A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

long body from the chair.  The chain around his waist that was attached to his leg irons was hidden beneath his suit coat, but the jury could hear the jangling as he rose.

“Unless the prosecutor is unwilling to take my word for it, Your Honor,” Lily addressed the bench, “I would like it noted for the record that Jason Lightfoot is six feet four inches tall, and at the time of Dale Scott’s death, weighed one hundred and seventy-two pounds.”

“So noted,” Grace Pelletier said.

Lily turned to the witness.  “How tall are you, Mr. Thurman?”

“I’m five-foot-eleven.”

“Close enough,” she said.  “Your Honor, may I ask that the witness be allowed to step down and stand in front of the jury, and that the defendant be allowed to approach?”

“Objection!” John Henry cried, jumping to his feet.  “For what possible purpose does defense counsel seek to divert the jury’s attention by engaging in some kind of courtroom theatrics?”

“Miss Burns?” the judge inquired.

“If the police and the prosecutor’s office had done their jobs properly, Your Honor,” Lily replied, “there would have been a trajectory analysis performed, and no need for me to have to demonstrate what I now feel I have to demonstrate for the jury.”

“I object to that, too,” John Henry declared.  “It’s not up to opposing counsel to tell us what our jobs are or how we’re supposed to do them.”

“The first objection is overruled, the second is sustained,” the judge ordered.  “The witness may step down and the defendant may approach.”

The prosecuting attorney quietly fumed.  The deputy prosecuting attorney frowned.  The defense attorney swallowed a smile.  The crime scene analyst stepped down from the witness box.

“Now, sir,” Lily directed, “will you be kind enough to face the jury and assume the position you have testified that Detective Scott was in at the time he was shot.”

Fletcher Thurman went down on his knees, wrapped his arms around his midsection, and hunched over.  “Judging from the way he fell, and from the position of his arms and legs,” he explained, “I concluded that the victim was in this position when he was shot.”

“Like you are now?” Lily asked.

“Yes,” Thurman confirmed.  “He had abrasions on his face, and deep bruises on his chest and abdomen, meaning he was likely in some pain from the beating he sustained, and was likely trying to protect himself in what the medical examiner calls an upright fetal position.”

“All right,” Lily said, having first-hand knowledge of precisely what the analyst was talking about.  She walked over to the evidence table and picked up Dale Scott’s Sig Sauer P250.  Even unloaded, the weapon was heavy.  She turned to her client.  “Jason, I’d like you to come over here and stand to the left side of Mr. Thurman.”

His chains clanking, Jason stepped out from behind the defense table and shuffled awkwardly across the room.

“That’s good,” Lily said when he reached the appropriate spot.  She reached out and handed him the gun, noticing as she did so that several members of the jury instinctively shrank back.  “Now, will you please point the gun at Mr. Thurman’s head, as though you intended to shoot him just above the left ear.”

The Indian raised the gun slowly, awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable to be holding the weapon, almost to the point of being unsure how to hold it, which was also noted by some of the jurors.  As he pointed the dead policeman’s weapon at the analyst’s head, it became clear, not just to the jurors, but to just about everyone in the courtroom that, had he fired the fatal bullet from a standing position, as the prosecutor claimed he had, it would not have entered Dale Scott’s brain at all -- it would have gone almost straight down through Dale Scott’s jaw.

“All right, Jason, now hunch over a bit, and try again,” Lily instructed.

Although the position was quite painful to his bad leg, Jason hunched over as best he could, and then grit his teeth and forced himself to go down even further, but nothing he tried fit the angle that the witness had described.

“I’m sorry, Jason, but I’m going to have to ask you to kneel beside the witness.”

“I can’t” the defendant said.  “I got a bum leg.  Can’t bend it much more’n it already is.  It already hurts like hell.  Can’t put much weight on it, either.”

Lily frowned for the jury.  “You’re physically unable to fully kneel?”

“On both knees -- yeah.”

“Objection!” John Henry cried.  “Your Honor, the defendant is testifying!”

Lily turned to the judge.  “If necessary,” she said, “I can have a doctor come into court and testify that Jason Lightfoot’s right leg was smashed in an accident ten years ago, and put back together with steel rods and pins.  He can bend it only slightly, he can’t tolerate much weight on it, and I defy anyone to assume a kneeling position where one leg doesn’t have to bend very much or carry any weight.”

“Your Honor, now she’s testifying!” John Henry protested.

Grace Pelletier banged her gavel.  The clock on the wall above her head read: 11:40.  “It’s almost time for lunch,” she declared.  “Court will be in recess until two o’clock.  I admonish the jury not to discuss this case amongst yourselves or with anyone else.”  She glared at the attorneys.  “In my chambers!” she ordered.

. . .

“Your Honor, the defense is attempting to prejudice the jury,” John Henry complained, the moment he and Lily had been ushered into the judge’s chambers that were located just behind the courtroom, and the judge had shut the door.

“On the contrary, Your Honor,” Lily argued.  “The prosecution has now presented two witnesses that claim to know exactly how the murder took place.  I’m simply trying to demonstrate to the jury that the defendant couldn’t possibly have done it the way Mr. Morgan chooses to believe he did.”

“I want a mistrial,” the prosecutor declared angrily.

“You’re not getting any mistrial, Mr. Morgan,” the judge informed him.  “Miss Burns, I assume you can, in fact, produce a witness that will testify