She took another deep breath. While not as smooth as the prosecutor, she spoke from the heart, and she hoped that it showed. Regardless of how bleak the case or how unsavory the client, she had never knowingly lied to a jury. She had to make them understand that. Not by what she said with her mouth. By what she said with her eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I fear this is likely to be a long case, a complex one, tiring and confusing and, in the end, difficult to resolve. But I can tell you these two things for certain. First, the burden of proof is on the prosecution, to prove not that the senator was a bad person, but that he committed murder. And I can tell you one other thing. No matter what happens, no matter how bleak the outlook, no matter what evidence is revealed-I will not lie to you. We, the defense, will not lie to you. Not a fib, not a white lie, not an exaggeration, not the slightest little taradiddle. We don’t have to. The prosecution cannot prove that Todd Glancy committed this murder.” She paused. “Because he didn’t.”
“Whoa, whoa, pilgrim, let’s calm down now,” Loving said, staring at the switchblade pressed against his larynx. “No need to get excited. You didn’t tell me this was urgent.”
“Stop messing with me!” The man brought his free hand around and clubbed Loving on the side of his head. It stung-especially given that his head was already pounding-but it didn’t hurt nearly as much as it might’ve. “Make no mistake, you pissant, I will cut your throat if you don’t tell me what I want to know. Who hired you?”
Loving answered, but his response was so quiet the man couldn’t make it out. Instinctively, he leaned in closer.
And that was when Loving whipped his free arm around and clubbed the man on the side of the head. He tumbled backward. Loving grabbed his right hand, pressed his thumb down on the pressure point of the man’s wrist. His fingers flew open and Loving grabbed the knife. Before the man had a chance to recover, Loving had cut himself free from the chair. The man tried to scramble back to his feet but Loving, hunched over him and empowered with the knife, held him down with one hand. “Not so fast, buckaroo,” Loving said, shoving his face to the floor. “You know, I don’t mind being questioned. Pretty much comes with the job. Sometimes I even answer. But I do mind having a knife pressed against my throat. Even if you didn’t have the balls to cut me, you could’ve done serious damage just by accident.”
The man squirmed under the weight of Loving’s arm, but he couldn’t get loose. Couldn’t even come close.
“Might as well give it up,” Loving said. “I don’t need duct tape to keep you in line.” He grabbed the man’s collar and jerked him semi-upright. “Now, what’s the big idea-clubbin’ me over the head and tyin’ me up?”
“I-I-I needed to know what you know. About Amber.”
“And for that you were gonna slice me?”
“I needed to know why you were looking for her. I needed to know… anything about her. Everything about her.”
“Why?”
“Why should I tell you?” the man said, finding a sudden reservoir of defiance.
“Because I’m the guy holdin’ the knife now,” Loving replied. “And I’m not afraid to use it. So here’s your last chance, Buster Brown. Why were you pumpin’ me for information about Amber?”
“Because-Because-” The man closed his eyes, swallowed. “Because I’m looking for her, too.”
“And why are you looking for her?”
The man collapsed, his eyes watering up, his whole face transforming from anger to the darkest despair. “Because she’s my daughter.”
“I thought that went rather well,” Marshall Bressler told Ben as he wheeled his chair toward a table in the rear of the courthouse cafeteria. Judge Herndon had called for a two-hour lunch break before the prosecution called its first witness. They had intentionally chosen a remote table at the far end of the room; they didn’t want anyone, press or otherwise, eavesdropping. “I was surprised when you chose to let your partner deliver the opening, but she was a quite effective speaker.”
“I thought Christina was awesome,” Shandy said, her blond hair bobbing with youthful admiration. “Every time I stand up in front of a crowd of three people or more, I fall apart at the seams.”
“Christina is full of surprises, that much is certain. It was a strategy call,” Ben said. And the strategy was-don’t give the opening if you can’t think of one. “Christina has only been out of law school a few years, but she’s light-years ahead of most, including some who’ve practiced longer than I’ve been alive.”
“I don’t doubt it. Pardon me.” Marshall popped two blue pills in his mouth, then took a swig from a Styrofoam cup. “It’s for the pain. Little reminder from my accident. Anyway, I thought the opening was a major success. Made a real impact on the jury.”
“Unfortunately, I have to disagree.” Amanda Burton swirled up to them, a whirlwind with a clipboard. “I just caught the latest poll reports on CNN. They replayed the openings word for word, using actors reading transcripts. Subsequent surveys indicated that while most Americans thought Senator Glancy had hired himself some good attorneys, nothing that was said changed their minds.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ben said. “No one wants to admit to a pollster that they were swayed by something a lawyer said. Our national cynicism toward the legal profession runs too deep. Nonetheless, in the courtroom, with a real live sequestered jury, it may be a different story.”
Amanda shook her head, making an irritating, disdainful noise with her lips. “That’s not what any of my research data indicate. We’ve seen no movement.”
“Meaning-?”
“Meaning nothing you’ve done so far has changed the opinion of the general populace regarding the senator’s guilt or innocence. And as you well know, every poll taken since the crime occurred has indicated that a plurality of Americans believe he is probably guilty.”
“Again,” Ben insisted, “being on a jury is entirely different from being quizzed by an anonymous pollster. ‘Probably guilty’ doesn’t cut it in the courtroom, especially not when the attorneys are ramming ‘guilty beyond a reasonable doubt’ down your throat. Jurors don’t have the luxury of indulging in cynicism or first impressions. They have to weigh the evidence.”
“If jurors are human beings,” Amanda insisted testily, “and although I did not attend law school, I believe that they are-then they are just as subject to bias and character assassination as anyone. Not to mention stupidity.”
“I think juries get a bad rap,” Ben shot back. “My experience is that whether they’re manual laborers or rocket scientists, most jurors pay close attention and try to do the right thing.”
“And my experience,” Amanda said, now speaking in a tone that could be described as downright nasty, “is that most people are drones with no minds of their own who have to be told what the ‘right thing to do’ is. My sources indicate that we’re not achieving that goal. Your entire approach to this case has been misguided. You’ve got a confused, incoherent farrago of highbrow theories that no one understands. You need to get down and dirty. You need to hit this upcoming cop witness and hit him hard.”
“That would be a major tactical error.”
She pounded her fists against her forehead. “God! I told Todd not to let you run this thing. Why is it he always listens to me-except when it really matters? You cannot go back into that courtroom with some mousy milquetoast cross-examination. You have to come on strong.”
“That is, quite frankly, exactly wrong. The attack-dog approach will turn off the jurors, especially with a police witness.”
“I’m not asking, Kincaid. I’m telling.”
“Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your boss’s defense?”
“All I’m trying to do is prevent this case from becoming a complete PR disaster.”