Lying in judgment, p.26
Lying in Judgment, page 26
“My, this is strong tea,” Dolores said. “It’s so different than the kind we had last week.”
“Sure is,” Peter said. He wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but this one tasted stronger and more flavorful than usual.
“Well, the moment of truth comes soon,” Larry said. He sat next to Peter.
“I hope not,” Peter said.
Larry leaned back. “What the heck does that mean?”
He stared into his tea. He needed to stop saying things like that out loud.
Back in the courtroom ten minutes later, Brenda Connelly stepped in front of the defense table, smoothed her beige skirt and picked a flake of lint off her white blouse. She gave Raul Vasquez a quick smile and waited for his confirming nod, then took two short steps toward the jury and clasped her hands together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “Raul Vasquez did not kill Alvin Dark.”
Someone snorted. A quick search of faces suggested Alex. Christine looked away from him. She seemed nervous. At the far end of the box, Dolores rubbed her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face. Next to her, Larry’s eyes grew wide, but he said nothing.
“The prosecution has made a compelling case that Alvin Dark’s murder was brutal and premeditated,” Connelly said. “It was a vicious and horrible way to die.”
Vicious. Horrible. Enough of that!
“But the prosecution did not show that Raul Vasquez committed the murder. In fact, the prosecution showed that anyone could have committed this crime.”
Even someone on this jury...
Dolores leaned onto the rail in front of her seat. Her face had turned pale. She yawned, then whispered something to Larry. He gave her his water bottle and she took a long sip. Peter winced. He should have spoken up about her not getting her water earlier. Not good for a diabetic.
Christine turned away, with what seemed to be a guilty expression on her face. Or perhaps he was projecting his own guilt onto her.
“No one saw Raul Vasquez follow Alvin Dark down Old Fairview Road.” Connelly scanned the jury. “In fact, on one very important point, witnesses for the prosecution agree with my client. Mr. Vasquez missed the turn onto Old Fairview Road. Someone driving a silver pickup may have turned down that road, but not Raul Vasquez.”
Connelly’s attention settled on Peter for what seemed an eternity. He stared back, and willed her to look away.
Finally she did, but she looked troubled. He followed her gaze.
Dolores leaned far forward in her seat, hyperventilating, her face pale as a ghost. A moment later, she collapsed onto the floor.
Chapter 56
Larry Rogers bent over Dolores’s collapsed figure, his face red as a fire truck. “Get a doctor!” he said. “She’s having a diabetic attack.”
“Is she breathing?” Judge Green asked.
Dolores coughed and pushed herself up onto one elbow. Larry helped her to her seat. “It appears so,” he said.
“Do you have insulin?” the judge asked. Dolores gasped and pulled a syringe out of her purse.
“Court will recess for fifteen minutes ,” Judge Green said. “Bailiff, please assist the juror in whatever way she needs. Ms. Connelly, my apologies.”
Dolores unwrapped her syringe and injected it into the skin on her belly. Her breathing slowed and her skin color turned a light pink.
Christine, at the opposite end of the jury box, remained rooted in her chair. Her eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth with her hand. Odd... she wasn’t helping her friend in this moment of crisis.
“Give her some breathing room,” Jeff Williams said. “Everyone, clear out.” The other jurors shuffled into the jury room and snuck discreet peeks at Dolores on their way past. She remained in her chair, hyperventilating. Larry held her hand and talked to her in a low voice, too quiet for the others to hear.
Peter and Christine lagged behind the other jurors. He closed the jury room door behind her. “What happened in there?” he whispered. “What was in that tea?”
“What are you saying? You think I–?”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. Those full, bright red lips. “Don’t say it.”
Her eyes widened. “I need to use the restroom.” She darted away before he could respond.
He leaned against the counter. Alex poured a cup of coffee and pointed toward the restroom. “She’s pretty broken up over this, isn’t she?”
“Er... yeah. They’ve become very good friends in this past week and a half.” Peter frowned. “Poor Dolores.”
“I wonder if she’ll be able to continue,” Sheila said.
“Ah, sure she will,” Alex said. He sat at the table and joined the others in speculation about what might be wrong with her.
Peter sidled over to the trash can next to the coffee machine. Several sugar packets and three Sweet’N Low’s rested on top of a few napkins. When nobody was watching him, he grabbed one of the empty pink packets out of the can and turned his back to the room. He wet his finger, dipped it into the packet, and touched his tongue. He recognized the taste—all too well. From his tea. Christine had given him the tea with Sweet’N Low, and Dolores the one with the sugar. And, judging by Christine’s behavior, it was not an accident.
He dropped the Sweet’N Low packet. It fluttered toward the trash can. Before it landed, the restroom door opened. The breeze from the swinging door blew the pink wrapper off course. It landed on the floor. Christine stared at it, frozen in the doorway.
The expression on her face confirmed his suspicions. Her eyes narrowed and locked on his. She drifted toward him. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
He snatched the wrapper off the floor and crumpled it. “Just... ah... going over the evidence.”
“The evidence?” Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
“Yeah. You know. Of the trial.” He tossed the crumpled wrapper into the trash. She stared after it. Good. She knew that he knew. “How are you feeling?” he asked in his most compassionate voice.
“I’ll be fine.” Then, loud enough for all to hear, she added, “The real question is, how is Dolores?”
“She’ll be fine, we think.” The bailiff appeared in the doorway from the courtroom. “The insulin shot seemed to do the trick.”
Which Christine knew she’d have handy.
“Will she continue on the jury?” Sheila asked.
“No,” Williams said. “She’s going to see her doctor. We’ll need our next alternate to fill in her slot. I believe that’s you, Ms. Nielsen.”
“Oh.” Christine appeared surprised.
Yeah. As if.
“Yes, I—I believe that’s right,” she said. “But, where is Dolores now? Can we see her?” Christine’s concern for Dolores seemed real. Either that or she was one hell of an actress.
“She’ll be here in a minute, to gather her things,” Williams said. “Mr. Rogers is sitting with her. I’ll let her know of your concern.”
Peter sat next to Christine at the table. “Welcome aboard, fellow juror,” he said.
“Thank you, partner.” She glanced at the trash can.
His eyebrows raised. “Partner?”
She smiled. He could fake all he wanted, but her meaning was clear. What they knew about each other made them partners, all right. Partners in crime.
A moment later, Larry escorted Dolores into the room. She collected her things and gave Christine a long hug. They traded contact information with promises to call and visit. Christine showed no remorse about having risked her new friend’s health.
Jesus. Either the friendship was a scam—just part of Christine’s plan—or it was real, and this was how she treated all of her friends.
Peter shivered. Maybe she had a plan for him, too.
Chapter 57
Christine took Dolores’s seat next to Larry in the jury box. Brenda Connelly reiterated the main points from her earlier remarks, then took a step toward the jury. “Much was made of Mr. Vasquez’s so-called motive in this case. We are told he had not one, but two: the jealous, jilted lover, and the threat of being deported. But on closer inspection, neither of these issues rises to the level of motive for murder.”
She took a sip of water and peeked at her notes. Peter shifted in his seat. This would be the heart of the defense’s argument. Come on, Connelly. Be convincing!
“First, as to his alleged rage over being the odd man out in this so-called love triangle involving Mr. Dark and Ms. Aguilar.” Connelly paced along the rail in front of the jury. “Now, did Raul Vasquez act the part of the enraged, love-torn man, desperate and violent? Would he have any reason to believe that killing Alvin Dark would preserve his chance for romance with Ms. Aguilar?” She shook her head. “The answers are, no and no.”
Peter shook his head. Not good enough. A murderer didn’t need to act the part, nor be convinced that killing the other man would win her back. This he knew all too well.
“Yes, they argued,” Connelly said, “but an exchange of words is far from murder. Several witnesses to these arguments testified that they saw no exchange of blows between these two men. Even an exchange of blows is a far cry from murder.
“Was this an argument headed toward a brutal murder? I ask you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is that what happens in your life?”
Yes. At least, once. His stomach tied itself in knots again. He pressed his palm against his abdomen to quell the turmoil.
“As to his so-called second motive—to avoid deportation—there is nothing to this story at all,” Connelly said. “First, Mr. Vasquez’s immigration caseworker testified, there were no problems in his papers, nothing wrong with his files. Second, none of it would threaten his immigration status. His marriage, employment, and location were already known to the INS.” She stole a quick glance at Dennis McCarthy, the red-haired INS agent, sitting in the back row of the gallery.
“Third, even if Alvin Dark did have some new secret information that would put Mr. Vasquez’s immigration in jeopardy, there is no evidence he shared it with him. If Mr. Vasquez didn’t know that Mr. Dark had such information, it could not have motivated him to kill him.”
Peter nodded. Good point. He’d press this one hard in jury deliberations.
“Nor did he have the opportunity, contrary to what the prosecution has claimed,” Connelly said. “The prosecutor provided no evidence he was ever at the scene of the crime.”
“Not true,” Sheila whispered. “The homeless man, Trey Jacobs, saw him there.”
Dammit! Another probable guilty vote. Connelly was losing them with her weak speech.
“Not only that.” Connelly took another tiny step toward the jury box. “Mr. Vasquez appeared at a public restaurant a few hours after the murder, still in the work clothes he’d been wearing since the night before. This was a brutal murder that sprayed blood in all directions. Surely some would have splattered onto the murderer. Yet the only thing on Mr. Vasquez’s white shirt was a few spots of food on it from his work at Florentino’s that night.
“If Mr. Vasquez was the killer, how could his shirt have escaped being stained with blood? The answer is, it could not have, because Raul Vasquez did not kill Alvin Dark.” She smacked her fist into her palm for emphasis, and paused to make eye contact with each juror. Peter avoided her intense stare. She didn’t seem to notice.
Connelly picked at the forensic evidence, calling it insufficient, then pleaded for the jurors to consider the terrible effect a wrongful conviction would have on Vasquez’s life. She closed with a simple appeal for them to remember their charge. “If there is no doubt in your mind, after all of this testimony, then I have failed my client, and for that I will go to my grave with shame. For he is an innocent man,” she said. “But if you harbor any doubts about his motive, his opportunity, or his ability to carry out this terrible act—if you see holes in the evidence that fail to convince you of his guilt—then you must vote ‘Not Guilty,’ and you must not convict him of this crime.”
Connelly delivered her final remark in a soft, serious tone. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you. May your own clear conscience guide your deliberations.”
Peter shifted in his seat. A clear conscience was the one thing he did not have.
Part 7
Jury Deliberations
Chapter 58
After Judge Green dismissed the final alternate, Jason, and provided final instructions to the jury, Jeff Williams led them to the jury room at 12:30. “We’ll provide box lunches for you,” he said, and passed out some paper menus. “You need to get yourselves organized, which essentially means, choose a lead juror—what we used to call a foreman.”
Larry raised his hand. “I’d be happy to do it.” He looked to Williams for support.
“That’s for all of you to decide, not me.” Williams explained a few more procedural issues and collected their menu selections. “I’ll get your lunches ordered. After that, I’ll be right outside the room here, in case you need anything.”
“Let’s give everyone a shot at the restroom first, shall we?” Stan said. A line formed with dispatch by the door.
Christine sat next to Peter at the far end of the room, toward the windows. “What are you thinking about?”
He shrugged and took a sip of water. “Same as everyone. Just wondering how this’ll go.”
She brushed her knee against his. “You seem to take this all so personally.”
“I’d say the same about you.” He raised an eyebrow and slid his knee aside, then regretted doing so. “You really wanted to be on this jury.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But I feel bad about Dolores. I’m going to visit her later in the hospital. They took her to Emmanuel.”
“Really?” Peter said. “That’s where Frankie is, too. Why there, I wonder?”
“I guess her doctor has a residency there. Anyway, that’s convenient. We can visit with each other a little, too, and maybe celebrate the end of the trial.” Her knee touched his again. This time he let it linger.
“That would be nice,” he said. “Maybe we can all come to a meeting of the minds this afternoon.”
She stood, leaned over him and whispered, “I’m sure you can be very persuasive.” Her gorgeous curves sashayed toward the restroom.
The jurors straggled back to the table one at a time. Christine sat across from him in the only open seat, with Alex at the end, between them. Larry, at the head of the table, spoke first. “Okay, let’s pick a leader. I’m willing. Anyone else?”
The other jurors exchanged silent glances. Betty George raised her hand. “I have a suggestion,” she said. “Since the defendant is Hispanic, perhaps Mr. Rodriguez should do it.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” said Kim Stillwater, a husky, forty-something native American woman seated next to Betty. Peter nearly fell off his chair. As far as he could remember, it was the first time she’d spoken above a whisper since voir dire.
Carlos cleared his throat. “I don’t need to be the lead juror,” he said, “but I am willing to serve in whatever capacity best serves the group.”
“Done!” Larry slapped the table. “I was hoping you’d volunteer.”
“Wait, wait,” Carlos said. “That’s not what I–”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Larry said. “You do it. That’s a great idea.”
“Please,” Carlos said. “We need to first find out who else might be interested. Then we should vote on it demo–”
“That’s fine, too,” Larry said. “Anyone else?”
“Would you please stop interrupting everyone?” Christine said. “If you’re going to run this meeting—and this is, after all, just a very long, serious meeting—you have to let people speak their piece.”
“I’m sorry,” Larry’s face flushed red. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Perhaps, Ms. Neilsen, with your professional experience, you’d like to take on the job.”
Peter caught Christine’s eye. Come on. Say yes.
“I think it’d be great to have a woman in charge,” Sheila said. “Besides, there are about an even number of men and women in here.”
“I don’t think there has to be any sort of quota,” Alex said. “Women, men, Hispanics—do we have a quota for students? If so, I’m in!” He grinned. Heavy sighs sounded all around the table.
“Christine, if you’re interested, you’ve got my vote,” Ellen said.
“Mine too,” Peter said.
“Oh, that’s a big surprise,” Alex said.
Christine glared at the big man and he seemed to shrink into his chair. She faced forward and leaned both elbows on the table. “Actually, I’d like to suggest Peter—ah, Mr. Robertson—as our lead juror.” She smiled sweetly at him, and her foot rested on his under the table.
Peter choked on his water. The lead juror role could give him greater control over the debate, but his already-jangled nerves would be even worse if he had to run this thing.
“Fabulous choice,” Ellen said. Christine made a nasty face at her. Whoa. A jealous Christine could be even more dangerous. Better to avoid that scene.
“No, thank you. I’m honored, but I’ll pass,” he said. “I think we should go back to square one. Who would like to be foreman?” He sipped again from his glass. His throat felt like desert sand, and the water helped settle his stomach.
This time, nobody raised a hand. “What’s the matter, Mr. Rogers?” Sheila said. “I thought you wanted to do it.”
“Nah.” He waved his hand, his usual boisterous cheer gone. “Maybe Christine’s right. Someone else should do it. How about you, Carlos?”
“I am willing,” he said, “if it is the pleasure of the group.”
“All in favor, say aye,” Stanley said. It was unanimous.
“Would you be willing to be my assistant?” Carlos asked Christine.
“I’d be happy to.” Christine lifted a conspiratorial eyebrow at Peter. He nodded. Good, good, good.
“Very well,” Carlos said. “Now, what I think we should do is discuss the evidence, and then see where we stand as to a verdict.”
“Why don’t we just take a vote?” said Cody Davis, the unemployed mill worker. “Maybe we’ll save ourselves a lot of time.”
