Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

As every good attorney knows, trials are won and lost during jury selection.

Bob Sugarman was a good attorney. His client could not afford to hire jury selection professionals, many of them telling him what he already knew. You do not pick parents or grandparents of young girls in a rape case. Italians and Jews are not always your first choice. Too damn sentimental and never listen to the actual testimony anyway. Accountants or engineers tend to be less emotional and try to look at the facts. Actually, that’s all they do, look at facts and numbers.

In the long run, it’s all about the individual juror. Sugarman found by looking into the eyes of the prospective juror and how they look at the complainant to be the most reliable method. And even that is not perfect. Far from it.

Jury selection took all of two hours. As far as Judge K was concerned, it was an hour and half too long. This was his courtroom, he could tell who was lying and who was telling the truth in the first three minutes. Then he would decide what was admissible and what was not. If he didn’t like what was said from the witness stand he would merely frown or look disgusted. The jury knew that had to mean something, they were just not sure what.

The court reporter has no way to show a nod or wink or look of disbelief.

It is in the minds of the jurors but not on the record.

This is my courtroom and I’ll decide who is guilty or innocent. The damn jurors are just so much window dressing. They decide nothing unless I let them.

Truth, justice, and the American Way. Total and utter bullshit.

The jury was a microcosm of the United Nations, or as close to it as was allowed in Jersey. There appeared to be no Muslims—any self-respecting terrorist would not be caught dead as a jurist. Allah was the only one who could judge infidels with absolute impunity.

There were two African Americans—the young IBMer who would hopefully be impartial, and an old dude who was pleased to augment his Social Security check with an additional $22 a day for as long as he could stretch it out. Considering Essex County was forty-three percent African American and only two were chosen, it was hardly fair representation.

Sugarman was disappointed.

If they can free O. J., if they can free Papa Doc or his son Baby Doc, Anthony will be a shoe-in.

There was one Jew—it could not be helped—who swore his store would go bankrupt if he were not there to stop the
goniff
employees from stealing him blind. The good judge, who had no great love for Jews, secretly smiled. There were far too many Jews practicing law and on the bench in New Jersey as far as he was concerned. The Jew would swing any way the rest of the jury did, as long as it saved time.

It appeared there were four WASPy women that felt it was their civic duty to give up their luncheon and garden clubs for the cause of justice. One of the older blue-haired women had to have been a member of the DAR. Daughters of the American Revolution. They could be led any way Bob wanted them; all he needed was a small American flag pin in his lapel and to salute the flag as he entered the courtroom.

No one paid much attention to the Puerto Rican janitor. Apparently he had no apartment houses to maintain or storefronts to rob today.

The remaining four were middle class working stiffs who did what they were told. The jury was sworn before lunch. Now they could pig out on the house.

The opening arguments could be boiled down to a succinct few words.

“He raped her.”

“No, he didn’t. She wanted it. She asked for it. She went to his place. It was consensual. Only then did she cry rape.”

The judge was already bored.

Several of the older female jurors were aghast. A single, unescorted woman going to a man’s room at night. What could she possibly be thinking?

Victoria told them exactly what she was thinking.

“I may be capable of many things, including being naïve. I admit that. I take people at their word—another mistake of mine. When someone offers to help me with a school problem and he’s in the same class as me, I assume he’s serious, and honest, and believable, and only wants to help. I guess I’m also guilty of not being very worldly. I guess in a sense I still carry Victorian values.”

Vicky paused, as she looked each and every juror directly in the eyes until they averted her gaze, as she had been instructed to do.

“I do not lie. I do not make up stories. I do not say no when I mean yes or maybe or anything else. No means no. I do not yell, scream, beg, scratch, or bite if I mean yes. I do not let someone create bruises on my breasts, tear my vagina, and beat me until I am black and blue so they can later say they thought I really meant yes.”

The ADA asked that a series of photos be marked for identification only. Once they were authenticated, they would be marked into evidence and shown to the jury. The careful placement of sheets for the sake of modesty, covered the body as a whole, but there were areas of the inner thighs, sides of the breasts, and forearms that were severely bruised. In a few cases the photos were purposely taken the next day when the marks were black, blue, purple, and shades of yellow.

It was not pretty. It was not meant to be pretty. It was meant to substantiate a story and obtain a conviction.

Bob knew better than to cross exam. The sooner the photos were stuck in the pile with other exhibits, the better. No sense in having them making a lasting impression by waving them around for the jury to memorize.

It was obvious Vicky didn’t like rough sex. She stated a dozen times she didn’t like sex at all, and certainly not with a total stranger.

It took the prosecutor three full days to call all his witnesses, cross and redirect. Victoria made the most credible of witnesses. She didn’t cry or slobber, she wasn’t adamant or vengeful. She was honest, forthcoming, sincere, and most of all, believable.

The jury was almost bobbing their heads during her time on the witness stand and collectively ready to hand her a hanky during cross. Sugarman was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He needed desperately to shake her to make a mistake and was all too aware the sympathies of the entire jury were with her.

He could not afford to totally alienate the jury so he did the only prudent thing he could, he subtly backed off. His only shot was during closing arguments. There would be no witness to look at, no drama of replaying the alleged rape scene, no distractions from the judge. There would just be him. He would have the last word. Bob Sugarman had been there before. He had to measure every word, every gesture, and every inflection. This was his time, his stage, his show. It was where the jury would understand or disregard.

He was paid for them to understand.

It was consensual, it was consensual, it was consensual. It may have been a mistake, but it was never rape.

CHAPTER 5

Judge Kolkolski could not help glancing at his watch. Fortunately it was partially hidden under his robes. The robes of justice, if you would believe that type of hype. If the two summations were short and sweet, if he could limit his instructions to the jury to less than an hour, there was still plenty of daylight and he could get in at least nine holes of golf. If he pushed and drove to his Members Only course like a man with the ultimate authority, he could probably get in the entire eighteen, assuming he kept the ball in the fairway.

It seemed whenever he played alone, his handicap lost a stroke or two. If the ball was within a few inches, sometimes a few feet, it was a gimme. Walt was known to use a foot wedge, namely his left shoe, to improve his lie when he was too close to a tree root or rough grass. As for sand traps, when playing by himself, he considered them a nuisance and merely picked up the ball and rolled it within putting distance. He never considered that cheating. After all, it was just a game.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Thank you for your patience and accepting your civic duty to serve on this panel. I know it was a sacrifice for many of you and I join the court in letting you know how much it was appreciated. The system would not work without fine upstanding people like yourselves.”

The jury listened to Mr. Sugarman—as if they had a choice. Their mind had been made up a long time ago. Summation was a waste of time. Time better spent on productive matters like watching a Giants football game or washing the car or preparing Sunday dinner for the family.

“All of you listened to the testimony of these two fine individuals, neither of whom was thrilled to be here. What was to be a warm, sensuous, loving evening turned out to be anything but. Why? Because at times body language speaks louder than the spoken word. When Anthony offered to spend time with Vicky, she did not suggest going to the library or the student union or even a coffee shop. When Anthony said they could have more privacy in a dorm room, she did not object. She did not say it was inappropriate. She did not say no. Anthony looked at her body language and knew what she was thinking. Yes. Yes, I would like to spend some private time with you. I want to go to a dorm room that has a single chair, a single desk, and a bed with you. You don’t have to be a genius to know what she was thinking. I want to have sex with you. Her body language said yes.”

The judge unconsciously was nodding. The ADA was about to stand and object till he realized it would have done more harm than good. Maybe some of the jurors did not see it. The ADA had known from the opening bell he had two more than worthy opponents: Mr. Sugarman
and
the Judge.

There’s not a hell of a lot I can do about it. To ask the court to recuse itself would be a disaster.

Sugarman continued. He was just getting started.

“Yes, Victoria felt it was going a little too fast. Yes, she was nervous and did not want Anthony to think she was easy. She wanted to preserve some semblance of modesty. She wanted to be romanced a bit more. She wanted more foreplay. She didn’t want Anthony to believe she went to bed with every guy who looked her way.”

Bob purposely took a sip of water. Not because he was thirsty, he could wait, but to see who was buying his argument. If there were one or two, he would concentrate on those individuals. Everyone wants an acquittal but a hung jury, and he only needed one juror, would be considered a moral victory. Victoria would never put herself through this again and the DA would certainly agree to a plea to a misdemeanor with little or no hard time. Say one year probation.

Justice would be more than served.

Sugarman emptied his glass and refilled it from the pitcher on counsel table. He continued to glance at the jury. They were not buying one single thing he said. It was as if they had all filed out and signed the preprinted slip that would be given them when deliberations began.
Guilty.

Counsel knew his order of priority. His first hope was not guilty. If that was not in the cards, he would pray for a hung jury. His last hope was a mistrial. Someone had to screw up. The ADA was too smart and that was the last thing he wanted or needed. As for the judge, he was always a distinct possibility. Bob never knew what was coming out of Judge K’s mouth next. If all else failed, he would take one for the team, as long as it did not entail a contempt of court hearing. That was never part of his deal to get his client off.

Clients should only know how far we go, how much we bend the rules, how close we walk the line, just to get an acquittal for them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you one last time to look the accused in the eye. Does he look like a rapist? Does he look like someone who would intentionally harm a girl who volunteered to come to his room? If nothing else, this was simply a case of miscommunication. He did what he thought she wanted him to do. Please do not ruin his life over her fear of reprisal from her family, or maybe a case of changing her mind and not letting him know. Thank you.”

Sugarman knew damn well the jury did not believe him. It was a load of crap and he knew it. It was not due to a lack of trying. Victoria made a good witness, a believable witness, a credible witness. And the fact was, she did say no. Loud, clear, and often, she said no. Anthony just was not listening.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.”

What happened next was a true miracle.

“I simply cannot find her testimony to be credible.”

Bob Sugarman did not believe in miracles. He also knew the system had its flaws. Judge Kolkolski was one of them. There was not one person in the courtroom, including Sugarman, who honestly believed the judge.

Sugarman shot a quick look at No Neck One and No Neck Two. Neither said a word, they didn’t have to. Their expressions said it all. This matter was far from over.

No Neck One had no choice. He walked outside and made a call on his cell phone. The party on the other end listened and with great restraint in his voice, gave No Neck his instructions and quietly hung up.

The expression on his face remained blank but the wheels were turning – at one hundred miles an hour.

There’s trouble, there’s trouble in River City, or in this case, Newark, New Jersey.

***

The first incident happened only two days later. The judge’s car, a five-year-old Mercedes four-door, black sedan, not even close to the top of the line, was parked in the underground garage next to the courthouse. Walter had purchased it from one of those off-lease companies that buy used cars. The Benz already had 49,000 miles on it and had the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated from the front seats. Still it was a Mercedes and the judge wanted it.

All four tires were slashed. The computer printed note on the windshield read:

I was told my little pen knife could actually slice a tire but I didn’t believe it. Oops, I too was wrong.

The message was loud and clear.

The judge reported it to his insurance company.

The company allowed him 25% of the replacement costs. The tires had less than 10,000 miles of tread on them. They were being generous. Judge K was pissed.

A week later someone threw a rock through his windshield while it was parked in a local supermarket parking lot. No one saw a thing. Again, the damn printed note.

Oops again. We all make mistakes.

The insurance company was not pleased but had no choice but to replace the glass. They also raised his rates 32%. In Jersey on a Mercedes, regardless of year, it came to an additional seven hundred forty dollars.

Walter was getting nervous. Maybe he had pushed the envelope a little too far this time. So far it was only the car.

So far.