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

the jury who and what Dale Scott was, as it relates to the matter of his death, is character assassination?” Lily inquired.

“Never mind, Miss Burns,” the judge said. “The objection is overruled, but tread lightly.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Lily said and turned back to the witness.  “So, Chief McAllister,” she repeated for emphasis, “do you seriously believe -- do you seriously want this jury to believe, that beating up a hungry, homeless man badly enough to rupture his spleen and put him in the hospital just because he stole a turkey sandwich was just some minor mistake?”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but you have to understand,” McAllister tried to explain, even as he was trying to figure out how in the hell she knew about that, because they had done their best to keep it quiet, even to the point of shipping the indigent off to an out-of-town hospital.  “Being a law enforcement officer can be very stressful.”

“No doubt,” Lily was quick to agree.  “So tell us, aside from beating up on helpless people, how did Detective Scott deal with his stress?”

McAllister frowned.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“I mean, quite simply, what did he do to alleviate the terrible pressure that being a law enforcement officer put on him?”

“I still don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, let’s see -- did he drink to excess?” Lily explored.

“No, he didn’t.  I don’t think he drank to excess.”

“How about drugs -- did he use drugs?”

“Not that I was aware of.  No, of course not.”

“Are you sure about that?”

McAllister stiffened.  “I’m as sure as I have to be.  I can’t be expected to know what the man did every minute of every day he was on duty, or what he did when he wasn’t on duty, for that matter, but I can certainly testify that he never went out to work a shift either drunk or stoned.”

“Yet under direct examination, you said Detective Scott and his partner made their own hours,” Lily said, “so how can you be so sure?”

“Well, I meant on those occasions when I saw him, of course,” the chief amended.

“Of course.”

McAllister was clearly not happy.  “Look, Dale Scott was a police officer who did his job as best he could, and he paid for doing it with a bullet to the head.  To save your client, you’re trying to blacken his name, and frankly, I’m not going to help you do it.”

A big part of being a good trial attorney was knowing when to stop.  “I’m sure we all appreciate your loyalty,” Lily said, and sat down.

. . .

“I do believe we’ve found what we needed,” Joe announced when court had recessed for lunch, and Lily had returned to the Victorian to find him waiting.  “Dale did have a meet set up for Sunday night.”

Lily was elated.  “I take that to mean you found his connection?”

“Yes, I found him, and he told me, with just a little arm-twisting, that he and Dale had a meet in the alley set for midnight.”

“And ?”

“And according to him,” Joe continued, “he was running late, and by the time he got there, it was all over.  Dale was dead, and he has no idea who did it.”

“Do you believe him?”

“You mean, do I think he could have killed Dale?”

“Is it possible?”

The private investigator thought about it for a moment.  “It’s possible, I guess,” he said finally.  “He wasn’t particularly sad that Dale was dead.  But I think, if he had killed him, he wouldn’t have put himself at the scene, either before or after.  I think he would just have said there was no meet scheduled and left it at that.”

“Well, that doesn’t get us the witness we were hoping for,” Lily said, “but it does give us the drug angle, and with it, a motive for self-defense.”  She sighed.  “He won’t testify, will he?”

“Of course not,” Joe said.

“Any way we can compel him?”

Joe shrugged.  “I doubt it,” he said.  “No reason in the world why he should, and every reason why he shouldn’t.”

. . .

“The people call Detective Randy Hitchens to the stand,” John Henry intoned when the lunch break was over and court had resumed.

The thirty-six-year-old detective strode into the courtroom and down the aisle to the witness box.  He was not a particularly big man, standing about five foot nine inches tall and weighing around one hundred and seventy pounds, but he was in excellent physical condition.

Above his pale blue eyes was a shock of sandy hair not yet beginning to thin.  There was a boyishness that seemed to cling to him, an air of innocence that might have been inconsistent with his position as an ex-Marine and a law enforcement officer, but it allowed people to feel comfortable with him and to trust him.

He had done six years in the Marines before concluding that a military career really wasn’t the career he wanted.  So he came back home to Renton, did a couple of years at a community college and then entered the police academy in Burien.  After earning his certificate, he sent his resume off to a dozen different police departments in the area.

The new police chief of a small city in the northwestern part of the state that was enjoying a pretty decent economy and a corresponding growth in population, and was looking to expand his department, was the first to respond.  For the past nine years, six as a patrolman and now almost three as a detective, it had been a good fit.  At least, neither side had yet to voice any opinion to the contrary.

He was single.  He had begun a two-year affair with a female officer soon after joining the department that ended when she relocated to New Mexico, and then he had enjoyed an on-again-off-again relationship with another officer who had moved to Idaho just six months ago.  Now he spent his off-duty time pumping iron at the local gym, hanging out at the bars along upper Broad Street, and restoring a vintage