“Do you think I enjoy sitting at that table with him? I don’t. Being near scum like him makes my skin crawl. Just looking at him sends shivers up my spine. You haven’t seen me feigning friendship with the defendant during this trial. For a reason. Because he is not my friend. He is the most revolting man I have ever met. If it were up to me, I’d lock him in a cell with no windows and throw away the key.”
Travis took a step back and folded his arms. “But that is not the law, ladies and gentlemen. The law proclaims that every man charged with a crime, even one as horrible as the offense you have heard described today, is entitled to a fair trial before a jury of his peers. If my client is convicted, it must be because you have determined not simply that he is a bad person, but that the evidence has proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he is guilty of the specific crime with which he has been charged.”
Maintaining eye contact with the jurors, Travis sidestepped to the prosecutor’s table. “Now, what is the charge that Ms. Cavanaugh has leveled against my client? Murdering a federal informant. As the judge will instruct you, that is a very specific, rather unusual crime. Most murders are tried in state, not federal, court. But by latching onto an obscure section of the United States Criminal Code, Ms. Cavanaugh has usurped the state authorities so that she can try this case in federal court and reap all the publicity attendant to a high-profile tragedy.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Travis saw Madame Prosecutor squirming. She wanted to object—to interrupt his flow, if for no other reason—but she knew it would irritate the jurors and do her more harm than good.
“What evidence do you have that Sally Schultz, a fourteen-year-old girl, was a federal informant? Very little, I think. Yes, the prosecution has inundated you with evidence that my client knew the girl. They have presented chilling, graphic evidence that he molested her on several occasions. And they have presented circumstantial evidence indicating that—to silence her—he took her life, in a slow, grisly fashion.
“But where is the evidence that Sally Schultz was an informant?” Travis pounded his fist on the prosecution table. “The evidence from the FBI agent, Mr. Banner, was that he had talked to Sally Schultz on one occasion, and that she had not decided whether she would testify. If she had agreed, if she had in fact been part of the FBI plot to ensnare my client at the time of her tragic death, then I would not be standing before you today.”
Travis planted himself front and center before the jury. He was a large man—heavy and big-boned, like a linebacker. The extra pounds around his gut were masked by his dark suit. Up close, he had an impressive bearing. “But that is not what happened. There had only been one conversation between Sally and Mr. Banner, and Sally had not made up her mind. If that single inconclusive conversation made Sally a federal informant, then any of us could become federal informants whenever the whim strikes an ambitious prosecutor. Clearly, that was not the intent of the law my client has been charged with violating.”
He took a deep breath, then released it slowly. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client has committed acts that probably horrify you, just as they horrify me. But this court has no jurisdiction over him. I ask you to put aside your personal feelings and remember that this is a court of law, not a court of vengeance. The only question before you today is whether my client is guilty of murdering a federal informant. And the answer is no.”
Travis returned to the defendant’s table and sat without so much as glancing at his client. Ms. Cavanaugh rose and began her rebuttal argument, but Travis could tell the jury was not listening. They were looking at him, and his client, and considering the question he had put before them.
3
4:45 P.M.
CAVANAUGH DRAINED HER PAPER cup of coffee. “I don’t mean to get personal, Byrne. I don’t know you that well. But I have to ask you one question. How do you sleep at night?”
Travis Byrne carefully considered his response.
“You’ve read the Constitution, Cavanaugh. At least, I hope you have. Every man is entitled to a defense.”
The two attorneys were in Judge Charles E. Hagedorn’s private chambers in the Dallas County Courthouse, awaiting his return.
“I’m not complaining because you gave your client a defense,” Cavanaugh replied. “I’m complaining because you exonerated the filthiest piece of trash I’ve ever seen!”
“The jury is still out.”
“I saw the look in their eyes during your closing. They were mesmerized. Who wouldn’t be? You put on a great show. What’s more, you gave them the perfect excuse not to convict. They’re going to use it.”
Here we go again, Travis thought. He poured himself some more coffee. “So you’re saying it’s okay for me to defend the man, just so I don’t do it very well.”
“I’m saying I wish your ethics got as much exercise as your silver tongue.”
Travis sighed. He’d confronted this argument a million times before and he didn’t feel like rehashing it. Especially not with Cavanaugh. She was a formidable opponent—tall, slender, with jet-black hair restrained in a tight chignon. She could probably be attractive, he mused, if she’d loosen up a bit and act like a human being. “Everybody’s got to make a living.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to make it by putting child molesters back on the street. Look, Byrne, I understand the issues. I haven’t always been a prosecutor. I was a PI for five years—a skip tracer, basically. I hated it. I didn’t enjoy rubbing shoulders with the oiliest creeps this side of hell. So I quit. I went to law school and joined the good guys. You could do the same thing.”
“I’ve been with the good guys,” Travis said. “It didn’t work out.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’re an ex-cop. The fact that you wore a badge for seven years doesn’t mean your life has been any tougher than anyone else’s.”
Travis’s face became stone cold. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Cavanaugh.”
“I think I do.”
“You don’t know the least thing about me.”
“When have I had the chance?”
Travis’s head jerked up. “Is that what this is about? Are you yanking my chain because you want to go out with me?”
She brought her hand to her face and stifled a laugh. “My God. Mother was right. Men are all alike.” She lowered her hand, revealing a broad grin. “I’m not after your body, Byrne. Promise.”
Judge Hagedorn poked his head through the door. “Mind if I step into my own chambers? I don’t want to intrude.”
“Please, Judge,” Travis said. “This ethereal banter is making my head hurt. Soon I’ll be hearing voices.”
“Let me know if one of them sounds like Jiminy Cricket,” Hagedorn said. “We’ve all assumed you’d get a conscience someday.”
“Don’t you start in on me now. The jury is still out, for God’s sake.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Hagedorn replied. He removed his black robe, revealing a casual Western shirt and rattler-skin cowboy boots. When he wasn’t on the bench, Hagedorn was a rancher with an expansive spread out in Braddock County. Travis had learned some time ago that he could make more points with Hagedorn talking about cattle than cases. “They’re going to acquit.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been on the bench for thirty-two years,” Hagedorn said, settling himself into a chair beneath a pair of wall-mounted longhorns. “That’s how I know.”
“Look,” Travis said, “it’s not my fault Cavanaugh decided to grab some glory by dragging this case into federal court. It should have been tried in state court and we all know it.”
“I doubt if Ms. Cavanaugh had much say in that decision,” Hagedorn said. “Brad Blaisdell is the U.S. Attorney and he calls the shots for his cadre of assistants. He’s been known to purloin a headline or two. Particularly when a seat is about to open up on the federal bench.”