I also knew that the time was ripe for this. I was pretty sure that a lot of people were angry and upset about what they considered courtroom injustices in the recent past: the Simpson trial, the Diallo verdict in New York City, the botched Jon-Benet Ramsey case, and others in their own cities and towns.
"A year ago yesterday," I continued, "my brother died at a party held at a Hamptons beach house. He'd been hired to park cars. The next day his body washed up on the beach below the property. The inquest held at the end of that summer concluded that my brother, who was twenty-one, died accidentally. He didn't. He was beaten to death. In the next few hours I will prove not only that he was murdered, but why and by whom.
"Sitting at the end of the table to my left is the man who owns the house and hosted the party. His name is Barry Neubauer. He's the CEO of Mayflower Enterprises. You've probably watched his cable channels or visited his web sites or taken your children to one of his theme parks. Maybe you've read about his bigger-than-life exploits in a business magazine or seen a picture of him taken at a celebrity charity gala. But that doesn't mean that you know the real Barry Neubauer.
"You will, though. Far better than you want to, because Barry Neubauer is about to stand trial for the murder of my brother."
"Jack Mullen is going to prosecute me?" shouted Neubauer. "Like hell! Turn that fucking camera off! Turn it off now!"
His outburst was followed by so many others that Macklin had to crack his black walnut gavel for quiet.
"This trial will begin in a few minutes," I finally said to the camera. "We're broadcasting live on Channel Seventy. This short break will give you a chance to call your friends."
Chapter 86
MOLLY TURNED OFF THE CAMERA, and I motioned to Fenton and Hank. We walked over to Neubauer. He held up his handcuffed wrists. "Take them off!"
I ignored the demand as if it had come from a spoiled child.
"It doesn't make any difference to me whether you all participate in the trial or not," I told Barry flat out. "It changes nothing."
He huffed like a self-important CEO. "We're not going to cooperate. So what will that look like on TV? You'll look like a complete fuckup, Mullen, which is what you are."
I shook my head at Neubauer, then took a manila envelope out of my briefcase.
I showed him what was inside, and I showed only Barry.
"This is what it will look like, Barry. And this. And all of these," I said.
"You wouldn't dare," he snarled at me.
"Oh, yeah, I would. As I said, it's your choice. You can offer your side of things. If you don't, that's fine, too. We're going back on the air."
Molly started filming again, and I repeated my introductory remarks. This time a little more calmly and cogently.
"Before this trial is over," I continued, "you'll understand that Barry Neubauer is a killer and that everyone sitting in these chairs contributed to either the crime or its cover-up. Once you've seen what they've done, you won't have an ounce of pity for them. Believe me, you won't.
"The People will show that Barry Neubauer killed my brother himself or hired someone else to do his bloody grunt work. We will also show that along with the means and opportunity to kill Peter, he had one hell of a motive. When you hear the motive, you'll understand everything.
"I fully recognize these aren't ideal circumstances to determine a man's innocence or guilt," I said.
"Oh, really," said Bill Montrose. "That's the first intelligent thing you've said so far, Mullen."
I ignored Montrose. I knew the crucial thing at that point was to keep plowing ahead and not allow myself to be sidetracked. My mouth had become too dry to continue. I stopped and picked up my water glass. My hand trembled so badly, I almost dropped it.
My voice was steady, though.
"If you bear with me, I believe you'll see that this trial is at least as fair as any you might have followed lately. Fairness is all we're looking for here.
"For one thing, Mr. Neubauer will have the benefit of counsel. And not an overworked, underpaid green defender like those assigned to the many indigent defendants who end up on death row. He's the eminent Bill Montrose, senior partner and management committee chairman at a large New York law firm. And since Mr. Montrose is Mr. Neubauer's longtime personal attorney and recently represented him with such success at the inquest, he's extremely well versed in all the particulars. When you consider that Mr. Montrose's adversary will be me, a twenty-nine-year-old barely out of law school, it is, if anything, a mismatch in the defendant's favor.
"Acting as judge in this courtroom will be my grandfather, Macklin Reid Mullen," I said, setting off another round of outrage from Montrose. "The stenographer is Mary Stevenson, a court reporter in New York City municipal courts for thirty-seven years.
"Once again, I realize this is more than a little unusual. All I can say is, watch the trial. Give us a chance. Then make your own judgments. My grandfather came to this country from County Clare, Ireland. He has spent the past twenty-five years working as a paralegal, and he cares more about the law and justice than anyone I've ever come across, including my law professors.
"In any criminal trial, the judge is there not to determine guilt or innocence, but to rule on differences between the lawyers regarding evidence or procedure and to keep the process intact. In this case," I said, staring intently into the camera, "you will be the jury. Macklin is not here to issue a verdict, just to administer the proceedings. And he'll do a great job. That's all I have to say right now. Mr. Montrose will speak next,"
Chapter 87
BILL MONTROSE WAS THE ONLY ONE of our guests not wearing handcuffs. He sat there, lost in thought. Then, like any good poker player, he turned to read my face.
I did everything I could to seem oblivious to the crucial importance of the next few seconds. If he was genuinely concerned about the welfare of his client, his course would be clear. But like many highly successful yet relatively anonymous attorneys, Montrose had reached a point in his life where he yearned for some fame and glory to stack beside his cash and real estate. I knew that much about him from my time at Nelson, Goodwin and Mickel. According to colleagues, he'd proclaimed himself a far better trial lawyer than Johnnie Cochran or Robert Shapiro. Bill Montrose had the largest ego of anyone I had ever met. I was counting on it.
I sucked in a breath as Montrose stood. He faced Molly's East Hampton Channel 70 camera. This was his big moment, too. He wasn't about to sit it out.
"Please don't misunderstand or misinterpret," he began. "Just because I'm standing in front of you for the moment doesn't mean that this proceeding has a shred of legitimacy. It doesn't.
"Make no mistake," he continued after a dramatic pause. "This is not a trial. This is not a courtroom. The elderly man behind me, no matter how spry and avuncular, is not a judge. This is a kangaroo court.
"You should know that justice has already been served in this case. Last summer an inquest was convened to look into the drowning of Peter Mullen. In a real courtroom presided over by a real judge – the Honorable Robert P. Lillian – my client was found to be blameless.
"During that inquest the court heard a witness who saw the deceased dive into a dangerous ocean at high tide, late at night.
"Not one but two medical examiners presented evidence to support their conviction that there had been no foul play. After weighing the testimony, Judge Lillian, in a decision available to anyone who wants to take the time to read it, concluded that Peter Mullen's death, however sad, was no one's fault but his own.