By the time Trenton finished late in the afternoon, it was clear that I couldn't possibly finish that day, so the judge called a recess until Tuesday morning. One day was down and I had scarcely opened my mouth. But that would change tomorrow, as it was my turn to pry into the personal life of the prospective jurors assembled before me and to give them another perspective of the Bobby Tuttle murder. Although these first two days were only a dress rehearsal for the actual trial and no evidence would be introduced, the fact was many, if not all, of the jurors would likely make up their minds those first two days before the indictment was even read.
It's not to say the jurors wouldn't listen to the witnesses and consider the evidence but they would do so predisposed one way or the other. Only something startling or shocking that they had not considered or dreamed possible would change their minds. Fortunately the bizarre story I would soon be telling them had such potential, if they didn't think it too preposterous to have any credibility whatsoever.
That night I called Paul Thayer to get an update on his activities, but I couldn't get through to him. The message on his answering machine said he was out of town and wouldn't be back until Wednesday. I wondered where he had gone and why he hadn't called and given us an update. In less than 36 hours, Trenton Lee would be calling his witnesses and I needed more evidence or Dusty's defense would come across as a desperate attorney's pipe dream. Despite my anxiety I slept soundly that night and when I next opened my eyes I couldn't believe it was already morning.
The scene at the courthouse was a carbon copy of the previous morning except that there were more picketers and press and, consequently, more police to keep them in line. I took the back stairs to the sixth floor to avoid the press and to get my blood flowing with a little exercise. Sitting around all day Monday listening to Trenton woo the jury had left me sleepy and lethargic. The fear and anxiety I had felt on Monday was gone. Today was just another work day and there was much to be done.
The judge nodded at me and said, "Mr. Turner, you may proceed."
"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, yesterday Mr. Lee gave you his synopsis of the events which led to Dusty Thomas' indictment and the trial in which we are all now engaged. These events were probably familiar to you as this case has received wide publicity in the press and on TV. I must caution you, though, to the fact that nothing you have seen or heard so far is evidence. There is nothing yet for you to consider. As you know, the state has the burden of proof in this matter, and at this moment my client enjoys a presumption of innocence. If anyone right now has already decided that Dusty Thomas is guilty then you do not qualify to be a juror today. Who amo
ng you have already made that determination?"
Two hands went up in the back of the room. I pointed to one of the gentlemen and said, "So, you've already made up your mind that Dusty Thomas is guilty?" I asked.
"Well, it's rather obvious. He was found standing over the body with a shotgun," he replied with a chuckle.
"True enough. But the judge has instructed you that the state has the burden of proof and that there is a presumption of innocence. Will you be able to follow the judge's instructions and consider Mr. Thomas innocent unless the state proves otherwise?"
"Hey, I've seen all the proof I need."
I turned to the judge and said, "Your Honor. The defense objects to this juror as he is obviously not impartial and has indicated he cannot follow your instructions."
"The juror will be excused," the judge said.
Turning to the other juror who had raised his hand, I began questioning him, but he obviously wanted to be on the jury and knew how to answer my questions. He said he would set aside his personal feelings and follow the judge's instructions. I didn't think he was sincere and questioned him at length, but he answered each question very carefully. In the end I asked he be disqualified but the judge refused. I noted I would have to use one of my strikes to keep him off the jury. At this point I began my rendition of the facts of July 11, 1986.
"We are not going to dispute the fact that Dusty Thomas was seen by the wrecker driver standing over Bobby Tuttle's body. But we are going to ask you not to draw any conclusions just yet from that fact. You've all been to see magicians, right? What's so amazing about magicians is their ability to make things appear differently than what they actually are. For instance, you've all seen a magician stick a sword right through a beautiful woman—at least that is what appears to have happened. Yet in the end the woman jumps up without any wounds at all. Well, we are going to show you during the course of this trial that despite the fact that Dusty Thomas looks very guilty, he is not. We will show you that a very smart and cunning man killed Bobby Tuttle for his own reasons and then tried to make it look like Dusty was responsible. I know this may seem hard to believe, but all I ask is that you honor the judge's instructions and give Dusty Thomas his presumption of innocence. Keep an open mind and consider all the evidence before you begin to deliberate. We will carefully unravel this complicated conspiracy and show you that it is quite likely that Dusty Thomas was set up and is no more responsible for Agent Tuttle's murder than you or me."
After my summary of the facts, I continued to question the jury panel on many issues, some which had been addressed by Trenton, and others that he had omitted. By the time I was done, it was nearly five o'clock, so the judge recessed the case until the following day. Day two was now over and I wondered what the jury was thinking. I would have given a day's pay to be a fly on the wall in the jury room that afternoon when the judge dismissed the jurors. After all, if the case was already decided, I certainly wanted to know about it.
Deadly Distractions, A Stan Turner Mystery Vol 6 Page 47