Bryson City Tales (13 page)

I stood to leave. They seemed stunned. “Good day.”

I left the room. I was angry and disillusioned. I was nervous about participating in this trial, but I was determined to be prepared and do my job. If only I had known that I'd end up looking like a fool . . .

chapter eleven

THE TRIAL

T
he day of the trial dawned; yet I had been awake for hours, wondering,
What is really going to happen today? Will I seem
credible and professional? Will this be one of my reputation-building
moments?
By 3:00 A.M. I was wide-awake. I tossed and turned for another hour, trying to rid my mind of the flurry of thoughts and concerns. Finally I just went ahead and got up.

I had come to believe that waking up like this was just God's special way of nudging me for a private meeting time. I had a soft reading chair that served as the repository of my derriere for these quiet times—time to read the Scriptures (listen to God's words) and to pray (to talk to him). I had grown fond of this time and soon found it essential to my day-to-day well-being. It's just that these times were not usually so early in the morning.

At 6:00 A.M. it was time to take a shower and get dressed. Barb had picked out my best suit for my “day in court.” After breakfast, I crossed the street to make rounds at the hospital. Several of the nurses and Dr. Mitchell whistled when they saw me. Mitch commented, “You shore are gussied up.” Louise, never one to mince words, asked, “Someone die?” I smiled—so did she. At about 8:30, I headed to the county courthouse for the 9:00 A.M. start of court.

The scene at the courthouse was a bit outrageous. As I drove up, my first clue that this was not the usual case in Swain County was the TV vans and the satellite truck set up in the parking lot. There was a line forming at the front door. I ducked past the line and the reporters to the side entrance used by the attorneys and staff. My new friend, Deputy Rogers, let me in the door.

Once inside the courtroom, I saw Fred Moody sitting alone at the defendant's desk. He was reviewing a small mountain of papers. At the prosecutor's table was a crew of men and women in what appeared to be their Sunday-best suits—they actually looked more like stockbrokers than country attorneys. In the middle, dressed in a crisp but slightly off-white three-piece suit, was the silver-haired district attorney and senator-wanna-be. I felt like I was walking into a theater where preparations for a high-stakes performance were under way.

One of the DA's young staff members saw me and announced to him my arrival. Mr. Buchanan flashed his pearly white, near-perfect smile and passed through the gate in the bar to come meet me. “Welcome, Doctor, welcome. Are you ready to become a star? Son, I'm going to make you a star!” he proclaimed as he brusquely swatted me across the back. “Let me show you where I want you to sit.”

He walked me up to a bench just behind the bar where we chatted for a few minutes. He cocked his head over to a row of seats behind the defense table, to a group of well-dressed young men, chatting together and laughing. “Know who they are?”

“Not really.”

“That's a group of young attorneys from all over—Robbinsville, Murphy, Andrews, Franklin, Sylva, and Waynes-ville. Why, there's even a couple from Asheville. They're all here to watch the old dog at work. Let's give them a good show, son.” He swatted my back again as the door to the chamber opened to allow the waiting crowd to enter. Quickly he was off to socialize with potential voters.

A moment later the accused and the members of the jury entered the courtroom. The bailiff announced the entry of the judge, and we all stood as he entered. He sat down and gaveled the court to order. During the attorneys' opening statements I found myself daydreaming a bit, feeling the lack of sleep, and then nearly nodding off several times. I was startled back to reality when I heard the DA's booming voice declare, “Your Honor, we call as the People's first witness Dr. Walter L. Larimore.”

In one instant it seemed as though all of the eyes in the courtroom were on me. For a brief moment, I felt the nausea and cold sweat I'd felt the night of the murder. I stood, feeling my legs shaking a bit. As Deputy Rogers opened the gate, I passed the bar and walked briskly to the witness-box. The bailiff approached with a Bible in his hand. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. Of course, I did this while obediently eyeing the members of the jury. I then made myself comfortable in the leather-covered witness chair.

The DA slowly stood, smiling at the jury as he approached the witness stand. “Can you tell the jury your name?” Mr. Buchanan almost crooned.

“Walt Larimore.”

“And you are a medical doctor, an M.D. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And is it correct that you received your M.D. degree at the Louisiana State University School of Medicine in New Orleans, Louisiana, finishing in the top five in your class?”

“Yes, sir. That is true.”

“And is it true that after completing a general practice teaching fellowship at the Queen's Medical Center in Nottingham, England, you entered and completed your family medicine residency training at the Duke University Medical Center in Durham, North Carolina? Is that true?”

“Yes, sir.”

“
The
Duke University, the
world-famous
Duke University Medical Center?”

I paused.
Isn't this going a bit overboard?
I thought. Nevertheless, I responded, “Yes, sir.”

Turning to the jury, he flashed his famous smile, then turned toward the spectators in the courtroom, continuing, “The medical university that trains some of the best physicians in the world—
that
Duke University?”

Well, although this was a bit over the top, I was beginning to enjoy him. Here was a dashing and charismatic attorney informing the attorneys of western North Carolina, the news media, and scores of curious locals about my training and qualifications. I couldn't pay for this type of advertising. This was, I presumed, a new doctor's dream come true.

The DA, smiling from ear to ear, now approached the jury. “And, Dr. Larimore, is it true that you are authorized by this great state of North Carolina as a certified coroner?”

I furrowed my brow. “Uh, no, sir, that's not true, sir.”

He immediately corrected his error. “Um, yes. Why yes. But is it not true that you are certified by the state of North Carolina as a medical examiner?”

That
is correct, sir,” I replied. “

“Your Honor,” came the sharp retort from my friend, Mr. Moody, as he slowly stood to his feet.

“Mr. Moody?” replied the somewhat startled judge.

Fred slowly straightened his lanky frame, not nearly as expensively clad as his opponent. “Your Honor, the defense is
well
aware of Dr. Larimore's copious CV. We are aware of his superlative training and his
extensive
experience.”

Wow
, I thought to myself,
my man Fred!
I basked in the sunshine of this unexpected bravado. But then, I should not have been surprised. Fred was a friend—a supporter. Why wouldn't he want the new doctor in his hometown to look good?

“I am aware that Mr. Buchanan desires to qualify Dr. Larimore as an expert in this case,” Fred continued. “Your Honor, I may have been born at night, but sir, I was not born last night.” He paused as the gallery chuckled. Both reporters and young attorneys were scribbling notes. And I was relishing the moment.

“The defense not only has no objection to qualifying Dr. Larimore as an expert, sir, but it is
our
view that Dr. Larimore, based on his clearly documented and independently certified training and experience, may be the
singularly most qualified
expert to have ever appeared in this court.”

I was so grateful for a friend so willing to brag a bit on me. It's one thing for the DA from another town to sing your praises, but then to have those praises expanded and trumped by a well-respected native—well, could it get any better that that?

So for the next twenty minutes I was in my element. I was prepared for all the questions and performed for the jury my role as professor. Photographs and charts, records and certifications were all expertly identified and explained. I could almost feel the jury in the palm of my hand. I was imagining that most of these folks and virtually the entire gallery would be leaving the courtroom to call the office for new patient appointments that afternoon—or, at the very latest, tomorrow morning. I was imagining the need to call the phone company at the first morning break of the trial just to have them install another phone line or two. I was even wondering if people might not travel from other towns just to see such an expert as myself.

Then it was over—or so I thought. Mr. Buchanan, smiling at me, the jury, and then the judge, proclaimed, “No more questions, Your Honor.”

The judge looked at Fred, who was still studying his mountain of papers. Mr. Moody didn't move.

“Mr. Moody!” exclaimed the judge. Fred looked up a bit. He seemed to be perplexed. Almost surprised.

“Do you have any cross-examination, Mr. Moody?” queried the judge. Once again Fred raised himself up, shaking down his rather baggy pants. He picked up a folder of papers as he approached the witness-box. I saw a twinkle in his eye as our eyes momentarily locked. He placed the folder on the railing in front of the jury, reading something and slowly shaking his head from side to side.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he announced, “I must tell you that in
all
my years as an attorney and in all my years of law school and as a law clerk, I don't think I've ever seen a more brilliant display of medical expertise and knowledge.” Now I
really
couldn't believe what I was hearing. The DA already had me both looking and feeling pretty good. Now my friend Fred was putting some extremely sweet icing on the cake. I could begin to imagine the news headlines: “World-famous medical expert provides stellar testimony in Bryson City courtroom.”

He went on. “Not only will I
never
be able to object to his qualifications as a medical expert in this court, I hope to never have to oppose his outstanding expertise or testimony ever again. To do so might well end my career.” He smiled at the jury and then at me as he turned to the gallery. Now my suspicious juices began to boil. Something suddenly seemed wrong. Really wrong.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for an attorney to venture even
one
question after such complete and compelling testimony might seem both pretentious and egotistic. Nevertheless, I feel compelled, even at the risk of ridicule or embarrassment, to ask Dr. Larimore one small question—if you will allow me.” Now not only were my suspicions up, but so were the hairs on the back of my neck. I was beginning to feel nauseated.

Mr. Moody slowly turned toward me. The twinkle was still in his eye, but now it looked more like the eye of a tiger. “Dr. Larimore, would you be so kind as to tell the jury just how many medical examiner's cases you've performed in your long, illustrious, celebrated, acclaimed, and fabled career?”

I thought I heard the audible hiss of air escaping from my rapidly deflating ego as I felt the blood rushing from my head to my feet. As Mr. Moody, head down, reading his sheaf of papers, slowly walked back to the defense table, I replied, “This is my first case.”

He jerked to a stop, and his folder dropped to the floor, slapping the hardwood with a sound that caused those eyes not yet glued to him to so glue. A bunch of loose papers—all amazingly white, with no writing or typing or drawing or marking of any kind on them—flew in all directions around his feet. The eyes of the young attorneys and the spectators were wide with trepidation. Gasps echoed throughout the room.

As the gasps and the papers quietly settled down, Fred slowly turned toward me with the most amazing look of shock I had ever seen. Even to this day I still don't know how he did it, but his face was white and his hands were trembling. He
knew
this was my first case. Yet no one in sight, except me, knew that he knew. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiping his forehead as he approached the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I must offer you my most sincere apology. As you know, my client's life is on the line. Yet, even so, I have made one of the most grievous mistakes of my career. I have, without objection, allowed our esteemed district attorney to qualify to you, as a supposed expert, an extremely young man with no experience as a coroner or a medical examiner. He has, it appears, never, ever, been part of a coroner's case. He, it appears, has never, ever, investigated a petty crime—much less a capital crime.”

The DA was quiet. Where was the objection? My reputation was going down like the Hindenburg. I needed help—and fast!

“So, ladies and gentlemen, please forgive my certification of this man as an expert. I can't take that back now. But now we all know the truth. He's never done this before! And this is a mistake I will never make again. But, ladies and gentlemen, please, I implore you, don't hold my inexperience and poor judgment against the man I represent.”

By now I was resigned to my fate. A shrewd country lawyer—experienced in the substance of law and the art of the theater, had trumped both my inexperience and the DA's bravado. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

My admiration for my friend soared as he walked back to his chair. I had observed an Oscar-level performance—the demonstration
of a remarkable skill. Here was a simple man, pulling out every trick he could in order to do the best job he could for his client. He would continue applying his various and copious skills for the rest of the week—and I dropped by on several occasions to sit in the back of the courtroom and observe his expertise. He would be paid very little for his work—apart from the immense admiration of the young attorneys and one young physician, who were blessed to have seen both his amazing performance and his consummate skill.