He had to believe.
And then this morning he'd opened the newspaper, and in a twinkling the foundation seemed to give – psychically, it shook him as the earthquake had. And, following that, he'd sat at this table trying and failing to ignore the other signposts on the trail that had led them all to here – the party at Dooher's, Mark's decision to bring Christina on as a summer clerk, Joe Avery's transfer to Los Angeles, which had pre-ordained Joe and Christina's break-up, Sheila's death, and now, finally, the two of them – Mark and Christina – nearly united.
Viewed from Farrell's perspective, the progression was linear and ominous.
He tried to tell himself that it didn't necessarily mean what it could mean.
Wes knew Mark, who he was, what he was. And Mark could never have done what he was accused of. It was impossible.
Wes wasn't religious, but Dooher's innocence was an article of faith for him. If he didn't know Mark, he knew nothing. This was why, as the preparation for trial had uncovered enough unpleasant assertions about Mark to make even Farrell feel uncomfortable, he had never truly doubted.
Assertions were just that, he had told himself time and again. They weren't proven. People, often with axes to grind, would say things.
Farrell had tried to look objectively at all this alleged wrongdoing, and came away convincing himself that it was all smoke and mirrors. There was absolutely no evidence tying Mark Dooher to any other murders or rapes or anything else.
But now there was Christina. She was a fact, as was her connection to Mark. And worse, because of her the seed of Wes's own doubt had germinated. He closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind. A beautiful woman, no question about it. He himself was not immune to the power of beauty – what man was? But that did not mean his friend had killed to have her.
Farrell kept trying to tell himself that Mark's lifelong luck had delivered Christina to him at the moment he needed her most, after his wife was gone, for whatever comfort and hope she could give him.
But suddenly, after last night, this was a hard sell.
'Christina, this is Sam. Please don't hang up.'
'I won't.'
'I argued with myself all day about calling you.'
'I kissed him good night, Sam. That's all there was to it. This whole media frenzy is insane.'
'But you know you're… with him.'
'I represent him. I'm his lawyer.'
'That's not what I mean. I know. I knew back… when we were still friends.'
'I'm sorry, I have no comment.'
'Okay, that's all right. I don't need a comment. But I just had to try to tell you – because we were friends, because you do know so much about the psychology of rape – that you and Wes are both wrong about Mark Dooher. I can prove-'
'Sam, stop! You'll get a chance to prove everything you want to at the trial.'
'That won't prove what I'm talking about. I'm telling you – sit and talk to her, you'll be convinced. She's telling the truth, she's-'
'I'm going to hang up now, Sam. Mark didn't do that. He couldn't have done that.'
'Why are you so blind? Why won't you even consider it?'
'Goodbye, Sam.'
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Farrell was running on pure adrenaline. He'd slept less than five hours, but this was precisely the moment that all the nights of insomnia had been in service of.
He reminded himself that the trial was simpler than life – all he had to do here was refute the prosecution's arguments, and Mark Dooher was going to walk. He could do that in his sleep.
In California, the defense has the option of delivering its opening statement directly following the prosecution's, where it has the general effect of a rebuttal; or it can choose to wait and use its opening statement to introduce its own version of events, its case in chief. Farrell chose the former.
He didn't believe he was going to get surprised by any prosecution witness. He knew the direction he was going to take – deny, deny, deny. And he wanted to prime the jury, at the outset, that there was reason to question every single point Jenkins had raised.
He'd thought it out in detail. He would begin casually, standing beside Dooher at the defense table. He would not consult any notes – his defense was from his heart. He wouldn't use a prepared speech. His body language would scream that the truth was so obvious, and he believed it so passionately, that it spoke for itself. By contrast, Jenkins had stood delivering the rest of her opening statement for the better part of the morning, consulting her legal pad over and over, laboriously spelling out her case in chief.
Farrell sipped from his water glass and stood up.
'You've all heard Ms Jenkins's opening statement. She's given you a version of the events of June 7th that she says she's going to prove beyond a reasonable doubt. There is no way she can do that because those actions of Mr Dooher that she got right did not happen for the reasons she contends, and the rest of them she simply got wrong.
'I'm going to strip this story of Ms Jenkins's sinister interpretation, and give you the facts. On that Tuesday, Mark Dooher purchased champagne and brought it home because he was a loving husband. He made a phone call from his office to his home on the afternoon of June 7th, and asked his wife if she would like him to come home early. He made a date with her, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. After nearly thirty years of marriage, Mark and Sheila Dooher were having a romantic interlude. A date.
'Before he got home, his wife took a dose of Benadryl because she suffered from allergies. She helped herself to a glass or two of champagne. Sheila Dooher was forty-seven years old and she was neither senile nor dim-witted. She could make her own decisions, and did, on matters of what she ate and drank. She had been taking the menopause drug, Nardil, for over a year. Many times, in front of many witnesses, she drank alcohol within this timeframe. Several witnesses will testify that Sheila Dooher was skeptical of her doctor's recommendations to avoid certain foods and alcohol. Tragically, it looks like Mrs Dooher was equally careless about mixing drugs.'
Farrell sipped again from his water glass, slowing himself down. Jenkins hadn't objected once; all eyes were glued to him. He was rolling.
'What happened next? The Doohers had a late lunch. Nothing more sinister than that. Sheila Dooher went up to her bedroom to take a nap. She was tired, and she took a sedative, her husband's chloral-hydrate.
'Ms Jenkins has told you that Mark Dooher gave her the chloral-hydrate. Rubbish, absolute rubbish. There is not one witness, not one shred of evidence that even suggests that this is the case. Ms Jenkins says it is so because she needs it to be so to convict Mark Dooher. She cannot prove it because it never happened.'
Jenkins now did get up, objecting that Farrell was being argumentative.
Farrell supposed he was, but knew Jenkins had made the objection, as much as anything, to throw off his rhythm. It wasn't going to work. She was sustained by Thomasino and Farrell moved out from the desk now and went on, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth so the jury could see what a good guy he was – magnanimous at this silly interruption.
It also gave him his third opportunity to repeat the sequence that had led to Sheila's death.
After which: 'And what were Mr Dooher's actions after his wife had gone upstairs? Well, he did not set the burglar alarm in his house. A prosecution witness, Mr Dooher's next-door neighbor Frances Matsun, will tell you he then reached up and appeared to be doing something with the light bulb over the side door. Mr Dooher does not remember this. Perhaps there was a cobweb on it – he doesn't know.'
'Next he drove to the San Francisco Golf Club. Now you'll remember that Ms Jenkins made rather a big issue of the fact that Mr Dooher belongs to the Olympic Club and on this night chose not to go to his own club's driving range, but rather to a public range. It is going to be for you to decide how big an issue this was. But I will tell you that Mr Dooher is a personable man…'