“No.”
“Did your tests reveal how Mr. Slade’s DNA ended up on that camo jacket?”
“No.”
“Or who may have placed that cigarette butt where you found it?”
“No.”
“Thank you, Ms. Barstow. That’ll be all.”
For a moment, Stryker looked like she might opt for a redirect examination of Barstow to dilute the impact of those negative replies. Instead, she recalled Detective Lieutenant Scott Derlick to the stand.
“Detective, during your testimony you showed us Lenny Lerman’s route from Calliope Springs to Ziko Slade’s lodge. Did he make that trip in his own car?”
“Yes, a black 2004 Corolla—confirmed by video from two strip mall security cameras along the way.”
“Did you find the car?”
“Yes. Three days later we received a call regarding a burnt-out vehicle in an abandoned quarry less than a mile from Slade’s lodge. We were able to identify it via the VIN number on the chassis.”
“You say it was burnt out?”
“Yes. An empty gas container was found at the site, suggesting arson.”
“Did you find anything else of interest?”
“A key on the floor next to the driver’s seat, where it probably fell from the pocket of whoever drove the Corolla to the quarry.”
“What sort of key was it?”
“A padlock key.”
“Were you able to match the key to any particular padlock?”
“Yes. The padlock on Ziko Slade’s tool shed.”
8
MARCUS THORNE ROSE AT THE DEFENSE TABLE.
“I’m curious about that padlock key, Detective,” he said in an innocent, conversational tone. “Might it have been placed in the car on purpose rather than fallen out of someone’s pocket?”
“There’s zero evidence of that.”
“Just as there’s zero evidence that it dropped out of Mr. Slade’s pocket?”
Derlick’s mouth twitched, but he made no reply.
“In fact, Detective, I’m wondering if you have even a speck of real evidence that Mr. Slade emerged from his lodge at any time that day or night—much less that he killed anyone or drove that car to the quarry or set fire to it.”
Derlick’s jaw muscles tightened. “Based on the facts, those are the only reasonable conclusions.”
“So, you have absolute certainty with zero proof. The sort of certainty that puts thousands of innocent people in prison every year.”
Stryker rocketed out of her chair. “Objection! Counsel is inventing statistics and badgering the witness!”
“Sustained,” said Wartz. “Mr. Thorne, your next inappropriate remark will have consequences.”
Thorne smiled meekly and raised his palms in surrender. “Thank you, Your Honor. I’m finished with this witness.” He made “witness” sound like species of rodent.
Wartz turned to Stryker. “You may proceed.”
“The prosecution rests its case, Your Honor.”
Wartz nodded and asked Thorne if he was ready to present the case for the defense.
“Your Honor, my client and I believe we have no need for a formal defense. We prefer to move directly to our closing argument.”
Wartz’s stolid features registered a touch of surprise—the same surprise Gurney felt, until he guessed that the reason was that Slade had no alibi and Thorne was afraid to put him on the stand.
Thorne approached the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, you and I have just witnessed a carefully orchestrated production in which random bits of dubious evidence were cleverly strung together to create a remarkable piece of fiction. The prosecution wins high marks for creativity. But when it comes to addressing the key questions in the case—all those sources of reasonable doubt—they failed miserably.” He shook his head. “So many problems, it’s hard to know where to begin. Take Lerman, for example. Was he a bumbling fool, broadcasting his dumb plan to the world? Or was he a calculating blackmailer? He couldn’t have been both. But the prosecutor wants you to ignore that contradiction.
“We were shown a map with a dramatic red line highlighting his route—to prove what? That Lerman drove to Slade’s property? But his drive has no bearing on the only question that matters: Who killed him after he arrived?
“In a desperate effort to link Mr. Slade to the murder, the prosecution came up with traces of contact DNA on a camo jacket and a cigarette butt. But key facts were conspicuously missing. We were told there was a match between DNA on the camo garment and Mr. Slade’s DNA. What we didn’t hear was the scientific confidence level attached to that match. Was it ninety percent? Eighty? Seventy? Less than that? We don’t know because we weren’t told. As for that cigarette butt, might not Mr. Slade have dropped numerous butts outside his lodge, and might not the real killer have picked one up and placed it by the grave—to create the sort of false impression the prosecution passed along to you today?”
“Objection!” cried Stryker. “That’s a slanderous characterization of prosecution motives.”
Wartz let out a heavy sigh. “Defense counsel is stretching the envelope to the breaking point. However, I am inclined to overrule the objection in this instance—in the interest of affording maximum leeway to closing arguments.”
“I appreciate Your Honor’s indulgence,” said Thorne, turning back to the jury.
“In my long career as a trial attorney, rarely have I seen a case give rise to so many areas of reasonable doubt. Especially when you realize that the police failed to investigate other plausible scenarios for this murder. Did it not occur to them that Lerman’s public bragging about his plan to extort money from Mr. Slade would provide the perfect cover for an enemy of Lerman’s to follow him and kill him? What about Lerman’s million-dollar life insurance policy? The prosecutor mentioned it in her opening statement, yet I didn’t hear a word about that from Detective Derlick, even though ‘follow the money’ is a foundational principle of sound investigative procedure. So many stones left unturned. So many questions unanswered.”
Thorne paused, making eye contact with each juror. “Faced with this mountain of reasonable doubt, the law demands that you acquit the defendant.”
After a brief silence, Wartz addressed Stryker. “Are you prepared to proceed with your closing argument?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Taking a deep breath, she approached the jury.
“Reasonable doubt.” She articulated the phrase with precision. “If I told you the sky was blue, I’m sure Mr. Thorne could conjure up a dozen reasons that you should doubt that simple fact. But none of them would be reasonable. Creating a smokescreen of doubt and confusion—making you wonder if the sky is really blue—is what defense attorneys are paid to do.”
Thorne shook his head with exaggerated weariness. “Objection, Your Honor. This is scurrilous nonsense.”
“Overruled,” said Wartz. “I’m giving the prosecutor the same leeway I gave you.”
Stryker shot a “gotcha” glance at Thorne before continuing. “The thing about reasonable doubt is that the doubt must actually be reasonable. Defense counsel’s distracting questions and wild suppositions are far from reasonable. He waves the term ‘doubt’ around as though it were magic dust that could make evidence disappear.”
Stryker paused before going on. “This is the moment in a trial when a prosecutor normally reviews all the key evidence and explains to the jury how it fits together. But I don’t think you need to hear it all again. This is a very simple case. So simple that I can sum it up in one sentence: ‘A poor man thought he could acquire a fortune from a rich man, but he had no idea how ruthless that rich man could be.’”
She took a step closer to the jury and spoke softly. “Lenny Lerman didn’t know what Ziko Slade was capable of. But you do. You do, because you saw the photograph of Lenny’s mutilated body—a sight none of us will ever forget—a sight that underscores your duty to find this defendant guilty of premeditated murder.”