Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

you must find that she killed her father with premeditation. And then the judge will define that term. 'Killing with premeditation is killing after consciously deciding to do so.' I suggest to you now that the evidence will show that my client did not consciously form such an intent."

The jurors looked puzzled. Who could blame them? I sounded like a hairsplitting pettifogger. Better to play to my strength, my beautiful and presumably innocent client.

"You will learn much about Chrissy Bernhardt in the course of this trial. You will learn about her upbringing and about her invalid mother, about why Chrissy left home as a teenager, refusing to ask her father for support, even refusing to tell him where she was."

Chrissy, Chrissy, Chrissy. Making her sound like a child, even now.

"You will learn that there are two victims of this tragic incident."

Making it sound like an accident.

I moved close to the jury box and gave its occupants my sincere look. "This is a hallowed proceeding, the ultimate in our democracy." I turned and rested a hand on the back of the witness chair. "Here, truth and nothing but the truth is acceptable. Nothing less than complete, unvarnished, untainted truth should be acceptable to you. If lies, fabrications, and falsehoods come from this chair, this throne of truth, if any doubts are raised as to the guilt of Chrissy Bernhardt, you must acquit."

If the glove doesn't fit . . .

"Objection," Socolow said. "This isn't closing argument."

The judge waved him off without a word. I seldom object during opening statement or closing argument. In my old game, when you throw the ball, three things can happen, two of them bad. Same thing here. Object during opening, the judge is likely to overrule you or ignore you.

I rambled on for a while, telling the jurors I was their taxi driver, and we were going to take a trip of discovery, learning the facts as we went. But it was a bumpy road filled with potholes and dangerous curves. I spoke in vague terms, hinting at the sexual abuse without saying it. I never mentioned Dr. Lawrence Schein by name, but as I stood there, skimming my notes, watching for jurors' eye contact, occasionally scanning the gallery where crime reporter Britt Montero was taking notes, it occurred to me that I didn't have a choice. I had to put Schein on the stand. He had become the enemy. He could cast doubt on the memories he had uncovered, hurt us with the tape that showed premeditation, and toss out any number of lies I wouldn't be prepared for. But I didn't have anything else. If I could prove he'd had a motive to kill Harry Bernhardt, I could put the gun in his hands. To have a chance, I had to destroy him. Anything less, and he would destroy us.

23

Javert and Finch

A good prosecutor is a careful carpenter building a bookshelf. He saws a sure cut, hammers the nails straight, and hangs the shelves in plumb. Nothing fancy. The goal is to build the case slowly, competently. No razzle, no dazzle. No missing pieces.

A good prosecutor does not ask questions without knowing the likely answers. He does not ask a defendant to try on a pair of gloves that may not fit. He is a solid fullback, not a dipsy-doo wide receiver. The path to the end zone is a straight line if you don't fumble.

Abe Socolow is a master of his craft. His strength is his burning desire to win. He is fueled by a righteous indignation toward those miscreants who dare violate the law, and he takes seriously his role as representative of the people.

As a career prosecutor, Abe is not looking for a cushy job in private practice or an appointment to the bench. He wants to do what he always has done: get in early, work like hell, eat a brown-bag lunch, work some more, and, by the end of the day, ship another criminal upstate.

Abe sees the world in stark contrasts. Good and evil are painted in white and black, to hell with shades of gray. A defendant had a shitty childhood. Tell it to the prison chaplain. Drugs made you a robber or a rapist. Fine, we've got the cure, and it's not hugs and therapy. When the law has been broken, justice demands a penalty. It's as simple as that, and most folks in this great land of ours would agree.

Even me. Unless I'm representing the lawbreaker. Then my duty is different. It's not to society as a whole, or to the victims, or to abstract notions of justice. My loyalty belongs solely to my client, and I'll ford the deep rivers where the current is swift if it will save the poor soul whose fate is entrusted to me.

So our roles are clearly defined, Abe's and mine. From my days as a drama student and woeful actor, I sometimes cast friends and foes in various productions. If you were casting Les Miz, Abe Socolow would be a perfect Javert, the relentless arm of retributive justice. And me?

All defense lawyers see themselves as Atticus Finch, standing tall before a jury, pleading for—no, demanding—justice. But few of us look like or sound like Gregory Peck, and our clients are hardly virtuous, so there is little social utility in beating the rap. It's an ethical conundrum, this duty to the individual that conflicts with the rights of society. Do your job well enough and you've returned a killer, rapist, or robber to his chosen line of work. Fail, and you've done society a favor.

On direct examination, Abe Socolow stayed out of the way. He stood at the end of the jury box and asked his questions simply and directly. His witnesses were well prepared, concise, and matter-of-fact. Johnny Fiore, the bartender at Paranoia, used to work at the Delano Hotel, just up the street. He was a short, muscular man in his late twenties with