“Other than the witnesses, is there any evidence, anything, that shows Mrs. Steele inside the car?”
“There isn’t, no.”
“Other than the witnesses, is there any evidence, even the smallest piece of direct evidence, that proves Mrs. Steele was driving the car?”
“What we have—”
“It’s a simple question, Officer Ball, and this court would appreciate a direct response. Yes or no. Is there any direct evidence that proves Mrs. Steele was driving the stolen car?”
Officer Ball shook his head, looked away and sighed. “No.” He conceded. “But we have her—”
“Thank you, Officer Ball. No further questions.”
Hunter nodded, happy with the small success, but it wouldn’t be enough to win the case. He needed something big to swing it his way, something that showed another possibility for the handbag. As well as the questioning went, as well as the Officer’s testimony had gone for him, he hadn’t destroyed the witness, he hadn’t done enough to throw the case out, but he had at least created doubt.
There was only one thing that was going to win the case, one thing that would prove Mary-Ann Steele’s innocence—he needed footage of that night.
Chapter 37
Nearing the end of day one, post lunch and with little air conditioning in the courtroom, it was tempting for the jurors to doze into a siesta. Apart from Steele’s husband and two closest friends, and one inquisitive spectator, there was nobody else in the seats of the courtroom. The remaining chairs looked perfectly clean in the emptiness, almost lonely, creating a room that felt devoid of any optimism. The curtains were drawn closed as the sun started to dip, preventing any natural light, and one of the ceiling lights blew in the back corner of the room, creating a little patch of darkness.
“The prosecution calls Mr. Robert Huang to the stand.” Alwen stood as one of his star witnesses walked through the court room.
Robert Huang walked through the court with the look of a determined man—shoulders back, steely gaze, chin up. He was wearing his best suit, the one he had only worn twice before, and his hair was neatly clipped. A first generation Chinese American, Huang had lived most of his sixty years around Chinatown in Chicago, cooking his famous noodle soup for a living. He’d worked seven days a week for all of his adult life, only taking two weeks’ vacation in the Chinese New Year, and retirement was not a notion he was comfortable with. He swore his oath, sat in the stand, and stared at the defense table.
“Mr. Huang,” Alwen began. “For the benefit of the court, can you please explain what you do for a living?”
“I work as a cook and manager in my noodle restaurant.” Huang’s accent was a high-pitched tone, with a Chinese accent. “My wife and I have owned the restaurant in Chinatown for forty years. We work very hard to provide noodles for our customers.”
“What time did you leave your place of work on the night of August 2nd?”
“11pm exactly.”
“Is this a usual time to leave?”
“On a Monday night, yes. 11pm is usual. Most nights I leave around 10pm, but Mondays are spent ordering food for the week ahead.” He was solid in the chair, barely moving at all. “I was the only one left at that time.”
“And when you left your restaurant, what did you see?”
“I saw Mr. Chow’s white Jaguar sedan parked in the street. It’s a very nice car and it wasn’t usually parked there, that’s why I noticed it.”
“This car?” Alwen pointed to a picture of Chow’s sedan.
“That’s correct.”
“And did you see anyone near the car?”
“Yes.”
“Is that person in the courtroom?”
“They are. It’s that person there.” He pointed to Mary-Ann Steele.
“Let the court records show Mr. Huang has identified the defendant.” Alwen moved a folder on his desk. “And what was the defendant doing near the car?”
“She was acting suspiciously. She was looking in the windows and lurking around the car. It takes me around one to two minutes to walk from the back entrance of the restaurant to where I park my car, and she was around the car the whole time.”
“Mr. Huang, how can you be sure it was this person?
“I thought it was very strange for this person, or anyone, to be next to the car at 11pm on a Monday. I thought it was very strange anyone was out at that time, but particularly strange for an elderly lady to be there.”
“And did you provide a written witness statement reporting what you saw?”
“That’s correct.”
“And is this the statement here?” Alwen held up a paper file.
“It appears so.”
“From this statement, can you please explain what else you saw that night?”
For the next twenty minutes, Huang went through the details of the witness statement, almost exactly word for word. Hunter stared at the paper in front of him, barely acknowledging that Huang was on the stand. He didn’t need to listen; he’d already read the statement ten times.
His mind was elsewhere, not only away from the case, not only from the courtroom, but with the innocent girl that was languishing behind bars. How could he let her life wither away? How could he not have seen that they were going to pay her off? He should’ve warned her. He should’ve stopped them.
It felt like he was going through his father’s pain all over again—an innocent person suffering in prison without a defense, without a hope. Those were feelings he didn’t like to confront; feelings he didn’t like to admit existed.
He had spent much of his life trying to fight those feelings, trying to push that pain aside, fighting back the thoughts of helplessness, of weakness. He saw Nina’s case as he did his father’s—it was his fault the cases failed, his fault he wasn’t able to navigate the system and find a way out for the innocent.
The years that he took his father’s appeals through the highest courts in the land were the most stressful of his life, almost turning his hair grey in his late twenties. Those repeated failures, those repeated disappointments, had never left him, only been pushed aside, pushed down. Nina’s case, his failings to protect her innocence, had reopened those unhealed wounds.
“Mr. Hunter?” Judge Ramos interrupted his thoughts. “I asked if you were ready to question the witness?”
“Yes. Of course.” Hunter snapped out of his thoughts of despair. “Yes, Your Honor, I do have questions for this witness.”
Hunter moved a piece of paper on his table, reviewed the first lines of the file, and turned his attention to the man on the stand. He squinted at the man, before standing to question him.
“Mr. Huang, how long have you known the owner of the stolen vehicle, Mr. Kenneth Chow?”
“Many years. Even decades.”
“And you consider him a friend?”
“Yes.”
“Would you do anything to help your friend?”
“Objection. Accusation.” Alwen interrupted. “The statement is implying Mr. Huang is guilty of wrongdoing.”
“Withdrawn.” Hunter was quick to respond; however, the seed had been planted in the jurors’ minds. This was the Elephant—the idea that if you tell someone, ‘Whatever you do, don’t think of an elephant,’ the first thing they’ll think of is an elephant. It was a plant in the jurors’ minds, an idea that otherwise would not be allowed to be admitted into the testimony. “Mr. Huang, do you wear glasses?”
“No.” He shook his head, confused by the question.
“When was the last time you took an eye test?”
Huang thought for a moment before responding. “Years ago. I have good eyesight.”
“Mr. Huang, can you please read the first line of your witness statement, word for word, to the court?” Hunter picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Huang. The font was deliberately small, the first five lines deliberately smudged, and the color of the words were dark blue, rather than black.
Huang stared at the page for a mo
ment, and then, instinctively, moved it further away from his face, looking for a clearer view. Even with perfect eyesight, the words would’ve been hard to read.
“Mr. Huang, before you read that line, can you please explain to the court why you moved the page further from your eyes?”
“Objection.” Alwen interrupted. “Relevance. This is merely a game by the defense as it’s not an official vision test.”
“Overruled.” Judge Ramos turned to the witness. “Please answer the question, Mr. Huang.”
“I moved my arms to see the words better. The writing on this page isn’t very clear.”
“Interesting.” Hunter stated and took the paper back from the witness. “Mr. Huang, was there much lighting in that street on August 2nd?”
“Like I said in the witness statement, there was a broken streetlight but the moon was very bright. It was a clear night. The moon was high in the sky, that’s how I saw her. I was able to see the whole street.”
“And you have stated you were thirty feet away from the car, correct?”
“Yes. That’s what I said in the witness statement.”
“Almost word for word.” Hunter moved to his desk, and held up a piece of paper. “In my hand is a report from NASA on the phases of the moon.”
One of the young prosecutors audibly groaned, and Hunter turned to look at him. When the young prosecutor saw the eyes of the court were on him, he made a face to indicate his regret.
“As I was saying, this is a report from NASA on the phases of the moon. In your witness statement, you state the moonlight was very bright that night, however, NASA reports that the phase of the moon on August 2nd was called a ‘waning crescent.’ Do you know how much of the moon is visible on a night during the waning crescent phase, Mr. Huang?”
“I don’t.”
“It’s 8.8%. Merely 8.8%, Mr. Huang. Certainly not enough light to highlight a street and make anything very visible. So, tell me, which is correct—are you telling the truth about the lighting of the moon, or do the scientists at NASA have their recordings of the moon incorrect?”
“Maybe it wasn’t the moon. It must have been a bright light, like the streetlights.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the moon and it was the streetlights?” Hunter smiled. “Which is also interesting, Mr. Huang. As you’ve said, the streetlight wasn’t working, and because you stated that in your witness statement, we requested a report by the City of Chicago about the relevant streetlights, which I have here. With the testimony from the prosecution witness, the defense would like to offer this as evidence.” Hunter handed the report to the judge, to the prosecution, and then to the jury members. When the prosecution offered no objections, Hunter continued. “There are five streetlights in that area, two of which would have been directly shining near the Jaguar, and those two streetlights, along with the others, were not working at the time. As you can see in this report, a member of the public reported the lights as broken on July 10th, and they were not fixed until September 8th. During that time, the relevant streetlights were not working. So, tell me, Mr. Huang, which bright light could light up the entire street, enabling you, with poor eyesight, to see someone thirty feet away and identify them?”
“I don’t know.” Huang shook his head, clearly confused.
“You don’t know? Do you know if you saw Mrs. Steele?”
“I’m…” Huang struggled to find the right words. “I’m sure I saw her.”
“Under the non-existent moonlight?”
“Yes, I mean no.” The confusion was stretched across his face. “I don’t understand the question.”
“Thank you, Mr. Huang.” Hunter walked back to his table, tapping his finger on a file. Once he was sure the jury members were all looking at him, Hunter made a facial expression that demonstrated his surprise. “No further questions.”
Chapter 38
The next four days of prosecution evidence were cumbersome. It appeared as if the prosecution were trying to bore the jury into a guilty verdict. Alwen laid down question after question to apparent experts, repeating the same information over and over and over, and Hunter objected where he could.
The jury started each day with fresh eyes, fresh focus, but by the end of day five, they were struggling to stay awake. It was Alwen’s plan all along—present a mountain of circumstantial evidence, present so much indirect proof, that the jury would be so convinced they couldn’t dispute it.
After the jury had filed out for the end of day five, followed by the judge, and then the prosecution team, Hunter took his time in the courtroom, placing his documents into his briefcase with slow movements. He could sense the stress on Mary-Ann, he could sense her anguish next to him. When he turned to look at her, he saw that she looked like she hadn’t slept in days.
“Are we winning?” There was desperation in her voice, tears in her eyes. “Please, I have to know we’re in front. Tell me what the jury is thinking.”
“It’s not a strong case against you.” Hunter closed his briefcase. “But there’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, and that’s starting to build in the jury’s mind.”
“What does that mean?” Her eyes were pleading with him.
“It means the jury is 50/50. At this point, this case could go either way.”
She turned to her husband, tears welling in her eyes. It was almost too much to lose her son, her only child, but then to let the man that caused his death go free without any consequences, almost drove her to an early grave.
To then be accused of attacking that man’s property was finally breaking her strong resolve.
“Don’t worry.” Her husband calmed her. “We’ll get through this. The system always works.”
Hunter nodded, not because he agreed, he didn’t, but because Nathan Steele’s voice was reassuring to his client. After they had walked out of the courtroom, Nathan’s arm around his wife holding her close, Hunter paused for a moment, leaned on the table, and shook his head.
Most of the time, the system worked.
But the times it didn’t, the times when the innocent were taken behind bars, they were the times that nearly forced Hunter to walk away from his profession. He had faith in the house of justice, faith in the people that ran it, but nobody was perfect, and no system was faultless.
The adage that it was better to let one hundred guilty people go than send one innocent person to prison was good in theory, written on a piece of paper it was more than convincing, but what if those hundred people were desperate rapists, murderers, and thieves. Is one person a suitable sacrifice to keep the streets safe?
Those thoughts sat with him as he walked out of the courthouse, onto the busy street, and stepped into the back of the cab. He greeted the taxi driver, made polite small talk as always, and then stared out the window. The driver was Irish, his twang as clear as his pasty white skin.
“Are you from Dublin?” Hunter asked.
“No, no. I’m from a small town in County Kilkenny, called Inistioge. Beautiful place. Very green, very quiet, and full of Guinness.”
“Sounds fabulous. Why would you ever move from there?”
“There was no work. I had the choice to move to Dublin for work, or to the US of A. I chose here.” He laughed, not at anything, but more because it was his usual state of mind. “Good place, this Chicago. All this grey weather reminds me of home.”
The traffic around them was bad, heavier than usual, and there were people stepping between the slow-moving cars, but the worst were the bicycles zipping between vehicles at high speed.
The thoughts that pounded in Hunter’s head, the thoughts of justice, crime, and prison, were almost driving him insane. Trying to distract himself from the day’s work, trying to push all that emotion into the back of his mind, Hunter turned back to the driver.
“Busy day?”
“Always a busy day for me. And what do you do for a crust, pal?” The Irishman asked.
“I’m a defense attorney.”
“Ah, a lawye
r.” The cab driver laughed again. “Why aren’t there any Irish lawyers?”
“Why?” Hunter quizzed, a little confused.
“Because they couldn’t pass the bar!” The driver slapped his steering wheel, laughing heartily. Hunter couldn’t help but smile in the back seat.
“You like that joke, eh?” The driver looked in the rearview mirror. “Well, if you like that one, I’ve got another joke.”
“Go on.” Hunter nodded.
“When I first came to Chicago, I was dating a Communist, but I had no idea. She seemed nice and she seemed so modern. In hindsight, I should’ve seen all the red flags.”
Hunter laughed loudly, surprised at the joke delivered by the Irishman.
“Tell me something.” Hunter questioned, leaning forward, happy to be distracted. “How do all the cab drivers know not to turn up to the same place at the same time?”
“GPS data. We’ve all got them now.” The driver tapped his dashboard. “It’s all run through our phones, available at the touch of a button. All that data, all that technology, makes it so easy to communicate now.”
Hunter shrugged. Even technology had gotten through to the cabs. Unavoidable. Everything was monitored, assessed, tracked, diced, sliced, and stored.
“So your boss knows where you are at all times?” Hunter leaned back in the seat. “Keeping an eye on you every step of the way. That’s micro-managing at its worst.”
“He knows everything about me and every cab in his business. He knows when we pull into gas stations, when we stop by our homes to pick something up, or when we swing past a bar for lunch. My boss knows where everyone is at all times.”
As one light turned green, the taxi driver went to move forward through the traffic, but as soon as he picked up speed, he slammed on the brakes.
“What happened?” Hunter jumped forward.
“Sorry, mate. It was that guy. He just came out in front of me.” The driver pointed to the cyclist riding away in the distance. “I could’ve run him over. Stupid, stupid cyclist. They come out of nowhere and you can’t see them.”
Corrupt Justice Page 20