Martin took another moment to get his papers together and managed a glance at the prosecution table: representing the District of Columbia, Assistant United States Attorney Malcolm Rossiter, flanked by two bright-eyed young lawyers. The first, an attractive young blond woman wearing an impeccable blue suit; the second a thin young man with skin while as a sheet of Xerox paper. New faces to Martin; probably fresh out of Georgetown Law.
Judge Deal called the courtroom to order. The court reporter touched her fingertips to the keys of her machine, which made a quick ratcheting sound. The court clerk rose from his chair beside the judge’s bench. He was a paunchy, pink-faced man with black hair and sideburns and bore a striking resemblance to Elvis Presley in his fat period.
“Case number F-four-zero-four-five dash nine-nine, the United States versus Alexei Sergeyevich Smerdnakov, will come to order,” he intoned. “The charge is murder in the first degree.”
“Are the principals ready to proceed in this matter?” Judge Deal asked.
“The government is ready, Your Honor,” Rossiter said, rising from behind the prosecution table with a dignity Martin knew he would never be able to muster.
Martin stood and took a deep breath. “The defense is ready,” he said.
Judge Deal studied him critically for a beat through her bug glasses; then she looked down at the papers on her bench. “Does the plea of not guilty stand?”
“It docs, Your Honor,” Martin said.
At this a faint gasp went up from the gallery, now nearly full of journalists and other lawyers who had dropped by to hear the opening arguments.
“Order!” Judge Deal called out sharply; then she turned to the court clerk. “You may proceed with the swearing in of the jury.”
Martin watched carefully as the members of the jury stood in a body, raised their right hands, and repeated the oath. As they mumbled the familiar words, he studied their contrasting faces — black, white, tan, young, old, male, female, American, foreign — and he felt an emptiness in his gut where certainty should be. This wasn’t a jury; it was the Tower of Babel! How could such a disparate group reach a consensus on the innocence of his client? Why had he chosen them in the first place? He couldn’t remember now.
Then the jurors sat down again, and Judge Deal instructed the prosecution to proceed with opening statements. Rossiter proved to be a deliberate and repetitive speaker. He made his points forcefully and then made them again, almost exactly as he had made them the first time. The defendant, Alexei Sergeyevich Smerdnakov, was a notorious gangster, a violent man whose activities were well known to the FBI and other law enforcement agencies, he told the court. Alexei Sergeyevich Smerdnakov, the defendant, alias Aba Sid, was an infamous racketeer, well known to law enforcement officials.
Martin should have objected strenuously both times to this statement, but he did not. He was too busy watching his core jurors. One of the church ladies was already asleep. The other two seemed to be studying the ends of their noses. The Pakistani garage manager looked confused. Only the college girl — Marlin checked his jury sheet — Denise Wheeler, seemed to be paying attention. She sat forward, elbows on the railing, eyes fixed on the prosecutor. Every now and then, as Rossiter plodded along, she would look over at Smerdnakov, impassive and solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, sitting in his low-backed chair at Martin’s side.
The prosecution’s statement proceeded exactly as Martin had expected. Rossiter followed with a brief overview of the case. The United States would produce witnesses, he said, who had seen the defendant strangle Ms. Volovnaya at Club Naked Party. The United States was also in possession of the murder weapon, a necktie that witnesses would identify as belonging to the defendant, upon which had been found bits of skin and hair. DNA analysis proved the skin and hair had come from both the defendant and victim.
“... the United States intends to show much more than this!” Rossiter said, his voice ascending to a dull but forceful monotone. “We will show that not only did the defendant murder Ms. Volovnaya, but he fell absolutely no remorse after he had committed this heinous crime. For as she lay dead, murdered, on the floor, the defendant proceeded upstairs to continue his dancing. That’s right, he danced with joy, with abandon, until police arrived to place him under arrest for murder.”
When Rossiter sat down, an appreciative silence filled the courtroom. The gallery was now quite crowded. The only free seats were at the very back of the room. In position on an end seat directly behind the defense table, the sketch artist from the Washington Post had just brought out her pad and box of colored chalks.
“Mr. Wexler?” Judge Deal said. “Is the defense ready for opening statements?”
Martin nodded, stood, and approached the jury. He buttoned his jacket, unbuttoned it. He scratched the back of his head, crossed his arms, and appeared lost in thought. He’d practiced every gesture beforehand, first in his bathroom mirror, then with Dahlia as a coach.
“If I seem a little preoccupied this morning,” he said, “it’s because I am. I am preoccupied by this case! Never in all my years as a public defender have I seen a man who looks so guilty, who so readily fits the image we have of a guilty man, who—” He interrupted himself and swung toward Smerdnakov. “Look, what do you see? A thug, a bruiser, right? Look at his face! A known criminal, the prosecution says! But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this man is innocent of the crime he is accused of today! Indeed, here is a man devastated by the loss of a woman he dearly loved, a victim of circumstances beyond his control, a man set up by dastardly companions to take the fall for a crime he did not commit...”
Martin went on in this vein for some time. Two hours later, during the lunch recess, he couldn’t remember exactly what he had said, but he was certain of its effectiveness. He had watched his core jurors watching him. The church ladies had woken up; Denise Wheeler’s lips had parted in eagerness to hear every word; even the Pakistani had looked less dazed, all of them gripped by a tentative belief in the inherent goodness of mankind — and hence the innocence of the defendant — that at some point grips all jurors hearing a successful defense, that is as catching one to the other as the flu.
Over the course of the next three days the prosecution did its best to punch holes in the presumed innocence of Alexei Sergeyevich Smerdnakov.
First, it brought out material witnesses — Aziz Jehassi among them — to establish the Russian’s presence at the club. Martin cross-examined Jehassi, who was extremely nervous on the stand. The club owner stuttered over his replies, his face flushed; great stains slowly appeared under the arms of his silk jacket.
“When my client and Ms. Volovnaya entered your club, were they alone or in the company of others?” Martin asked.
“No, no,” Jehassi said. “They were not alone. They were with a large party.”
“I see,” Martin said. “The members of this party, how would you describe them?”
Jehassi thought for a minute. “They were males,” he said. “Well dressed, big, strong-looking.”
“Russians?”
“Yes,” Jehassi said. “I think so.”
“Objection!” The blond woman who was Rossiter’s assistant rose out of her seat, a mechanical pencil in her right hand. “Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” Judge Deal said. “Rephrase, Mr. Wexler.”
Martin thought for a moment. “How would you describe the behavior of these men?”
Jehassi licked his lips. “They were very loud, rowdy. They drank a lot of vodka.”
“Were they speaking English?”