Fatal Flaw (31 page)

“So maybe, possibly, probably it was this other lover that killed her. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you should be asking yourselves, what will you learn during the trial about this other lover other than his existence, which is beyond dispute? Will you learn who he was? No. Will you learn whether or not Hailey had given him the key to her house? No. Whether or not Hailey had shown him the location of the gun during one of their trysts? No. Whether or not he was murderously angry at Hailey Prouix for leaving him? No. Whether he has an alibi for the night of the killing? No. Whether he was, instead, lurking alone outside the house, waiting until his anger forced him through the door to the hidden location of the gun and then up the stairs, into that bedroom where he shot the woman he loved with a dangerous obsession, the woman who was abandoning him to his cold, cruel loneliness, shot her through the heart? Watch as this trial unfolds, and see if any of those answers are provided, and wonder why not.

“And ask yourselves about the mysterious patch of wet carpet found by the police beside the front door, and wonder who it was that came from outside and left something there, an umbrella, his boots, something, when we know for sure it wouldn’t have been Guy. And ask yourselves about the strange man in black rushing out of Hailey Prouix’s house the night after the murder, when Guy Forrest was already in police custody.

“This is what I believe the evidence will show. The evidence will show that Guy had no motive, but that another might have. The evidence will show the possibility that another had opportunity and access to the means to commit this crime. The evidence will show that the prosecution brought this case before they found the evidence needed to answer the crucial questions I have just raised, because
they thought they had discovered the ultimate answer. They have accused Guy Forrest of killing Hailey Prouix because his is the only name they could come up with and the link between Guy and Hailey was powerful and undeniable. Love. He loved her. He had given up everything for her. That is why he is on trial today, because of that love.

“And so this is, finally, what I want you to ask yourselves, ladies and gentlemen: Whenever did love become a crime?”

38

WE STOOD
as the jury was let out for the day, remained standing as Judge Tifaro followed. I put my arm around Guy’s back, squeezed his shoulder, said a few encouraging words before the bailiff led him away for transport back to the county jail. So it was just Beth and me at the defense table as I packed up my notebooks, my folders, my omnipresent yellow pads, when something banged hard onto the wooden tabletop beside me.

Startled, I turned to find a large brown briefcase and holding on to it a grinning Troy Jefferson.

“That was pretty good,” he said, “that song and dance of yours.”

“Thank you.”

“You should have lowered your voice and done a Barry White. I can hear him singing it: ‘Whenever did love become a crime?’ But it’s not going to fly. Doesn’t matter where you try to point the finger, the fingerprints on the gun are Guy’s.”

“We’ll get to that in the course of the trial.”

“I had thought blaming the lover might be your strategy, as good as any, but I didn’t think you’d be so foolish as to spout it in the opening when any day, any minute he could walk right into the courtroom.”

“Well, there you go, that’s what we are, Beth and I, a couple of fools.”

“You blaming him in the opening, getting it into all the papers, might just force his hand. And it certainly forced mine. We’re twenty-four/sevening the search for the missing man.”

“Maybe you should have twenty-four/sevened it before you swore in the jury.”

“Oh, we’ll find him and his alibi. The detectives pissed and moaned about the overtime, but they’ve already got leads.”

“Speaking of the detectives, I saw Stone at the table, but not our good friend Breger.”

“He took a jaunt.”

“Anyplace interesting?”

“Vegas.”

“Gambling?”

“No. But before he left, he told me he still had some questions about that night of the murder. Once again he asked if you would consent to allow us to examine your phone logs for that night.”

“And once again I refuse,” I said. “Attorney-client privilege. And I don’t think the judge will set the precedent of allowing you to rummage around the phone records of the defense attorney after a trial starts.”

“Maybe not, but not every defense lawyer is called just moments after a murder. I suppose we’ll just have to see.” He opened his briefcase, took out a blue-backed motion, tossed it onto the table before me. “I’ve been holding this for a while, but I think it’s too hot to hold on to any longer. I’ll be filing it before we leave the courthouse. I expect she’ll rule tomorrow.”

“Let me guess, Troy. You weren’t the quiet type on the basketball court.”

“I did my share of verbalizing,” he said with his grin before he turned for the exit, followed by the two ADAs who were assisting him. Beth and I watched as the coterie departed.

I scanned the document he had given me:
MOTION TO COMPEL THE DISCLOSURE OF CERTAIN TELEPHONE LOGS
. “You’ll have to answer this tonight,” I said as I handed it off to Beth.

Beth snatched the motion with her good hand and quickly reviewed it. Her wrist had healed badly. The bones had needed to berebroken, manipulated into proper alignment, and fastened together
with metal pins inserted by a huge pneumatic device to keep them in place. For her it had been a summer of pain, but it looked as though the doctors had finally gotten it right and this would be the last of her casts. She continued reading the motion as she said, “He’s right, you know.”

“Who, Troy? Nah, he’s just talking trash.”

“No he’s not. He seemed almost gleeful.”

“Really? I thought he seemed a bit rattled.”

“Not rattled, relieved. If you had been less specific, you would have kept your options open to the end. Any big surprises could have been accounted for. Now, if the other lover walks in, we’re sunk. What if he shows up and matches the DNA and then gives himself a perfect alibi? What then?”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He has a reason to hide. Maybe he’s married, maybe he’s engaged to someone else, maybe his gay lover is a jealous fiend. Whatever, he hasn’t come forward yet and won’t in the future.”

“But he might if he thinks the real killer is getting off because of his silence. He might suffer the embarrassment to stop a travesty of justice.”

“He’s not that noble.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Trust me.”

“I don’t know, Victor,” said Beth, staring now at the door out of which Troy Jefferson had just departed. “It’s almost as if Jefferson already knew who the other lover was and was preparing to whisk him in as soon as you blundered into his trap.”

“Wouldn’t he have had to disclose that to us already?” I said, my voice betraying my sudden nervousness.

“Not if it was merely a suspicion that he can now send his detectives out to turn into a fact.”

I wondered on that for a moment and then shook my head. “I had to do it. To win this thing I need the jury to see the missing lover behind every question, every possibility. If I just tried to offer him at the end, it would have looked like flummery. Now he’s sitting right here at the defense table, ready to shoulder the blame when the evidence
is equivocal. He’s what the jury will see when that police technician testifies that she couldn’t detect gunpowder residue on Guy’s hands at the crime scene. She’ll try to dismiss the result by claiming that the gunpowder washed off in the rain, but the jury will be wondering if maybe the police tested the wrong man. And when the DNA pattern of the semen gets put up on the chart, without my saying a word, they’ll be wondering if they’re looking at the DNA of a killer. By the time I get to closing, they’ll have argued the case for themselves and found reasonable doubt.”

Beth just stared at me, a faint amusement at my assurance in her eyes. “It sounds so easy.”

“Genius always does. But in the end all our supposes don’t matter.” I rapped her cast gently with my knuckle, the sound sharp and hollow. “Hello. Anybody there? This is what our client wants us to argue, he has told us so repeatedly, so this is the way we go.”

“I’m not used to seeing you so deferential to the client.”

“He’s a lawyer, and it’s his life on the line.”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t blow up in his face,” she said. “Have you decided if Guy is going to testify?”

“He wants to, but I won’t let him. He’d have to say he knew about the other man and that he hit her on the night of her murder. Those two facts would kill us.”

“But what about the open door, the sudden sound? How are you going to prove up the possibility that someone else could have slipped into that house the night of the murder?”

“That’s why, dear Beth, they invented cross-examination.”

39

CROSS-EXAMINATION IS
a witch’s brew. It most famously can be a truth serum for the untruthful, though that wasn’t a problem yet in our trial. There were no liars here, no falsified testimonies being used to frame up our defendant. The case against Guy Forrest was powerfully circumstantial, and the circumstances, as presented by Troy Jefferson, were basically true. It was only the natural inferences flowing from those circumstances that we had quarrel with. But that just required a different recipe of cross, an al-chemist’s potion to turn the inconceivable conceivable, the unthinkable thinkable, the improbable into a stone-cold absolute possibility, to raise phantoms and conjure them into flesh and blood.

“NOW, MRS.
Morgan,” I said, “you stated in your direct testimony that you saw Mr. Forrest sitting outside his house about eleven o’clock on the night of the killing, is that right?”

“That’s right,” said Evelyn Morgan, a well-dressed matron with hair shellacked in place. She was a neighbor of Hailey’s, across the street and a few numbers down.

“And Mr. Forrest wasn’t wearing much, isn’t that right?”

“Not from what I could see, though there were shadows, so I couldn’t tell to the last inch.”

“Good thing for the shadows, right, Mrs. Morgan? Were the upstairs lights on then, do you remember?”

“Yes, they were on. Or at least I think they were on. I noticed that because earlier I seemed to remember that the upstairs window was dark.”

“And that window is to the master bedroom?”

“I was never invited inside, but I think so.”

“Good enough. And then later, after you first spied Mr. Forrest, you saw a man in a raincoat go up the steps, talk with Mr. Forrest, take something off the cement step, and then go inside. And you said that man was me?”

“As best I could tell,” she said.

“You’ve got good eyes, Mrs. Morgan,” I said. “I notice you wear glasses. Were you wearing them that night?”

“Yes I was. I wear them until I go to sleep every night. And I don’t sleep as much as I used to.”

“Fine. Now, when you saw me go up those steps, was I holding an umbrella?”

“Not that I remember.”

“A bag of some sort, any object I could have laid down beside the doorway when I went inside?”

“No, sir.”

“And I wasn’t inside long, was I, before I came out again?”

“Not that I remember.”

“And the police came soon after.”

“Yes, they did.”

“It must have been quite a sight.”

“Well, it is normally a very quiet neighborhood.”

“You’re married, aren’t you, Mrs. Morgan?”

“Yes I am, for thirty-three years now.”

“Thirty-three years. My, oh, my. And you have how many children?”

“Four, and two grandchildren, with two more on the way.”

“That is something, yes. And with all that, and of course the volunteer work you testified about, you don’t have much free time, do you?”

“I’m kept busy.”

“I bet you are, Mrs. Morgan. I can see that you’re not one of those sad, pathetic ladies who spend all their days sticking their noses out the window spying on their neighbors.”

“I should say not.”

“You’ve got too much going on in your own life to be like that.”

“Yes I do, Mr. Carl.”

“Which is why you say you saw Mr. Forrest sitting on the steps but you didn’t see him actually leave the house, because you were busy living your life, not twitching curtains to see what the neighbors were up to.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So if somebody had walked right up those steps and into the house, somebody, let’s say, with an umbrella or a bag, you wouldn’t have noticed, would you?”

“Maybe not, I don’t know.”

“In fact, a whole army could have gone in and out and you wouldn’t have seen it, because you were living your life, not sitting by the window like a spy.”

“I suppose.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morgan. That is all.”

NOW, IT
wasn’t a sham defense I was presenting with my witch’s brew, no, not at all. I’m never above presenting a sham defense, of course, poking holes in an airtight case just to create some doubt where none should exist is a defense attorney’s job, but this wasn’t that. Hailey had been murdered and if Guy was innocent, as I now believed, then some other person had come into that house, climbed those stairs, shot her dead. The man I was blaming hadn’t done it, I knew that with perfect knowledge, since I was broadening the boundaries for the defense bar and, in effect, blaming myself, leaving my name out for propriety’s sake. But someone had indeed killed her, someone, surely, and my job, as I perceived it,
was to take the simple testimony that Jefferson presented and create a hole big enough for that murderer to walk through and do his dark deed.

“NOW, OFFICER
Pepper, in your report you say when you made a quick examination of the house after finding the corpse, you noticed a small patch of carpet by the side of the door that was wet.”

“That is correct.”

“And it was about a foot square, isn’t that right?”

“Approximately. I didn’t take out the tape measure.”

“Was the roof at that part of the house leaking?”

“Not that I noticed.”

“The wall?”

“No.”

“So this spot of carpet, it had been wetted by an umbrella, maybe, or a coat thrown to the ground, or a pair of boots.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Did you check it for fibers or debris?”

“It was checked, but I didn’t do it. From what I understand, nothing unusual was found, other than some small stones which could have been there previously.”

“Now, in that corner there was no umbrella stand or coatrack, was there?”

“No, sir.”

“So this wasn’t the place where Miss Prouix or Mr. Forrest usually dropped their wet things.”

“Objection,” said Troy Jefferson.

“Sustained,” said Judge Tifaro.

“You’re sustaining the objection just like that, Judge? No argument, no explanation given?”

“That’s right”

“I’m just trying to show it was highly unlikely that either Miss Prouix or Mr. Forrest would have left anything there, that’s all.”

“Not with this witness. Objection sustained, move on.”

“Wow, okay. I’ll try. Now, Officer Pepper, isn’t it possible, based on the size and location of that spot, that someone, anyone,
came into that house that night and dropped something wet there, like a bag, or an umbrella, or their boots, on their way up the stairs?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“And if that possibility occurred, and that person left after whatever it was he did, then he would have taken the wet object, whether bag or umbrella or boots, with him, unlike Guy, who was still there and would have left it right in place.”

“Anything’s possible, like I said.”

“Yes it is, Officer. No further questions.”

I COULDN’T
help thinking through the course of the trial about Roylynn Prouix and her little black book.

Troy Jefferson was laying out the smooth surface of his case, a simple explanation of time and space that made it impossible for anyone other than Guy Forrest to have killed Hailey Prouix. I, on the other hand, was trying to create a disruption in his continuum, attempting to distort time and space so that a gap appeared, a yawning hole big enough to allow someone other than Guy to step through and take the shot. It seemed a trick, what I was doing, a distortion, but as I worked, I realized it wasn’t a trick at all. It was there, the gap, absolutely, and I was simply making its presence felt.

I thought of that primordial black hole of which Roylynn had spoken, the thing that had distorted her life and her sister’s. She had said that Jesse Sterrett had been devoured by that same black hole. It had seemed at the time like the spinnings of a mind deranged by some great tragedy, but during the course of the trial I began to reassess. Each time in my cross-examinations that I bent the smooth surface of Troy Jefferson’s case and allowed the hole to grow ever larger, it was as if the force of some massive body was becoming more evident. It was still shadowy, this body, still unidentifiable, but it was there, twisting time and space, opening its murderous gap.

The mass of a mountain, had said Roylynn Prouix, in a million
millionth of an inch. With each cross, with each question, it seemed ever more present, ever more frightening, ever more true.

“OFFICER JENKINS
, you testified that you found People’s Exhibit Seven, which is a portable CD player with headphones, by the Jacuzzi in the master bathroom.”

“That’s right.”

“Did this Jacuzzi have water jets built in?”

“Yes, there was a timer switch on the wall.”

“Did you try the switch to see if the jets worked?”

“I did.”

“Pretty loud, weren’t they?”

“I suppose. In that small room, sure.”

“Now, the headphones you found, are they the normal lightweight things that usually come with such players?”

“I don’t know what usually comes with players, but these were pretty good headphones. If I can look at the exhibit, I could tell you more.”

I brought People’s Exhibit Seven to the witness stand. “Those are your initials on the bag, isn’t that right?”

“My initials are first. The other initials are from the technicians who examined it in the lab.”

“Fine. Now, if you could open the bag, take out the exhibit, and look at the headphones. Those are the same headphones you found by the tub, aren’t they?”

“Yes. They are made by a company called Koss. They’re the kind with padding that covers the ear.”

“Pretty high quality?”

“I don’t know for sure, but better than usual, I would suppose.”

“And the disc inside was
Louis Armstrong’s Greatest Hits
?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And it’s still inside?”

The officer opened the case.”Yes.”

“Now, Officer, did you happen to check the settings on the disc player before you put it into that evidence bag?”

“What do you mean?”

“The player has a little digital readout, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“And that readout gives all kinds of information. It tells the track number of the song being played. It tells the state of the battery. It tells the volume it is being played at.”

“I suppose so.”

“And did you determine those numbers when you found the disc player and put it into that nice plastic bag you wrote your initials on?”

“I didn’t want smear any fingerprints, so, no, I didn’t play around with it. Can I check my notes and see if I took down anything else?”

“Please,” I said, having already reviewed the notes and knowing that he did not.

“No, I suppose not,” he said finally. “I did make sure it played, though. I listened a bit to the disc.”

“And it played pretty loudly, didn’t it?”

“I suppose, with the headphones on.”

“Now, I wonder if you might help us get a little more specific. May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

Judge Tifaro gave me a skeptical look, which grew more strained when I smiled and waved two AA batteries at her. She glanced at Troy Jefferson, who stood and thought about it before sitting down again without raising an objection. “Go ahead, Mr. Carl,” she said.

“I’m going to put in some fresh batteries and play the same CD that was in the player when you found it, and I’d like you to tell me whether or not it was this loud when you listened to it on the night of the murder.”

When the new batteries were in and the player was set to a track called “Basin Street Blues,” I asked Officer Jenkins to put on the headphones.

“Do you think it might have been louder than this?”

“Excuse me?” he said loudly.

I gestured for him to take off the headphones.

“How are those headphones, Officer? Comfortable?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

“Do you think that the volume it was set at the night of the murder
when you checked the sound might have been louder than this?”

“Yes, I think so. Yes, it was pretty loud.”

“Okay, now, what I’d like to do is for you to put the headphones back on, and slowly I’ll raise the volume. I’d like you to look at the little digital readout and when you’re absolutely sure that it is at least as loud as or louder than it was that night, I’d like you to raise your hand to let us know. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re looking for the outer boundary of volume.”

“I understand.”

“All right, let’s try it.”

He put the headphones back on and stared down at the digital monitor, as did I. Slowly I pressed the volume button at the bottom of the player. I had started it very low, at two, and was raising it now to three, to three and a half, to four, to four and a half. I was watching not just the volume readout but also the time of the track. When it was at a volume of six and a half and the time into the track was 4:35, when Armstrong’s brilliant horn is added to the mix in a roaring finale, I scratched my back.

A shot rang out, or something very much like a shot.

The whole courtroom jumped, the jury, the judge, the bailiff reached for his gun, all looked around crazily for the source of the shot, all but myself and Officer Jenkins, whose eyes were focused still on the little digital readout.

Beth, standing now, picked up the large legal volume she had dropped flat onto the defense table and apologized for the disturbance.

Troy Jefferson leaped to his feet and objected.

Judge Tifaro was starting to launch into a brutal admonishment aimed at Beth when Officer Jenkins raised his hand.

The judge stopped midsentence and, her mouth still open to speak, turned to stare at the witness.

Officer Jenkins took off his earphones. “It’s hard to tell for certain, but my best guess,” he said, still looking at the player, “is that the volume at the time was somewhere here between seven and eight, if that’s helpful.”

Officer Jenkins looked around at the quiet laughter, wondering what he had said that was so funny.