A Fool for a Client (14 page)

Justine
’
s mind drifted back a decade in time.

“She could
’
ve just pulled rank, but she knew that wouldn
’
t solve the problem.
So she took me off to
Florida
for a vacation right in the middle of the semester.
She didn
’
t try to make me talk about it.
She just let me wander off on my own and swim.
I could tell that she wanted me to open up, and I really
did
want to.
But I just couldn
’
t.”

A tear appeared in the corner of Justine
’
s left eye.
Rick squirmed with embarrassment at this uncharacteristic sign of weakness.
He tried not to stare, fearful that she would close up again.
After a momentary pause, Justine continued.

“Then... just a couple of days before we were due to leave, we saw a young couple strolling on the beach in the late afternoon with their baby.
The baby
’
s father was tossing the baby into the air and catching it.
Then he started swinging it towards the sea as if he was going to throw it in.
The baby was chortling away quite happily at its father
’
s antics.

“We were watching from a fair distance and it was such a pleasure to watch.
Then my mother said to me: “Such trust it has in its father.
Why can
’
t you have that kind of trust in me?”

“Well that just did it.
I mean I just broke down and cried on her shoulder.
I explained my problems, at least as well as I could.
I didn
’
t really understand them myself.
But she seemed to understand.
Anyway it wasn
’
t plain sailing after that, but between us we managed to get things straightened out.”

The tears were streaming down Justine
’
s cheeks.

“It sounds like she was very special to you.”

She wiped away the tears with an angry gesture.

“Let
’
s get going,” she said, rising.
It
’
s almost two thirty.”

He watched her walk away, a question mark hanging over him, his mind racing to find the key to the mystery, the formula to unravel the Gordian knot.

She was soft then, he thought to himself.
Her family tragedies had hardened her. But what had finally set her off?

She was fifty six years old.
But neither her white hair nor her gaunt body could give her a look of frailty.
She held an inner strength which in some
indefinable
way projected itself to those around her.
Watching her as she walked towards the witness stand without so much as a side-glance, Justine could see, in the self-confidence of her gait, an efficient, competent professional who knew her job.

“Please state your name and occupation,” said Abrams, as he approached her.

“My name is Miriam Liebowitz and I am a forensic pathologist with the Manhattan Coroner
’
s office.”

The spectators, for whom science was little more than an esoteric activity of elite fraternities, were looking at her in awe.
But the jury, which Justine had
empanelled
with painstaking precision, watched her only with a kind of respectful appreciation.

“Would you tell the jury please your qualifications.”

“I studied at
Princeton
and Stanford.
I practiced medicine at City General for five years and at Saint Matthew
’
s for three.
I worked as a Medical Examiner in the Atlantic City Coroner
’
s office for seven years where I rose to the rank of Deputy Chief Medical Examiner. Then I moved to
New York
with my husband, where I
’
ve been working as a Medical Examiner for the last eleven years.”

Abrams continued to establish Liebowitz
’
s qualifications by eliciting testimony about her previous cases and then moved to the nuts and bolts of this case.

“Were you called upon to perform an autopsy on the night of September the seventh of last year?”

“I was.”

“And what identification did the body carry?”

“A tag on the big toe of the left foot bearing the letter M and the number 3-8-7-5-9-4.”

“What does the M stand for?”

“Male.”

“Your Honour,” Abrams voice intoned heavily, “The People had intended to call the deceased
’
s mother who resides in
Northern Ireland
to testify as to the identity of the body.
However she is seriously ill and it would be potentially damaging to her health to come here for a second time.
I have a sworn affidavit containing her identification with explicit reference to the toe tag as well as the two agreed documents: Sean Murphy
’
s passport and driver
’
s licence.
I ask The Court to admit the affidavit as people
’
s Exhibit One.”

The game was clear to everyone present, at least all of those conversant with courtroom procedure.
It was one of the classic courtroom ploys: bring in the victims sick mother and have her deliver her faltering testimony identify the body of the deceased as that of her poor son whom she always hoped she
’
d see again in happier circumstances.
That was why he hadn
’
t raised the issue of the affidavit at the pre-trial motions hearing.
He
’
d obtained it already as a precaution against the mother
’
s premature demise and the need to obtain other identification, but he hadn
’
t wanted to use it.
Parker knew this, and he was whispering to Justine that as the affidavit had been obtained before the pre-trial and not mentioned there she could o
bject to its introduction now.

However they both knew that Abrams was already doing the next best thing after parading the old woman before the jury and that was describing her and putting her there in spirit.
Given that Abrams couldn
’
t bring her over because of her health, any delay would merely force Abrams to seek and the judge to grant an adjournment or continuance while other formal identification was obtained.
This would leave the jury with the memory and mental image of the sick old woman robbed of her son by a heartless young woman, who showed herself to be devoid of compassion in the courtroom.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Justine rose with a mellow look on her face.

“Your Honour, may it please The Court, in order to spare the prosecution any further problems and to spare the deceased
’
s mother, I am ready to stipulate that the body identified by toe-tag M 3-8-7-5-9-4 was that of Sean Murphy as identified in Mrs Murphy
’
s affidavit.”

“The stipulation is accepted,” said the judge as Justine sat down.

Abrams then proceeded to ask a series of questions to establish the details of the autopsy, keeping the language as simple as possible.
He had given all his expert witnesses a stern lecture before the trial.
“Don
’
t get over-technical.
Talking a lot of scientific jargon won
’
t make the issue any clearer to the jury.
You may give the jury the impression that you
’
re a master of your field and that you know what you
’
re talking about, but the other side can call other experts who can do exactly the same thing.
When that happens, the jury doesn
’
t know who to believe and they give the defendant the benefit of the doubt.”

They had all nodded vigorously, some already familiar with courtroom technique, were old hands at this game and needed no pep talk.
But their presence in the room provided group reinforcement to hammer home the message to the others.

“So what I want you to do,” he continued, “is keep your testimony as simple as possible.
If you have to go into a complicated concept, use a commonplace analogy to clarify it.
For example a blocked artery could be compared to a clogged-up drainpipe.”

He always used the clogged-up drainpipe analogy because it was easy to understand and effective to illustrate the principle.

After a few concise questions to Miriam
Liebowitz
and some lucid answers, Abrams was ready to bring his deceptively brief direct examination to a conclusion.

“So could you tell us then what was the cause of Sean Murphy
’
s death?”

“Atropine poisoning.”

“Your witness,” said Abrams with a wave of his hand in Justine
’
s direction.

A tense cloud of silence descended on the courtroom as everyone waited to get their first taste of Justine
’
s cross-examination.
Parker was leaning over to Justine, talking in a frantic whisper.

“Did you hear what she said?”

“Atropine poisoning.
Now keep your voice down.”

“But you were supposed to have given him

”

“I said keep your voice down!”
hissed Justine.

“Does the defence have any questions?” asked the judge forcefully.

“No Your Honour,” said Justine.

The tension broke in an explosion of chatter as the judge adjourned the hearing.

“I don
’
t know why the British keep calling the IRA terrorists,” said
Veronica
McLaughlin
, sweeping back a wisp of hair from her face to emphasize her well-groomed looks.
“There are always casualties in war.
The IRA are fighting against an occupying army.
Most of their actions are directed against British soldiers.
And as freedom fighters with a just cause they have the right to use all means to secure their just aims.”

Veronica
McLaughlin
was the spokeswoman for Iraid, a shadowy organization that officially collected money for the families of imprisoned IRA terrorists, but unofficially financed IRA terrorism itself.

“And what gave you the right to drag my little boy into your war?” screamed Pauline Robson.

The tears were streaming down Pauline
’
s cheeks like a river.
“Your precious IRA and INLA are a bunch of terrorist scum-bags!
And so are you!”

Pauline Robson was by now hysterical with the grief of the moment of pain and suffering which had re-lived again, and would go on reliving in recurring nightmares for the rest of her life.
She broke down in a sobbing fit, her hands clasped over her eyes, her fingers tearing at her hair.
The camera captured her anguish and held the moment in frame for a few seconds longer before returning to Veronica
McLaughlin
, challenging her to reply to that onslaught, as the nation held its breath and morbidly looked on, wondering how she would respond.

Carefully, Veronica told herself.
With dignity.
Always with dignity.

She picked up the red light of the active camera with the skill of the trained PR professional that she was, and looked millions of Americans in the eyes.
She remembered well her course in media manipulation from the PR firm.
Don
’
t be indignant, be hurt.
That was what this woman was doing, straight from the heart, without any formal training and that was what Veronica knew she also had to do.
It had worked against Joe McCarthy in the Army-McCarthy hearings, and it was working for this woman.
Veronica had turn it around and make it work for herself now.

“What that woman won
’
t tell you,” Veronica said, with a delicate balance of sympathy and gentle criticism, “is that she feels guilty about her son
’
s death because her boyfriend sexually abused the boy.”

“That
’
s a vicious lie!” Pauline screamed with the last of breath before the strength of her vocal chords gave out.
But by then it was too late.
The entire audience was in uproar and the studio camera showed that the was only a minute on the clock.
People on all sides were shouting, some for the woman and some against her.
Others wanted to return to the subject of the original discussion.
But there was no going back to it.
Pauline Robson was frantically trying to get to Veronica
McLaughlin
, but she was being restrained by several members of the audience.
There would be no more discussion of
Northern Ireland
that evening.
And the last thing people remembered was Veronica
’
s accusation of child abuse and the woman
’
s angry
reaction when confronted by it.