Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) (19 page)

I
t is eleven a.m.
when Father Bjorn takes the stand. He has come to court wearing a black suit and white shirt and white collar. He is a diminutive man in stature though a giant in accomplishment and community regard. Everyone loves Father Bjorn, including, evidently, the mayor himself, who has stayed to watch our defense case and who gives a nice smile to his friend the priest.

I ask him questions about his education, his training, and his work history. He entered the priesthood at a very early age and has maintained a steadfast love of the Lord and Church ever since. Except, he says, for one time when his faith was weak. He was in his late twenties and he just lost his parents in a car wreck.

"How did that loss affect you?" I ask him.

"It devastated me. I began feeling as if God had turned his back on me. There was no real connection there and I became rootless."

"How did you meet Jana's mother?"

"She was a long-time congregant of our parish. She came in for counseling when her fiancé of two years abruptly left her for another man."

"So she was vulnerable?"

It is a sore point with him. It is probably the only time in his life this man has ever taken advantage of another person and he isn't proud of it.

"She was vulnerable and I was lonely. We talked several times and prayed for her. I heard her confession. On perhaps her fourth visit to my office it happened. I crossed a line and she didn't resist. Quite the opposite. We were extremely attracted to each other."

"What happened?"

"We began a sexual relationship that lasted six months. Then she informed me that she was pregnant. I don't have to tell you the Church's position on abortion. So, there we were. I couldn't leave the priesthood and I couldn't even think of terminating the pregnancy. She was a devout Catholic and wouldn't think of it either. So we made the best of a dire situation. I had some money saved and after Jana was born I helped her move to California and get set up there. Then the years passed and my son grew up without a father."

"But she did marry at some point?"

"She did. But she would tell me when we spoke each Christmas that the new husband was anything but a father. He wouldn't countenance even throwing a ball around with my son. I was in no position to criticize him."

"Because you were never a father to him yourself?"

"Exactly. The pot calling the kettle black."

"Did you ever see your son before he moved back to Chicago last summer?"

“No.”

"What kind of boy is Jana?"

"Objection! Foundation."

"Sustained."

"Your Honor," I begin, "he's the boy's father. He's known him since a short time, it’s true, but it’s his son and he is an expert judge of character.”

"You haven't laid a foundation for how he might know about the boy's character at this point, counsel. The objection is sustained."

"Father Bjorn, how many times have you seen Jana since he moved here?"

"Four. Twice in my office, once at the movies and once at jail. Plus, in court, but those weren't visits."

"During that time have you been able to form an opinion as to your son's character?"

"I have. He's--"

"Objection! Foundation."

The judge nods and gives me a fierce look.

"Counsel, I am not going to allow his opinion about his son's character. There just isn't foundation enough for that."

Meaning, the priest doesn't know his own son well enough to comment on his character. Which was my whole point in putting the priest on the stand in the first place: to anoint the boy with the priest's blessing in court. That has failed.

I then tread water on unrelated issues for ten minutes and finally break it off. On a one-to-ten basis I would give this witness's effectiveness maybe a four. Maybe less.

There is no cross-examination. Dickinson doesn't want to insult the three Catholics on the jury and it's a wise move on his part. Neither would I, and I hope I haven't. I was reaching, though, and they could very well have seen right through my ploy.

I
t is
the twilight of the trial and the question has come up again. As it always does.

Does the defendant testify? Does the defendant take the stand, impart his story, and undergo decimating cross-examination by the prosecutor?

I say no, but the defendant, Jana Emerich, insists otherwise.

"Who are you to say?" he complains noisily after the priest has returned to the gallery and the jury is out of the courtroom during our recess. "It's my case, dammit!"

Which is absolutely right. He has the final say in the matter of defendant testimony. It is not my or any other defense attorney's decision to make, not ever. We can cajole and threaten and forecast devastation and dozens of years in prison, but, in the end, it's Jana's and every other defendant's call.

And so he takes the witness stand and swears to tell the whole truth. As I knew they would, the jury is looking at him askance. They expect him to lie on his own behalf; they would do the same if it were them. It's human nature and that's how the game is played and everyone knows it. So, they are wary.

We hurry through the background without much detail. The more detail I leave for cross-examination the better. The theory is that the prosecutor can bring out fresh detail but he won't be able to trap Jana with detail that I brought out. It's a cat-and-mouse back-and-forth and we're both expert at it, Dickinson and I.

Then, "Directing your attention to October thirty-first. Were you here in court when your uncle Tim testified about your activities that day after school?"

"Yes."

"Is there anything about his testimony that you need to correct?"

"No."

"Uncle Tim told the jury you didn't leave your room that night. Is that true?"

Keeping in mind that he previously told me and Father Bjorn, at the jail the first time Jana and I met, that he had been at the game that night. No questions about it at that time, definite yes, he was there.

"Yes."

"Yes, he's wrong?"

"Yes, he's right."

I am stunned. He has just lied. No, he has told the jury something different from what he told Father Bjorn and me at the jail. However, my professional affect doesn't change. I keep a straight face. I do not grimace and I do not telegraph how upset I am with Jana and his answer. I plunge ahead.

"So you weren't at the game that night?"

"No. I went over to the field the next morning and climbed up in the stands."

"Why was that?"

"I wanted to get a look at what was going on down below. Bobby Knupp called me and told me there was a dead body under there."

"And--and--so you went to look?"

"Yes. I climbed up in the stands. The cop was over in his car talking on his radio. That must have been when I dropped my muffler."

My mind is whirling. My hands twitch as I leaf through my notes, buying time. Where do I go with this? It's unethical for an attorney to put false testimony on the witness stand. But there is a saving grace here for me: I don't know that it's false. I only know that it's different from what he told me at the jail. At the jail he said he'd been at the game. Today he says he wasn't at the game. Which one is true? I wasn't there so I have zero way of knowing. And this is how lawyers get into serious trouble with the Bar Association. They do it unwittingly or, like me, they do it half-assed, backing into a situation where they don't belong. I should call a recess now and talk to Jana out of the hearing of the jury. But to do so would send up a flag that something is wrong. So, in the interests of preserving my client's veracity (or lack) with the jury, I move it along.

"The night of the game. What were you doing in your room?"

"Listening to rap and doing my physics homework. We had a mid-term the next day."

"Uncle Tim said it was a math mid-term."

"He just didn't know. It was physics."

"So he did get something wrong when he testified?"

"I guess so."

"Have you gotten anything wrong?"

"No. I know what I was studying that night. It's only been four months."

"Do you know Rudy Gomez?"

"Yes."

"What is your relationship with Rudy?"

"Just a friend. We both have a snake."

"Does he come to your house?"

"He did last semester. Two times, I think."

"Did he take any mice from you?"

"I gave him three mice one time. He was out and his guy was hungry."

"His guy?"

"His snake was hungry."

"Jana, did you murder Amy Tanenbaum?"

"No."

"Were you with her the night of the game?"

"No. I already told you I wasn't even there."

“Did you hear her friend Erin say you were there?”

“She’s confused. That was the game before.”

"Did you know Amy from school?"

"No. She was a freshman and I'm a senior. We don't mix."

"Was she in any of your classes?"

"Maybe homeroom. I don't know for sure."

"Have you spoken with the police about this case?"

"Yes. Twice."

"When was that?"

"The morning after it happened and the day after Franny was murdered."

"Both times, the police have talked to you about those girls?"

"Both times."

"Were you involved in any way in either of those tragic crimes?"

"No, I wasn't."

"Do you know anything about them?"

"Only what I've heard and read."

"But you didn't see anything yourself?"

"No."

"And you weren't there?"

"No. I wasn't there."

"That is all, Your Honor."

"Very well. Mr. State's Attorney, you may cross-examine."

Unlike some prosecutors, Dickinson doesn't run to the lectern as if he's ready to eat this man up and spit him out. No, Dickinson saunters, for want of a better term. He is casual, almost friendly, as he approaches my client and shoots him a small smile. Jana--damn him--smiles back. I don't want him smiling and loose. I want him uptight and mute right now.

Dickinson flips a page on his yellow notepad and then flexes his right hand. He looks directly at Jana and purses his lips. Now there is no smile.

"You want this jury to believe you didn't kill Amy even though your muffler was found near her dead body?"

"Yes."

"So you were at the football game?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I was studying for a physics exam. I want to be an engineer and I need good grades."

"A snake engineer?"

"I don't know what that is."

"Tell us what physics you studied for your mid-term. Oh, before you do, I had a police officer contact your physics teacher to obtain a copy of the physics exam you told this jury you took on Friday, November first. Guess what? He didn't give an exam that day. Do you still want to stand by your story?"

Jana nods. "I didn't say I took the exam. I said I was upstairs studying for it. We got to school the next day and the exam was canceled. You'll have to ask Mr. Ausberger about that."

Dickinson appears to suppress a smile. It is an act. He's good, very good.

"You also said you know Rudy Gomez. How do you know Rudy?"

"Everybody does. The cops picked him up for killing Franny Arlington."

Bingo. That was a setup, courtesy of Michael Gresham. We had talked and talked about how to get in the bit about Rudy killing Franny. I instructed Jana to wait for any question of whatever nature from the SA referencing Rudy and to slip it in then. He did, right between Dickinson's ribs. Now I get to come back to that question on re-direct examination because the prosecutor opened the door.

Dickinson quickly moves on.

"Speaking of Franny, since you mentioned her, are you telling us you didn't have anything to do with Franny's death?"

“No. Rudy was arrested for that.”

"You said Rudy Gomez has been to your house?"

"Yes. About three times."

"And you gave him some mice?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware that a mouse was found in the mouth of Amy Tanenbaum?"

"I heard that."

"Are you aware that the hair from that mouse matched the hair from your mice?"

"Yes. And matched the hair from Rudy's mouse."

"And you say your muffler was found by Amy's body because you were there the morning after and dropped it through the bleachers?"

"Yes."

"So let me see if I understand you. Your same mouse hair was found in Amy's mouth, your muffler was found near her body, and the Superglue in her mouth was the same batch as your Superglue. Isn't that just a little too coincidental to be coincidence?"

"I don't understand you."

"Too many things that tie you to Amy make you appear to be her killer. Don't you agree?"

"I didn't kill Amy. I don't know who did. What else do you want me to say?"

"Mr. Emerich, were you ever in trouble in California?"

"Objection. Relevance."

"Sustained."

"Were you ever arrested in California?"

"The court objects to that question and I am going to admonish, you, Mr. Dickinson. That question is improper, you know it is improper, and if this happens once more in any form you will be looking at a mistrial. I might even revisit the defendant's motion for directed verdict."

"Yes, Your Honor. Thank you."

I am relishing this, of course. Moreover, I'm wondering how I might trigger such an impropriety again by the state and actually win a mistrial or dismissal. But I know I can't do it without Dickinson's help and by now he's been chastised enough. So, he shakes his head as if he's been treated poorly and takes his seat.

"That's all I have," he tells the judge.

If nothing else, his being called up short two or three times has rendered his cross-examination almost useless. I also know better than to play the Rudy Gomez-Franny Arlington card again. It would backfire and possibly open the door to extremely damaging questions by the state. So I back off, too.

Jana is dismissed and takes his seat beside me once again.

I then stand and rest the defense's case.

My team could have presented Rudy in order to suggest he was a serial killer of sorts, but we ultimately decided against that. Why? Because it was a cheap shot. More importantly, though, I didn't sense that we needed it. Plus, it could have backfired, angering the jurors for attempting to point the finger at some kid without an attorney. Knowing Rudy's father, though, he would have had an attorney, a very good attorney, and our poking and prodding would have been fruitless and even come across as foolish. So we did the next best thing and pulled in our horns and rested.

It was time.

Judge Lancer-Burgess then gives the jury their instructions. This eats up ninety minutes and when she finishes it is two o'clock. Plenty of time for closing arguments.

State's Attorney Dickinson gets to go first.