The Jury Read online

  Vague sensations moved through her body, as if it belonged to someone else. The last sharp note, metal banging on the hardwood floor, as a shiny piece of brass bounced coming from somewhere high over her. It came to rest a few inches from her nose. Each of her pupils opened like the aperture of a camera moving toward full dilation; the last image of focused memory was of her own key lying on the floor.

  chapter

  one

  i notice one of the jurors, a middle-aged guy, taking his time, carefully studying one of the photographs of the victim. The message from prosecutors is clear—Kalista Jordan was an African-American beauty, a woman with a lifetime of opportunities ahead of her. But she was not just some pretty face. She was a professional woman with a Ph.D. in an exotic field of modern science.

  In the photo, she is smiling with two girlfriends on a sunny beach. Jordan is wearing a two-piece bathing suit, a sky blue sarong wrapped low over curving hips, dipping into a V beneath her navel where it is tucked. A sculpted bronze thigh escapes through a slit in the sarong on the right side. Someone out of the photograph, a shadow on the sand, is taking the picture.

  It is in stark contrast to the medical examiner’s postmortem shots. As these make their way through the jury box, they leave a wake of increasingly nauseated expressions like a contagion spreading through the panel. Several of the jurors cast their gazes alternately between the photographs and my client, as if trying to put him in the picture.

  In the autopsy photos Jordan’s face is swollen almost beyond recognition. The dark purple of asphyxiation is trapped beneath the skin by the thin nylon ligature that is still buried in the flesh around her neck. What is left of the body, only the torso and head, is bloated after nearly a week in salt water. The arms and legs are gone. We could argue sharks, but the medical examiner’s report is clear on that point; the victim was surgically dismembered, the legs and arms severed cleanly at the joints, “with apparent skill and medical precision.” The prosecutor took pains to dwell on the word medical.

  We have argued for two days in chambers over these photographs, which should be admitted and which excluded. For the most part, the state got what it wanted—images of enough violence to support their theory that this was a crime of rage.

  Harry Hinds and I are relative newcomers to the legal scene in San Diego, though the firm of Madriani & Hinds has made a name for itself in a short period. We still hold forth in Capital City on occasion, Harry and I traveling north for a trial or a hearing. Two younger associates hold down the fort at that end while Harry and I dig to carve out a presence here. The change in scenery was occasioned by a number of factors, not the least of which was the passing of Nikki, my wife, who died four years ago of cancer.

  It was that experience, a long brush with illness, fearing the worst and living in its grip, that caused me to take this case, for my client is a man of science who offered help to another. It is how I got drawn into this thing.

  Dr. David Crone is beefy, broad from the shoulders down, built like a retired NFL linebacker past his prime. He is a big man, only an inch or so shorter than I, and fit. At fifty-six, he does not look his age. In shirtsleeves he shows more hair on his arms and chest than the average chimpanzee. Around a pool some might ask who opened the gate and let in the gorilla. The only place devoid of hair is the tonsure at the top of his head where he is beginning to bald. His brows are heavy, and seem to be perpetually migrating to the center of his head as he studies the direction and nuance of the state’s arguments. He makes copious notes at counsel table, as if this entire affair were an academic exercise on which he will be tested for a grade at the end. The softest aspect of his face is the two disarming brown eyes, deep set as they are under brows that keep moving like ledges of rock in a quake.

  Evan Tannery is a career prosecutor, twenty years with the D.A.’s office, and no man’s fool. His case is made up of bits and pieces, any one of which might be dismissed as mere coincidence. But taken together, they add up to trouble for Crone.

  Kalista Jordan had filed a sexual harassment claim against our client. From all appearances this had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with constant friction in the office. He may have been harassing her, but it was because she was moving in on his position as director at the center. From all indications, Kalista Jordan knew how to play the game of office politics and she played for keeps.

  There were months of acrimony, arguments in the office, a few screaming matches between the two of them. Kalista had made a move on funding for some of Crone’s pet projects. What is worse, she succeeded. He had made statements to other colleagues in fits of anger, all of them aimed at Jordan, none of them quite making it to the level of a death threat.

  The surgical precision of her dismemberment has been trotted out. The inference is that this was done by someone with experience. Crone, in his medical training, had taken surgical courses. The lack of any alibi, while not pivotal, cuts both ways. The state cannot fix with precision the time of death. For that reason, we cannot provide evidence that our client was unavailable. Worse than that, he has been more than a little vague with Harry and me regarding his whereabouts on the night Jordan was last seen. And finally, there is always the clincher. In this case a damning piece of physical evidence: the nylon cable ties found in his pocket. The problem is that every day is a new surprise.

  Tannery is moving at a glacial pace, leaving neither stone nor pebble unturned as he scrapes the ground pushing everything in front of him. Crone is being presented to the jury as if he were the Aristotle Onassis of genetic science. The theory is, Jordan was dazzled by his brain. A woman seduced by gray matter, the power of intellect and a burning ambition to succeed in her career. To this end they have presented my client’s world-class academic credentials as if he were an expert at his own trial.

  David Crone is a research physician at the university. He heads up a team of scientists and plays a significant role in the human genome project. Some might call it science by press release. The specter of some new medical treatment and the hoopla surrounding it have become the golden pathway to public funding and private grants. Isolating a gene and linking it to a specific disease, coupled with a timely press release, can produce a blip in stock values with an upward curve like Madonna’s tits, and can lead a board at a biotech firm to the euphoric equivalent of a corporate climax.

  It is here on this field of play that Crone met Kalista Jordan. A recent Ph.D., she held advanced degrees in an exotic area of science I do not profess to understand, molecular electronics. Crone, like a miser guarding information in the Information Age, has grudgingly explained just bits and pieces of their work. Apparently, Jordan was not his pick of the candidates. She came as part of a sizeable corporate grant that allowed him to continue his work in genetics. According to him, Jordan’s background made her particularly well suited to computer applications in the study of genetics. Beyond that he says nothing, claiming that patent rights and commercially protected trade secrets are at issue. According to Crone, if we press him too hard in these areas, an entire new level of litigation may spring open in our case. He warns of a wave of trade-secret and patent-infringement suits with business lawyers washing over us, companies that provided grant money and seed financing for his research and who expect a return on their investment. To them, the murder of Kalista Jordan and the fate of my client are mere incidentals to the bottom line in what is shaping up to be a genetic gold rush.

  Apparently, Jordan showed sufficient promise in her field to attract the attention of several other universities and a handful of corporations, all of which were vigorously recruiting her at the time of her death. Crone attributes this largely to the combination of her minority status and the fact that she was highly qualified in her field. According to Crone, Jordan would have been a major affirmative-action catch for any of these employers. He had to stay on his toes to keep her, and particularly to keep the grant money that seemed to come with her. He was constantly granting her perks, pay
increases and promotions. Crone doesn’t complain, but others in the lab have told us that Jordan’s demands were frequent and increasingly unreasonable.

  The last witness of the day is Carol Hodges. She has begun to light a little fire around the edges of their case.

  Hodges came out of the blue, a surprise I suspect that Tannery could not wait to spring for fear that sooner or later we might discover the facts from our own client. He needn’t have worried.

  “You knew the victim?” says Tannery

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “We roomed together for a period.”

  “And you remained at the university on faculty. Is that correct?”

  “A teaching assistant. Graduate fellow,” she says.

  “Now I draw your attention to the evening of the twenty-third of March. Last year,” he says. “Do you recall that date?”

  She nods.

  “You have to speak up for the record.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what you were doing about six o’clock that evening?”

  “Having dinner,” she says. “In the faculty dining room at the university.”

  “And did you have occasion to see the victim, Kalista Jordan, on that evening.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was she doing?”

  “Having dinner.”

  “Were you eating together?”

  “No. Separate tables.”

  “And what happened that evening?”

  “There was an argument.”

  “With who?”

  “With him.” She points to our table.

  “You mean the defendant, David Crone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was he arguing with?”

  “Kalista.”

  “Kalista Jordan?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was this argument about?”

  “I couldn’t hear,” she says.

  Harry and I are clearly shaken, though we try not to show it. Harry actually manages a yawn that he covers with the back of his hand as this revelation spills out in front of the jury.

  The state has managed to shield much of their testimony. There are few witness statements in their files, and most of the victim’s friends have been told by the cops that they don’t have to talk to us. Accordingly, they have chosen not to.

  “Was this a loud argument?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “Who started it?”

  “He did.”

  “Dr. Crone?”

  She nods. The witness is clearly not comfortable taking on a tenured professor, the academic pecking order being what it is, though Crone’s credentials have long since been tarnished.

  “Did Dr. Crone shout at her?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he threaten her?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Did you hear him make any threatening statements toward the victim?”

  “As I said, I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  “But you did hear shouting?”

  She nods. A tangle of hair droops down across her forehead, and she whips it to the side with the back of her hand. “Yes.”

  “Did he touch her?” asks Tannery. This is clearly the high point for this witness.

  “Yes. He put his hands on her.”

  “How?”

  “He grabbed her by the arm when she tried to walk away.”

  “She tried to get away from him?”

  “Yes.”

  “At any point did the defendant, David Crone, look as if he might strike the victim?”

  “Objection.”

  “Goes to the witness’s perceptions,” says Tannery.

  “Overruled. I allow the witness to answer.”

  “Yes. At one point I thought he would hit her.”

  “Did he strike the victim?” Tannery is not going to leave that one for me to ask.

  “No.”

  “When Dr. Crone grabbed her, did the victim appear to be frightened?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled,” says the judge.

  “She wasn’t happy,” says the witness.

  “Did she appear to be scared?”

  “I would have been,” says Hodges.

  “Objection—move to strike.”

  Before the judge can rule, Hodges says: “I believe she was frightened.”

  The judge strikes her earlier response, but the last one works for Tannery. He has done his damage.

  ———

  Within three minutes we are beyond the earshot of guards, safely ensconced in the small conference room near the holding cells, with the door closed.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell us?” Harry is bearing down, red out to the tips of his ears. To Harry, a client may be a lying sack of shit to the rest of the world, but he is our lying sack of shit—that is, until he lies to us.

  “I forgot about it. I’m sorry. ”

  “How do you forget something like that?” Harry is looking at me for answers. “You tell me?”

  “We had a conversation,” says Crone. “We talked. It slipped my mind.”

  “You didn’t tell us you saw her that night.”

  “Does it matter? Is it that important?”

  “Damn right,” says Harry.

  “It doesn’t prove I killed her.”

  “No. But it does show that you lied to the police,” I say. By now I have the file open on the table in front of me, flipping through papers until I find the one I want: Crone’s initial statement to the cops.

  Crone hasn’t thought about this until now.

  “They asked you when you saw her last. You told them you hadn’t seen Jordan for at least a week prior to the time she disappeared.”

  Those bushy eyebrows now migrate to the middle of his forehead in thought. He scratches his head with the eraser end of a pencil as if this were some math problem for which an equation can be worked out.

  “Can’t we simply tell them I made a mistake, that I forgot?”

  “Convenient that you should be reminded by the testimony of their witness,” says Harry. “That is the way lies are usually exposed in a courtroom.”

  “You’re saying they may not believe me.”

  Harry nods and rolls his eyes as if to say, Now he understands.

  “And you want to take the stand?” says Harry. “In which case they’re gonna make you eat your statement to the cops like it was a crow and all the feathers were attached.”

  Crone actually smiles at the mental image this conjures up. There are times when he seems amused by Harry’s anger and the verbal heat that drips from my colleague’s tongue. I get the feeling that to Crone, expressions of anger are novelties, like animals at the zoo, something with little use other than to amuse in his world of proteins, enzymes and the mathematical equations of life.

  He looks at Harry as if he doesn’t understand. So I explain.

  “If you testify, they can use your statement in the police report to show that you were lying. A prior inconsistent statement. You did see her that night?” I ask him, simply to make sure of the point.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “You argued with her?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I would go so far . . .”

  “Was it an argument or not?” Harry is tired of the hairsplitting.

  “We had a discussion.”

  “A loud discussion?” asks Harry.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then your statement to the cops in their report is a prior inconsistent statement.”

  “Is that the same as a lie?” asks Crone.

  “Only in the eyes of the jury,” says Harry. Harry rolls his big brown ones toward the ceiling and turns away.

  “I’m sure the two of you can deal with it. I have utmost confidence,” says Crone.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” says Harry. “Just as long as I don’t have to take the needle for you, or do the time.”

  Cron
e actually smiles at this. “You know, Harry . . . You don’t mind if I call you Harry?”

  He has spent three months calling him Mr. Hinds, to Harry’s continual consternation. Harry’s been telling the professor from the beginning that his name is Harry, that his father was Mr. Hinds, and then only to relatives he didn’t like.

  “You have a very colorful manner,” says Crone. “Very original.”

  Harry shakes his head as if the man hasn’t heard a word he’s been saying.

  “No, I mean it. ‘Take the needle . . . or do the time.’ ” Crone repeats it using his fingers like a metronome. “It’s wonderful stuff. You could put it in a song. Gilbert and Sullivan,” he says. “Have you ever thought about writing lyrics?”

  “Only when I’m drunk,” says Harry.

  “They’re going to wonder where I’ve been when I get back to the center spouting all the wonderful new vernacular.”

  “Trust me,” says Harry. “Unless they live on Mars, they’ll know where you’ve been.”

  “You mean the TV?”

  Harry nods. “You’re a celebrity. Notorious. On your way to becoming Charlie Manson, and you haven’t even been convicted.” Harry turns and walks the few feet allowed to him away from the table in the small holding cell.

  “Yes. I am sure,” says Crone. “On the news every night, being led to and from the courtroom with a guard on each arm. It can’t be a pretty picture. I don’t watch television,” he says. “That would be too depressing.” His manner of speech is didactic—I suspect from years spent in the academic pit, lecturing.

  Harry gives me a look, the kind of expression that makes me think he suspects we might have a mental case on our hands.