The prosecutor calmly interrupted. “Every word I’m saying will be supported by sworn testimony.”
The jowly judge, visible in an upper corner of the screen, muttered, “Denied. Proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. As I was saying, the defendant did everything in her power to persuade her young bedmate to kill her husband. But he refused. Well, guess what the defendant did then. What do you think a determined would-be killer would do?”
He stared inquiringly at the jury for a good five seconds before answering his own question. “The petty gangster was afraid to shoot Carl Spalter. The personal trainer was afraid to shoot Carl Spalter. So Kay Spalter began taking shooting lessons herself!”
The out-of-frame voice was heard again. “Objection! Your Honor, the causal link in the prosecution’s use of the word ‘So’ implies an admission of motive by the defendant. There is no such admission anywhere in—”
The prosecutor broke in. “I’ll restate the narrative, Your Honor, in a way fully supported by testimony. The gangster declined to shoot Carl. The trainer declined to shoot Carl. And at that point the defendant began taking shooting lessons herself.”
The judge shifted his bulk with apparent physical discomfort. “Let the record show Mr. Piskin’s restatement. Proceed.”
The prosecutor turned to the jury. “Not only did the defendant take shooting lessons, but you’ll hear testimony from a certified firearms instructor concerning the remarkable level of skill she acquired. Which brings us to the tragic culmination of our story. Last November, Carl Spalter’s mother, Mary Spalter, passed away. She died alone, in the kind of accident that is all too common—a fall in her bathtub in the senior residential community where she had spent the final years of her life. At the funeral service that was conducted at the Willow Rest cemetery, Carl rose to deliver a eulogy at her grave. You’ll hear how he took a step or two, suddenly pitched forward, and hit the ground face-first. He didn’t move. Everyone thought he had tripped, and that the fall had knocked him unconscious. It took a few moments before anyone saw the trickle of blood on the side of his forehead—a trickle of blood coming from a tiny hole in the temple. A subsequent medical examination confirmed what the initial investigating team suspected—that Carl had been struck by a high-powered small-caliber rifle bullet. You’ll hear from the police experts who reconstructed the shooting that the bullet was fired from an apartment window approximately five hundred yards from the point of impact on the victim. You’ll see maps, photographs, and drawings illustrating exactly how it was done. It will all be abundantly clear,” he said with a reassuring smile. He checked his watch before going on.
As he spoke again, he paced back and forth in front of the jury box. “That apartment house, ladies and gentlemen, was owned by Spalter Realty. The apartment from which the bullet was fired was vacant, awaiting renovation, as were most of the apartments in that building. The defendant had easy access to the keys. But that’s not all. You’ll hear damning testimony that Kay Spalter …” He stopped and pointed toward a woman seated at the defense table with her profile to the camera. “… that Kay Spalter was not only in that building the morning of the shooting, but was in the very apartment from which the bullet was fired at the exact time Carl Spalter was shot. Furthermore, you’ll hear eyewitness testimony that she entered that empty apartment alone and that she left it alone.”
He paused and shrugged, as if the facts of the case and the conviction those facts demanded were so obvious that there was no more to say. But then he continued. “The charge is attempted murder. But what does that legal term really mean? Consider this. The day before Carl was shot, he was full of life, full of wholesome energy and ambition. The day after he was shot … Well, just look. Take a good look at the man stuck in that wheelchair, propped up and held in place with metal braces and Velcro straps because the muscles that should be doing that job for him are now useless. Look into his eyes. What do you see? A man so battered by the hand of evil that he might be wishing he were dead? A man so devastated by the treachery of a loved one that he might be wishing he’d never been born?”
Again the off-screen voice broke in. “Objection!”
The judge cleared his throat. “Sustained.” His voice was a weary rumble. “Mr. Piskin, you’re over the line.”
“I apologize, Your Honor. I got a little carried away.”
“I suggest you carry yourself back.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” After seeming to gather his thoughts for a moment, he turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a sad fact that Carl Spalter can no longer move or speak or communicate with us in any way, but the horror in that fixed expression on his face tells me that he’s fully aware of what happened to him, that he knows who did this to him, and that he has no doubt that there is in this world such a thing as Pure Evil. Remember, when you find Kay Spalter guilty of attempted murder, as I know you will, this—what you see here before you—this is the real meaning of that colorless legal phrase ‘attempted murder.’ This man in this wheelchair. This life crushed beyond hope of repair. Happiness extinguished. This is the reality, dreadful beyond words.”
“Objection!” cried the voice.
“Mr. Piskin …” rumbled the judge.
“I’m finished, Your Honor.”
The judge called for a half-hour recess and summoned the prosecutor and defense attorney to his chambers.
Gurney replayed the video. He’d never seen an opening statement quite like it. It was a lot closer in emotional tone and content to a closing argument. But he knew Piskin by reputation, and the man was no amateur. So what was his purpose? To act as though Kay Spalter’s conviction was inevitable, that the game was over before it began? Was he that sure of himself? And if that was just his opener, how was he going to top an accusation of “Pure Evil”?
Speaking of which, he wanted to see the expression on Carl Spalter’s face that Piskin had focused the jury on but the courtroom video had failed to capture. He wondered if there might be a photograph in the voluminous material delivered by Hardwick. He picked up the sequenced guide, looking for a hint.
Perhaps not accidentally, it was the second item on the list.
“Number two: Check out the damage. BCI case file, third graphics tab. It’s all in those eyes. I never want to see whatever put that look on his face.”
A minute later Gurney was holding a full-page head-and-shoulders photo printout. Even with all the preparation, the horror in Spalter’s eyes was shocking. Piskin’s final rant had not been exaggerated.
There was indeed in those eyes the recognition of a terrible truth—a reality, as Piskin had put it, dreadful beyond words.
Chapter 5. Bloodthirsty Weasels
The scraping squeak of the right-side French door being pulled from its sticking point against the sill woke Gurney from a surreal dream that slipped away as soon as he opened his eyes.
He found himself slouched down in one of the two armchairs at the fireplace end of the long room, the Spalter documents spread out on the coffee table in front of him. His neck ached when he raised his head. The light coming through the open door had a dawn faintness about it.
Madeleine stood there silhouetted, breathing in the cool, still air.
“Can you hear him?” she asked.
“Hear who?” Gurney rubbed his eyes, sitting up straighter.
“Horace. There he goes again.”
Gurney listened halfheartedly for the crowing of the young rooster but heard nothing.