Guilt

Certainly, the newspapers and television had reached their verdict. This morning, driving to work, Glitsky had heard his name on the radio while he'd been channel-surfing, and had forced himself to listen to his friendly local conservative radio talk jock who opined that the decision to bring Mark Dooher to trial at all on such shoddy evidence was an example of affirmative action's failure in the halls of the city. Glitsky, a black, and Jenkins, a woman, had been promoted beyond their levels of competency, and let's hear from you callers out there who think we ought to put an end to this nonsense and get back to hiring and promoting on merit alone.

The current had shifted.

Nevertheless, the morning began with a set-back for the defense. As soon as Jenkins had finished her case-in-chief, Wes Farrell had filed a motion for directed verdict of acquittal, which asked the Judge to find that no reasonable juror could convict on the evidence presented by the prosecution.

This motion was routinely filed by the defense when the prosecution rested, and was almost never granted. If the Judge did rule favorably on this motion, he would dismiss the case, and Mark Dooher would be free. Thomasino opened by denying the motion, and Jenkins whispered to Glitsky, 'The blood.' He nodded, non-committal.

Farrell, having elected to give an opening statement in rebuttal to Jenkins's at the outset of the trial, stood and told Thomasino that the defense was ready to present its case and would like to start by calling the defendant, Mark Dooher.

This was a calculated gamble, but it showed the level of Farrell's confidence. The defendant had the absolute right not to testify, but a sympathetic demeanor and good story could go a long way toward humanizing a defendant, and this was to the good.

Also, after Dooher's outburst on the first day, he'd worn a mask, careful to show no emotion. Quietly paying attention to every word and nuance, he would occasionally confer with his two attorneys when some point struck him. He was interested and unbowed, though not yet a person to the jurors.

Dooher leaned over to Christina and whispered, 'Wish me luck,' then placed a fraternal hand on Farrell's shoulder, gave it a squeeze, and walked around his attorney. He approached the witness box in long strides. To all appearances, he was confident, even eager – finally – to tell his story.

Farrell came forward to the center of the courtroom and walked him through the familiar territory of the early afternoon, the hors d'oeuvre, the champagne, and so on.

'And after Sheila said she was going upstairs for a nap, what did you do then?'

Dooher looked toward the jury for a minute. He didn't want to include them too often – it would appear insincere, as though he was playing for them. But he knew it wouldn't hurt – for it was only natural to acknowledge their presence. 'I moped around the house for a while, then I decided to go to the driving range. So I went out to my car…'

'Just a minute, Mark. You went out to your car. But before that, at the back door, do you remember what you did?'

'I don't remember anything specific, no.'

'And yet we've heard Mrs Matsun testify that you stopped and did something with the electric light above the door. Do you remember doing that?'

'No. There may have been cobwebs up in the light. Sometimes they gather there. I might have cleared them away, but I don't specifically remember doing anything.' A quick look towards the jury, explaining, 'I may have.'

This, of course, had been rehearsed. Dooher wasn't denying anything that Frances Matsun had testified to. He was being reasonable, telling his own truth without attacking hers. It played, as they knew it would, very well.

'Mark, your house has an alarm system, doesn't it?'

A wry shake of the head. 'Yes, it does.'

'Did you turn it on when you left the house on this day?'

These carefully prepared questions would defuse Jenkins's contentions before she could even make them. 'No. I just walked out of the house.'

'Didn't you lock the door behind you, either?'

'No.'

'Was this unusual? Why didn't you do either of these things?'

Dooher sat back a minute, phrasing his response. 'I guess the real reason is that neither of them even occurred to me.'

'Why not?'

'Well, first, it was light out. I wasn't thinking about somebody breaking in. We'd never been broken into before.'

'But you didn't lock the door?'

'I go out to work every morning and don't lock the door behind me. It wasn't like I was leaving an empty house. Sheila was there. It never occurred to me she couldn't take care of herself. We live in a safe neighborhood, or I thought we did. When I do check the locks, it's usually before turning in at night, you know, like people do.'

'What about the house alarm?'

'Sheila doesn't – didn't – like the alarm.'

'Why not?'

'Because when we first got it installed, three or four times she opened a door to walk outside to take out the garbage or whatever, and it went off, and she had some trouble overriding the turn-off switch or something – anyway, it was a hassle for her. We didn't tend to use it unless we went on vacation, or away for the weekend, something like that. I wasn't about to turn it on when she was just taking a nap upstairs. If she woke up and went out for some reason and it went off, she'd have killed me.'

Then to the driving range, where Dooher bought two buckets of balls. Yes, he remembered specifically which mat he'd hit from. He wore his most self-deprecating expression. 'I'm afraid that before all this' – an inclusive gesture indicating the world they were in – 'I used to be vain about my… about how I looked. I didn't like to appear to flounder. And this included my golf game. I didn't want people – anybody – to see me when I was working on my swing, maybe over-correcting to find out what I was doing wrong.'

'Your honor.' Jenkins was showing her impatience. 'This is all very fascinating, but it doesn't answer the question of what mat he hit his golf balls from.'

Thomasino leaned over the bench. 'Just answer the question, Mr Dooher.'

'It was the last mat, at the very end, to the left as you go out the door of the clubhouse.'

Farrell kept up the rhythm. 'And you stayed, hitting golf balls off that mat, until when?'

'I think around nine-thirty, twenty to ten.'

'Did you leave the mat at any time?'

'I went to the bathroom after the first bucket, bought a Coke in the office. Then went back out and finished hitting.'

'All right.' Farrell led them all, again, through the gruesome discovery, the emergency call, waiting for the police. It all came out, compelling and believable as he told it.

Now Farrell shifted gears. 'Mark, Lieutenant Glitsky has testified that I was present at your house when he interrogated you on the night of the murder. Why was I there?'

'I called you and you came.'

'Did I come as your lawyer, because you wanted to protect yourself from police questions? Because you knew you'd be suspected of murdering your wife?'

'No. None of that. I called you as a friend.'

'Why did you call me, who happens to be your lawyer, out of all of your friends?'

'I have known you for thirty-five years. You are my best friend. That's why I called you.'

Farrell glanced at the jury, then back to his client. 'On another topic, during your last visit to Dr Peter Harris's office, did you remove a vial of blood and take it with you?'

Dooher, still obviously amazed at the ridiculousness of the question, shook his head, looked directly at the jury for the last time. 'No. No, I did not.'