Authors: Gail Bowen
“Zack’s going to be anxious about the verdict too. He and Charlie can form a support group.”
Pete laughed. “I can’t imagine either of them in a support group.”
“Neither can I.” I gave Pantera a rub. “See you tomorrow night. Bring our friend here. Let’s see what Willie makes of him.”
Zack and his colleagues had spent long hours deciding on the witness list for the defence. To convict Sam Parker of attempted murder, the Crown had to prove, in the ponderous language of the law, that Sam intended “to cause the requisite degree of bodily harm coupled with the necessary recklessness as to its effect.” In lay terms, that meant the Crown had to prove that Sam was both cold-blooded and irresponsible. His temperament was key, so there were solid reasons for producing witnesses who would testify that Sam was a good and responsible man who, placed in untenable circumstances, had committed an act that was utterly uncharacteristic.
Sam provided a long list of friends and associates who were prepared to attest to his moral fibre, but when Zack and his colleagues interviewed Sam’s friends, they discovered a troubling common denominator: all were rich, powerful, and short-fused when it came to being challenged. The consensus was that Sam’s friends would not fare well in cross-examination, so Zack thanked them for their co-operation and went back to exploring his options.
Glenda was anxious to testify for her father. More than anyone except Sam, she could have given insight into his state of mind on the afternoon of May 16. She would have been a compelling and sympathetic witness, but Sam refused outright to allow her to testify. His daughter had suffered enough, he said, and that closed the matter.
So, as Sam Parker was sworn in on that cold October morning, he was the sole witness for the defence. He was impressive. When he’d come into court with Zack and Glenda, he had appeared depleted, but as he settled into the witness box, Sam came to life. He had spent a lifetime in the spotlight and he seemed to draw strength from the fact that he had every eye upon him. It was a phenomenon I’d observed in other public figures, and that day it served Sam Parker well.
Spine ramrod-straight, eyes blazing, Sam was a man to be reckoned with. As he went through the by-now-familiar narrative of events on the day of the shooting, Sam’s baritone was melodious and firm. He faltered only once – when he described seeing Glenda in her apartment holding the gun with which she planned to end her life. Sam’s agony at that memory was still painful to observe. When he testified he was in a state of shock as he drove to Kathryn Morrissey’s condominium, his words had the ring of truth.
Sam did not attempt to use his mental state to excuse his actions, and his refusal to ask for pity gave power to his testimony. Given context, Sam’s rationale for carrying a pistol when he turned up in Kathryn’s backyard made sense. He said he had simply been afraid to leave Glenda alone with a gun. He had, he admitted, been frightened, stupid, and guilty of execrable judgment, but on one point he was resolute: he had never intended to harm Kathryn Morrissey.
His story was believable, but Kathryn Morrissey’s account had been credible too. Sam’s defence team had assessed their chances of winning the game of she said/he said at around 50 per cent. The odds weren’t good enough, and so Zack decided to go for broke.
His direct examination of Sam had focused on the fact that Sam’s actions on the afternoon of May 16 were a response to the unendurable stress Kathryn Morrissey’s book had caused the Parker family. The argument was plausible, but there was a worrying footnote. Sam Parker was known to be an expert marksman. As an articulate opponent of gun registration, Sam had built up extensive media files, and every one of them included footage of him brandishing a firearm and stating that he found target-shooting a great tension reliever.
When Zack asked Sam how he typically dealt with stress, there was nervous laughter in the courtroom.
Sam was prepared for the question. “I pray, I swim, and I go to the shooting range,” he said.
Zack smiled. “Your abilities at prayer and swimming are none of our business,” he said, “but how would you estimate your skill as a marksman?”
“I’ve been shooting all my life,” Sam said. “I hit what I aim at.”
“What do you normally aim at?”
“Metal targets,” Sam said. “Just the standard recreational shooting setup.”
“So when you’re shooting for recreation,” Zack asked, “how far away are you from your target?”
“When I’m feeling sharp, six hundred yards. When I’m feeling old, five hundred yards.”
There was more laughter in the courtroom. Sensing that people were beginning to like Sam Parker, Zack waited until the laughter died down.
“And whether you’re feeling sharp or old, you generally hit your target?” he said finally.
“I always hit my target,” Sam said. There was no boasting in his voice. He was simply stating a fact.
“If you were aiming at a target a yard away from you,” Zack asked, “would you say your chances of hitting it were 100 per cent?”
Sam nodded. “100 per cent.”
“How far from Kathryn Morrissey were you standing when the gun you were holding went off?”
“Very close,” Sam said. “A couple of feet.”
“Yet you only grazed her shoulder,” Zack said.
“Yes,” Sam said. “The shot only grazed Ms. Morrissey’s shoulder.”
Kathryn Morrissey was sitting in the front row behind the Crown’s desk. Sam’s eyes found her. “I am thankful every moment of the day for that, Ms. Morrissey,” he said. “I hope you believe that.”
It had been a strong finish. To close its case, the Crown had to get Sam to admit that he wanted to kill Kathryn Morrissey. Try as he might, Garth Severight was unable to get that admission. His cross-examination put a couple of dents in Sam’s testimony, but it didn’t do any serious damage. When Sam stepped down, everyone in the courtroom knew it had been a good day for the defence.
During the trial, Taylor and I had created a comfortable routine for our evenings: an early dinner, homework, some time to goof and gossip while we watched
TV
, and then bedtime. That night after I read Rapti’s notes, Taylor and I watched something as funny as it was forgettable and were in bed by 9:00 p.m. I called Zack to say good night before I turned off the lights. The trial had consumed him. The dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes had become permanent. I had stopped asking him when or if he slept.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Not great,” he said. “Did Sam seem okay to you today?”
“Where did that come from?” I asked. “Everybody I talked to this afternoon thought Sam did well.”
“I’m not talking about his testimony,” Zack said. “I’m talking about his health. When he got off the stand, he looked as if he’d been bled dry.”
“It’s been a gruelling experience for everybody,” I said.
“I guess,” Zack said. “And I’m about to make it worse. My closing statement is six times longer than it should be, and it’s boring as hell.”
“I can help,” I said. “Get a pencil.”
“Is this a joke?”
“You’re beyond jokes,” I said. “My cheat sheet from Rapti says a closing statement is where you bring your story to a close and make certain the jury writes the ending you want. She also says you should end with a bang: move from the particular to the universal – convince the jury that your case gives them insight into the mystery of the human condition.”
“Not bad,” he said. “So where did Rapti go to law school?”
“Actually, she’s a proud graduate of the cosmetology program at Kelsey Institute in Saskatoon.”
“Well, the cosmetology program does good work. That’s sensible advice. Anything else?”
“Be sure to wear your red tie.”
“I’ll be wearing my robe. The jury won’t know what colour my tie is.”
“But I will.”
The next morning as the jurors filed in, their faces were grave. The tension in the air was thick. I checked the room for familiar faces. Charlie and the other
Too Much Hope
kids were in the first row. Krissy Treadgold was notable by her absence. Howard was sitting at the back.
Garth Severight’s closing statement was carefully composed. He commended the jury for the gravity with which they had assumed their burden; he gave a careful précis of the evidence. The facts he cited were the same as the facts that would be cited by the defence, but the story he chose to tell was very different. The Sam Parker of his story was a brash, wealthy oilman who was accustomed to getting his way at all costs. As he spoke I watched his face, and I was struck with the realization that Garth, the clown whom we had dismissed as stupid and egotistical, believed every word he was saying. His case had gone south on him. Linda, a smart lawyer with confidence in her ability, had believed Sam Parker should be charged with attempted murder and that she could prove her case. Had the Crown gone for a lesser charge, the outcome would have been different, but to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that when Sam entered Kathryn Morrissey’s backyard he had murder, not rapprochement, on his mind had been a tough sell for Garth Severight.
During the trial we had mocked him, but as Garth delivered his earnest closing statement, I was moved. His address to the jury touched upon truths to which we all paid lip service. No one, not even a millionaire, not even a person with powerful political connections, is above the law. If the justice system that governs our dealings with one another permitted people to take the law into their own hands, none of us would be protected. The words he uttered were aphorisms, but they had power because it was clear that Garth believed what he said.
I glanced over at Zack. He was alert but impassive, and I remembered Ed Mariani saying that Zack could have argued either side of a case with equal fervour because his interest was not in justice but in winning. As Garth made his final plea to the jury to summon the courage to bring in the verdict that the evidence supported, I knew Zack could have uttered Garth’s lines brilliantly, but brilliant as he was they would have lacked the fervour I heard in the voice of this limited man who believed every word he said.
At the outset, Zack’s closing statement was tight and quietly emphatic. He analyzed the evidence and found it wanting – not because the police hadn’t done their job but because they had brought forth no credible witness to establish that the shooting had been anything other than an accident – the result of a terrible, terrible lapse in judgment by a good man who had been under incredible pressure. He underscored Howard’s lack of credibility. Zack’s point was simple. For a conviction of attempted murder, the Crown must prove forethought and that the defendant’s action was deliberate. They had, he said, failed to do this.
Then having dealt with the facts, Zack went to town.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a man who loved his child. How many stories do you know that begin like that? Ten? Twenty? Every culture in every time has a story that begins with that one simple sentence. And that’s how Sam Parker’s story begins – with a father who loved his child so much that when his child was betrayed and despondent, he was prepared to do anything to save her. As a God-fearing, law-abiding man, Sam Parker went to his lawyer to see if the law could help him. It could not. Faced with a shattered family and a child prepared to die rather than cause him further pain, Sam Parker flew to Regina, took the gun from his child’s hands, and went to talk to Ms. Morrissey. He was hoping to appeal to her humanity. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.
“We all heard Ms. Morrissey testify that her obligation is to her text and that the suffering of those who trust her is not her concern. I was chilled by Ms. Morrissey’s statements. Judging from your faces, you were too. Can you imagine how a loving father would respond to those words?
“Only two people know for certain what happened in Ms. Morrissey’s backyard. You’ve heard from them both. As importantly, you’ve seen them both. You’ve been able to take their measure.
“You heard Sam Parker testify that, unlike Ms. Morrissey, he knows what he did was wrong. He would not repeat the stupid and harmful action he took on the afternoon of May 16. He’s a good man, and good people recognize their mistakes and learn from them. I ask you, as judges of the facts, to see that justice is done here. Don’t punish a good man because he loved his child. Humans are fallible. We make mistakes. Sam Parker made a mistake. Love makes us foolish, but it also ennobles us, transforms us into people who put the needs of those we love above our own needs. Please remember that when you determine the future of Sam and his family.”
As Zack wheeled back to his table, Brette whispered, “Shreve gets both ears and the tail for that one.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Brette leaned towards me. “In a bullfight if a matador does a lot of manly cape-swooshing before he kills the bull, the crowd awards him both ears and the tail.”
“So you think Zack won his case?”
“I don’t know,” Brette said. “But he sure swooshed his cape.”
Mr. Justice Harney began his charge to the jury by giving what I had learned were standard instructions about the credibility of witnesses, the weight of circumstantial evidence, and the concept of reasonable doubt. His charge on the law centred on proof of intent.
He read the relevant passage from the Criminal Code: “ ‘A conviction for attempted murder requires proof of the specific intent to kill. No lesser
mens rea
will suffice. The key element of the mental element in this offence is the intention to cause the requisite degree of bodily harm, coupled with the necessary recklessness as to its effect.’ ” He ruled that the jury could find Samuel Parker guilty of attempted murder only if the Crown had established proof of intent; that is that they had proven the accused intended to cause bodily harm to the victim.
“One for the defence,” Brette said, and I felt a small blooming of hope.
The judge outlined the evidence presented during the trial; then, without drama, the jury filed out to begin their deliberations. There was the usual hubbub in the courtroom. Brette and I packed up our things, said we’d see each other on the day the verdict was returned, and exchanged goodbyes. When Zack left the courtroom with the Parkers, he looked over and mouthed the words “wait for me.”