T.J. continued with his questioning. “Dr. Fayler, did you test the sample that was taken from the glass shard?” Fayler answered that he had. “Was it human blood?” The doctor answered that it was. “Did you run a DNA test on the sample?”
The members of the jury had perked up and were listening attentively when he said he had. T.J. pressed on. “Was that sample compared to a known sample of DNA?”
By now, Mary feared her case was being skewered, but she wasn’t sure how. Dr. Fayler answered T.J.’s question, saying, “Yes, it was compared to a DNA sample submitted by the defendant.”
T.J. paused to let that sink into the jurors’ minds. “What were the results of your test, doctor?”
With no doubt in his voice, Dr. Fayler said, “The blood on the glass shard was that of James O’Brian.” T.J. thanked him and said he had no more questions.
Mary tried to regroup, but all she could do was determine that Dr. Fayler was indeed competent to conduct the tests.
“I call Dr. William Burns.” T.J. was on a roll, and he wanted to keep moving.
“You were one of the doctors on duty the night of April 16, were you not?” Dr. Burns said that he was. “And you treated Mr. O’Brian that night. Am I correct?” The answer was yes. “Would you please tell the jury what you observed to be Mr. O’Brian’s condition?”
The doctor checked his notes. “He was extremely inebriated.”
T.J. turned and looked at his client, and without facing the witness, asked, “In your opinion, do you think Mr. O’Brian was so drunk he could not have administered such a brutal beating?”
No sooner had Dr. Burns said he didn’t think Jimmy could have stood up, let alone strike anyone with a forceful blow, Mary interrupted.
“Objection, Your Honor. Defense is asking the witness to form a judgment.”
“Sustained,” the judge growled and this time glared at T.J., who ignored the glare and quickly moved on.
Facing his witness again, he asked, “Did you treat my client for anything other than alcohol poisoning?”
Dr. Burns paged through his notes. “He had a deep laceration on his right hand requiring seventeen stitches to repair.”
“And where on his hand was this cut?” T.J. asked. The doctor held up his right hand and pointed at the heel as he answered.
“When someone trips and falls, what is their reaction?” T.J. inquired.
Doctor Burns looked at his hand as though he were imagining such a fall. “They throw their hand forward to break their fall.”
T.J. asked one more question. “If their hand was to land on a piece of broken glass, what would happen?”
The doctor smiled for an instant. “They would sustain a rather severe cut.”
T.J. reminded the jury that when questioned, Jimmy had said he vaguely remembered tripping over something when he had gotten out of his truck at the soccer field to relieve himself.
Mary cross-examined the witness, but there was little she could do to refute anything he had said. The judge looked at his watch. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s nearly noon. Court is recessed until one o’clock. Mr. Compton has requested a short meeting with me in my chambers. The prosecution is strongly advised to attend.”
The courtroom emptied, and the two attorneys and the judge proceeded to his office.
Chapter Seventeen
At one o’clock sharp, Judge Jesperson entered the courtroom, his robes flying behind him and a scowl on his face. “The defense has requested permission to put on a demonstration for the jury.” He glowered at T.J. “I trust this show is going to lead somewhere.”
T.J. picked up a soccer ball he had brought to court, bounced it twice on his table, and placed it on the floor. He pointed at the bailiff. “Sir, will you kick the ball? Not too gently, just a firm kick.” The bailiff looked puzzled, but he gave the ball a gentle boot. T.J. asked for a volunteer from the jury pool to do the same. As randomly as he could, T.J. singled out six persons and had them each kick the ball. The jury looked puzzled and an onlooker snickered. T.J. addressed the bailiff. “Sir, are you right- or left-handed?”
The bailiff answered, “Right.”
“And with what foot did you kick the ball?”
Deidre could see him thinking about which foot he had used. He answered, “My right.”
T.J. asked each kicker the same question, and when he was done, he summed up the findings of his little experiment for the jury. “Do you realize that every person who is right-handed kicked the ball with his or her right foot? Conversely, every left-handed person used his or her left foot to kick the ball. Studies show,” and he cited a reference, “Studies show that if a person’s dominant hand is their right, their dominant foot is usually their right, and vice-versa.” He looked directly at the jurors. “My client is right-handed, yet the victim’s blood was found only on his left boot. This little experiment, although perhaps flawed, gives a strong indication that James O’Brian did not kick the victim. If he had, blood should have been found on his right boot, not his left. You are intelligent people, and I know you remember the chief’s testimony two days ago.” Deidre could see at least two jurors struggling to remember. They wouldn’t admit they weren’t intelligent enough to remember. “You remember,” T.J. went on, “That the chief testified that Justin’s blood was found only on one spot, that was Mr. O’Brian’s left boot. Why wouldn’t he use his right foot? It’s his stronger side.”
At that point the judge announced that court was recessed until the next morning. Soon the jury would go to work.
*****
At supper that night, Deidre was in a good mood. She could see what T.J.’s strategy was and thought it had worked. “I’m wondering what we should do to celebrate the Fourth,” she asked, hoping somebody would have a good answer.
Megan had the first idea. “Why don’t we go into the Boundary Waters, you know, that spot where Dad asked you to marry him?” Deidre recollected the joy she had experienced that night, but Ben brought the idea to a halt.
“Great idea, but we’d need a permit to go there, and I’m afraid they’re all taken for the weekend of the Fourth.”
Maren suggested they take whatever permit was available, but the others didn’t want to go to any lake other than their favorite. Finally, they decided to go on a daytrip into the BWCA, have a picnic, swim and return to Two Harbors in time for the fireworks that night.
Deidre paused to savor the moment. She had two lovely daughters who never once sassed back, who had never once said, “I don’t have to listen to you. You’re not my real mother.” She thought she was one of the most blessed people on earth. For that instant all she wanted to be was a wife and mother, and thought perhaps when Jimmy’s trial was over, she would retire for good. The garden needed weeding and there was always an opportunity to volunteer at the women’s shelter in town. Maybe, she thought, being a full-time mom and wife is what I should do.
*****
Deidre was seated in the gallery of the courtroom at nine the next morning. Mary was shuffling through some notes, preparing to begin the summation of the state’s case against Jimmy. She looked neither worried or confident, just business-like.
T.J. sat at the defense table, waiting for his client to be ushered in. He was relaxed, his hands folded in his lap, and a half-smile on his lips. He had his legs crossed and Deidre watched as his foot bobbed, as though in time to some familiar tune running through his head. Jimmy was escorted into the room by a deputy and took his place next to T.J. Unlike his attorney, Jimmy’s brow was furrowed and he fidgeted with his fingers while he waited for the jury to enter and the judge to begin the day’s proceedings.
The regimen for the day was becoming all too familiar, the “all rise,” the judge’s order to sit, the clerk’s fingers moving over her recorder. The moment of truth was near.
Mary stood and looked at the jury, trying to make eye contact with every person on the panel. Then she began her summary statement.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You have heard many theories postulated by the defense in this case, but I want to remind you, that is exactly what they are: theories. The one hard fact you have in this entire case is that Justin Peters’s blood was found on the toe of James O’Brian’s boot. The defense would like to cloud the issue with soccer balls, and broken glass, but the fact still remains that the victim’s blood was on the toe of the defendant’s boot. Yes, the defendant was very drunk at the time, but that’s not an acceptable defense. Dr. Burns testified that when he treated the defendant, he was much too inebriated to have delivered such a brutal beating. But I want you to remember that Mr. O’Brian was brought to the ER and examined by Dr. Burns some time after Justin Peters was beaten. An empty vodka bottle was found in the suspect’s truck, evidently consumed a short time before Officer Zemple found him passed out near the breakwater. Mr. O’Brian beat the victim to death and then drank himself into oblivion. His inebriated state, the opportunity to live up to the name of his gang, his physical dominance of the victim, all of these are circumstantial. However, the one fact that cannot be explained away is the blood on the defendant’s boot. Ladies and gentleman, there is no doubt in my mind, nor should there be in yours, that Mr. O’Brian knocked Justin Peters down and proceeded to kick him to death. You must find him guilty of this crime, a hate crime at that, because the victim was a gay man.”
Mary paused to give her words time to sink in and took her seat, looking exhausted. It was T.J.’s turn. He greeted the jury, put his hands in his pocket in an “ah, shucks” attitude and began.
“My client has an alcohol problem, no doubt about it. He drinks too much, and he drank too much on the night of Justin Peters’s death, but that’s not an act for which we lock people up for life. Let’s run through the chain of events that evening as they pertain to my client. He left the Death Riders’ clubhouse at approximately four in the afternoon. He had drunk a few beers. According to his testimony—which, by the way, the prosecution never challenged—he swapped his bike for his truck in Two Harbors. He cleaned up a little. Now it was about four thirty. Witnesses corroborated his testimony that he went to The Pub, where he had a few more beers. He left The Pub at about seven o’clock. He moved on to the Legion Club in town, where he drank with friends for a couple of hours. Now we’re getting close to nine o’clock, dusk, and he’d had enough to drink that he should not have been driving. But he did drive, he thinks up near the soccer field. After all the beer, he had to relieve himself. Now according to his testimony, taken by the chief of police, Sig Swanson, he vaguely remembered tripping over something, but he was too drunk to know what. He got back in his truck, stopped at the liquor store, and bought a pint of vodka. The clerk at the liquor store testified that she remembered him and that she saw no blood on him, although he had a rag wrapped around his hand. That is the last James remembers, because he passed out in his pickup.” T.J. paused a moment before continuing.
“But let’s look at the facts. As testified to by Dr. Fayler, my client’s blood was found on a glass shard partially buried in the soil at the soccer field. He sliced his hand when he tripped and fell. Someone else, roughly my client’s size, was at the field, because he left his boot print behind, a steel-toed boot according to an expert witness. It did not match the imprint of my client’s boot. Justin Peters’s blood was found only on the left boot of my client. If Mr. O’Brian had kicked Justin to death, surely he would have used his dominant leg to deliver the blows. Most likely, my client’s dominant leg is his right. Certainly, there would have been blood on his right boot had he committed the crime. At best, the evidence against my client is circumstantial. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and in an impaired state. No way can you say beyond a shadow of a doubt that James O’Brian committed this terrible crime. Someone else did and should be caught and punished. I trust, and Mr. O’Brian trusts, that you will see through the flimsy case the prosecution has presented in an attempt to close this case in a hurry to appease the public and find him rightfully . . . not guilty.” With those words, T.J. sat down.
Judge Jesperson finished his instruction to the jury. He retreated to his office, the jury to the deliberation room. Deidre wasn’t as confident as T.J. seemed.
Chapter Eighteen
The jury was excused to begin their deliberation at exactly 11:39 a.m., and Deidre met T.J. in the hall outside the courtroom. “Let’s go grab a bite at Louise’s,” he suggested. “I don’t expect they’ll take long to reach a verdict, but we can walk the two blocks down to her restaurant, have a sandwich and some soup, and be back here by one. I’m expecting Jimmy to walk away a free man by four o’clock.” Deidre walked beside him, wondering from where his confidence came.
They beat the lunch crowd by a few minutes and were seated with their food before the place filled up. The tiny café was immensely popular with both the locals and tourists who had visited before, and Deidre was grateful they had a table almost hidden in one corner so they could talk about the trial without being eavesdropped upon.
“Do you really believe the verdict will go our way?” Deidre asked, realizing she had become possessive about the case. “I think there are too many people who want an answer to who killed Justin. It’ll make them feel safer knowing someone is locked up for the crime, even if it might be the wrong person.” She tested her soup to see if it had cooled enough to eat.
T.J. had his mouth full of egg salad sandwich but managed to talk around it. “Did you watch the jurors’ eyes? Mary almost put them to sleep, but I felt they were awake when I was giving my summary. I can feel when people are with me, and I felt that today. I honestly think they had their minds made up before the judge gave them the instructions, all except the middle-aged lady, third from the left in the second row.” Deidre was amazed at how he could pinpoint one person that way. “She seemed disinterested in what I had to say. She may have had her mind made up, too, but not the way I want. But she’s one vote, although I don’t want a jury that can’t come to a decision. I want a “not guilty” verdict, which I’m certain we’d get if it weren’t for her. Hopefully, the others can convince her.”
It took them only fifteen minutes to finish their meal. They paid their bill and made way for other customers who were waiting for a table to open up. On the way back to the courthouse, Deidre and T.J. talked about her future as a PI. He said that nothing was on his docket that would require her services, but if anything came up, he’d give her a call. They climbed the timeworn stairs to the second floor, and Deidre wondered how many feet had passed over the limestone steps to have worn the depressions in the rock. She wondered how many people had retreated down those same steps, disappointed or even dejected over decisions that had been handed down. T.J. said he had some business to take care of in the clerk’s office, and after that, the recorder’s office. She was free to leave if she wanted, but Deidre had too much invested in the case to not be present when the verdict was read.
She read a magazine she found on the waiting bench, visited with a friend she hadn’t seen for weeks, and tried to pass the time by thinking about her future. Time dragged, and she almost nodded off a couple of times. Finally, she followed the hallway to the Law Enforcement Center, hoping Jeff wasn’t too busy. He greeted her like a long lost friend.
“Come on in and visit a bit. I heard Jimmy O’Brian’s trial has gone to the jury. Suppose you’re hanging around for the verdict. Any prognostication you’d want to share?” He rocked back in his chair.
“T.J. says Jimmy will be free by tonight. I’m not so certain. The state didn’t have much, but I didn’t think we did, either. T.J. can talk, though, and he says he could sense the jury being with him. Hope he’s right.” Deidre switched subjects. “By the way, did anything ever come of the Reverend I
saiah’s group? Seems like things have quieted down lately. At least I haven’t heard of any more vandalism. The railroad pileup still must bother you, but I don’t see the reverend being involved in that. Do you?”
“No. No, I don’t see them doing anything that destructive, but something isn’t right up there. I still haven’t been able to talk to anyone but Reverend Isaiah and that new guy, The Prophet. Every time I go up there, they say a retreat is going on, or it’s prayer time, or everyone is down at the river. I’d like to know more, but without a search warrant, we can’t force our way in, and no judge is going to issue a warrant because I think something doesn’t seem right. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
She and Jeff talked about their families, a little town gossip, just everything and anything. Deidre felt her phone vibrate in her pocket a split second before it rang, and she instinctively looked at the clock on the wall. It was 4:00 p.m.
It was T.J. “Hi. If you want to hear the verdict, you’d better get to the courtroom as soon as you can. The jury will be coming back in five minutes.” He disconnected without saying goodbye, and Deidre imagined him climbing the stairs two at a time in anticipation of what the verdict would be.
When Deidre arrived, T.J. was already seated beside Jimmy, who was pale as a ghost and looked as if he were ready to bolt from the room.
The bailiff called, “All rise!” and the judge entered in his usual flurry. The jury filed in, their faces blank. They were seated, and a couple of them shuffled their feet, several looked at the floor, and one man stared at the upper corner of the room.
“Have you come to a verdict?” the judge intoned. This was the time for the foreperson of the jury to rise and answer, and Deidre groaned inwardly when the stone-faced woman T.J. had singled out in their conversation slowly stood.
“We have, Your Honor,” she answered in a strong, measured voice.
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