Chasing Justice: A Matt Royal Mystery (24 page)

“If Bannister had seventy-five percent of the hundred million he needed, why didn’t he just go to a bank for the rest? For that matter, why not just go to a bank for the fifty million, cutting Erickson out all together? Any bank would lend money that’s secured in its entirety by real estate.”

“I think there may be some drug money in this deal.” I told him what Jon Boscia had said about Erickson.

“Are you suggesting that Bannister might have been involved in the drug business?” Bob asked.

“The evidence is starting to stack up. I think he might have been.”

“That’s too bad. I wonder if Maggie knew.”

“Bob,” I said, “now that Bannister is dead, what happens to the real estate in Lakeland?”

“Nothing. The real estate is owned by BLP, Inc., and it looks as if BLP, Inc. is owned by Erickson.”

“So, Erickson has benefited by Bannister’s death.”

“Yes. To the tune of fifty million dollars. If that’s really what the land is worth.”

“What about the ten million Erickson advanced?”

“I’ll be willing to bet that money never changed hands,” Crites said. “Or if it did, it went right into the corporation.”

“Then why the subterfuge with the agreement?”

“It sure makes a nice paper trail, if anybody ever came looking. All aboveboard.”

“And,” I said, “I guess if some law enforcement type did come looking and found what we did, he couldn’t prove anything more than we can. Nothing of a criminal nature.”

Crites smiled. “Bingo, Counselor.”

PART II

THE TRIAL

CHAPTER FORTY

Florida’s new courtrooms have no personality, no history, no ghosts of the past hanging around lamenting like banshees the tragedy that would play out over the next few days. They’re just cookie-cutter spaces carved out of the new courthouses that have sprouted throughout most of the counties in the state. Florida’s phenomenal population growth over the past thirty years has required county commissioners to build new monuments to themselves, and cost constraints have relegated courtrooms to sterile environments designed by unimaginative architects who eschewed any input from lawyers and judges. The stateliness of ornately carved wood, classical murals, high ceilings, mahogany furnishings, and polished wood floors has given way to plastic, vinyl, and commercial carpeting.

There are never enough elevators and the security measures are too cumbersome and mostly useless, resulting in long lines of people trying to get into the courthouse to do their public business. The result is a cheapening of the jurisprudential experience for all involved; judges, lawyers, litigants, the accused, and the victims.

I was sitting in one of those courtrooms in downtown Sarasota on Monday morning, four days before summer officially began. It was early yet, and the room was deserted and cold. The air conditioning had been cranked up against the mid-June heat that seeped into even the sturdiest buildings. When all the actors arrived, the jurors, court deputies, clerks, court reporter, judge, prosecutors, my client, and the curious who had come to watch the trial, the room would heat up and the air conditioning would blow harder and, hopefully, keep us comfortable.

I had, over the years, made a practice of arriving in court early. It gave me time to think about my case, my client, the law, and the consequences of what I did or did not do during the course of the trial. Somehow, these new courtrooms didn’t bring me the solace I sought. They were like Starbucks without the coffee, all eerily similar, yet different in small ways.

The door of the courtroom opened and George Swann, the prosecutor, swaggered in. I wondered if he’d had to learn that swagger or if he’d just never been taught to walk normally. He had an entourage with him, two women who were probably in their late twenties, and a thin young man with red hair and freckles.

I stood and shook hands with Swann. He introduced me to what he called his team. The young man was a law clerk who would be a third-year student at Stetson Law School in the fall. One of the young women was a paralegal and the other an attorney. “Do you particularly want this table?” Swann asked. “I usually take the one closest to the jury.”

I had absently sat down at the table nearest the jury box. The other counsel table was across the room, but the room was small enough that it made no difference to me which table I used. But Swann’s attitude did make a difference. “I’m comfortable here,” I said.

“In the Fourth Circuit, where I come from, the prosecutor sits at the table nearest the jury.”

“We’re in the Twelfth Circuit. Different rules.”

“Are you trying to be difficult, Mr. Royal?” Swann asked.

The battle had already started. Some lawyers, usually those who don’t have a great deal of confidence in their abilities, are contentious just for the hell of it. They seem to think they can intimidate their opponents by the force of their personalities, or their reputation, or maybe just their win-loss records. I had learned a long time ago that you took these guys head on, gave no quarter, beat them over the head with your brain and your mouth. And you never raised your voice. “George,” I said, “I think you’ll know when I decide to be difficult. Now, move away.”

He stood over me for a moment, the school yard bully who’d been called to task in front of his posse, and wasn’t sure how to proceed. He chuckled. “We’ll see, Mr. Royal.” He turned to leave.

I couldn’t help myself. “George,” I called. He stopped, turned and glared at me. I said in a quiet, even voice, “You fuck with me, and I’ll bury you.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Royal?”

“No.” I smiled coldly. “I want to be your friend.”

“Call me Mr. Swann,” he said, and turned his back on me.

“Okay, Georgie.” Who said I couldn’t act like a twelve-year-old?

He stopped for a split second, and then moved on to his table and instructed his staff to unpack the large briefcases that lawyers called trial bags. One of the young women, the lawyer, looked at me and smiled, quickly and furtively, winked, and said loud enough for Swann to hear, “He’s never lost a murder trial, Mr. Royal.” I thought she probably didn’t hold her boss in very high esteem.

Bill and Abby Lester came in and pushed through the rail that separated the lawyers from the spectators. Abby sat down next to me, leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

Bill said, “I’ll be a phone call away if you need me.” He would not be allowed in the courtroom because of the rule of sequestration that required all witnesses who would testify to remain outside the courtroom during the trial.

“Did Swann serve you with a subpoena?” I asked.

“No. I was surprised,” Bill said.

“He can’t make you testify against Abby because of the husband-wife privilege, so I guess he decided not to even try.”

“You’re going to call me, aren’t you?”

“Probably, but if I put you on the stand, we’ll lose the privilege, and you’ll be subject to cross-examination. I want to see how the evidence goes before I make that decision.”

“Call me if you need me. And keep me posted.” He left.

Abby leaned over to whisper. “The probation people came by early this morning and took off that confounded anklet. This is the first time I’ve been downtown since I was arrested. Two and a half months is a long time.”

“We’re nearing the end,” I said.

“How’s it look?”

“Hard to tell.” I never wanted to get a client’s hopes up too high. I thought we had a good case, perhaps even one that the judge would dismiss for lack of evidence after the prosecution finished putting on its case. But I wanted Abby to remain sharp and focused. I didn’t want her to relax, thinking we were going to win her an acquittal.

She smiled ruefully. “I’ve got faith in you, Matt. You’ll get me out of this, and by next week, it’ll just be a bad memory.”

“I hope so,” I said, but my mind flashed to that old saying that no matter what verdict the jury returns, the lawyer goes home. I hoped Abby would be going with me.

There was more activity in the back of the courtroom. I turned to watch the venire, that group of people who had been chosen randomly from the Sarasota County driver’s license roll to serve on our jury. There were about forty people in the group, most of them not happy about being there. I had found over the years that the jurors tried hard to see that justice was done, even though jury duty was an imposition. It was, as the judges invariably told them, part of their civic responsibilities. And they took that responsibility seriously.

We would proceed to trial with twelve jurors and two alternates. The alternates’ sole duty was to step in if for some reason one of the jurors could not proceed. I thought we’d whittle this crowd down pretty quickly.

The court reporter and two deputy clerks entered and took their seats. The reporter would take down every word said in the courtroom, making and preserving the record. The deputy clerks would handle all the documentary evidence and keep the court minutes, recording all documents offered into evidence, whether admitted or not, and noting the judge’s rulings during the course of the trial.

A door behind the bench opened and a court deputy stepped out, stood for a moment and motioned behind him. The judge walked out and climbed the steps to the bench. The deputy intoned, “All stand. Hear ye, hear ye, the Circuit Court of the Twelfth Judicial Circuit in and for Sarasota County, Florida is now in session, the Honorable Wayne Lee Thomas presiding.”

A chill ran up my spine. The trial was about to begin; the culmination of all that had gone before, the investigation, the evidence gathering, the depositions, the heartache, and the emotional highs and lows that lawyers and litigants always suffer. I thought I knew how that receiver standing at the goal line felt when the referee’s whistle blew, and the kicker on the other team approached the teed-up football. The game was on, and Abby’s future rested in the palms of my hands.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The day was grueling. Picking a jury is an art based on gut feelings and the little evidence given by the prospective juror on the form he or she fills out before arriving at the courthouse, and the answers given to the questions posed by the lawyers. Attorneys walk a fine line in their questioning, seeking information but not wanting to irritate the people who will decide the fate of the accused, and in this case, the perfect record of the prosecutor. We lawyers always tell the prospective jurors that we’re looking for people who can be fair to sit on our jury. That’s a crock. We want the person whom we think will be the most likely to find in our client’s favor. At best, it’s a crapshoot.

For the most part, the venire was a cross-section of the Sarasota County community. One woman stood out briefly, at least in my mind, because I couldn’t figure out why Swann had not dismissed her. According to her information sheet, Judith Whitacre was thirty-four years old, held a master’s of business administration degree from the elite Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, and worked for a large multinational cosmetic company. She was blond, beautiful, and dressed in a dark-blue suit set off by a white blouse and a pearl necklace.

Swann was at his most charming, his smarmy smile showing dazzling white teeth as he stood. “Miss Whitacre,” he said, looking at the blond woman, “what do you do for a living?”

“I work for a large cosmetic company.”

“Any particular division of that company?”

“Fragrances.”

Swann’s smile got bigger. “Are you one of those pretty girls who stand at the door of department stores in the mall and offer people a spray sample of your perfume?”

“No.”

“Well, what exactly do you do for your company, Ms—?”

“I’m the manager of operations for the Southeastern division, covering thirteen states.”

“Oh.” Swann said.

“Yes.” Ms. Whitacre said, with a smile.

Swann must not have looked too closely at Ms. Whitacre’s form questionnaire. I was pretty sure he would dismiss her, but he didn’t. I think he didn’t realize how bad a mistake he’d just made. He’d insulted a woman who was obviously proud of her accomplishments and her place in the corporate world. I asked her no questions, and for the rest of the day, she smiled at me and frowned at Swann.

The prevailing wisdom among criminal defense lawyers is that you do not want a juror with ties to law enforcement, either by marriage, blood, or just close friendship. People always talk, and it doesn’t matter how many times the judge instructs jurors not to discuss the case, they will talk, and cops usually come down on the side of the prosecution. I thought this one might be different because Abby was the wife of a well-respected officer who had been part of the Sarasota County law enforcement community for more than twenty years. I accepted a woman whose brother was a Sarasota County deputy sheriff. Swann seemed a little smug about what he surely considered a mistake on my part, but I ignored him and hoped for the best.

We worked all day and finally, by late in the afternoon, we had chosen the fourteen people who held the fate of Abigail Lester in their hands. It was an awesome responsibility to thrust on a small body of citizens chosen at random by a computer, and then whittled down to a jury by obsequious lawyers seeking their favor.

Judge Thomas swore in the jury, charged them not to read anything about the case or watch any news of it on television, and dismissed us until nine the next morning.

As Swann’s team was packing up, he sidled over to me and said, “Nice work with that cop’s sister. I guess retirement dulled your senses.” He walked off before I could respond.

Abby and I walked out of the courtroom to find her husband sitting on a bench in the hallway. We waited for the jurors to leave the area and then boarded an empty elevator.

The June air was muggy, the sun still bright and the temperature hovering in the low nineties. “How’s it going?” Bill asked.

“Let’s find someplace with air conditioning,” I said. “I could use a drink and we can talk.”

We crossed the street and walked a block to an upscale bar and restaurant favored by the courthouse lawyers in need of a little decompression time at the end of a day of hearings or trials. We found a booth in the back and ordered beer for Bill and me and red wine for Abby.