Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (28 page)

TAJ DEEGAN RAN AN EFFICIENT COURTROOM.
The experts had predicted that jury selection would last three days. Those experts had never set foot in Deegan’s courtroom.

She first ushered the lawyers into her chambers. “I’ll ask a standard set of questions,” she said, without sitting down. She handed both sides two full pages of questions, including ones the lawyers had submitted earlier. “When I’m done, you can approach the bench and let me know if I missed anything. But I’m the only one talking to the jury. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Landon said. He was more than happy to let the judge do the heavy lifting.

“I’d like to reserve the right to follow up with individual jurors,” Sherman said, arms crossed. He was not happy.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Deegan said. Her tone reflected a fair amount of annoyance. “But I’ll be the judge of what’s necessary.”

Jury selection took all morning and half the afternoon, a full two
days faster than the experts had forecast. Most jurors had heard about the case but promised they could still be fair and impartial. During the process, Sherman had a heavyset woman with an iPad whispering in his ear—a high-priced jury consultant, according to Elias. Elias and Landon didn’t use one. Elias claimed that he had picked more juries than virtually any jury consultant in America and it was mostly guesswork anyway.

When the smoke cleared at three o’clock in the afternoon, Landon was staring at a jury composed of seven women and five men—nine whites, one Hispanic, and two African Americans. Two of the three alternates were also women.

Elias had insisted that Landon use his jury strikes on three stern-looking married women. “They’ll convict me based on the affair alone,” Elias had said. But that left a Baptist youth pastor and a high school principal who had a reputation for being a disciplinarian. Not exactly a defense lawyer’s dream.

After swearing in the jury, Deegan read the jurors the riot act for fifteen minutes—don’t talk to anybody about the case; don’t form any opinions until you’ve heard all the evidence; don’t read any media coverage or blogs about the case or watch anything on TV.

Were there any questions?

None of the jurors raised a hand.

Landon glanced around the courtroom and felt isolated. The gallery was packed. Erica Jensen’s family was sitting in the front row behind Franklin Sherman. Landon had noticed that the rows on the prosecution’s side of the courtroom had filled up first. Landon turned and gave a reassuring grin to Jake. The boy was too nervous to smile back.

Landon tried not to show it, but he was nervous too. His hands were leaving sweat marks on the glass top covering his wooden counsel table, and the butterflies were in full-scale revolt in his stomach. He had practiced his opening at least ten times but still wasn’t satisfied with it. His remarks were counterpunches, attempts to poke holes in the prosecution’s case. In his gut he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He needed to
somehow prove who had killed Erica Jensen. The problem was, he still didn’t know the identity of the real killer.

“Does the prosecution wish to give an opening statement?” Judge Deegan asked. She looked over the top of her glasses at Franklin Sherman, who jumped to his feet.

“We do.”

He walked into the well of the courtroom, a comfortable distance from the jury box, and introduced himself. He said that he represented the Commonwealth of Virginia and that it was his job to be a voice for the victim of this horrendous crime. He talked for a few minutes about Erica Jensen and the hardworking, upstanding young woman she was. “It’s tragic when somebody dies,” he said. “But it’s especially tragic when somebody so full of potential dies so young.”

To nobody’s surprise, Sherman seemed supremely confident. He didn’t need notes or a podium to hide behind. He had apparently memorized his entire opening statement.

He shifted into teacher mode and explained the federal insider trading case pending against Elias King. The defendant had set up offshore corporations in the Seychelles Islands, Sherman said. He had done so because you could set them up without letting the public know who the shareholders or directors or officers were. And he had used this web of anonymous corporations to set up various offshore accounts and then used those accounts to buy and sell stock.

Sherman spent a few minutes explaining the laws against insider trading—that people with inside information about a company couldn’t rip off the public by buying or selling stock before that confidential information hit the market. That’s why Elias King had gone to such great lengths to protect his identity. He bought options on the stocks of companies that his law firm represented. He did it when the companies were about to be sold, just before their stock price would take an enormous leap. He made hundreds of thousands of dollars.

But he didn’t get away with it. An anonymous person sent the U.S. Attorney’s office a package of documents that showed somebody at
the Kilgore and Strobel firm was engaged in insider trading. The Feds obtained a search warrant and, through the cooperation of the managing partner at King’s law firm, secretly obtained access to King’s computer. They were in the process of putting together their case when King’s assistant, Erica Jensen, called and asked to meet with assistant U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor.

“Mr. Taylor recorded that conversation,” Sherman said. “When he testifies, we’ll play it for you.”

Landon watched as the jury took in everything Sherman was saying. As much as Landon disliked the man, he had to admit that Sherman was a master storyteller. He talked about how Erica died on the night before her appointment with the assistant U.S. Attorney. That same night, Chesapeake police received an anonymous tip about a body being dumped into the Intracoastal Waterway.

The evidence all pointed to Elias King. Strands of Erica’s hair were found in the trunk of King’s automobile. The car described by the caller matched King’s car. King’s fingerprints were on the weights found in the L.L. Bean bag. King had motive and opportunity. They had everything here except a videotaped confession.

And one more thing, Sherman said. Erica Jensen was pregnant. The baby growing inside her womb belonged to her lover—he pointed a stubby finger—“that man, Elias King.”

Some people kill to keep witnesses from testifying against them, Sherman said. Others kill to avoid damage to their reputation. And still others kill because love has turned to hate, two passions that are closer together than most people think. But Elias King?

The General walked over and stood right in front of Landon’s table. It was a bullying move that Elias had expected and had warned Landon about. The two of them just sat there, staring impassively at the prosecutor, refusing to take the bait.

“This man killed three birds with one stone,” Sherman said, the anger boiling over, the veins in his neck pulsing. “He got rid of a witness in a case against him. He killed his ex-lover. And he made sure that his
sterling reputation wouldn’t be tarnished. If not for an observant motorist driving across that high-rise bridge at just the right time, he might have gotten away with it.”

Sherman walked back into the well of the courtroom and surveyed the jury. It was time to wrap it up, and he appeared to be thinking about what to say next.

“It’s our job to prove this case beyond a reasonable doubt. As the judge will tell you, that can be done by circumstantial evidence. We don’t need eyewitnesses. We don’t need a confession.”

He moved a little closer to the jury box; every juror watched him. He had been talking for thirty minutes, but even to Landon the time had gone quickly.

“In fact, I once heard a prosecutor tell a story to illustrate how reasonable doubt can be proven by circumstantial evidence. He said that his son came into the house one day and had a rock stuck in his nose. The prosecutor said he asked his son how the rock got up his nose, and his son said the wind blew it up there. And I remember that prosecutor telling the jury, ‘Despite the son’s statement, the father had no doubt about how the rock got in his son’s nose. So please, don’t let the defense lawyer try to blow rocks up your nose.’”

The General turned and stared for a moment at the defense table. Once again, Elias kept his poker face. “That prosecutor was Elias King,” Sherman said. “That boy was his son. And those words were his words.

“Greed caused that man to cheat his own clients through insider trading. Lust caused him to cheat on his own wife with his legal assistant. And fear caused him to kill his own lover and his own baby, the young life growing inside Erica Jensen.

“There are heinous crimes, and there are shocking crimes that make the blood run cold. But there’s nothing more despicable than a man who uses his training as a prosecutor to carry out the cold-blooded, premeditated murder of a woman who was carrying his own child. There’s a special place in hell for a man like that.”

Landon stood to object but felt Elias’s hand on his elbow. He sat back down.

“No man’s above the law,” Sherman said. “At the close of this case, we’ll be asking you to find Elias King guilty of two counts of first-degree murder and to put him behind bars for the rest of his life.”

BEFORE FRANKLIN SHERMAN
could even take his seat, Landon was up and walking toward the jury.

“The difference between a cover-up and a setup is simple. In a cover-up, the defendant doesn’t want to get caught. But in a setup, somebody wants to make sure that he is.”

“Objection!” Sherman boomed. “He’s arguing the case, not giving an opening statement.”

Landon turned to Judge Deegan and held out his palms. “I didn’t object during his opening.”

“Perhaps you should have. Objection sustained.”

The whole sequence threw Landon off stride. Harry had taught him to argue the case during his opening. But now, that was apparently going to be met with one objection after another.

He looked at Elias, who motioned him over to counsel table. Landon could feel his face turning red—the rookie being embarrassed right out of the gate.

“Just give the opening we planned but keep using the phrase ‘The evidence will show,’” Elias whispered. “It’s magic.”

Landon stood up and walked back to the center of the courtroom. He took a deep breath. Good quarterbacks had short memories, shrugging off interceptions. This time he would get it right.

“The evidence will show that Mr. King was an experienced prosecutor, one of the best. And the evidence will show that there are certain things experienced prosecutors know. They know that hair testing can reveal drugs in victims for up to six months. They know that fingerprints can be lifted from objects that have been submerged in water. They know better than to dump bodies off high-rise bridges and risk being seen.”

Sherman was up again. “Your Honor, may we approach?”

Judge Deegan gave him an annoyed look. “Make it quick.”

The three lawyers huddled around the judge’s dais, and she flipped a switch to pipe in some music so the jury couldn’t hear their conversation.

“How’s he going to prove this stuff if he doesn’t call the defendant?” Sherman asked. “I mean, if he intends to call the defendant, I don’t have any objection. But an opening statement is supposed to be a preview of the evidence. And if the defendant isn’t going to take the stand, then this is hardly a preview of the evidence.”

Deegan turned to Landon. “He’s got a point. Is Mr. King going to take the stand?”

Elias interjected. “We haven’t decided yet.”

Landon wanted to give him an elbow, but it would have been too obvious.
She wasn’t asking you.

“Let’s just stick to what you know the evidence is going to show,” Deegan suggested. “Don’t talk about anything you have to prove through Mr. King unless you know for sure he’s going to take the stand.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Sherman said, loud enough for the jury to hear. He wanted to make sure they knew that the judge had sided with him.

“And keep your voice down,” Deegan said.

Landon had to make some modifications on the fly, but he warmed to the task and made it through the rest of his opening with only a few objections. He concluded by reminding the jury that there were two anonymous tipsters in this case. The first sent papers about the insider trading scheme to the Feds. The second allegedly saw someone dump Erica Jensen’s body off a high-rise bridge.

“Could it be that both tips came from the same person?” Landon asked. “Could it be that the person providing anonymous tips just happened to know so much because he set my client up on both matters? Think about it. How unusual is it to have not one but
two
anonymous tipsters in the same case, each one with critical information against my client?

“My client, Mr. King, was a very effective prosecutor. In that job, he made a lot of powerful enemies. He put away some angry men who have ruthless allies on the outside. Don’t let them use a court of law to exact an unjust revenge.”

Landon sat down, not at all pleased with his opening. There had been too many interruptions, and he hadn’t handled them well. The first round, in his opinion, had gone to the prosecution.

But Elias King apparently didn’t agree. He reached over and put a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “Nice job,” he said.

It was pushing five, and Judge Deegan decided that the prosecution should start its case the following day. When she gaveled the court closed, Landon and the King family followed Billy Thurston into the hallway and down the long escalators. They pushed their way through the reporters who were waiting outside and headed across the quad toward the parking lot on the other side of the J&DR Court building. They ignored the questions being shouted at them.

As they walked, Landon couldn’t resist a quick glance over his shoulder. The General had followed behind them and was now standing on the courthouse steps answering questions from reporters. His eyes caught Landon’s for just a moment, a quick look of condescension.

He smirked, or at least it looked like a smirk to Landon. And then the General went back to confidently fielding questions.

///

He hung toward the back of the crowd and watched the defense team leave the courthouse and walk across the wide-open quad toward the J&DR Court building. There was at least fifty yards of open grass between the two courthouses and a set of sidewalks laid out in a square.

During the afternoon court session, he had been checking out rooftops near the parking lot the defense team had used that morning. There was no out-of-the-way building from which he could get a clean shot. He had traced the path the defense team would take to and from court, surveying the surrounding property for a good place to hide.

He saw it as he watched the defense team walk the sidewalk next to the quad. The perfect spot.

He kept his head down, his eyes shielded by sunglasses, his ball cap riding low on his forehead. He waited until Franklin Sherman finished his press conference and the crowd started to disperse.

He walked casually across the quad, toward the back of the J&DR Court building, checked to make sure nobody was watching him, and took a quick panoramic video with his cell phone. Compared to blowing up the Cessna, this would be a piece of cake. It would take another day or two of planning, but he had a little time.

The fireworks, quite literally, would begin on Wednesday.