I dragged myself to the gym to work out the kinks and make sure I’d be tired enough to get into bed by ten o’clock. Then I ordered a light dinner-seared ahi tuna and a green salad-and polished off what was left of a bottle of pinot grigio. I’d just gotten into bed when Graden called to wish me luck.
“Thanks, I’ll need plenty of it,” I said.
“That bad?”
“I can’t remember when I’ve felt worse about my chances this early in the game.”
Graden tried to cheer me up by reminding me that anything can happen in trial-and even played back one of my own stories to make the point. “Remember? Your eyewitness fell apart on cross and the defense had a great alibi witness-solid citizen with no priors-who swore the defendant was working with him all day on the day of the murder. Even brought in the time card to prove it-”
“Except the time card showed it was the day after the murder.” It was one of those great courtroom moments. The memory still made me smile. “I’m not going to get that kind of lucky this time, Gray. Not with Terry Fisk on the case.”
We said good night and I took a health magazine-a free sample-to bed. Nothing like reading about gluten-free, fat-free, sugar-free to bore myself to sleep. In less than five minutes, the magazine slipped out of my hands and onto the floor.
The next morning, feeling rested if no less anxious, I pulled on my robe and stepped onto the balcony. I could already feel the heat building. At just seven a.m. My stomach was clenched too tightly for food, so I decided not to force the issue. I was out the door by seven forty-five and in my office by eight fifteen, a snack bar bagel and cream cheese and large coffee in hand.
“You really ought to let me do that,” Declan said, nodding at my purchases, as he sat down in front of my desk.
“You’re a lawyer, not a gofer.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive.”
“Especially at the big corporate firms.” I looked at Declan with curiosity. “I’ve seen your résumé. Law Review, moot court finalist, dean’s list. You could’ve had your pick of white shoe law firms. How’d you wind up here?”
“I interned here when I was in law school and I loved it. After that, I never wanted to be anywhere else.”
Maybe that was the problem he had with his father: daddy had more high-profile commercial prospects in mind for his son than the low-paid position of a county prosecutor. I was curious, because the more I got to know Declan, the less I could understand his father being anything but enormously proud to have such a great guy for a son. But being rabid about my own privacy, I couldn’t bring myself to encroach on his.
“You’ve got the DVD for opening?” I asked.
“Right here.” He patted his briefcase.
I looked at the clock on the Times Building. It was eight thirty-five. “May as well get down there and set up.” Judge Osterman had issued an e-mail to all parties reminding us that tardiness would not be tolerated and sanctions would be imposed for any party not ready to proceed at precisely nine a.m.
Now that jurors would be coming to court, reporters were on orders to take their assigned seats in the courtroom. No loitering or interviewing in the hallways allowed. The judge had reserved two rows of benches for the public, who had to show up and take numbers. As Declan and I headed out of the office, Melia said they’d begun queuing up at five thirty that morning. When we got off the elevator, I saw Jimmy, the bailiff, taking the numbers from the line of lucky winners as he admitted them into the courtroom one by one.
At five minutes to nine the courtroom was packed, not even one square inch of space visible on the benches in the gallery. A loud buzz filled the air as reporters chatted and waved to each other. Raynie was waiting out in the hallway with the rest of the family and friends, at my suggestion. There was no reason for them to suffer through the grisly details of my opening statement. But Russell defiantly sat proud and tall on the “groom’s” side with all the rest of the Ian Powers supporters. I hadn’t spoken to Russell since the day he’d thrown me off the lot. I’d hoped he’d come around by the time trial started. I put the depressing thought out of my mind and looked through my notes while Declan finished setting up the monitors that would display our photographs to the jury.
Judge Osterman took the bench at nine o’clock on the dot and Jimmy faced the gallery. In a strong, stern voice he announced, “Come to order. Department One Fourteen is now in session. Judge Osterman presiding.”
The buzz stopped abruptly and a silent tension spread through the courtroom. Judge Osterman looked down at us. “Both sides ready? Anything we need to take up before we begin?”
We all agreed we were ready to go. “Then let’s have the jury.”
The twelve chosen jurors and five alternates filed in. My librarian darted a quick glance at the packed gallery, then cast her eyes down nervously as she found her seat. But the black single mom seemed unfazed. She took her time moving through the jury box and relaxed into her chair, then surveyed the courtroom with an amused expression. The young man with the ailing mother moved to his seat quickly, picked up his notebook, and stared straight ahead. Some of the jurors briefly looked my way, but none of them made eye contact. The judge commended them on their promptness, made sure they had no problems or issues to address, and told them now was the time for opening statements. He reread the introductory instructions he’d given at the start of voir dire, “just to refresh your memory,” then reminded them that opening statements weren’t evidence but only “a brief preview of what each lawyer believes the evidence will show.” Then he looked down at me. “Are the People ready to proceed with an opening statement?”
I took a deep cleansing breath that nearly choked in my throat and stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“You may proceed.”
I turned to face the jury.
Let the games begin.
65
I kept my opening simple, taking the jury through the events in chronological order, step by step, as Declan played the DVD of photos that illustrated my points. I started with the fight between Brian’s father, Tommy, and Russell over the theft of the screenplay, and noted that four of them looked skeptical. I moved through the kidnapping plot and into the finding of the bodies, deliberately speaking in calm, measured tones-a counterpoint to the graphic pictures they were seeing for the first time. Brian’s pale face above a bloody gash of a neck, his throat sliced nearly to the vertebrae, lying supine in his shallow grave on Boney Mountain. Hayley, the visible side of her face partially covered by bloody, disheveled hair, her left eye, half open and staring, her body curled in a fetal position in the trunk of Brian’s car.
Knowing the images I’d be using for my opening statement would be horrific, I’d warned the friends and family not to be in court during my opening-all except Russell. He wouldn’t take my call. So while Raynie and all of Hayley’s friends were absent-Janice hadn’t flown out yet and I wasn’t sure if she ever would-Russell was, as always, front and center on the defense side of the courtroom. A part of me was glad. Maybe the shock value of the photographs would bring him around. They certainly got the jury’s attention.
As the images of Brian and Hayley cycled through on the monitor, the jury’s eyes widened. The librarian had to look away, but the black single mom’s face hardened, the perfect reaction that showed she was ready to hammer the person who’d done this. I knew the defense let her stay because the group-think was that a minority was more likely to buy into a conspiracy theory. The truth was, she was the best juror I had. At least for these few moments, the jurors were forced to remember that this case was about the slaughter of two innocent young people.