Loescher looked at me, a blank expression on her face, then looked up at the bench.
“An ‘act of violence’ suggests a single, perhaps unique, event;
‘capable of violence’ suggests a disposition. Dr. Fox said ‘acts of violence,’ your honor. Perhaps Ms. Loescher would like the court reporter to read it back to her,” I said, parrying her false smile with one of my own.
She had made her point, and I had made mine; she moved immediately to something else. “You never saw John Smith-the defendant-until some time after he was brought into custody, correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“When you first saw him, he was clean-shaven, with short hair like he has now, wearing clean clothing, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Are you aware of what he looked like when he was first brought in? Are you aware that he had long greasy hair, a long, filthy beard, with rags for clothing and cardboard stuffed into his shoes because the soles were falling off?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Is it also your understanding that his body was covered with vermin, that there was lice in his hair, as well as other places; that he was so infested, so filthy, that his clothes had to be cut off and he had to be deloused-fumigated? Isn’t it true, Dr. Fox, that the defendant-who sits here today in a navy blue suit and tie, looking like a young professional-was living like an animal?”
Fox nodded sadly. “That’s my understanding, yes.”
“Like an animal,” she repeated, casting a sidelong glance toward the jury as she returned to her place at the counsel table.
It was one of the most effective cross-examinations I had ever seen, and it changed everything. I had planned to call the defendant as the next witness for the defense. It was all supposed to be very straightforward. The psychologist would provide a sketch of what Danny’s life had been like, and then, with Danny on the stand, the jurors could see for themselves how timid and harmless he really was and how eager to please. But Loescher had used the words of my own witness to show that precisely that vulnerability, that eagerness to please, could have led him to kill in exactly the way I had suggested. She had done to me what I had tried to do to her: taken the strength of my case and turned it into what now seemed a weakness. She was good-far better than I had imagined-and I was in trouble, serious trouble. The only thing I was sure of was that I could not afford to let her subject Danny to that kind of withering cross-examination. If I called him at all, it would be at the very end, the last witness for the defense, and only then if I had no other choice.
“Your honor,” I said, rising from my chair as I weighed all this in my mind, “the defense calls Asa Bartram.”
Wearing an expensively tailored double-breasted gray pin-stripe suit, Jonah Micronitis stepped inside the courtroom, took a careful look around, and then went back outside. A moment later, the doors opened again and with Micronitis right behind him, Asa Bartram started up the aisle. Micronitis caught my eye, nodded, and pushed his way into a seat in the first row. He turned around and faced the back, his small head moving from side to side, keeping a watch on everyone, ready for the first sign of trouble.
“Mr. Bartram,” I began, “you’ve been a lawyer for how many years?”
He cocked his head and tugged on a shank of his snow white hair. A good-natured smile creased his craggy face and his pale blue eyes twinkled. “More years than I want to remember.”
“More than forty?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of law have you practiced during that time: civil or criminal?”
“Mainly civil.”
“When you say civil, do you mean civil litigation, personal injury cases, that sort of thing?” I asked as I stood behind the counsel table.
“No, not really. I did some of that early on, but my practice is more of what you might call business law: real estate, com-mercial transactions.”
“And when you said ‘mainly civil’ did you mean to imply that you also did some criminal work?”
“Only at the very beginning. When you’re just starting out,”
he said with a nostalgic smile, “you pretty much do everything.”
I edged my way toward the front of the table. “When is the last time you took a case-civil or criminal-to trial?”
“As I say, my practice is largely a business-”
“The last time?” I insisted.
He really did not know. “Thirty years or so, I guess.”
“When was the last time you handled a criminal case-not whether you took it to trial, Mr. Bartram-the last time you represented someone charged with a crime?”
He shrugged. “I suppose about the same: thirty years or so.”
I took a step toward him. “But didn’t you represent Elliott Winston twelve years ago on a charge of attempted murder?”
He planted both feet on the floor, wrapped each of his large, heavily veined hands around the ends of the arms of the chair, and wagged his head. “No, that’s not exactly right. I only agreed to represent him for the purpose of a hearing. I never agreed to be his lawyer.”
I took another step closer. “I don’t think I understand. You represented him at a hearing, but you did not agree to be his lawyer?”
Bending forward, he laced his fingers together and pressed his thumbs. “There wasn’t going to be anything else, just the hearing. Everybody knew he was going to be sent to the state hospital. The hearing was just a formality, but there had to be one and he had to have a lawyer. I did it as a favor.”
“A favor to Elliott Winston?”
“No,” he replied, shaking his head.
“A favor to his wife?”
He looked at me, beginning for the first time to suspect that I was after something beyond the mere fact that Elliott Winston had been declared insane in a duly constituted judicial proceeding.
“No, not his wife.”
“A favor to Calvin Jeffries?” I asked, one foot on the step below the witness stand. “You did it as a favor to the judge-because he asked you to-isn’t that true?”
“Yes. Calvin-I mean Judge Jeffries-asked me to.”
“He wasn’t the judge in the case though, was he?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Do you remember who the judge was in that case?”
“Yes. Quincy Griswald.”
“At the time this happened, Calvin Jeffries was the presiding circuit court judge, wasn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“And in those days, the office of the presiding circuit court judge was in charge of assigning cases, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I believe that was how it was done then.”
“In other words, the fact that Judge Griswald and not some other judge had the case was no accident, was it?”
He looked at me, wondering how far I was going to go.
“Let’s save ourselves some time, Mr. Bartram. This case-this hearing on the question of whether Elliott Winston was insane so a plea of guilty but insane could be admitted-this case was fixed, wasn’t it?”
“Fixed?” he blustered. “No, of course not! What do you mean-
fixed?”
“You say you did this as a favor to Calvin Jeffries. Why did he ask you, instead of any one of a hundred other attorneys, any one of whom by your own admission was far more experienced in the criminal law? Why do you think he did that? Because he knew he could always trust you-his former law partner and the man who continued to take care of his financial dealings-to do what you were asked without asking any questions?”
Before he could answer, Loescher objected: “Your honor, he’s attacking his own witness.”
“Let me rephrase the question,” I said without taking my eyes off the witness. “When you were asked to do this, what reason were you given?”
“Calvin-Judge Jeffries-told me that there was no question Winston had gone out of his mind, and that he needed to be in the hospital where he could get help.”
“And just why was he so concerned with what might happen to Elliott Winston as opposed to any other defendant?”