She nods. “They gang-raped her, taking turns holding her down, paying no attention to her screams. Finally she broke away and ran, but in her panic she slipped and fell on the wet surface near the pool, smashing her head into a cement table. She was unconscious and bleeding, and they didn't know if she was alive or dead. Then one of them …”
“Go on, Betty …” I say.
“One of them … I don't know who, pushed her into the pool with his foot. She went under the water and stayed there.”
The jury and everyone else within the sound of Betty Anthony's voice is spellbound by her story. Even Hatchet seems mesmerized by her as she weaves the tale she has protected for so long.
I look in the gallery and see that Victor has left the courtroom; that's okay, he'll read all about it tomorrow. All that is left now is for me to wrap up Betty's testimony.
“Mrs. Anthony, did you ever have occasion to meet Denise McGregor, the woman whose murder has caused all of us to be here today?”
“Yes. She came to see me.”
“Why did she do that?”
“She told me that she was a reporter, doing a story about a murder that she believed was committed many years earlier. She told me that the victim was her mother.”
“Go on, please.”
“She knew quite a bit about it, about my husband's involvement, and about one other man who was part of the group.”
“Did she say who that was?”
“She did … Victor Markham. I already knew that.”
A rumble goes through the courtroom, which Hatchet quiets with his gavel.
“Thank you, Mrs. Anthony,” I say. “Your witness.”
Wallace dreads this cross-examination, but must go through with it. He gets Betty to admit that she has kept this information a secret all these years, implying that this means what she has to say is somehow suspect. He also brings out that she has no physical evidence of the crime, only the word of her late husband. He does a very professional job in a very difficult situation.
On redirect, I introduce my father's photograph as evidence. It tends to corroborate her testimony by placing the conspirators together with Julie's car. Clearly, though, it does not show any conclusive proof of their guilt.
When I go back to the defense table, Willie leans over to ask if we've already won. He thinks they're going to come over and cut his handcuffs off, and he can go home. I tell him we're a long way from that, and I arrange to meet at seven with Kevin and Laurie at my house.
T
HE GUEST HOUSE
ON PHILIP'S PROPERTY
has been converted into a small hospital. Nicole has a hospital bed, modern medical machines, a full staff of nurses, and a doctor who does regular rounds. It is an amazing transformation.
Philip is out at a political dinner, a small blessing for which I am grateful. I had called ahead and asked Nicole if I could come over, and she didn't say that I shouldn't. It is not a visit that I am relishing, for obvious reasons, but one that I know I must make.
I tell one of her nurses who I am, and she informs Nicole, who comes right out. She is doing remarkably well, and is wrapped in bandages around her upper body, so as to help her broken collarbone heal. But she is up and around, albeit gingerly, and though she looks pale, it is hard to believe that it's only a few days since she was lying unconscious behind those rocks.
The tension between us is obvious. No sooner do we say hello to each other than I feel a need to change the subject. I look around the house. “I forgot how amazing this place is.”
She smiles. “My father wanted us to live here, remember? He built the house for me even before I was born.”
“Looking back, I can't remember how I had the courage to tell him we wouldn't.”
She laughs. “You made me tell him.”
“Even then I was a man among men.”
“You stand up to him better than most.”
I nod; that's probably true. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty well. I mean, I don't get shot that often, but I think I'm recovering rather quickly.”
“I'll never forgive myself for letting this happen to you,” I say.
She chooses not to respond to that, and changes the subject. “I saw what happened with Victor Markham on the news tonight. Does it mean you're going to win?”
“Not necessarily, but it certainly helps. Closing arguments are tomorrow.”
She nods. “Have you had your dinner? Would you like something to eat?”
I shake my head no. “Nicole, I'm not sure we finished what we needed to say.”
She tenses up. “Don't, Andy. I didn't need to say anything, and you said a lot more than I wanted to hear.”
“I'm sorry … it's not how I wanted it to end.”
She smiles a slight, ironic smile. “See? We do have something in common.”
I start to tell her again how sorry I am, but she can't listen anymore. She just shakes her head, turns, and goes back to her room. I let myself out of her house and I head back to mine.
Tara is waiting for me at home, tail wagging, to congratulate me on a good day in court. Laurie arrives and shares Tara's enthusiasm, which is tempered by the dose of realism which Kevin soon provides, and with which I concur.
The fact is that Willie Miller remains in a very precarious situation. Nothing has been proven against Victor Markham, and it is unfortunately not up to our jury to ponder or even consider his guilt or innocence. They are empaneled to judge only Willie, and the evidence against him remains overwhelming. Whatever might or might not have happened on that night all those years ago, it does not mean that Willie Miller is innocent of the Denise McGregor murder.
Laurie and I are going over my closing argument, which will follow Wallace's tomorrow. Our thrust will be two-pronged: We will contend that Willie was framed, and we will serve up Victor Markham as the person who framed him. I believe it is a winning strategy, but I've been wrong before.
Pete Stanton calls, asking if we can meet before court tomorrow. He's received a report regarding the Betty Anthony testimony, and he wants to begin an investigation of Victor Markham immediately. We agree to meet for a quick cup of coffee.
Kevin and Laurie leave by ten o'clock, a comparatively early night for this trial. I sleep well tonight; the only time I wake up is when Tara's tail hits me in the face. I reach out and scratch her stomach, and the next thing I know, it's morning.
Pete is pumped to go after Victor Markham, and the prospect of doing so has apparently caused him to at least temporarily forget how much he hates me for attacking him on the stand. During breakfast, I take him through the entire story of the photograph and the money in my father's estate, right up to the present moment. He feels he can build a case against Victor, but we both know it won't be in time to help Willie with the jury.
The press this morning has been filled with news of the trial; Victor Markham's potential downfall has changed it from a big story to a mega story. I'm being cautiously praised by the same pundits who've been calling me overmatched, but they still feel we have an uphill battle ahead of us.
The crowds outside the courthouse are much larger the next morning, and there are far more media present. When Wallace stands to deliver his closing argument before a packed gallery, the courtroom feels considerably more tense than it has at any time during the trial.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you're in the home stretch now. I'm going to make a few remarks, and then Mr. Carpenter will do the same. Following that will come the most important moment of this trial, when Judge Henderson instructs you about your responsibilities under the law. He will tell you a great deal, but the most important thing he will say is that you must follow the evidence.
“So I am here to ask that you not take your eyes off of that evidence, through our statements and through your deliberations. Mr. Carpenter will talk of an alleged murder that took place over thirty-five years ago, a murder for which no body has ever been found. He will also talk of an alleged conspiracy, revealed only through hearsay testimony, and conveniently withheld for all these years, right up until the eve of your deliberations.
“He will try to substitute another villain, Victor Markham, for the one he represents, Willie Miller. But it was not Victor Markham's blood and skin under the fingernails of Denise McGregor. It was not Victor Markham that was seen standing over the victim by a very credible eyewitness. It was not Victor Markham whose fingerprints were all over the murder weapon. And it is not Victor Markham who has a history of attacking women when under the influence of alcohol.
“The only person all that evidence points to is Willie Miller, and that is who you are here to judge. I ask that you find him guilty as charged.”
Wallace offers me a slight nod and the trace of a smile as he sits down. I know that he's feeling justifiably pleased that he's done a fine job, and thoroughly relieved that his job is over. It's now my turn, and it seems like every eye in the courtroom simultaneously shifts to me.
When I took on this case, I convinced myself there was a chance Willie was innocent. I need to do that to perform at a peak level. But back then I only believed in the possibility of his innocence, and I have now reached a certainty of it. It puts far more pressure on me to win, and it is that pressure that threatens to suffocate me as I stand to give my closing argument.
Just before I begin, I glance toward the back of the gallery and see Wally McGregor, in court for the first time, sitting up straight and waiting for justice for his family. This one's for you, Wally.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that Victor Markham was one of a group of men who raped and murdered Julie McGregor many years ago. But on one point I agree with Mr. Wallace: You are not here to decide that case. And that murder, horrible though it may be, is your concern for one reason and one reason only. It became the motive for Victor Markham to murder Julie's daughter, Denise McGregor, who had learned and was about to reveal the truth.
“He took the life of a mother, then waited almost thirty years to wipe out her offspring.
“But you cannot make him pay the price for either of those deaths. That is for another jury to do, and believe me, I will not rest until they have done just that. What you can do is make sure that Victor Markham does not claim still another victim— my client, Willie Miller.
“There is a great deal of evidence against Willie Miller, and Mr. Wallace did an outstanding job presenting it. But every single shred of it can be explained consistent with Victor Markham using his awesome power to frame him for the murder.
“Mr. Wallace talked about what Judge Henderson will tell you. But he left out the most important part. The judge will say that in order to convict, you must consider Willie Miller guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. I would respectfully suggest that you are up to your ears in reasonable doubt.”
I walk over to Willie and put my hands on his shoulders.
“This man has spent the last seven years of his life on death row for a crime he did not commit. All of us can only imagine the horror of that, but he has lived it.
“It is not your fault, you had nothing to do with it, and you cannot erase it. But there is something you can do: You can end it. You can give him back his dignity, and his self-respect, and his freedom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you can go into that jury room, and you can do something absolutely wonderful. You can give Willie Miller his life back.”
I go back to the defense table, to the whispered congratulations of Laurie and Kevin, and the gratitude of Willie. I'm filled with a fear that I did not do or say enough to make the jury understand, and I want to get back up there and scream at them, to make them see the truth according to Andy Carpenter.
Hatchet gives the jury his instructions. My feeling is that he puts too much emphasis on the jury not considering the guilt or innocence of Victor Markham, but basically I think it's fair.
Actually, I'm pleased with Hatchet's performance throughout; I don't think he showed a preference to one side or the other. All in all, I'm glad he turned down the change of venue request.
Hatchet sends the jury off, and this case is officially out of my control. Before they take Willie away, he asks me what I think, and I tell him what I tell all my clients at this stage.
“I don't think, I wait.”
T
HE PRESSURE OF WAITING
FOR
a jury to finish its deliberations is unlike anything else I have ever experienced. The only thing I could liken it to, and fortunately I'm just guessing, is waiting for a biopsy report to come back, after being told that the report will either signal terminal illness or good health. At that point matters are completely out of the hands of the patient and the doctor. Lawyers experience the same impotence while waiting for a verdict.
Every eccentricity, every idiosyncrasy, every superstition I possess comes out during this waiting period. For instance, I tell myself that if the jury gives us an even chance, we will win. Therefore, I do everything by even numbers. I'll only get out of bed in the morning when the digital clock shows an even number, I'll pump an even number of gallons of gas into my car, I'll only watch even-numbered channels on television, etc., etc.
Additionally, I'll also tell myself that our cause is in the right, which I react to by doing everything right-handed, by making three right turns rather than one left, and so on. There is no doubt about it—while waiting for a verdict, I become a crazed lunatic.
Fortunately for the rest of the world, I also become a hermit. I absolutely prohibit anyone involved with the defense from contacting me unless it is an absolute emergency. I want to be alone with Tara and my thoughts, and I want to do everything I can to try and keep those thoughts away from the case and the courtroom.
The Miller deliberations enter their third day with no word from the jury. They have not asked to have any testimony read back to them; nor have they asked to examine evidence. If they had done either of these things, Hatchet would have had to notify the attorneys, and we've had no such notification.
By accident, I hear a television commentator, a “former prosecutor,” say that the lengthy deliberation is a bad sign for the defense, but I turn it off before I can hear why.
I take Tara to the park to throw a ball, bringing my cell phone along in case the court clerk needs to reach me. We play catch for only about fifteen minutes; Tara seems to be slowing down as she gets older. If there is a God, how come golden retrievers only live until their early teens?
We stop at a caf the way home, where we take an outdoor table. I have iced coffee and an apple turnover; Tara has a bagel and a dish of water. We're just finishing up when the phone rings, and my stomach springs four feet into the air.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Carpenter?”
I have an overwhelming urge to tell the clerk she has the wrong number, but I don't. “That's me.”
“Judge Henderson would like you in court at two P.M. The jury has returned a verdict.”
There it is. It's over, but I don't yet know the ending. The only feeling more powerless than waiting while a jury is making its decision is waiting
after
they've made that decision. Now the result is even out of
their
control.
I take Tara home, shower and change, then head back to court. I arrive at one-forty-five and wade through the crush of reporters and cameramen calling out to me, all their questions blending together.
They want to know what I think, when in fact there is at this moment nothing on earth less important than what I think. The die has been cast; this is like taping a playoff game and then watching it afterward without knowing the final score. There's no sense rooting, or hoping, or guessing, or thinking. It's already over, one way or the other. The boat, as they say, has sailed.
I nod to Kevin and Laurie, who are already at the defense table when I come in. Richard Wallace comes over to shake my hand and wish me well, and to congratulate me on a job well done. I return the compliment sincerely.
When Willie is brought in, I can see the tension in his eyes, in his facial muscles, in his body language. If doctors say that normal, everyday stress can take years off one's life, what effect must this be having on Willie? Has he already received a death sentence of a different type?
Willie just nods at us and takes his seat. He's smart enough not to ask me what I think; he's just going to wait with the rest of us.
Hatchet comes in and court is called to order. He doesn't waste any time, asking that the jury be brought in, and moments later there they are, revealing nothing with their impassive expressions.
Hatchet gives the obligatory lecture about demanding decorum in his courtroom once the verdict is read, and he is stern enough that it will probably have an effect. He then turns to the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman stands. “We have, Your Honor.”
“Please present it to the bailiff.”
The bailiff walks over and receives a verdict sheet from the foreman. He then carries it over to the clerk.
Hatchet says, “Will the defendant please rise.”
Willie, Kevin, Laurie, and I stand as one. I can see that my hand is on Willie's shoulder, but I don't remember putting it there.
“The clerk will read the verdict.”
The clerk takes the form and looks it over. It seems as if it takes four hours for her to start reading, but it is probably four seconds in real time. Each word she says sucks more air out of the room, until I think I am going to faint.
“We, the jury, in the case of the State of New Jersey versus William Miller, find the defendant, William Miller … not guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree.”
The gallery explodes in sound, and air comes flooding into the room and my lungs. Willie turns to me, a questioning look on his face, as if for confirmation that he has heard what he thinks he's heard. I have a simultaneous need to scream and to cry, which my inhibitions convert into a smile and a nod.
Willie turns and hugs me, then Laurie, then Kevin, and then we all in turn hug each other. As I mentioned previously, I'm not a big hug fan, but these don't bother me at all. Especially the one with Laurie.
Hatchet gavels for quiet, thanks the jury for their contribution to society and sends them on their way. He then takes the unbelievably un-Hatchet-like, human step of apologizing to Willie for his years of incarceration, hoping that he can rebuild his life despite it. This case, according to Hatchet, points out the flaws of our imperfect system, while at the same time demonstrating its incredible capacity for ultimately getting things right.
Wallace comes over to congratulate me, and he then shakes hands with Kevin, Laurie, and Willie. The bailiff comes to take Willie away, and Willie glances at me with concern and confusion. I assure him that he is only going to complete some paperwork, and then he is going out into the world.
The defense team makes plans to meet Willie tonight at Charlie's for a victory party, and I go home for a quiet celebration with Tara. She and I spend a couple of hours watching television, with the assembled legal pundits anointing me a legal genius. Turns out they're not so dumb after all.
Tara seems unimpressed, so we head out to the park. I use up my fifteen minutes of fame tossing a ball to Tara, and I am actually interrupted three times by other dog owners seeking my autograph, which I sign with a flourish.
I get back home to change for the party, and there is a message on my voice mail from Nicole, congratulating me on the verdict.
On the way to Charlie's, I stop off at the police precinct to talk to Pete about his efforts to go after Victor Markham. He's upbeat about nailing him for the murder of Denise. Betty's testimony provides the motive, and the flaws in Victor's story, such as the time it took to get to the bar, are incriminating.
The police never had reason to investigate Victor before, so it is only now that they are learning things like the fact that there is no record of any phone call that night from Edward to the club. Additionally, and amazingly, the valet people at the club keep detailed records of the times members’ cars come in and out, and rather than throw those records away, they consign them to a life in storage. They have been retrieved and are totally in conflict with Victor's story.
Troubling to Pete is his feeling that Victor could not have done this alone, and in fact is not the type to dirty his hands. Edward, who is also legally vulnerable, could not have participated in the actual murder, since he was in the bar the entire time and had no blood on him. Pete believes Victor had help, but he has no leads as to who may have provided that help.
Charlie's is overflowing; word has apparently gotten out that we were coming here. Willie is in his glory, reveling in this first flush of freedom. He's invited Lou Campanelli, and when Laurie and Kevin arrive, the owner of the place puts us in a side room in which we can have some privacy.
Willie, to his credit and to Lou's obvious relief, is downing Virgin Marys right and left. With his other hand, he is waving to and leering at every woman in the place, enjoying his celebrity and obviously hoping to capitalize on it. Marys are the only virgins that Willie is interested in right now.
He holds up his glass to me in a toast.
“Man,” Willie says, “you're the most amazing genius of all time.”
I modestly wave off the compliment, though the accuracy of it is obvious to even the most casual observer. I go on to tell Willie that he hasn't seen anything yet, that he should wait until he sees me go after Victor Markham on his behalf in a civil suit.
After about an hour at the party, I start to feel overwhelmingly tired. The intense pressure and emotion have taken their toll, and I say my goodbyes. I make plans to meet with Willie about the lawsuit and his life in general, with Kevin about the prospects of getting him out of the Laundromat and into a form of partnership with me, and with Laurie about, well, who knows?
But all of these meetings are going to have to wait until two weeks from tomorrow, because, as they say, I'm outta here.