Ben made a conscious decision not to protract his closing. He had a real sense that the trial was over, at least in the jury’s mind. In some cases, he felt the jury looked forward to closing; they wanted to hear the attorneys sort out the evidence and try to make sense of it all. But not this time. This time he felt the decision had been made—one way or the other. All he could do was remind them of everything he thought was important—and do them the courtesy of being brief.
Point by point, he identified the refutations made to all of the prosecution’s so-called evidence. “The prosecution wants to make much of the fact that the knife came from Keri’s kitchen—but she admitted that, just as she admitted that the chains came from her bedroom. What’s important is not where they came from—but who used them. Similarly, the prosecution wants to make a fuss about her fingerprints being on the knife and the chains. But why shouldn’t they be? They were hers! Of course she’s held the knife, and she’s admitted she used the chains. This so-called proof tells you nothing.”
Ben leaned against the counsel table. “I want to take an extra moment to discuss the DNA evidence. DNA has been much in the news lately. Possibly too much. It has acquired a veneer of infallibility—because most people don’t really understand it. They assume that DNA evidence equals guilt. But it doesn’t. Not always. All DNA evidence can do is give you a likelihood, that is, the odds that the specimen came from the accused. But as anyone who’s ever been to Vegas knows, odds don’t always play out the way you expect them to. And you have to consider—even if her skin was under his fingernails, does that prove she killed him? Or does that just prove they spent a lot of time together, some of it in close contact, something which has never been in dispute? Keri explained that she and Joe fought briefly when he announced that he was leaving her—an understandable reaction. Is it so hard to believe that the skin got under his fingernails during that struggle? The prosecutor talks about our ‘crazy explanations,’ but isn’t that explanation easier to believe than that this petite young woman killed him? I think it is. And if you’ll look into your hearts, I think you’ll find that it is, too.
“Finally, there is the testimony of Andrea McNaughton. Make no mistake about this—Mrs. McNaughton is a victim in this case, just as Keri is, just as Joe McNaughton was. I don’t condone what she did—but I understand it. I think we all can. Still, the fact remains—she lied about what happened when she saw Keri Dalcanton. She lied consciously and intentionally, for the sole purpose of seeing Keri wrongfully convicted of murdering her husband. Worse, she enlisted the help of police officers, her late husband’s devoted friends, in her single-minded effort to convict Keri Dalcanton. What she did brings everything she said—and everything presented by the prosecutor who knowingly put her on the stand—into question. When you eliminate Andrea McNaughton from the equation, what does the prosecution have left? A lot of evidence linking Keri to Joe McNaughton or proving that devices used in the murder came from her apartment. So what? What do they have that links Keri to the murder itself? What do they have that proves she committed the crime? Nothing, that’s what. Absolutely nothing.”
Ben carefully positioned himself directly before the jury. He looked each of them squarely in the eyes, one by one, then continued. “This case is unlike any other I have ever tried, in more ways than you can imagine. But chief among them is this: In most cases, I have to try to convince the jury my client did not commit the crime, without having the slightest idea who did. Not this time. This time I know with absolute certainty who the murderer was. Keri told you why and how it happened, in great detail. And no one has given you any reason to disbelieve what she said. To the contrary, it makes perfect sense and fits all the evidence presented by the prosecution.
“Kirk Dalcanton was unstable and unbalanced, and had been for some time. He had a criminal record. He was unemployed, unhappy. He was living below the poverty level. He had low self-esteem. He was ashamed of himself. He was psychologically tormented about his sexual identity. In short, he was exactly the type of person who might commit a violent murder. What’s more, he—unlike his sister—had the necessary body strength and the motivation to do it. All of the most gruesome aspects of the crime—the mutilation of the body, the public display of the corpse, the word ‘faithless’ written in blood—all point to a male killer. Contrast that with what the prosecution has been telling you—that this hideous crime was committed by a nineteen-year-old girl. Which is more likely? you must ask yourself. Or to put it in the terms the judge will soon discuss with you: Is there any room for reasonable doubt?”
He paused, once again looking each of them in the eye. “I think there is. And I think you do, too.”
After the closings were complete, the judge gave the jury its instructions, a long series of guidelines couched in dense legal language. Ben knew from experience that the instructions rarely made much difference to a jury’s determination of guilt, although they sometimes helped determine which charge would be applied. In this case, except for the instruction reminding them of the importance of reasonable doubt, they were worse than useless. Everything would be decided when the jury resolved whether Keri was innocent or guilty. If she was innocent, she would go free. But if they found her guilty of this macabre crime, they couldn’t help but give her the maximum penalty.
Finally, the jury was dismissed, and Ben, Christina, and Keri began the long wait. Ben still sensed that most of the jurors had reached a conclusion, whatever that might be, which would indicate a relatively short deliberation. But you could never be sure. One hour passed, while they sat in the courtroom. After two hours, Christina sent out for sandwiches. After three, the courtroom closed, but the judge let the jury continue to deliberate. Apparently he too held out hope that the case would be decided quickly.
After four hours of waiting, it was dark outside the courtroom, and Ben was beginning to consider the possibility of going home. “If the jury does reach a verdict,” he explained to Keri, “they’ll call. Nothing will happen till we’re back in the courtroom.”
Keri nodded. She was bearing up well, all things considered, but the tension was evident in her face. And who wouldn’t be nervous—when her very life was being decided in the room next door. “You go on if you want, Ben. I think I’ll stay a bit longer.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. He glanced at his watch. “You’ll miss Xena.”
She smiled a little. “Life is full of little sacrifices.”
Ben decided to remain. He sensed that Keri wanted someone with her. And there was more than that, actually. He sensed that she wanted him to stay with her. And he wanted to stay with her.
It was hard to chitchat with someone who knew that twelve persons were in the next room deciding whether she should be executed. Compared with that, everything else seemed trivial. Because it was.