Authors: David Kessler
“We used a bit of gentle persuasion.”
He didn’t really feel comfortable telling her about the incident. It would probably make him sound like a bully. But the practice of law was a dirty business. They both knew that.
“We?”
Martine raised her eyebrows with a delicate smile as her hand – holding a piece of brioche toast – paused in mid-air, awaiting his answer.
“Paul Sherman and I.”
“You mean you blackmailed her?”
“I prefer to call it bribery,” he said with a guilty smile, after a short pause.
He attacked his own hors d’oevres of Farmers Market Butter Lettuce and Steamed Spring Vegetable, a light starter to allow room for his Filet Mignon and Roasted Fingerling Potatoes.
“So what was the carrot?”
This was a pun, alluding to piece of carrot poised at the end of his fork.
“I sold it as a fight for a man’s right to a second chance.”
His facial expression was nervous, as if he was expecting a torrent of skeptical laughter or a cutting verbal response. But Martine’s smile was both piercing and bewitching.
“And what did Sherman use as the stick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come off it Alex. You were playing Good Cop / Bad Cop.”
He held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness, caught in the glare of Martine’s headlamps.
“Okay,” he acknowledged reluctantly. “You’ve got me. We did a little arm twisting.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. It must be pretty hard for her, with her lover working at a rape crisis center.”
“That’s a personal matter, They’ll just have to work it out for themselves.”
“You make it sound so easy. Imagine what it must be like for Eugenia Vance: one minute she’s doing her job, next minute she gets handed an injunction telling her she’s not allowed to have any contact with the victim.
“I’m sorry. I may have sounded a bit callous. But the judge didn’t exactly have a choice. He had to do it to avoid a conflict of interest.”
Martine’s face turned suddenly serious.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Alex had an uneasy feeling when he heard the words… and the tone.”
“What do you mean?”
“I
also
have a conflict of interest. I can’t cover the case and carry on going out with you.”
It was quite late when Andi arrived home. She had spent the day going over the case-file with Alex and then stayed on for a few hours after he left. It had been exhausting. They were racking their brains trying to figure out how they could refute the DNA evidence. All the other evidence could be effectively challenged and the seeds of reasonable doubt sown.
But the DNA was a problem – a
real
problem. It couldn’t just be swept under the rug. In the past, they might have been able to attack the science itself or throw up smoke screens to confuse the jury. But post O. J. Simpson, that was no longer an option. Most defense ploys are like magicians tricks that succeed because of their sheer surprise value, but can never be repeated.
But all of this was still way down the line. First they had to resolve the issue of trial venue. That was the big question that was going to come up at the pre-trial in two weeks time. And that was what Andi had to focus on now.
Gene was lying on the bed in her underwear in the dimly lit room, watching the wall-mounted TV, when Andi entered. Andi took off her street clothes in the walk-in closet by the door and then shuffled back into the bedroom barefoot and in her underwear, expecting Gene’s usual warm welcome. But this time Gene, lying on her side, didn’t even turn to look at her, leaving Andi hurt and confused. Gene was never cold like this, even if she was in a bad mood.
“Where have you been?” asked Gene, her eyes glued to the TV.
Andi was still perturbed by the fact that Gene was only presenting her with her back. She sensed that Gene had had a bad day as she climbed into onto the bed behind her lover, gently massaging Gene’s raised shoulder.
“At the office. I had a lot of paperwork to clear up. I’ve just started on a major case.”
“I know. I had a visit from a process server.”
Andi stopped massaging, but left her hands in place. She
knew
now what this was about.
“I was going to tell you. I didn’t think they’d serve it that quickly.”
“Are you angry?”
Gene turned round, brushing off Andi’s hands in the process. There were tears of anger in Gene’s eyes. This surprised Andi. It was very rare for Gene to cry.
“What do you think? I quit my job in the Big Apple and crossed the continent with you ’cause you couldn’t make it in New York and now you stab me in the back by getting them to serve me with an injunction so I can’t even do
my
job and help a rape victim?”
“It wasn’t
my
idea to get the injunction. I tried to use you as an excuse to refuse the case.”
“Use me as an excuse?”
“Conflict of interest. But they wouldn’t buy it. They said
you
could step aside.”
“You think maybe I didn’t
want
to step aside?”
“It wasn’t my decision.”
“
You
could have stepped aside! No one forced you to defend a rapist!”
“It’s my job,” she snapped, leaping off the bed. “And it’s
alleged
rapist!”
With these words, Andi stormed out of the room. With tears now streaming down her own cheeks, Andi went downstairs to the living room. She crossed over to the alcove that housed a desk and bookshelves, which they had set aside as a study and office. On the desk was a laptop PC, a docking station and a large monitor. Andi switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up.
When it had gone through its start-up routine, she clicked on an icon to launch an E-mail program and then clicked on a menu item to download her E-mail. It took a few seconds more for the computer to connect to the broadband and download the eMail. There were five messages. Four were from old, distant friends wishing her luck in her new job. But it was the fifth message that startled her. It read:
That rapist scum-bag Elias Claymore is unworthy of your assistance and deserves everything he gets. Make sure that you are not around when justice is finally delivered or you will only have yourself to blame.
Lannosea
An alarm bell went off inside her head, and the words “hate mail” flashed across her mind’s eye. But who sent it? And from where? Maybe they could be tracked down via their service provider. She scrolled up to the “From” field, and saw that it had come from a webmail address. It could have been sent from a public library or an Internet café. There would be no way to trace it to a person.
A range of emotions swept over her like a quick succession of waves. The first was a wave of fear; the second, anger. But if the first was a surfer’s tube-ride, the second was a tsunami.
And who the fuck
was
Lannosea?
“What’s
she
doing here?”
Elias Claymore’s reaction appeared to border on paranoia when Alex first brought Andi into the room at the Ventura Pre-Trial Detention facility that had been allocated for their conference.
“Allow me to introduce my co-counsel on this case,” said Alex. “Andi Phoenix.”
Claymore’s eyes darted away to Alex for a moment before returning to Andi, the suspicion lingering in his eyes.
“You didn’t say anything about co-counsel… nothing personal Miss Phoenix.”
“Oh, please, call me Andi,” she said, in a re-assuring tone that was clearly calculated to put him at ease.
She held out her hand warmly. Claymore hesitated before reaching out to shake it. Alex watched as they shook hands weakly. Then he held out his own hand, not to shake but to indicate a waiting seat. Claymore sat down, not taking his eyes off Andi. Andi followed suit, leaving Alex last to take his seat round the table.
“The first thing we need to talk about,” Alex began, “is a change of venue.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps I can explain,” said Andi.
She looked at Alex. He nodded.
“According to the latest stats, Ventura County has just under 700,000 Caucasians and 17,000 African-Americans. That makes the state 2.1 percent Black and 87.5 percent White.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I’m probably more unpopular with my own people at the moment.”
“I doubt that,” said Andi. “We’re talking about
ultra-conservative
Whites.”
Claymore tried to sound jovial.
“Well, hey… I’m a conservative!”
“I know Mr. Claymore and that might have worked if it was a minor charge. But this is rape and a lot of your natural supporters have already turned against you right now.”
“You’ve done an opinion poll?”
He grinned, desperately, trying to make light of the situation. Andi maintained her neutral face.
“We’re keeping an ear to the ground… and those are the vibes we’re getting.”
Claymore looked over at Alex, who nodded imperceptibly, content to let Andi earn her keep.
“In any case,” Andi continued. “We’re know from the stats that Ventura juries tend to be convicting juries.”
“What about Hispanics?” asked Claymore.
“Hispanics can be any race and they’re included in the black and white stats. But we have a separate figure of 287,000 Hispanic and Latino citizens. Of those, 272,000 are classified as White Hispanic. There are also some 50,000 Asian citizens who are likely to be hostile to
working class
blacks, but might admire
you
and a further 17,000 of mixed race who may be a bit more friendly. But those two groups combined are less than ten percent of the population.”
Claymore looked crestfallen.
“And what do we need? If we had the ideal choice.”
Andi was about to speak when Alex finally entered the discussion.
“Ideally, we’d have a jury of liberal whites.” He was going to elaborate on his reasons, but held back, realizing that it would sound just a little too cynical.
“So what
can
we do?”
Alex and Andi exchanged glances. In the end it was Andi who spoke.
“In the real world, the outcome of one controversial case can often have a knock-on effect on the next. In the O J Simpson case, the acquittal of the cops who viciously beat Rodney King was still fresh in the minds of the jurors. The truth of the matter is that a case that may be cast iron and watertight in the
courtroom
can fall apart in the jury room.”
“So are there any recent cases we can take advantage of?” asked Claymore. The cynical words fell uneasily from his lips.
“Unfortunately not. In this case, the key to winning was getting the right jury,” said Andi. “And that means holding the trial in the right district and then using challenges to prune and cherry pick the jury. Sometimes that might be as simple as getting a jury of the right ethnic group. In the O J Simpson case, the defense were able to get a predominantly African-American jury. In the Rodney King case it was an all-white one in Simi valley where a lot of cops lived.”
“And can we do that?”
Again Andi looked at Alex. Again he nodded to let her know that he was content to let her speak.
“In this case it’s a little more complicated. Even if we can get an all-black jury, it’s by no means certain that such a jury would favor you. Like you said, a lot of blacks have been alienated by your outspoken views.”
After a while, Claymore broke the silence.
“Could I ask a personal question Miss Phoenix? Did you volunteer for this job?”
Alex felt a stab of fear, wondering if Andi’s answer was going to be tactful or brutally honest. But whatever it was to be, he knew that he couldn’t interfere now.
“That’s
not
a personal question,” she replied with a reassuring smile. Claymore was watching her closely. “I...”
She looked at Alex. But his face offered her no hint of assistance. “I was asked by Mr. Sedaka to help, and I agreed.
Alex
was... most convincing.”
Alex coughed nervously. In front of him were several copies of the evidence report, at this stage a mere dozen pages stapled together.
“OK, I think we’d better get a move on. We’re working on some research for the change of venue motion, but in the meantime we need to review the evidence.”
He handed copies of the report to Andi and Claymore.
“The case against you appears to be made up of the following. One: a statement of the alleged victim including the second of two photo line-ups. Two: a medical report about the victim’s physical condition right after she reported the incident. Three: police photographic evidence of same. Four, a DNA comparison between crime-scene DNA and reference samples taken from you and the alleged victim. Five: eye-witness evidence after the alleged rape that you were seen running from the crime scene. Six: your arrest record – six counts of rape. We may be able to block that, depending on how we want to fight the case, but in practice it was so high profile, every member of the jury is going to know about it long before they enter the courtroom.”
“I don’t know where they got this stuff,” said Claymore shaking his head, “I mean all that other stuff.”
“Some of it’s easy enough to demolish,” said Alex. “The witness who saw you running away is weak. But the real problem is the DNA and the medical and photographic evidence. The visible injuries to the girl make it hard to argue consent and the DNA makes it equally hard to deny that a sexual encounter took place.”
“I don’t understand how they could’ve got DNA evidence.”
“How do you mean?” asked Andi, suspicion creeping into her tone.
“I never touched her. I’ve never even
met
her.”
“All right,” said Alex. “We’ll go into that in a moment. But first let me make one thing clear: we can argue that the sex was rough but consensual or we can argue DNA contamination and see if we can come up with anything. But not both. We have to nail our colors to the mast quite early. In effect you’ve already committed us to saying that it’s mistaken identity because of what you told the police. Technically we can still change your story, but it won’t look good.”