Laurel is not present, as is the custom when a defendant is in custody. I have tried to impress upon her the significance of these motions. Lose on a critical piece of evidence here, and half of our case can be flushed before the judge impanels the first juror.
The state’s case is one of circumstance. The prosecution will argue that Laurel is a woman consumed by jealousy, a former spouse shed like old clothes, who was embittered and furious with Melanie for stealing her husband. They will insist that this rage was stirred and rekindled when Jack made a grab for the kids. Among suspects, they will show that Laurel had the best motive, as well as ample opportunity to kill. The state will argue that that is exactly what she did.
To the idle observer all this might seem the barest of suspicions, and they would be right if it were not for a few items of evidence that put the cloak of credence on this theory. Cassidy has these, items of evidence fixed into her case like screws in a coffin lid.
Two pieces of physical evidence presumably purporting to show that Laurel was at the scene the night of the murder could be viewed as highly incriminating; the small rug that Laurel was busy laundering when she was arrested in Reno and which Jack insists was in the master bath the night Melanie was shot, and a gold compact with Melanie’s initials found in Laurel’s purse after the arrest.
The police also have a witness, Mrs. Miller who will testify that Laurel was seen in the neighborhood, near the Vega house, about the time of the murder.
Woodruff’s voice has the tonal qualities of an aging baron of broadcast, like a bullfrog who swallowed honey, mellifluous and deep, as it is this morning when he asks us if we are ready to proceed.
He doesn’t wait for a reply, but immediately launches a series of questions, like torpedoes under the waterline of our first motion.
‘What is this about the rug?’ he says. ‘You want to keep it out? On what grounds?’
‘No, your honor.’ I am waving him off. ‘That’s not our motion.’ Something more defensible, I tell him.
‘Well, what is it?’
Not an auspicious start. Woodruff hasn’t read any of the moving papers, our written agreement.
‘The rug can come in,’ I tell him. ‘Though I would alert the court that there is a factual dispute as to its ownership and where it came from.’
‘That’s a question for the jury,’ he says. ‘Not for this court. Not for a motion.’
‘I agree.’
Our motion is more subtle, not exactly home turf for Chuckles. So I lead him through the argument. Jack’s testimony that the rug came from the murder scene is damaging enough, though Laurel will insist otherwise. I can hope for some neutral pitch on this, a jury that is at least in doubt as to who they will believe.
What I want to avoid are the unstated inferences by Cassidy that might allude to Laurel destroying evidence when she washed the rug or dipped her hands in solvent.
I am a believer in the adage that facts seldom settle an argument. It is the implications drawn from them that most often win the day or cause the damage.
This is the case in the state’s lab report given to us in discovery. It refers to gunpowder-residue tests which were ‘inconclusive because of chemicals into which the defendant intentionally dipped her hands.’
I make my pitch to Woodruff, and we go at it tooth and tong, Cassidy and I. She is insisting that the rug speaks for itself. A talking rug is one thing. What I’m afraid of is that left to her own devices in trial, Cassidy may try to jump on this thing and fly.
‘What other reason could the defendant have for taking it to Reno and washing it,’ she says, ‘but to remove blood or other evidence?’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I tell the judge. ‘That kind of speculation.’
‘It’s a natural conclusion to be drawn from the evidence,’ says Cassidy.
‘Did the state find any blood?’ I say. ‘Or any other evidence?’
‘How could they? Your client washed it off.’
‘That’s speculation,’ I tell her.
Woodruff is becoming a potted plant. He finally notices.
‘Address your arguments to me,’ he says.
‘Your honor. The rug is stolen property,’ she says. Morgan Cassidy has a positive gift for torturing facts. In her hands evidence can take on more twists and embellishments than wrought iron.
‘According to whom?’ I ask.
‘According to the victim’s husband.’
‘Stop. Stop. One at a time,’ says Woodruff. ‘First you.’
He points to Cassidy. Morgan doing what she does best, seizing the initiative.
She argues that the rug is stolen property, that the state is entitled to a reasonable inference, that mere possession of this item by the defendant is evidence of her guilt.
I bellow like some wounded bull before she can finish.
‘There’s no evidence that the rug was stolen.’
Woodruff is scratching his head, a blizzard of dandruff on the bench blotter. They don’t pay enough for these decisions, he’s thinking.
I lead him to the affidavit signed by Laurel under penalty of perjury that the rug was hers, that it was never at the victim’s residence.
‘So what?’ says Cassidy. ‘We have a counteraffidavit signed by Mr. Vega to the contrary. It clearly puts the rug in the victim’s house at the time of the murder.’
‘Fine. There’s a dispute of fact,’ I say. ‘There is nothing approaching established evidence that the rug was stolen. That’s for the jury to decide.’
‘And if they decide that it is stolen, are we entitled to an instruction?’ says Cassidy. She’s talking about a jury instruction so that they can infer guilt from the mere possession of the rug.
‘That’s an argument for another day. We’re not here to talk jury instructions. Or am I wrong?’
‘Good point,’ says Woodruff. He’s finally on the same page with us.
Cassidy is making an effort to frame the issues to her own liking. Enough sand thrown up and maybe I’ll lose my place on the sheet, start singing out of tune. We’ve done a complete circle and we’re back to square one. Woodruff points to me.
‘Your turn.’
‘The problem is not what the jury might be allowed to deduce from fairly presented evidence,’ I tell him, ‘but what the prosecution might be permitted to infer when talking about that evidence — the rug and the solvents on her hands,’ I say.
Like a light has come on behind Woodruffs eyes. He finally gets it.
‘They wouldn’t do that,’ he says.
I read to him from the lab report, the supposition that Laurel intentionally frustrated the powder-residue tests by immersing her hands in the chemicals.
‘Oh,’ he says.
Cassidy, sensing the hammer about to fall, starts to argue.
‘Enough,’ says Woodruff. He looks at her. ‘Did you find any powder residue on her hands?’
‘How could we, your honor?’
‘Anything on the carpet?’
‘It was washed clean.’
‘And you want to infer that this involves intentional destruction of evidence?’
‘We should be given the latitude,’ says Cassidy. ‘What’s so speculative?’ she says. ‘The defendant fled the scene, took the carpet, washed it to clean away any evidence. What could be more clear?’
I don’t think Woodruff is going to buy this, but he is listening — a dangerous sign.
‘Is that a reasonable inference?’ I ask. ‘Think about it, your honor, if the state’s theory is correct. Let’s assume you commit a murder. So you grab a soiled rug from the scene, splotched with blood, and drive a hundred and thirty miles to another city to wash it. If it’s evidence of a crime, why not leave it at the scene? If it’s true what the state says, that the carpet was in the house, then its discovery there after the crime would in no way implicate or incriminate you, would it? Unless the killer had a fetish for cleanliness, why take it?’ I say.
‘Maybe she panicked,’ says Cassidy.
‘Fine. Then why not dispose of it somewhere on the road, after panic had subsided?’