The plinko bounce, p.20
The Plinko Bounce, page 20
“Here we go,” he said aloud—even though he was alone in his office—on Tuesday afternoon, only hours before the trial began. He picked up the receiver. His palms were damp. A dose of adrenaline pinched his belly.
“Andy, it’s Stella,” she said. “Mr. Morley wanted me to let you know we haven’t made any progress. We’re stuck. We’re too far apart, even if you and your client would agree to accept ten years, which I understand is a difficult sell for you. Our final package would be forty years, fifteen to serve on second degree, the balance suspended on the condition of probation for the rest of his life. We’re all for him pulling the last two years in the drug-treatment program at Indian Creek. You and I would simply note on the record we both expect him to receive the full, remaining twenty-five years if he violates his probation in any form or fashion.”
“That’s a reasonable, fair offer,” Andy told her. “Appreciate it. A reasonable defendant would accept it. Damian’s not reasonable these days. Of course, I’ll convey the terms to him. He’ll reject the deal.” Andy noticed how still and quiet the building was. The bustle and commotion and hallway traffic were suddenly, oddly gone. A light snow had turned to a nasty rain, and he heard car tires cutting through slush on the street outside his window. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Stella. Good luck.”
“You and Vikram have been real pros—good luck to you as well. Never know what a jury’ll do.”
“Oh,” he said. “You got the batch of emails from Mrs. Benson’s account, right? The info we subpoenaed. I mentioned them to Pete. I copied you with the three we plan to introduce as evidence.”
“We have them,” she answered. “Thanks.” She briefly paused. “Let us know if your client changes his mind. The deal’s available until we start the case.”
“I will. But I’m pretty certain we’re headed for a trial.” He disconnected Stella, then phoned Bullins at the jail. He communicated the commonwealth’s offer to his client, and Bullins barely allowed him to finish before speaking.
“No,” Bullins declared. “Nope. Hell no. No way. I’m innocent, and the Lord is gonna deliver me. Well, with some help from his disciple Andy Hughes. I trust you. We’re gonna beat this. I’ll be a free man in a few days.”
“Let me remind you one last time, Damian—fifteen years is a whole lot better than life. They’ve made us a damn fair offer.”
“I saw you on TV, takin’ up for me. Thanks. You’re a good man. It’s cool how famous I’ve gotten. That’ll help us. Has to. You wouldn’t believe how many ladies want to meet me once I’m released. I’m seein’ some incredible letters and pictures from nice, respectable women, school teachers and corporate vice presidents.”
“‘Infamous’ might be a better word choice, Damian. As for the women, perhaps you could have your beloved fiancée help you respond to all the fantastic mail. She could address envelopes for you.” He heard a car horn blow, and the rain came harder and the wind whipped it against the window glass, turning the view briefly opaque. “See you in court.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Because of the pandemic, the Patrick County courtroom had been overhauled for Bullins’s trial. Richmond finally approved a safety plan that jigsawed the room with plexiglass dividers and wide yellow tape, and the jury was seated in the gallery, while five randomly selected members of the press—six feet apart and separated by the clear shields—filled in the former jury box. The witness stand was reversed to face the gallery and the jurors. Squirt bottles of hand sanitizer were everywhere, and only testifying witnesses and speaking lawyers were allowed to remove their masks for any length of time. Several fans pushed around the boiler-heated indoor air. A deputy periodically sprayed surfaces with disinfectant, and by nine thirty the whole joint smelled of bleach.
Andy learned early in his career that jury trials can be determined before the lawyers give opening statements or a single witness testifies, that honest people often see the world differently—there are forgivers and there are punishers, loophole sticklers and believers in rough justice, and no matter how much the judge talks about reasonable doubt or burdens of proof or presumptions of innocence, a defendant, to have any kind of not-guilty shot, needs a few jurors with open minds and sympathetic natures. Lawyer craft is no match for dreadnought biases or instincts hardwired over the course of decades.
The trial began on time, and Andy was apprehensive as he watched the clerk reach into an old wooden box at five minutes past nine o’clock and withdraw a random name. He was relieved when she announced the first prospective juror, Herman Akers, a retiree from Critz. She continued pulling out folded slips and reading names aloud, and Andy couldn’t believe what was happening: The next nineteen people drawn—by lot, purely by chance—were impossibly favorable to Damian Bullins. Andy had rated every person on the list from A to F, and the first group of men and women was an all-star team for the defense, an incredible sixteen A’s, three B’s and a single C. Superstitious, he didn’t turn the page in his pad or let go of his pen until the clerk finished and closed the box’s lid.
Bullins was a pleasant, well-behaved defendant. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a gray suit—purchased by his aunt and girlfriend—a light blue shirt and a nice tie. He made occasional eye contact with the twenty potential jurors, but just like he and Andy had practiced, he never stared. He kept his hands quiet, and he chuckled at a panel member’s corny joke about the local weather. He didn’t look or act like a killer, and when the judge asked him to walk toward the center of the room and remove his mask so the jurors could see if they recognized him or had any relationship with him, he was shy and worried and innocent, a schoolboy being introduced to the principal on the first day of classes. “Being a sociopath has its advantages,” Vikram whispered as they watched Bullins’s spot-on performance.
Morley was full of strut and bombast and dotted with hair product, and he wore his American flag mask as well as an American flag lapel pin, prompting Ted Utley to observe “a pair of flag socks would give the stupid clown a patriotic trifecta.” However, the commonwealth’s attorney was now prepared and competent. Lynn’s spoon-feeding and Stella Hespell’s diligence and smarts had transformed him. Stella was a game-changer for her boss—she’d been raised in the county adjacent to Dunford, graduated from Yale Law, and declined golden tickets and six-figure salaries so she could return home and make her mark in a poor, rural region where no one who looked like her had ever been seated at the prosecutor’s table.
The sheriff and his staff had helped Morley vet the jury list, and after the initial twenty citizens were assembled to be questioned about their impartiality and understanding of the law, Andy noticed Morley flash Stella a how-the-hell-did-this-happen look. Nevertheless, he was confident and conversational as he ticked off his voir dire questions, and he couldn’t help himself and hammed it up when a lady mentioned she’d seen his campaign ads on TV.
“Did you win?” she inquired. “We aren’t in your district down here.”
“I did,” he replied. “The Good Lord and the voters evidently decided I’d earned their trust.”
Andy asked only basic questions, and he finished by planting the early seeds of Bullins’s defense. A pair of pedestal fans low-humming behind him, he addressed the twenty people seated in the gallery and informed them his client might not testify. “Near the end of this case,” he explained, “Judge Leventis will tell you, will instruct you, Mr. Bullins is under no obligation to take the stand. That’s the law. Mr. Bullins doesn’t have to prove anything, and he’s presumed innocent. While that’s the law, I understand it might be difficult for some of you to follow. You might want to hear Mr. Bullins testify, even though he has a Constitutional right not to. No worries if you think it’s unfair or you can’t commit to honor this part of our Constitution—we just need to know before we get started. Can you follow this important legal rule?”
The group murmured okays and yeses, and a younger lady who was employed as an IT tech at a call center said firmly, “I’ll apply the law,” and then a man in jeans and a bulky sweater raised his hand.
“Yes, sir,” Andy acknowledged him. “I believe you’re Mr. Morris, from Woolwine. Morning to you.”
“Mornin’ to you, sir,” Morris replied. He’d also responded to a couple of Morley’s inquiries. “If the judge tells me to do it, okay, I will, but well, you know, I couldn’t help but think in the corner of my mind, if I was innocent, why wouldn’t I want to say so?”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Andy remarked. He stepped closer to the railing that separated the gallery.
“Y’all swore me to answer your questions truthfully,” Morris volunteered, “and I’ll try to uphold the laws for jury duty, anybody would, but I thought I ought to mention this ’cause it was kinda naggin’ at me.”
Andy moved to his left so Morris’s clear divider wasn’t between them. “I’ll be glad to answer your very reasonable question as best I can. We believe we’ll be able to present our defense, our facts, through the commonwealth’s own witnesses and through other independent evidence. We believe you’ll have all the details of Mr. Bullins’s account, his full story, without him having to testify.”
“Okay,” Morris said from his seat on the second row. “Sure.”
Andy gestured at Peter Morley. “More to the point, my friend Mr. Morley is a senator-elect who graduated at the top of his law-school class. He’s one of the most famous lawyers in the state. His colleague, Ms. Hespell, graduated from Yale. She’s a gifted attorney, probably brighter than I am. My client has a high-school diploma. Honestly, I worry about him being nervous and winding up lawyer-tricked by some of the most skilled professionals I’ve ever met and leaving you with a wrong impression. If we can tell you Damian’s story accurately without taking that risk, I’ve advised him to stay put right here with me. We want you to have the truth, and his testifying might not help accomplish our goal. If my client can catch his lunch from the pier, I don’t want him swimming with sharks.” Several jurors laughed, and Andy put his hands in his pockets. “So…can I count on you, Mr. Morris, to go by what Judge Leventis tells you?”
“You can, yep. Thanks for answerin’ my question.”
The majority of the initial twenty people made it through the questioning and indicated they’d be objective and could come to court for each day of the trial. Ultimately, forty-seven Patrick County residents were examined by Judge Leventis and the lawyers, and by late afternoon, Damian Bullins had his jury, fourteen men and women, the required twelve plus two alternates.
Kellie spent the night at Andy’s, and she gave him a final critique of his opening statement, and when she asked if he’d have trouble sleeping, he told her he’d rest just fine, that he always slept well before important trials. At ten thirty, they were in his bed, and she was lying with her cheek on his chest, her leg straddling his, their breathing almost in rhythm. He’d plugged in Patches’s mat, petted him goodnight, and left him, as always, with his muzzle at the threshold of this heated house, alert and keeping watch, Zeb McAlexander’s vagabond sidekick, still averse to staying inside unless he was at the foot of Noah’s counterpane. Andy sensed Kellie shift, and he was barely awake, drifting and blurry, and suddenly he popped open his eyes and blurted, “Damnit. Damn.”
“What?” Kellie asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I promised DeMarcus I’d speak to this big-wheel journalist, a guy named Fredericks, and kind of give him an exclusive quote every day. D believes the publicity will be invaluable and also thinks this Fredericks fellow will do a feature piece on me and my plans to land at Harold, Edwards and Slate. I forgot. I need to at least send a text.”
“Oh, okay. You scared me.” She elbowed him. “The price of fame. You and Peter the Great locking horns. Godzilla versus Megalon.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ancient heating system rioted during the night, and the courtroom was hot and stifling the next morning, seventy-seven degrees, and even with the air conditioner switched on, it was still sweltering when Peter Morley gave his opening statement. Judge Leventis allowed the lawyers to remove their suit jackets, so Morley spoke to the jury in a vest and pressed white shirt. His stage makeup was gone, a wise, obvious choice, but the watch chain and monogrammed French cuffs remained part of his shtick. He was polished, personable, and adored the spotlight, and he was always keenly aware of the pool TV camera.
Morley immediately had a difficult decision to make about Cole Benson’s affair and how thoroughly, if at all, he should address the adultery and Bullins’s claim he was duped by the real killer. Focusing too much on the defendant’s version of events gave the story instant credibility; ignoring it might cause Morley to appear as if he were hiding the truth. He began by quoting Thomas Jefferson and John Adams on the importance of jury service, then he ably highlighted the commonwealth’s anticipated evidence, described the video of Bullins entering the house and leaving, waved around the DNA report, and promised to scientifically demonstrate that the blood on the defendant’s pants came from the deceased, Mrs. Alicia Benson. “Blood doesn’t lie,” he proclaimed. “But better yet, we literally have the murderer caught on video.”
He didn’t explicitly mention Cole Benson’s affair or Bullins’s defense. Near the end of his remarks, though, he did suggest, with pitch-perfect dismay in his voice, the defendant, as defendants are wont to do, was liable to throw the kitchen sink into evidence, or to fabricate who-knows-what self-serving lie, or to try the old trick of blaming others as a distraction, and he urged the jurors to always test these flimflams against their common sense. “Your common sense,” he repeated. He concluded by thanking the jurors for their attention and rejoined Stella at the commonwealth’s table.
“Thank you, Mr. Morley,” the judge said when he was finished. “Opening statement, please, Mr. Hughes.”
Andy greeted the judge and jurors with a simple “good morning,” and he acknowledged Morley and Stella, and he told the jurors he appreciated their service and sacrifice. After the formalities and pleasantries, he was intentionally mute—almost a minute passed—while he turned his head and traced from left to right, making eye contact with each man and woman waiting to hear from him.
“I doubt you’ll run across many defense lawyers who’ll tell you this from the get-go,” he finally said, “but my client is in fact guilty. He’s just not guilty of murdering Alicia Benson. He’s guilty of attempting to help his son, he’s guilty of stupidity, he’s guilty of a dying man’s desperation, he’s guilty of being manipulated by a powerful adulterer, and legally speaking, he’s probably guilty of obstruction of justice—he intentionally hindered the commonwealth’s investigation of this crime.”
Andy hadn’t removed his jacket, and now he took it off and draped it across the chair in the witness stand. “Here’s what Mr. Bullins did, why he did it, and the evidence that’ll convince you we’re telling the absolute truth.” Andy recited Damian’s story, and every time he had the opportunity, he buttressed his words by mentioning the medical reports, or the Nephi26 check, or the email to Benson, or Heather Farris, or Alicia Benson’s forlorn messages to her husband, or Vince Christopher, the forensic expert. He ended the defense’s account by describing Bullins’s arrest at his own small camper, “Damian, meek as a lamb, conveniently still dressed in the bloody pants.” He glanced at Morley. “We also would encourage you to please rely on your common sense,” Andy reiterated to the jurors.
He collected his suit coat, put it on, and faced the panel. “A last thought about common sense. At the end of this case, I’ll ask you to reflect on two things. Number one, I’ll ask you to consider what motive my client had to murder Mrs. Benson and what motive Mr. Benson had to murder Mrs. Benson.” Andy’s lapel was slightly amiss, and he smoothed it flat. “Also, please be thinking about this as we explore Mr. Bullins’s guilt or innocence: Why do people kill other people? In my experience, there’re two main motives for virtually every murder. Thanks, and I look forward to working with you on this important case.”
Vikram complimented him when he sat down at counsel table. “Nicely done,” he said.
Andy took the measure of his fourteen-person audience, observing them without being too apparent about it. He could tell from their expressions and reactions they were, so far, inclined to give Bullins a fair shake. The fantastical defense was no longer crazy, jailbird junk. The black robe, the rituals, the suits and ties, the formal portraits of dead judges hung along the wall, the oak benches and intricate woodwork, the high plaster ceiling, the juror oaths and the soft, murky lighting—the reach and gravity of this ancient place were beginning to work alchemy on a lie.
The commonwealth called the coroner as its first witness, and Morley took him through several topics and offered Mrs. Benson’s autopsy report as an exhibit. Andy didn’t ask any questions and didn’t object to the jury considering the report. According to the doctor, Alicia Benson’s death was a homicide. He also described the bruising and contusion on her abdomen as being consistent with a recent to kick to her stomach.
“Oh, Dr. Lane,” Andy said as the coroner was snapping shut his briefcase, “I almost forgot. Time of death please, sir, in your opinion as the expert who performed the autopsy.”
Dr. Lane left his briefcase closed. He was balding, with a gray goatee, his speech brisk and clipped. “Based on body temperature, rigor mortis and the lividity, I’d put the time of death between noon to two thirty p.m. on May fifth, 2020.”
Coy Hubbard had retrieved the surveillance video from the Benson house, and he was the next witness, sat on the stand in full brown uniform as the recording played for the jury and they saw Bullins enter the home and then rush out minutes later. An enlargement of a frame showed red droplets on his pants. Hubbard also gave the jury pictures of the crime scene, Mrs. Benson dead on the bloody floor, one eye completely sealed, the other slitted and fixed, her drained lips separated as if she’d died struggling to speak. In the last photograph, the camera angle made an apple appear to float in a pool of red.
