She was out of the chair, raising her hand to attract the judge’s attention. “Objection, your honor,” she said without raising her voice beyond what was necessary to make herself heard. She was smart. It was too early in the game to show anger.
His hands clasped together under his chin, Bingham smiled politely. “Yes?”
“Instead of providing a preview of what he expects the evidence to show, Mr. Antonelli is attempting to characterize the credibility of the defendant.”
He turned to me, the same civil smile on his face.
“I believe, your honor, that the jury is entitled to know the circumstances under which a witness is going to testify. For example, when an expert witness testifies, the qualifications of that expert-”
“Are elicited during the examination of the witness,” Loescher interjected. “But he isn’t talking about the qualifications of an expert in any event, your honor. He’s attempting to bolster the credibility of a witness by invoking a jury instruction which, it seems obvious, has no application to this case.”
That was exactly what I was trying to do, and we both knew it was too late to stop it. What she was trying to do instead was to let the jury know that I was not playing by the rules, and to let the judge know that even during an opening statement she was going to insist that the rules be enforced. She was no one’s fool, and she would have been astonished had she known how grateful I was that she was not.
Bingham had heard enough. “Perhaps discussion of jury instructions should be left to closing argument,” he said in that civil way of his that made every decision sound like a helpful suggestion.
I had not moved from the place where I had been standing when Loescher made her objection. Now I stepped forward, moving closer to the jury, and picked up where I had left off.
“The defendant in this case is going to testify, and he’s going to tell you what he knows; though about all he knows is that he did not kill Quincy Griswald and that he has never harmed anyone in his life. He was living under the bridge-a bridge some of you may drive over every day to work-one of the homeless who wander around the city, picking up trash, things that other people throw away, things they can wear, things they can use, things they can trade for a little money or a little food. He was living under the bridge, homeless and alone, and someone gave him a knife-the knife that killed Quincy Griswald-and he took the knife and he kept it, and when the police came he told them it was his and he told them how he got it.” I shrugged my shoulders. “They didn’t believe him. Why should they? He was right where an anonymous caller had told them they would find the killer; he had the knife; and-let’s be perfectly straight about this-they thought he was crazy.”
I paused and, with both hands on the railing, leaned forward and searched the eyes of the jurors.
“When you hear him testify, you’re going to think the same thing. He talks funny. His speech isn’t always clear. Some of the words seem to take forever. He rolls his eyes and his mouth sometimes sags at the corner. I have even seen him drool a little.”
I spun away and looked across at where he sat, watching me, his head tilted back, his mouth hanging half open, an eager, trusting expression in his pale eyes.
“But kill somebody?” I asked, turning back to the jury. “No, that’s the last thing you’re going to think him capable of. Not after you hear the things he was put through; not after you hear the scandalous, heart-wrenching tale of physical torture and sexual abuse to which he was subjected from the time he was an infant, an unwanted child no one, not even his mother, cared anything about or did anything to protect. No one ever did anything for him: They did not send him to school; they did not even give him an identity. There is no record of his birth; there is no record of him at all. He does not exist. He does not have a name.”
I glanced at him over my shoulder and then looked back. “John Smith? That’s the name he was given by the police when they arrested him and charged him with murder and discovered there was no record of his fingerprints. His real name is Danny. If he ever had a last name, Danny doesn’t remember it, and because there was never any record made of it, he’ll never know it. For all intents and purposes, Danny was born an orphan. It might have been better if he had never been born at all. No,” I said, changing my mind, “it would have been better if the people who did these things to him had never been born.”
Clinically and without emotion, I described a few of the things that had been done: the way he had been chained to his bed, the way his body had been covered with welts and burned with cigarettes.
“The prosecution will insist that these terrible things turned him into an animal without a conscience, someone who could kill without a reason. You can judge for yourself when you listen to him testify whether he is the vicious killer they claim, or one of the most harmless human beings you have ever seen.”
Shoving my hands into my pants pockets, I began to pace back and forth in front of the jury box. Then, frowning, I stopped and looked up.
“They charged him with one murder. It doesn’t make sense.
They should have charged him with two.”
The silence was complete; there was not a sound in the courtroom. It was as if everyone was holding his breath, waiting to hear what came next.
“The defendant is charged with the murder of Quincy Griswald, but whoever killed Quincy Griswald killed once before. There were two murders, not one; two circuit court judges have been killed, not one. In nearly a hundred fifty years, no one has ever murdered a sitting judge, and now, in the space of just a few months, we have had two judges killed, and killed in exactly the same way. Calvin Jeffries, the presiding circuit court judge, was stabbed to death in the structure behind the courthouse where he parked his car. Quincy Griswald, who became the presiding circuit court judge when Jeffries died, was stabbed to death in the very same place. The defendant has been charged with the one, but not the other. Why? Because they know he did not have anything to do with the murder of Calvin Jeffries. But let me repeat again: Whoever is responsible for the death of Calvin Jeffries is responsible for the death of Quincy Griswald. John Smith-
Danny-did not kill Calvin Jeffries, and he did not kill Quincy Griswald.”
I moved to the end of the jury box, next to the witness stand, and looked out over the packed courtroom, every eye on me, every face a study in concentration. In the very back, in the last row, Jennifer was watching, serious, intent, following every word.
“You remember the murder of Calvin Jeffries,” I said, looking back at the jury. “It was all we read about, all we talked about.
Everybody from the governor on down seemed to get involved in that case. Whatever the police did, it was never enough. We demanded results; we demanded an arrest; we demanded that the killer be brought to justice.”
I stood still and stared across the counsel table to where Cassandra Loescher was taking notes. When I stopped talking, she raised her head, catching my gaze in her own.