'Now let's talk for a minute about the evidence of the crime itself, evidence found at the scene which they contend proves beyond a reasonable doubt an inextricable link between Mark Dooher and this murder.'
He stood mute before the jury box, making eye contact with each juror, one by one. The process took nearly fifteen seconds – an eternity in the courtroom. The silence hung heavily.
Farrell nodded, including them all. That's right. There is none. None. The kitchen knife with fingerprints on it? Those fingerprints were left by normal use around the house.
The surgical glove? Where's the proof that it was Mark Dooher's glove, that he brought it to the scene? There is none because that didn't happen. No, this glove was brought to the scene by the burglar – by the murderer -and left there. That's all we know about it, and it says nothing whatever about Mr Dooher.
' So we have no proof that Mark Dooher was at the scene of the crime, no direct or circumstantial evidence tying him to it. Next we must turn our attention to whether Mark' – Farrell began purposefully using Dooher's first name – 'was even in the neighborhood. Mr Balian says he saw his car parked a couple of blocks away when it should have been in the San Francisco Golf Club parking lot. But Mr Balian also says he recognized a brown Lexus from diagonally across a wide street, in the dark.' Farrell shook his head. 'I don't think so.
'And Mr Ross didn't see what he said he didn't see at the driving range that night, either.' He put his hand on the bar rail in front of the jury. 'You know, it's funny about people. You and me, all of us. You ever notice how sometimes we say something, and we're not too sure of it, but we say it anyway? Maybe something we've seen, or a story from a long time ago where we don't remember all the details so we kind of fill in what's missing with something plausible? I think we've all had the experience – after we've done this, especially if we've told the story more than once – of not being able to remember what parts exactly we filled in.
That's what happened to Mr Ross. I don't think he purposely perjured himself under oath here. No, he was at the driving range that night, or perhaps on some other night he was three mats from the end, and he remembered not seeing anyone at the last mat. But he told Lieutenant Glitsky it was this night, and he was stuck with that story.
'For those of you who might be familiar with Sherlock Holmes, Mr Ross was the dog who did not bark in the night. He saw no one. This testimony, even if it were true in all its details, does not possess the same authority as if he said he saw Mark picking his way through the hole in the fence. Perhaps Mark wasn't there one time when Mr Ross looked up. Mark has admitted going to the bathroom and getting a Coke. That testimony was corroborated by the golf pro, Richie Browne. He says Mark Dooher was there the whole time. So let's leave Mr Balian and Mr Ross. The purported proof they offer is fatally flawed.'
Farrell let out a long sigh and gave another weary smile to the jurors. 'You've heard that Mr Dooher carefully sedated his wife. Then, after killing her, he made the scene appear as though a burglar had done it.'
'Now, I ask you, if you were going to plan this kind of elaborate charade, if it were your intention to make it look like a burglar had been in your home, don't you think you'd leave some sign of a forced entry? A broken window? A kicked-in door? Anything? Ladies and gentlemen, this theory defies belief.'
'I don't know about you, but I kept waiting for some witnesses to appear and say they'd seen Mark drive up, enter the house, drive away, anything. But I never heard that. Not one witness came forward to say that. All I heard was Ms Jenkins tell us she was going to prove it, and I kept waiting, and the proof never came. And you know why? Because it didn't happen.'
'Now Judge Thomasino will be giving you jury instructions, but I want to say a word about the defense's burden of proof. We don't have to prove anything.'
'And yet Mark Dooher chose to testify – to go through three or four hours of Ms Jenkins's questions – so that he could tell you what he did do on the night of June seventh.'
'So what do we have? We have no proof of motive, we have no proof that Mark was at the scene of the crime when it occurred, we have no proof that he was even in the neighborhood at the time. In short, there is no proof at all, much less proof beyond a reasonable doubt, that Mark Dooher is guilty of this crime. There are no facts that convict him.'
Farrell was almost done. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said. 'I'm a defense attorney. It's what I do for a living. I defend people and try to convince a jury that the evidence in a case doesn't support a Guilty verdict.'
He drew a breath. A trial was a war. You had to do whatever it took to win it. Now he'd gone this far and there was no turning back. He had worked tirelessly to convince the good people of this jury that he was a man of honor, worthy of their trust. And now he was going to lie to them.
God help him, he had to do it.
This case is different,' he said. 'Once in a career, a guy like me gets a chance to tell a jury that his client isn't just Not Guilty, but that he's innocent.
'And that's what I'm telling you now – Mark Dooher is innocent. He didn't do it. I know you know this, too. I know it.'
Part Five
CHAPTER FOURTY FOUR
The way Dooher saw it, his acquittal should have restored him to his accustomed power, influence, and gentility. He'd been cleared of the charges, after all. That should have been the end of it and perhaps would have been, if Wes Farrell had not led the charge of rats from the ship, adding to the illusion that it was, in fact, sinking.
He supposed it was because he had never cultivated friends. The way it had always worked was that people came to Mark Dooher. Not the other way around. They had always needed something he could give them – position, money, esteem – but he did not need them. He would give no one the satisfaction.
He had been the center of Sheila's life, providing her with a house and an income and children, but even in the early years she had never been his equal. That had been tacitly understood.
And Farrell? Until the trial, Wes Farrell wouldn't have dared presume that he was on the same level as Dooher. The man's entire existence had been lived at a rung below Dooher's. His clearly defined role had always been as fawning admirer to whom Mark permitted easy access because Farrell amused him.
Flaherty – a friend? Hardly. The Archbishop was a man who needed Dooher's advice and guidance, and who paid for it. If he chose to believe that Dooher harbored any real affection for him, that was a need of his own nature, not Mark's.
Their social life had always been directed by Sheila. The occasional dinner in restaurants or at the Olympic, a night at the theater or a movie with longstanding acquaintances – that had been about the extent of it. Mark never thought he'd miss it and he didn't; at least not specifically. Dooher should have realized that Sheila's friends would shun both him and his new wife, but he didn't miss anyone's personal company.
There was an emptiness, though, a social void that filled him with a sense of isolation.
It wasn't fair and just, he thought. The ostracism was as complete as it would have been if he'd been found Guilty. He and Christina had married within a couple of months of the trial and now, between them, had no friends.