Trial and Terror (19 page)

Summer resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Raines continued. “The defendant swore she would kill Harold the minute Mr. Brauer was released from the hospital. Well, ladies and gentlemen, two days after he left the hospital to take up his life in civilized society again, two days, Harold Gundy was found brutally murdered in his apartment.”

Raines was giving the performance of his life. For the first time, Summer realized how much Raines missed Gundy, how the fact that one of his own was killed meant he himself was vulnerable. As sure as Summer was that SK was not the murderer, Raines was sure she was.

“During the course of this trial, we the prosecution will show you irrefutable evidence that this woman murdered Harold Gundy.” Raines counted each point off his fingers. “One: The defendant’s fingerprints were found on the front door of Harold’s home. Two: A fragment of glass from Harold’s shattered coffee table was found on one of the defendant’s boots in her home. Three: On that glass, the police found blood matching Harold’s. Four: Probably the most damning evidence—the defendant brought with her pictures of her husband from the time of his murder on which she had scribbled a message to Harold. Just before dying, what did Harold see? Why, the pictures, a clue to help the police catch this menace to society. He clutched them to his heart.”

Raines let his words sit for a moment. The clock ticked.

“Harold was like that. It is no surprise to anyone who knew him that his last act in this world would be to help the police convict his murderer. That is how he spent his life. That is how he spent his last breath.”

The alarm on the clock went off. Raines let the ringing hang in the air, then shut it off.

“Nine minutes. That’s how long it took me to tell you about the facts of this case, and that is how long it took the defendant to murder Harold. She knocked on his door, pushed her way in, and forced him upstairs to his second-floor loft. Harold probably tried to defend himself, but the defendant is a black belt in martial arts, and Harold was thrown from the second floor, breaking the railing and crashing into a glass coffee table. But this wasn’t enough to kill him and didn’t sate her desire for vengeance that day. The defendant dragged Harold a few feet, turned him on his stomach, and beat him over the head with a bottle of liquor. Then, in an attempt to confuse the police by making them think a serial murderer was on the loose, she drew a sign on Harold’s back.

“When the killer left the apartment, and we have an eye witness who will verify this, she ran away into the night, hopped a fence like the athlete she is, and sped away.

“Defense counsel is going to try to confuse you, ladies and gentlemen. Be prepared for this. Don’t let her lead you down false paths. She may tell you that a crazed murderer is on the loose, or that the defendant was framed, or perhaps that the police didn’t investigate other leads. Please, ladies and gentlemen, please ask yourself this: Would a dying man lie to you? Harold had the strength to point out his murderer to you; will you have the strength and wisdom to convict her?”

Fragile silence in the courtroom. When Raines sat down, Hightower’s voice cracked with emotion. “Ms. Neuwirth, your opening statement, please.”

Summer was unnerved by the power of Raines’s performance. She took a sip of water and rose to face the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry I don’t have any props: no alarm clocks, no plot gleaned from an Agatha Christie murder mystery. How am I to answer this eloquent yet cruel twisting of fact and fiction? How are my client and I to respond to the fact that the case the prosecution has constructed is based on innuendo, circumstantial evidence loosely tied together in some bundle and bumble of information, information that is largely irrelevant to this case?

“How,” she gestured with her hands, “are we to address these charges? To start, let me begin with the concept of reasonable doubt, something the prosecution does not want you to know about, because they don’t believe you
can
distinguish between fact and fiction. The best analogy I know is a football game. The prosecution has the ball and is driving down the field. To win the game, they have to score a touchdown. The clock is ticking, time is running out, and the ball is on the one-yard line. There’s time for one last play. The prosecution hands the ball off and the runner is stopped a half-inch from the goal line. Does the prosecution win? No, they do not. They have not scored. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the standard of reasonable doubt. The prosecution must prove to you that my client committed this heinous crime. Not get close to proving it, not kind of prove it, but
prove
it to you. Reasonable doubt is a precious standard, difficult to achieve.” Summer made eye contact with Robinson. This next part was for her. “If you, by the end of this trial,
think
my client committed this brutal crime, then you must, under our laws, vote
not
guilty. If you are pretty sure my client committed this act, then again, you must vote not guilty. If you think there’s a good chance she did it, again, not guilty. Why? Because there is room for doubt. And if any of you are ever charged with a crime you didn’t commit, like my client has been, then you will bless the founders of our nation for providing this standard.

“Now, some facts for you to consider.

“Fact: Stephanie did take issue that out of more than a thousand cases in his career, Harold Gundy pleaded a case down to guilty by reason of insanity exactly once. And that was with my client’s late husband. Of course she was angry with him, and had, in a state of mourning, said angry things. But that was eight years ago. Have any of you ever said anything in anger only to cool down later?”

Although Summer knew she was handing Raines motive, this was an opportunity to temper its impact, since Raines would undoubtedly introduce the Sadbury murder photos into evidence.

“Fact: Stephanie did drop off pictures at Harold Gundy’s residence. In fact, she taped them to his door earlier that day. Hence her fingerprints on the door. But the police didn’t find any traces of her
inside
the apartment. No strands of hair. No fingerprints. Nothing. They found plenty of other trace evidence belonging to a number of different women. Blonde hairs, brown hairs, black hairs, but no red hairs. And as you can see, my client has red hair. If Mr. Gundy struggled as the prosecution claims, you’d think she’d have lost a strand or two of hair, maybe cracked a fingernail.

“Fact: Stephanie has had a hard life. She’s been an important figure in Haze County.” Summer tried to connect with each juror. Some met her gaze, some turned away. Resurrection. A theme they could all relate to. “She took her own money and built a community center for battered women, set up a rape-crisis hotline, a daycare for children so that women on welfare could get off the dole and find jobs. Stephanie has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars of her own money on this, her life’s work. In fact, that is why she has me, a public defender, for her lawyer instead of some hotshot private attorney. She’s plowed all her money into serving the community and has little left for herself. This is the kind of woman she is. Not a cold, calculated murderer.

“As for her martial arts skills, she teaches women how to defend themselves because for too long women have been the victims of abuse.” Summer stopped herself from telling the jury that as someone who was once raped herself, she wished she had known how to defend herself.

“Stephanie has made a difference to everyone she’s touched. Besides, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, would anyone, would you, or you, or you”—pointing to the jurors in succession—“be stupid enough to murder someone, then leave behind incriminating pictures? Would you allow yourself to be seen visiting someone in the afternoon, then return later that evening to murder him?”

Summer stopped to catch her breath. “It doesn’t add up. By the time this trial is over, you will have no choice but to acquit my client. The police and prosecution need a scapegoat, someone they can blame for a murder they can’t solve. But listen carefully, because I’m going to show you that this irrefutable evidence the prosecution talks about is not only refutable, it is a sham.”

Summer nodded to Robinson and to the rest of the jury. She returned to the defense table.

But she knew Raines had blown her out of the water.

Chapter 23

Summer and Rosie were sitting
on plastic chairs, Summer munching Cuban rice and beans and Rosie
pollo asado
at a one-stop shopping joint in the barrio. The floor was coated in faded linoleum, the edges by the wall curling upward. Tinny salsa music blared through wall-mounted speakers. At the cash register in front, customers could buy condoms and cigarettes one at a time; in the back, crack cocaine and marijuana. But you needed a membership card for that, Rosie explained.

Summer watched Rosie stab half a lemon with a fork and dribble juice over sliced avocado. She didn’t know why Rosie, after her initial refusal, had decided to help her find Ignacio, but was relieved that the gulf between them seemed to be closing. Rosie had called Summer right after court was adjourned. That was Friday. Today was Sunday. Aware of Summer’s reluctance to wander around Rosie’s old neighborhood on her own, she had even insisted on picking her up.

The place catered to the entire Latin community, offering all kinds of goods and services, legal and illegal. A family sat around a nearby table. Every time the child squalled, the parents shoved food and toys at him until he quieted. A desk on the side offered mini-bus rides to the airport and bus station. Crack addicts, their heads hanging low, skittered to the rear for a fix. Teens rifled through racks of cheap electronics and accessories. Shirtless old men in nylon shorts and cheap sandals bought cans of beer one at a time and sauntered outside to pass their lives.

Rosie shimmied in her chair, waving her knife and fork. “Ray Barretto, the king of the congas,” she said. “I love him, even though he was Puerto Rican.” She sang along with the lyrics.

“I didn’t know they had salsa—music, I mean, in Mexico,” Summer said.

“They don’t, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t raised with it here.”

Spicy percussion, unintelligible lyrics, argumentative brass, and grumbling bass. Salsa was Latin culture to Summer. Chaos on the surface, but underneath, a strict structure, a pecking order. That’s what Rosie always told her.

Summer talked over the music. “What made you change your mind about helping me find Ignacio?”

“I shouldn’t have said ‘no’ to begin with,” Rosie said. “It’s not like you could come here and ask around, right? Besides, she wasn’t that hard to locate.”

“How did you find her?”

“Listen to that.” Rosie put down her silverware and clapped out a syncopated pattern. “That’s the clavé rhythm, actually a reverse clavé. It’s the blood and guts of salsa. Even when you don’t hear it explicitly, it’s always there. That’s how I found Ignacio. I know the rhythms of the neighborhood. I know who she talks to, where she buys food, who watches her kids, who she sleeps with. Most importantly, I know where she gets her fix.” With her thumb, Rosie indicated the crackheads in the back.

Summer squirted hot sauce on her beans. “How do you know she’ll come in today?”

“Elementary, my dear Summer,” Rosie said. “Today, Ignacio will drop her kid off at Sunday school, and she’ll come by to pick up some crack, maybe score a client for a nooner. The only question I had was whether she’d skipped town or not. Word is, she’s here.”

The waiter came over and Summer, in mangled Spanish, ordered a
café con leche.

“
Dos
.” Rosie covered the chicken bones with a napkin and pushed her plate away. She pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Although the city council had banned smoking in restaurants, nobody paid attention. Rosie blew a lazy cloud of smoke and smiled. “This is fun. Kind of like old times.”

Summer treaded carefully. “We haven’t done this for a long time. You know, hang out.”

Rosie nodded. Summer waited while Rosie flicked ashes onto her plate. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

“What, that because Jon assigned me SK’s case you acted like a bitch?” Summer said brutally. “Forget it.”

Rosie chewed on her lip. “OK. If it’ll make you feel better, go ahead and curse me. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

Summer scooped up the last forkful of beans and regarded them; then dropped the fork on her plate. “It’s tough to go through the hard times without your best friend.”

“I let you down.”

“But why?”

“Listen, what I’m going to tell you, you can’t tell anyone.”

“
Digame
.”

“Not bad.” Rosie put out her cigarette. “Look. You ever do something so bad you couldn’t tell anyone?”

Summer didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

Rosie went on. “That’s a stupid question. You always do the right thing. But me, well, I’ve had to make compromises along the way. See that haggard chick with the sores all over her legs, the one hanging with the other crackheads? She lives for the pipe. It’s all she wants. That could be me.”

“You got out.”

“Not without paying a price.” She leaned back when the waiter dropped off their coffees. When he left, she grabbed the sugar and poured a mound on top of the foam and watched it sink. “I never told you this, but my old man is in jail. He’s a lifer. When I was eight, he took a shot at a pusher but hit a classmate of mine in the eye instead. That’s why, as soon as I could, I got out of here. That’s why I bought that little house in the white part of town and gave my mother the whole upstairs. I knew it was only a matter of time before the violence or the drugs got to us.”