“What proof did the prosecutor offer that Leigh Wallace killed her husband? A magician couldn’t distort reality any better,” I say, and turn back to the jury.
“The prosecutor practically tells you that Leigh has been the victim in all of this and then, in the time-honored fashion, where there is no evidence to support it, she blames the victim!”
I back away from the rail to give the jury some time to digest what I have said, and lower my voice. The hoarseness is gone, and I almost believe what I am saying
“Who killed Art Wallace? Unlike the prosecutor, I don’t pretend to know beyond a reasonable doubt. It very well could have been an out-of-town hired gun.
Professional killers know how to slide back locks on doors; they know a well-placed twenty-two-caliber bullet makes someone just as dead as the bullet from a deer rifle. On the other hand, the murderer could have been anybody in Blackwell County. For all we know, it could have been Hector Tyndall. He lived only a few doors down and has admitted he was at home all morning. He knew the agony that Shane Norman was going through as a result of his son-in-law’s actions. And if you want to suspect someone who felt the emotion of anger toward the victim, you might as well add Shane Norman to the list of possibilities. He could have easily gone to his daughter’s house and invited himself in on the pretext of talking things out with his son-in-law and then shot him to death.”
I stop speaking and walk back to the podium.
“Do you see how easy it is?” I thunder, leaning against the lectern as if I were a world-weary veteran with a hundred murder trials under my belt.
“If the system wants to, it can make anybody appear guilty! Opportunity does not make someone a murderer! Motive does not make someone a murderer! Nor do the two together make a murderer in our system of justice, because, as we see, there is no end to the number of theoretical suspects in this case. As Hector Tyndall told you, it was common knowledge within Christian Life what was happening to Leigh. And if you ask every one of those people where they were the morning Art Wallace was murdered, and assuming they could remember, I’d bet my house that some of them would not tell the truth the first time they were asked….”
As I sit down, Dan whispers, “Chet would have been proud.” I wonder what he would have said. What he had that I lack is credibility. I have no idea whether the jury believed a word coming out of my mouth.
Jill gets to her feet and smirks at me as if I were the worst con artist in the world.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, turning to the jury, “Mr. Page wants you to suspend your common sense. He wants you to forget the facts of this case and pretend you are looking for a needle in a haystack. That is absurd and your common sense tells you it is. Where did the police tell us they discovered the victim’s body? On the floor in his office beside his computer, which was still on when the police came. Art Wallace didn’t bring his killer into his house and go back and sit down and start working again.
You’ve heard investigators tell you how they went over every inch of the house and there is no evidence his body was dragged or moved after the victim was shot….”
The last word. How I wish I had it, but even Chet told me that he had never finished a trial where he hadn’t wished to say something more after the prosecutor sat down. The fact that the computer was on when he was shot proves nothing. But people know that from their own experience. If his killer was somebody he knew, he could easily have brought that person back to his office and sat down at his desk to talk. Trials have to end somewhere though, and all the wishing in the world isn’t going to make anything different.
Leigh sighs heavily as the jury files out.
“What do you think?” she asks as the door shuts on the last one.
I slump in my seat, exhausted. It is six o’clock. Food will be brought in while they deliberate. Chet wouldn’t have made it. Maybe he knew he couldn’t have lasted long enough and simply couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to see the trial through.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I glance at Dan, who is quietly gathering up the papers on the table in front of him. A bad sign.
Dan volunteers to go out for hamburgers and takes Sarah with him, leaving me to visit with Rainey as the crowd dwindles rapidly. If the jury doesn’t come back with a verdict by nine o’clock, they will be sequestered over the weekend. Rainey and I sit at the defense table and watch Leigh and her mother and father talk in the back of the courtroom. I’d like to be a fly on the wall during this conversation. Pearl looks better but not by much. Rainey smooths down her flowered spring dress and says, “If they convict her, I don’t think it will be first-degree murder.”
I rub my head, which has begun to ache. If Rainey is thinking conviction, we are in trouble.
“Good,” I say weakly, wishing for a moment that Chet had been well and had tried this case. But that feeling passes quickly.
I wanted to try this case in the worst way.
“They didn’t have any real evidence.”
Rainey smiles, but it is not reassuring. Get real, I think. Men and women commit acts of violence against each other every day. Why should Leigh and Art be any different? The jury, composed of faithful believers like herself, may well decide, as Rainey undoubtedly already has, that once the bonds of her church were loosened, there were no restraints on her behavior. I kick myself again for not questioning the strategy of seeking a jury of Bible thumpers, but then Chet’s logic hits me as I stare into Rainey’s face. He was convinced that Leigh was guilty. Maybe he knew she was. In choosing a jury, he was thinking about the length of her sentence, not the question of her guilt or innocence.
“You must be exhausted,” Rainey says, smiling sympathetically.
“I’m a little tired,” I admit.
“When I signed on for this case, I didn’t know what I was getting into.”
“Poor Gideon,” Rainey says, patting my shoulder and in the process touching me for the first time in over a month. When was the last time we even kissed? I can’t remember. It is hard to believe we used to neck like teenagers on her couch. What will become of us? I have no idea. Maybe it is true that friendship is better than love, but I’d rather have both.
Dan and Sarah come back with food from McDonald’s, reminding me of the night we waited for the verdict in the Andy Chapman case. No acquittal in that case either. Dan wanders off to visit with a friend from the sheriff’s office, leaving me alone with Sarah and Rainey. My stomach is too nervous for me to eat, and I sip at the chocolate milkshake Sarah has handed me.
Standing in the doorway of the courtroom, Sarah stares at her minister, who is still seated at the back of the courtroom with his wife and daughter.
“After all this, do you really think Pastor Norman could have killed Leigh’s husband?” she asks.
“Or were you just using him as an example of the fact that just about anyone could have done it?”
I look around to see who else might be listening and say under my breath, “I’m afraid he might have.
Though I can’t prove it, I suspect there was a lot more to this case than ever came out in the trial.”
Sarah whimpers, “He couldn’t have ever done that.”