“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Ben cleared his throat awkwardly. He wished again, for about the millionth time, that he had some of the finesse that Bullock brought so masterfully to the courtroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, Wallace Barrett did not commit this crime. Let me say it again.” Ben paused to give each word its own punch. “Wallace Barrett did not commit this crime. Now I know you will hear people say that he did; you have already heard people say that he did. But he didn’t. I know that. And by the end of this trial, you will know it, too.”
“I am about to offer you two words, the two most important words you will hear during the entire course of this trial. Reasonable doubt.” He smiled, hoping perhaps just one of the jurors would smile back. They didn’t. “As the judge will instruct you later, you cannot convict this man of this crime if you have a reasonable doubt about whether he committed it. That’s the standard. Not more likely than not. Not a seventy-five percent chance or better. No reasonable doubt. Doesn’t even have to be a great big doubt. If you have a reasonable doubt, you must bring back a verdict of not guilty. That’s the law.”
Ben dropped his notes and legal pads on the table and returned to the jury box. He didn’t need them; they were just a crutch. Bullock didn’t use notes, and he knew that the jury was subtly comparing the two of them, trying to decide whether Ben measured up. He needed to seem as if he was speaking from the heart, not from a prepared text.
“I’m sure you remember everything the prosecution has told you about their evidence. Let’s talk about everything they didn’t tell you. Let’s talk about everything they don’t have or won’t show you. They’ll tell you they are certain that Wallace Barrett committed this crime, but did anyone see him commit this crime? No. Did anyone hear the crime being committed? No. There are no eyewitnesses, no earwitnesses. The closest they come is one neighbor who saw Barrett at his home at the approximate time of the murder. But why shouldn’t he have been there? He lived there! That proves nothing.
“The evidence will show that when Barrett left his home that day, his children and wife were alive and well, and that no one was more shocked than he to later find they had been killed. He was shocked and devastated. Emotionally confused. He didn’t know what to do. So he got in the car and drove. Didn’t even know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from there. The prosecution would have you believe that this was some high-speed flight from justice. It was nothing of the sort. As the evidence will show, Barrett didn’t even see any policemen chasing him until just shortly before he crashed into the tollbooth.
“This need to run, to get away, may seem strange, even irrational, to you, but ask yourself this question: if you came home and found your entire family had been slaughtered, mightn’t you be just a bit irrational? Mightn’t you make a mistake or two?”
“Your honor.” Bullock had risen to his feet. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to interpose an objection. This is becoming quite argumentative.”
“I’ll sustain that objection,” Judge Hart said. “Counsel, please stick to the preview of the evidence that will be presented. Save the argument for later.”
“Yes, your honor.” Ben had known full well that this portion of his remarks might draw an objection. But the specter of this high-speed chase that had been witnessed by virtually everyone was so damning he knew he had to try to dismantle it as soon as possible, whether it drew an objection or not. And it was rather difficult for him to stick strictly to a preview of the evidence he would put on, since he was still uncertain what in the world he would be putting on. In fact, there was only one witness he could count on for certain.
“Some of you may be wondering—will Wallace Barrett take the stand? This is often a point of great curiosity and suspense throughout a trial. Well, let me see if I can alleviate some of the suspense. Wallace Barrett will take the stand. Does he have to? Of course not. The Fifth Amendment provides that he doesn’t have to say a word. Frankly, I usually advise my clients not to. But Wallace Barrett wants to take the stand. He wants to talk to you, he wants to tell you his story. Because he’s an innocent man. And he wants you to know it.”
Ben racked his brain for another subject that should be broached on opening. Nothing leaped to mind. He thought he’d covered most of the high points. He decided to move to the wrap-up.
“Before I sit down, I would like to leave you with one question. This is a question I would like you to keep inside your head, to ask yourself throughout the course of the prosecution’s case. Mr. Bullock has told you that the police pursued Wallace Barrett as their suspect from the very beginning, and that’s true. They never considered any other suspect. They never investigated any other suspect. Never even questioned another suspect. So as you listen to the testimony, ask yourself this: Are they going after Wallace Barrett because he is the only possibility—or because he was the easiest possibility?”
Ben glanced up at the judge. “That’s all I have, your honor.”
Judge Hart swiveled to face the courtroom. “Very well, opening statements being completed, and since there is still ample time before lunch, the prosecution may call its first witness.”
Ben nodded at his client, clapped him on the shoulder, sat down, and gripped the edges of his table.
It had begun.
Chapter 38
THE PRESS HAD BEEN speculating for days as to who would be the first witness the prosecution called to the stand. Would they try to hit a home run first time at the plate, or would they build slow and easy, starting with the dullish forensic evidence and saving the high drama for later? When the announcement was finally made, it was almost anticlimactic.
“The State calls Cynthia Taylor, your honor.”
Well, Ben mused, she was a natural choice. Everyone knew the victim’s sister; she had, after all, been on magazine covers and television talk shows throughout the preceding month. She was an appealing witness, personally attractive, well-spoken. She was someone the jury would take seriously, would be sure to listen to carefully. She was in a position to comment and reflect on almost every aspect of the case. And she could be counted on to help the prosecution in any way she possibly could to see Wallace Barrett convicted of her sister’s murder.
She was wearing a black pantsuit, stylish, although it tended to obscure her trim, athletic figure. Probably a smart strategy; they didn’t want the jury writing her off as a self-absorbed pretty face She spoke in a clear yet fragile voice, like thin glass, crystal clear for now, but capable of shattering at the slightest pressure. She introduced herself, explained her relationship to the key players, and told the jury that she taught aerobics part-time at a local gym and was also the president of the local chapter of Domestic Violence Intervention Services.
“Would you say you were close to your sister, the late Caroline Taylor Barrett?”
“We were best friends. It was always that way. We’re only two years apart in age. We grew up together. We wore the same clothes, had the same friends. We took vacations together. We told each other everything.” She smiled bitterly. “She was the best friend I ever had.”
“Did you spend a lot of time together?”
“Oh, yes. As much as we possibly could. We loved to talk. We would stay up all night sometimes, just sitting around the kitchen table talking to one another, sharing secrets and favorite things. She was a lot smarter than I was. I remember, the last time we vacationed together, she was reading some Greek tragedy. Medea, I think. I was reading Michael Crichton. But she never lorded it over me. She never made me feel stupid.”