Witness for the Persecution, page 25
‘Your task is a difficult one, but it doesn’t include finding the murderer. What you have to do is consider all the evidence you’ve seen and heard, and then determine in your own mind whether there’s reasonable doubt of the claim that Robert Reeves was the person responsible for James Drake’s death. I think we’ve all seen enough to have that reasonable doubt, and more. I think you should vote to acquit. And I thank you for your attention today and throughout the trial. You’ve all done great work. Keep that going in the jury room.’
(In fact I had seen at least three jurors nod off during some of the testimony. One was definitely flirting with the juror to her left, who might have been interested. Another had snuck one air pod into his left ear, away from the bench, and for all I know was listening to a podcast about this trial during the trial.)
I sat down and patted Reeves on the hand. He did not move.
‘Now comes the waiting. That’s the hard part,’ I whispered to him.
He picked up the pen in front of him and wrote on the legal pad.
This was the easy part?
FORTY
‘Is it good or bad that they only deliberated for two hours?’ Angie asked.
‘In my experience it’s usually bad for the defendant,’ I answered.
I was lying. The fact of the matter is that no attorney has the vaguest idea of what a short, or for that matter long, deliberation by a random jury could mean for a case. Everybody’s seen 12 Angry Men and thought it was a documentary. But if I told Angie I didn’t know, she’d think I was lying, so I lied to make her think I was telling the truth.
‘You’re lying,’ she said. Angie can always tell. There’s never any point. She has powers.
‘Well, the truth is I have no idea.’
‘You’re still lying.’ You can’t win for losing. Whatever that means.
We’d been sitting there for ten minutes since Marty the bailiff had informed us that the jury had reached a verdict and we’d be needed back in court. It was admittedly something of a surprise they’d decided so quickly but, as I said, it wasn’t indicative of anything in particular.
Robert Reeves, sitting immediately to my right, was visibly nervous. He leaned over and whispered to me, despite the fact that court wasn’t yet in session. ‘What kind of sentence could I get?’ he asked.
This was the first time the question had crossed his mind. ‘It’s a murder case, Robert.’
He paled. ‘You mean it could be execution?’ I thought he might pass out at the table, which would thrill the small battalion of news photographers and videographers in the room.
‘No, Robert. They haven’t executed anyone in California in sixteen years and counting. But it’s still possible to get life imprisonment.’ I probably shouldn’t have said that but, seriously, this is when he chose to ask?
‘Oh.’ He sat back and stared straight ahead. Just as well.
Patrick caused a minor scene by walking into the courtroom carrying a fairly large box that I assumed had made it through the metal detectors at the entrance but still looked very odd. But I didn’t get a chance to ask him about it because Franklin was entering the room and we all had to stand up. I’ve tried rising when they say ‘rise’, but this is as high off the ground as I can get.
Across the aisle from me Renfro looked very businesslike. He didn’t have a client who could go to jail for life, so his heart probably wasn’t attempting to beat its way through his chest wall. But I was just guessing.
Franklin didn’t waste any time after we’d all settled back into our seats. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am informed that you have reached a verdict. Is that correct?’
The jury’s foreperson, Juror #7, stood up. She was a woman of around fifty and was actually wearing pearls. ‘Yes it is, Your Honor.’ She’d probably been rehearsing that for an hour, and delivered it well.
‘Please hand your verdict to the bailiff.’ Juror #7 did as instructed and Marty walked the small piece of paper, folded over, to Franklin, who took it from his hand and unfolded it. He glanced at it then folded it back over again.
Now, for the record, there is no reason at all aside from theatrics that the verdict has to be read first by the judge. It’s a perk for the court that they get to know before everyone else. The judge can’t change the jury’s verdict. They can set one aside if they think something completely outside the rule of law has been done, but that is extremely rare and almost certainly grounds for an appeal, and knowing the verdict for an extra thirty seconds before the rest of the assemblage probably wouldn’t add all that much to the deliberation process.
Franklin handed the paper back to Marty who brought it directly back to Juror #7, just to underline the absolute lack of necessity in the whole ritual. ‘Madame Foreperson, what is the verdict of this jury?’
Reeves took in a deep breath through an O-shaped mouth. Patrick fingered the lid of the box he was carrying. Angie was sitting with her elbows resting on the rail between us, chin propped up on her hands.
Penny was not present, oddly having been dismissed from her employment with Reeves before the jury began its deliberation. And he told me he was sorry to let her go as she’d been the best assistant he’d ever had.
I’m asking you.
Nate was sitting near the back of the room. He likes to be there when the trial ends and this was our first jury verdict together. He looked exactly like Nate.
Juror #7 stood proudly and read what she already knew from the scrap of paper. ‘The jury finds the defendant Robert Reeves not guilty of all charges.’
There wasn’t the ‘spontaneous’ outburst of applause that you’re used to from the movies. Instead there was chatter, like a large group of people mumbling, and the sound of cameras taking pictures. Alice Mandrill aka Tracy Reeves stood up from her spectator’s seat and left the courtroom. I never saw her again.
The real Mrs Reeves, Stacy, was nowhere to be found. She was off somewhere not looking young enough, one supposed.
Her husband smiled but did not speak. I don’t shake hands anymore but extended my elbow for bumping. He looked at it for a moment and then stuck his own out and we touched elbows. It was the closest Robert Reeves would ever come to thanking me for keeping him out of jail.
Franklin thanked the jury for their time and effort, ordered the officer of the court to release Reeves (who hadn’t been in custody but they say that) and raised his gavel to declare the business of the court completed.
When he pounded it on the surface of the bench, at that very moment, there came a loud BANG from somewhere behind me, in the general vicinity of Patrick. My heart stopped beating. I’d heard gunshots before.
But that’s not what this was.
I forced myself to look back. Patrick had lifted the lid on the box he’d carried in and it had somehow caused an explosion of sorts: Confetti was everywhere, some even floating down on me from fifteen feet away. And the box held a sign that read, ‘Congratulations!’
He looked at me and beamed. ‘Sandy!’
I could not answer fast enough. Franklin, the notorious neat freak, was looking over the paper-covered remains of his courtroom and somehow still managed to croak out, ‘Ms Moss …’
FORTY-ONE
Angie made me buy a dress.
I thought I could go to the ‘official’ premiere of Desert Siege wearing a business suit like the ones I wore in court all the time, but she informed me that, ‘slinky is definitely the rule of the day.’ I didn’t think I could pull off slinky, but Angie made me buy a shiny dress anyway. So, feeling conspicuous and constricted, I showed up on Patrick’s arm at the red carpet, which smelled exactly as I’d remembered, only this time it wasn’t a daydream.
After the interchange we’d had in court about living together, there had been a spate of press about Patrick and me in which I had assiduously refused to participate, first saying it would make me seen less professional during a murder trial, and afterwards using the excuse that I just really didn’t want to. Patrick had been fine with it, Reeves had been a little prissy because I wasn’t helping to promote his movie, and I got to not be asked what Patrick might be like in ‘intimate moments’, all of which was good.
In the previous week, no arrest had been made in the murder of James Drake, but I knew that Trench was gathering evidence and word was that he was focusing (surprise!) on Penny Kanter. He had told me the police were watching her pretty continuously, which meant I did not need to fear her and so I’d had a tearful goodbye with Judy, who had nodded at me without moving a facial muscle and sent a bill to my law firm.
Maybe ‘tearful’ was overstating it.
Interview requests had been constant at first, but I’d avoided all I could and only done those that focused on the case. That was relevant. Patrick and me, well, that wasn’t.
Tonight, however, we were fair game.
‘Sandra!’ (Some of the press had only read my name in articles from others in the press.) ‘Mrs McNabb!’ (Others were just uninformed.) ‘Hey you!’ (That was more like it; I almost stopped to let that guy take my picture.)
‘Just keep walking and look for friendly faces,’ Patrick said, holding my left hand and making sure I didn’t pause. Ever.
There were friendly faces in the crowd because Patrick had arranged for passes to the premiere and made sure virtually everyone I knew in Los Angeles was there, which admittedly was still a fairly small but congenial group. Nate Garrigan, in the company of a woman I had not met but who was, refreshingly, age-appropriate for him, stood by looking like he was in line for a Disneyland ride that was either going to be awesome or embarrassing. He held up a hand in the Nate version of a wave.
Angie was, of course, working the event as Patrick’s assistant, eyes down at her iPad and legs appearing in the slits of her skirt as she walked. Angie does not let an opportunity go by if she might meet a man she might find interesting. And she found all of show business interesting.
I didn’t, for the most part, but pretended to because I did find Patrick interesting. He had seen to it that any press requests for him also included Robert Reeves, who might have become a pariah in town despite his acquittal. He let Reeves do much of the talking, and tonight the director was, of course, present at the premiere of his film but also enjoying a little more of the spotlight than his lead actor, who didn’t seem to mind that at all.
Patrick did have to submit to the red carpet ‘interviews’, which were akin to a press gaggle for a corrupt politician (or is that redundant?). He was periodically surrounded by four or five reporters, TV light suddenly coming to life, microphones appearing seemingly from out of the sky but strangely attached to the arms of people I couldn’t really see for the lights. Luckily Patrick answered the questions directed at me too because he knew I was averse to that sort of thing. I didn’t want to be on the covers of tabloids as Patrick McNabb’s girlfriend. To be honest, I didn’t want to be on the covers of tabloids at all.
‘We wanted it to be a fun ride for the audience,’ Patrick was saying in one of the patented responses I’d heard him practice three other times. ‘We have that message about global warming but this is not at all an issue movie. It’s all about the action, really.’
‘What about the guy who died?’ Reporters can be so sensitive. ‘Was making the movie worth that happening?’
As a layperson, my response to such a rude question would normally be to ask Angie to hit that person for me. But Patrick was used to the game and his face took on a somber quality. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘That was a bloody tragedy but we couldn’t have foreseen it. Would I erase this movie to get Jim Drake back? Of course I would. But that’s sadly not at all possible. OK, that’s all.’ He moved on from the spot.
The promised land, which in this case was the inside of the huge auditorium where the film would once again be shown, was only about twenty yards away, and I was starting to feel the relief that would come once we were inside in its air-conditioned, completely controlled atmosphere. No press in there until after the movie, and then Patrick would be onstage and I’d be in the wings letting him handle this stuff because it was his job and not mine.
A few steps later I heard a shrill, angry voice scream, ‘Sandra Moss!’ with such vehemence that even having heard Patrick’s advice I felt compelled to turn and look. ‘You ruined my life!’
It was just like the daydream, but this time I knew the person yelling at me. It was a voice I’d heard only once but one that had stuck with me because of the circumstances. I hadn’t called her to the witness stand, but Stacy Reeves was a memorable woman. I’d thought I knew why but obviously I had been mistaken.
Because right now she was ten feet away from me and holding a carving knife. Since there was no food at the event and therefore nothing to carve, the message was stomach-droppingly clear.
Stacy wanted to kill me.
‘What did you do?’ she wailed as people noticed the scene and a few screamed. There was much running. ‘You got him off!’
Robert Reeves, fifty feet from me, looked over and seemed to vaguely recognize the woman with the deadly weapon advancing on me. He did nothing.
Patrick, on the other hand, placed himself between me and Stacy, causing her to weave back and forth trying to find an open lane to fillet me through. She clearly didn’t want to kill Patrick.
‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’ I said. And out of the corner of my eye I saw the blond-haired man who had helped kidnap Angie and me. Things were happening too fast. I needed a moment to absorb it all. But I didn’t seem to have that long.
‘No! He was supposed to get convicted and then I could have all the money without having to be married to him!’
‘That’s what divorce is for,’ Patrick said. He’s so helpful.
‘I signed a pre-nup! I was getting nothing! But if he was in jail I could have had it all!’ Stacy looked at me around Patrick’s head. ‘What did you do?’
My job, I wanted to say, but that wasn’t going to get me anywhere. ‘I thought you were happy with Robert,’ I tried. Maybe I could convince her there was no reason to off the lawyer, especially after the trial was over.
Deranged angry people, however, are notoriously hard to convince verbally. ‘He made me hide in that house because I was too old!’ she moaned. ‘And I’m three years younger than him!’
‘I agree, the emphasis on youth and beauty is ridiculous in this business,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we figure out a way to sue him for …’
But Stacy suddenly faked to the left and Patrick was caught off guard. She saw the opening and leapt forward. I raised my fists, as if that was going to stop what I was sure was a very sharp, very efficient knife. If I was going down, I wasn’t going down quietly. I yelled.
In my peripheral vision I saw security making their way toward me but they were swimming upstream against the tide of partygoers running away in hysterics. They weren’t going to get there in time. I told myself that – no matter what – I was going to keep my eyes open. Stacy’s face filled my vision. I reached my right fist back and wound up.
The punch never landed. In fact, it was never thrown. Over my right shoulder I heard Angie yell, ‘Sandy, duck!’ and I always do what Angie says. But I kept my eyes open. So I saw a hole open up in Stacy’s arm and I saw the knife drop to the ground. I lunged at it and picked it up as the security officer arrived.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘I’m her security officer,’ Angie said, and she walked into my line of sight. In her hand was literally a smoking gun. I’d forgotten she had it. ‘Chekhov’s gun,’ I said to her.
Angie looked at me, not understanding. ‘Chekhov carried a phaser.’ She turned the handgun around so the barrel was facing toward her and gave it to the security guy, who was almost immediately joined by a uniformed LAPD officer. Stacy, still standing but with a bleeding arm, was already being restrained by another.
‘What were you aiming for?’ I asked Angie.
‘Her head. You can’t fool around with this stuff.’
FORTY-TWO
Lieutenant Trench showed up at the premiere maybe five minutes after all the excitement and no, I don’t mean the movie. In his impeccably pressed suit and perfectly complementary tie he questioned the cops at the scene and then walked over to Patrick, Angie and me.
‘We really must stop meeting like this,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I told him.
‘Apparently Mrs Reeves is a trifle irritated with you for successfully defending her husband in court,’ the lieutenant went on. ‘She had hoped to scare you off with faux kidnappings and artificial bombs made by her husband’s prop department for what they thought was a surprise birthday party.’ Trench’s tone was one not of skepticism but of disappointment in what human beings might do or think. He believed in order. Stacy Reeves apparently had put her trust in chaos.
‘Where did she find the men who kidnapped Sandy and me?’ Angie asked.
‘Believe it or not, Central Casting. They thought they were auditioning for Mr Reeves’s next film as a gang of thugs.’
‘They were very convincing,’ I said. ‘I hope they get work.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, Lieutenant,’ Patrick said. ‘And I’m grateful to Angie for not letting Mrs Reeves kill Sandy.’
‘There will be an investigation, but I doubt charges will be brought,’ Trench said, looking at Angie. ‘The gun was licensed and you were registered as a security officer.’ He kept looking at her face, something many men have trouble doing. ‘Clearly you were here in an undercover capacity.’
‘I was invited,’ Angie said.
‘Of course.’
‘Is Penny Kanter going to be arrested for killing Jim Drake?’ Patrick asked.
‘Mr McNabb, it is against LAPD policy for me to speculate on who might be arrested for any crime,’ Trench said. Then he turned toward me. ‘But if your phone rings and Ms Kanter is on the other end, it might be a business call.’
