“Judge, the prosecution can’t have four different people playing the same role.”
“Nobody’s playing a role—” Fat Face said, before Swift cut him off: “I don’t care what they call it, judge. But allowing four separate individuals to question each prospective juror is not only unprecedented, it’s giving the prosecution an unfair advantage. And costing the taxpayers a fortune, for no reason at all.”
“You’ve got four people at your table,” Fat Face whined.
“You mean five, don’t you?” Swift answered. “Or aren’t you counting the defendant? Add it up: two experts, one investigator, the defendant, and myself. I’m the only lawyer. And I’ve been the only one asking questions.”
“So you have two experts, and we don’t have any,” Fat Face stated the obvious.
“That’s for sure,” Swift fired back.
His shot didn’t miss. The judge told Fat Face he could have the entire DA’s Office sit at his table, but the rule was going to be one lawyer per witness, no exceptions.
What I heard inside my head was Do not fucking annoy me again, or you’ll wish you’d stayed home. Kind of wasted on Fat Face—he already wished he could have stayed home.
“Opening statements,” the judge said.
Fat Face got to his feet, working hard to keep a sleazy smile hidden. “What’s that in his hand?” I whispered to Swift. I was on his left, T.D. and Debbie on his right wing, with MaryLou closest to him.
“PowerPoint,” Swift whispered.
I didn’t want to distract him, so I just shut up. I’d have to wait and watch to get the answer Swift thought he’d already given me.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is that rare kind of case where you look at each other and ask, ‘Why would they even bother with a trial?’ You will hear from the best witness ever devised—the actual crime captured on videotape. You will actually see the defendant shoot and kill one victim, and wound two others. You will see the defendant take out a pistol and execute the victim. Kill him in cold blood, with no more emotion than you might have in stepping on a cockroach.”
He clicked whatever he was holding, and the white wall right across from the jurors lit up. Every time Fat Face clicked, another line or two was added. Why he did this, I don’t know—it was nothing more than what he was already saying himself. Sure did use up some time, though. As soon as he finished, the judge called a “lunch break.” But first he took about half an hour telling the jurors they couldn’t talk to each other about the case until both sides had rested and all closing statements were completed.
There was a whole bunch of other stuff I didn’t listen to. I was too busy watching the jurors pretend to be hanging on every word. Less than half of them even made a good try of it.
“We got the ones we needed,” T.D. said confidently.
“I agree,” Swift said. That was important. Not because of what it said, but because of the speaker’s voice: a man people listen to. Listen with respect.
“Does the defense wish to make an opening statement?” the judge said, making it clear he’d spent enough time on this case already. And he couldn’t be interviewed until after the case was over.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Swift said, in a “You’re kidding, right?” tone. When he got to his feet, he waited a beat, making sure he had every juror’s attention.
“You heard the prosecutor’s opening statement. And what you heard was a colossal waste of your time—”
“Objection!” Fat Face half-yelled. “The defense is not permitted to comment on anything except the evidence.”
“If the prosecutor had waited another couple of seconds, he would have understood that the defense is speaking directly to the evidence,” Swift cracked him with a counterpunch, then resumed before the judge could even rule. “You see,” he said, facing the jury, “the prosecutor’s opening was a waste of time because the defense does not contest a single word that came out of his mouth.”
Swift waited a long beat, watching the jurors closely. Then he went on: “The prosecutor repeated what everybody in this town, perhaps everybody in this country, already knows: on Friday, the thirty-first of this past May, MaryLou McCoy shot and killed Cameron Taft. They even made a little wall display out of the exact same thing. And that’s why I called it a waste of your time … because we do not contest a single factual statement made.”
Swift paused, pulling his audience even closer.
“But the prosecutor never answered the one question that you want answered, did he? Why would a young lady who never had so much as a traffic ticket in her life commit such a crime? Was she drunk? Was she on drugs?
“No, you all know she wasn’t. MaryLou McCoy is a star athlete, and she trained like one. Others in her age group might be smoking marijuana; MaryLou wouldn’t go near a cigarette.
“Who had a brighter future than MaryLou? She was headed to college, on a full scholarship. And she was going to play big-time softball, against the best in the country.
“Was she herself afraid of Cameron Taft? There isn’t a doubt in the world that she could have beaten him in a fair fight.
“Why would a young woman who we all expected to bring honor and glory to our town—to say nothing of the recognition we were all going to receive every time she was interviewed after a win—why would she even think she needed a weapon to protect herself?
“Why would a young woman the papers have been calling Mighty Mary since she was a sophomore throw such a bright future away?
“Was she insane? Absolutely not! This is not some kind of ‘temporary-insanity defense’ case. Get that out of your minds. MaryLou McCoy didn’t ‘snap.’ She did what she did for a reason. And that reason is what we call a ‘justification’ defense. We’re not going to make speeches; we’re going to show you why MaryLou did what she did. And why she had no choice but to do it.
“The prosecution can’t answer that question, so you can’t get anything from them but more repetitions of the same story they just told you. Telling you the story you all know by heart, and taking a ridiculous amount of time to do it.
“But the defense is going to prove to you that MaryLou McCoy had no choice. And when we’re done, you’re going to come back and tell this court that you may not approve of what MaryLou did, but you understand why she did it. And that, when she did it, she was justified.
“There’s only one verdict in this case: not guilty. We are not playing for the tie. We don’t want a hung jury. We didn’t want a plea bargain. And we don’t have any legal technicalities to spring on you.
“No, what we’re going to do is put the truth in front of you, and then ask you to do the right thing with that truth.
“We believe you’ll do just that. And if we didn’t have a deep, abiding faith in that belief, we’d be walking a different road. Listen to the prosecution’s case—if you can stay awake—and then we’ll answer the question you’ve all been waiting for: ‘Why?’ ”
Swift was already back in his chair before Fat Face could even get the word “objection” out of his mouth. But, being the toad he was, Fat Face couldn’t help himself:
“Your Honor, we ask the court to admonish counsel against ad-hominem attacks.”
“The defense will withdraw its comment on the banality of the prosecution’s presentation, Your Honor. But we do wish Mr. Curtis”—So that’s his name, I thought; then I decided I liked Fat Face better—“would speak English,” Swift slammed back, making the “we” into him and the jurors, and Fat Face into the “them.”
“That was sweet, hoss,” I could hear T.D. whisper. For Swift, that was the same as permanently increasing his chest size.
The prosecution’s supposed to go first, but Swift beat Fat Face to the punch again.
“Your Honor, if it please the court, we are willing to stipulate that on May 31, 2013, the defendant intentionally shot one Cameron Taft. Further, we do not dispute that she wounded two others in that same episode. We submit that, having so agreed, we can dispen
se with the need to hear those same facts ‘proven’ again.”
“Your Honor, this is outrageous,” Fat Face said, struggling to his feet.
“How so?” the judge asked.
“We have a right to put on a case.”
“And counsel is already saying he does not contest any aspect of the case you wish to put on.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Fat Face said, not making any friends as he struggled with his desire for whatever moment of glory he expected, but couldn’t come up with a real answer.
“ ‘That doesn’t matter’ may not be the most eloquent argument this court has heard,” the judge said. “Nevertheless, I take it that you decline the defense’s offer to expedite this trial?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Fat Face said, every square inch of visible skin covered in repellent crimson blotches.
“Then continue,” the judge told him, his voice making it clear how interested he was in hearing the same stuff again.
Fat Face showed the same videotape that had already been You-Tubed all over the world. He showed the jury the close-up photos taken just before they opened Cameron Taft for the autopsy. Not stunningly effective—a .22 doesn’t make a big hole going in, and the slug had never left the dead man’s brain.
Swift sat quietly, eyes lidded as if the whole thing was putting him to sleep. But when Fat Face wanted to show the jury a video of the autopsy surgeon sawing off the top of the dead man’s skull, Swift got to his feet.
“Your Honor, with all due respect, this so-called evidence is not only well beyond cumulative, it is a blatant attempt to disgust and sicken the jury. We have conceded—and I will not waste either Your Honor’s or the jury’s time with repeating our proffered stipulation—everything this video could possibly prove. Watching the top of a man’s skull being sawed off is such a horrifying sight that any probative value it might conceivably possess is cosmically outweighed by the prejudice such a sight could inflict against the defendant.”
“Sustained” was all the judge said. When he saw Fat Face open his mouth, he added, “Unless you intend to offer some other perspective that will show how this videotape is necessary to prove facts which defendant’s counsel has already conceded, you will either move on or rest your case, sir.”
Robbed of his planned grand presentation, Fat Face said, “Could we have a moment, Your Honor?”
The judge just waved his hand in a “Why not?” gesture.
Fat Face and the three other DAs—I mean, deputies—went into conference. I couldn’t hear what they were saying—all I could see was a lot of arm-waving. Finally, Fat Face got up.
“If Your Honor is going to bar—”
“Enough, counsel. This court will not remind you again.”
“The state rests,” Fat Face said, as majestically as any flop-sweaty swine could manage.
Swift wasted no time. Witness after witness testified—from behind a black mesh screen—that she had been raped by members of Tiger Ko Khai. And that nothing had ever happened as a result.
The prize was the girl who admitted she told the cops that she wasn’t even going to look at a lineup of suspects unless they agreed to prosecute a member of Tiger Ko Khai who had raped her a year before. The SANE nurse on duty an hour past midnight—01:03 was the time in the records Swift had marked for entry as evidence—had verified that the girl had been raped “within a couple of hours prior to examination.”
That girl wasn’t grown yet, but she already had the anger of a person who had been told to “get over it” one too many times. She couldn’t have said it more clearly: no promises from them, no testimony from her.
Like I said, the pick of the litter.
But her place as star witness vanished when Swift called a real star to the stand.
Danielle played it to the hilt, giving the blade a final kill-twist after she was sure she’d planted it deep enough.
“I’m not like them,” she told the jury, distancing herself from those who lacked her beauty and physical endowments—no black mesh screen for her. Making it clear that nobody had raped her. That the train Tiger Ko Khai had pulled was simply an initiation into a special society, run by a special man, who loved her with all his heart. A man named Cameron Taft. “All the girls were after him,” she crowed.
“So your sister was jealous of you?” Swift asked, his voice empty of inflection.
“Look at her.” Danielle pointed. “And look at me. What do you think?”
MaryLou’s face was a frozen mask. She looked straight ahead. Not at Danielle. Not at the jury. Not at anything at all. The centers of her eyes were large round dots—they looked like they’d been painted on.
That mask didn’t even crack when Swift slapped Danielle with “I think you’re the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Fat Face jumped to his feet, but Swift got off first: “I am done with this witness, Your Honor,” the expression on his face telling the jury he was grateful to be relieved of a repulsive but necessary task.
Fat Face had no better luck with Danielle than he’d had with any of the other girls who had testified. Every attempt at getting them to take back what they said only made it worse. And his “I know the last thing you’d ever want to do would be to hurt your sister” had Swift on his feet before Danielle could answer.
“That’s not a question, judge. That’s the prosecutor’s attempt to lead the witness. Or an exhibition of his own delusions.”
“I object!”
“To what?” the judge snapped at Fat Face. “Either rephrase your question so that it is a question, or move on.”
“Danielle,” Fat Face coaxed, “would you ever do anything to hurt your big sister?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, for example, would you ever lie to hurt your sister?”
“When did I lie?”
“I’m not saying you have lied, only asking if you would lie. To hurt your sister, I mean.”
“I don’t need to lie,” she said scornfully.
Finally, Fat Face gave up. Maybe he didn’t realize he’d just injected pus into the same wound he was trying to bandage, but that would make him the only one in the courtroom who didn’t.
Danielle stalked off the witness stand, switching her hips on the off-chance that anyone mistook her for anything but what she was.
Franklin told the jury what he’d heard Danielle say. Since the jury had already heard Danielle tell the same obvious lies, none of the deputies even tried to cross-examine him. Or maybe they realized they’d have as much luck getting anything good for their side out of Franklin as they would trying to throw him out of the witness chair.
When Franklin admitted he’d lie under oath if that would do anything to help MaryLou, that had been the killing blow. Even those deputies realized that anyone who’d tell that much truth wasn’t someone you wanted to try getting to admit they had just lied.
And the tears on the giant’s face when he said that he loved her were more compelling than any testimony could have been.
“You just did more to save MaryLou’s life than all the rest of us combined,” I told him, after he’d asked me for the tenth time if he did okay.
“You mean that, Mr. Dell?”
“I swear it,” I told the giant, putting my hand over my heart. What I didn’t say was: I wonder how many of them still think you’re “retarded” now? I wonder how many of the girls wish they had a boyfriend with your kind of love?
“Is it all right if I tell Mr. Spyros what I told today?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know what he’s gonna say, too.”
“What?”
“Mr. Spyros was in the war, you know. A long time ago.”
“And …?” I asked gently. For Franklin, Vietnam would have been a long time ago.
“And he told me once, when you’re in a war, it’s a lot easier to fight if you know who the enemy is. And when I tell him what I said today, he’ll say MaryLou did the right thing.”
“Yeah, he will, Franklin. And he’ll say you did, too.”
“Now comes the fun,” Swift told us after court that day. “Tomorrow is the test. But before I put on our experts”—nodding at T.D. and Debbie, who were sitting close together—“I’ve got a little surprise for everyone. A new witness.”
“Another girl who—?”
“No,” he said to Dolly, almost busting at the seams to tell us … something. “A police officer. A detective who’s been on the force almost twenty years.”
“How did you—?”
“He volunteered,” Swift said to me. “Walked right into my office after he saw me on TV. Or maybe it was T.D., I don’t recall. Anyway, what he said was, he’d been waiting for those Tiger Ko Khai rapists to take a fall for years. And even though they weren’t on trial yet, he could give us enough dirt on Cameron Taft to shed some light on just who MaryLou shot that day.”
“Damn!” is all I said. But I made it clear that I was showing respect. I suspected it was T.D.’s TV appearance that had alerted the cop, but I didn’t care—T.D. had enough trophies; this was Swift’s first.
“Detective, would you tell the jury your full name and title, and give a brief summary of your career?”
The detective told the jury what we already knew. Nothing for the prosecution to object to, but Fat Face managed to dig one out:
“Your Honor, it would be helpful if we knew what the defense is trying to qualify this officer as an expert in.”
Swift acted like he was forcing back a laugh. Then he just said, “If it please the court, the instruction was to call our witness. We have done so. Why the prosecutor believes we are seeking to qualify Detective Lancer as an expert is beyond me.”
“Well?” the judge said, looking at what was left of the rapidly melting Fat Face.
Ten seconds passed. Fat Face sat down.
“May I continue?” Swift asked, rubbing it in. All he got from the judge was a curt nod—men who wear comb-overs have to be careful not to go too far with their nods.
“Do I know Cameron Taft?” Lancer answered Swift’s first question. “The whole department knows Cameron Taft. I probably arrested him half a dozen times myself. Always on the same charges: sexual assault of a minor.”
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