This gave me pause. I had come to court fully prepared to face at least one final tilt with her. Testimony explaining the Wing Nuts car in the bank garage, or maybe Driscoll’s supervisor putting the boots to him, even a prosecution foreclosure expert to contradict Aronson’s assertions. But nothing. She folded the tent.
She was going with the blood. Whether I had robbed her of her Boléro crescendo or not, she was going to make her stand on the one incontrovertible aspect of the entire triaclass="underline" the blood.
Judge Perry recessed court for the morning so the attorneys could work on their closing arguments and he could retreat to chambers to work on the jury charge-the final set of instructions jurors would take with them into deliberations.
I called Rojas and had him pick me up on Delano. I didn’t want to go back to the office. Too many distractions. I told Rojas just to drive and I spread my files and notes out in the backseat of the Lincoln. This was where I did my best thinking, my best prep work.
At one o’clock sharp, court reconvened. Like everything else in the criminal justice system, closing arguments were tipped toward the state. The prosecution got to speak first and last. The defense got the middle.
It looked to me like Freeman was going with the standard prosecutorial format. Build the house with the facts on the first swing and then pull their emotional strings on the second.
Block by block she outlined the evidence against Lisa Trammel, seemingly leaving out nothing presented since the start of the trial. The discourse was dry but cumulative. She covered means and motive, and she brought it all home with the blood. The hammer, the shoes, the uncontested DNA findings.
“I told you at the beginning of this trial that blood would tell the tale,” she said. “And here we are. You can discount everything else, but the blood evidence alone warrants a vote of guilty as charged. I am sure you will follow your conscience and do just that.”
She sat down and then it was my turn. I stood in the opening in front of the jury box and addressed the twelve directly. But I wasn’t alone in the well. As previously approved by the judge, I brought Manny out to stand with me. Dr. Shamiram Arslanian’s erstwhile companion stood upright, with the hammer attached to the crown of his head, his head snapped back at the unusual angle that would have been necessary if Lisa Trammel had struck the fatal blow.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I began, “I’ve got good news. We should all be out of here and back to our normal lives by the end of the day. I appreciate your patience and your attentiveness during this trial. I appreciate your consideration of the evidence. I am not going to take a lot of time up here because I want to get you home as soon as possible. Today should be easy. This is a quick one. This case comes down to what I call a five-minute verdict. A case where reasonable doubt is so pervasive that a unanimous verdict will undoubtedly be reached on your very first ballot.”
From there I highlighted the evidence the defense had brought forth and the contradictions and deficiencies in the state’s case. I asked the unanswered questions. Why was the briefcase open? Why did the hammer go so long without being found? Why was Lisa Trammel’s garage found unlocked and why would someone who was clearly going to succeed in defending her foreclosure case lash out against Bondurant?
It eventually brought me to the centerpiece of my closing-the mannequin.
“The demonstration by Dr. Arslanian alone puts the lie to the state’s case. Without considering another single part of the defense case, Manny here gives you reasonable doubt. We know from the injuries to the knees of the victim that he was standing when struck with the fatal blow. And if he was standing, then this is the only position that he could have been in for Lisa Trammel to have been the killer. Head back, face to the ceiling. Is that possible, you must ask yourself. Is that likely? What would make Mitchell Bondurant look up? What was he looking up at?”
I paused there, hand in one pocket, adopting a casual and confident pose. I checked their eyes. All twelve of them were locked in on the mannequin. I then reached up to the handle of the hammer and slowly pushed it up, until the plastic face came down to a normal level and the handle stood out at a ninety-degree angle, too high for Lisa Trammel to grasp.
“The answer, ladies and gentlemen, is that he wasn’t looking up because Lisa Trammel didn’t do this. Lisa Trammel was driving home with her coffee while someone else carried out the plan to eliminate the threat that Mitchell Bondurant had become.”
Another pause to let it sink in.
“Mitchell Bondurant had poked the sleeping tiger with his letter to Louis Opparizio. Whether intended or not, the letter was a threat to the two things that give the tiger its strength and fierceness. Money and power. It threatened a deal that was bigger than Louis Opparizio and Mitchell Bondurant. It threatened commerce and therefore it had to be dealt with.
“And it was. Lisa Trammel was chosen as the fall guy. She was known to the perpetrators of this crime, her movements had been monitored by them and she came with what appeared to be a credible motive. She was the perfect patsy. No one would believe her when she said, ‘I didn’t do this.’ No one would give it a second thought. A plan was set in motion and carried out brazenly and efficiently. Mitchell Bondurant was left dead on the concrete floor of a garage, his briefcase pilfered on the floor right next to him. And the police showed up and went right along for the ride.”
I shook my head in dismay, as though I carried the disgust of all society.
“The police had blinders on. Like those blinders put on horses so they stay on track. The police were on a track that led to Lisa Trammel and they would look at nothing else. Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel… Well, what about ALOFT and the tens of millions of dollars that Mitchell Bondurant was threatening? Nope, not interested. Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel, Lisa Trammel. The train was on the track and they rode it home.”
I paused and paced in front of the jury. For the first time I looked about the courtroom. It was filled to capacity, with even some people standing in the back. I saw Maggie McPherson standing back there and next to her was my daughter. I froze in midstep but then quickly recovered. It made my heart feel good as I turned to the jury and brought my case to an end.
“But you see what they didn’t see or refused to see. You see that they got on the wrong track. You see that they were cleverly manipulated. You see the truth.”
I gestured to the mannequin.
“The physical evidence doesn’t work. The circumstantial evidence doesn’t work. The case doesn’t bear scrutiny in the light of day. The only thing this case adds up to is reasonable doubt. Common sense tells you this. Your instincts tell you this. I urge you to set Lisa Trammel free. Let her go. It is the right thing to do.”
I said thank you and returned to my seat, patting Manny on the shoulder as I passed. As we had previously planned, Lisa Trammel grabbed and squeezed my arm once I sat down. She mouthed the words Thank you for all on the jury to see.
I checked my watch under the defense table and saw I had taken only twenty-five minutes. I started to settle in for the second part of the state’s closer when Freeman asked the judge to have me remove the mannequin from the courtroom. The judge told me to do so and I got back up.
I carried the mannequin to the gate, where I was met by Cisco, who had been in the audience.
“I got it, Boss,” he whispered. “I’ll take him outside.”
“Thanks.”
“You did good.”
“Thanks.”
Freeman moved to the well to deliver the second part of her summation. She wasted no time in attacking the contentions of the defense.