Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) (18 page)

CHAPTER 34

Few, if any, were aware William Lincoln Johnson was in the gallery the next morning.

The court attendant, who was also black, recognized him and granted him a special courtesy. He was not sure why. The attendant decided to keep an eye on him; he remembered the outburst of the former foreman.

He won’t get away with this. He will rue the day he allowed this travesty to happen.

Now the former judge was being tried for murder in his own courtroom. The irony of the situation and location did not go unnoticed.

By anyone.

Bill had a gut feeling, the best kind. As best as he could figure, the judge abhorred violence of any kind. As to most of his ruling in the case, he erred on the side of caution. He could not picture Judge Kolkolski with a weapon in his hand. He could not imagine the judge killing anyone—under any circumstance. Something else was going on.

His first thought, in fact his only thought, was Alexey Cummings was behind it. It just made sense. He was trying to figure how to connect the dots. He was also concerned this was none of his business. You don’t screw around with the Russian mafia, especially if there is nothing to gain.

Bill decided to sit back and see how it played out. At least for now.

***

“Will counsel please approach?”

It was not a request; it was an order framed to sound like a request to the jury—or anyone who later read the official transcript.

Both sides knew what was coming.

The judge waved to the court reporter not to take any notes. This was strictly off the record. In a faint whisper he informed both counsel that now it was his turn. They had spent more than two full days and had still not seated a full complement of twelve jurors.

Robert Sugarman wanted the trial to start ASAP.

“I’m taking over. Understood? You may use your preempts or challenges for cause, but I’m going to question and seat the last seven jurors myself. Be prepared to give your opening remarks first thing in the morning.” Before either could comment or place an objection on the record, the judge stated, “Counsel has graciously agreed they would prefer if I took over the
voir dire
so they may concentrate on their opening statements that will take place at nine thirty tomorrow morning.”

The judge smiled as he thanked both attorneys for their brilliant suggestion.

Opposing counsel were stone faced. And silent.

There comes a time in every trial when the court on its own volition attempts to take over. It is at that time an objection is made for the record. Or the moment is lost.

Billy Jo and Marta had their moment. Either they were too afraid or too stunned to comment. By the time they were back at counsel table, a good three seconds, the moment was forever gone.

***

The last seven jurors were picked in near record time; three before lunch and the other four by ten to four. Neither counsel objected or used challenges. It would not have done a damn bit of good. You would have thought the judge was going on vacation the day after tomorrow, or he just wanted the experience over with as quickly as possible.

Most likely the latter.

Billy Jo now studied his completed jury panel board. Seven males, four white, two black, and one Hispanic. Billy was not quite sure how to categorize Roger Rabbitt, he swore it was not his legal name, who was clearly a homosexual. There were five females, three whites, two blacks, and no lesbians. All in all, it was a jury of Wally’s peers. Each side felt they could have done better, but that is the very nature of things.

With the court making the last seven choices, neither attorney had much of a choice. No one knew Juror Seven, Neil O’Brien, a red-headed twenty-seven-year-old was the fly in the ointment. He was a twin; an identical twin, and told no one.

Billy Jo was not thrilled and yet he felt it was more than enough to win.

***

The courtroom was packed, not a seat in the house. Pretrial motions had gone more or less as anticipated, each side jockeying for some small advantage. It was more psychological than anything else.

The first motion, made by the Black Widow, was to exclude TV cameras in the courtroom. Marta did not want to turn this into a circus. She had no idea how vain the judge was, but needed his undivided attention. She did not want sympathy from unsophisticated TV land.

If it were up to Billy Jo, he would have asked for Cecil B. deMille to produce and direct it. Any publicity is good publicity. It would also limit Marta from her well known bag of tricks. The judge decided to show his authority and saw no reason for briefs or arguments.

“This trial will be run in a court of law, not through the media. Request for TV cameras denied. What’s next on your laundry list?”

Marta and Billy Jo stole a quick look at each other. Each was wondering what the other had up their sleeve.

“Your Honor, we request any reference to the trial of People vs. Ricardo be excluded. It is inflammatory and carries no probative value.”

Marta jumped out of her seat, just as Billy Jo had anticipated.

“What are you, crazy? It goes to the very heart of our case. Motive. No way.”

Marta was so stunned, so excited, she did not think. It was to Billy’s advantage to let in everything regarding the rape case. It would gain tons and tons of sympathy from the jury. The rapist finally got what was coming to him. The judge merely corrected the error he had made in the first place.

Marta realized too late the mistake she had just made. No way could she now reverse fields and agree with Billy.

One point for the bad guys. I’ll just have to be more careful next time.

Billy blew her a soft kiss. Just to rub it in a bit.

It’s a game of chess. Only now the pieces are human. All I have to do is anticipate his moves and be ready to counter. I may have to sacrifice my pawns and a bishop or two, but the goal is to put the king in check. Let the SOB gloat now. The game has just begun.

Marta blew a kiss right back.

“All right, children. Now can we please move on?”

Bob Sugarman watched the subtle exchange. He didn’t miss a trick. He knew exactly what was going on. It wasn’t as if he had not pulled the same crap on opposing counsel a dozen times or more.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The list of requests took up the balance of the day. There was nothing unexpected. Each side knew they would win a few and lose a few. At the end of the day, the score was just about tied.

They had been testing each other like two heavyweight boxers, each seeing how the other would react to a mere jab or a haymaker, each seeing how sharp the other really was. Most important, how far could they push the judge?

They both had to know when to push and when to back off.

This was not their first criminal trial. Far from it.

***

“Opening statements. Mr. Gibson, are you ready to address the jury?”

The clock on the wall read 9:40. The jury had been brought in and seated. It was now time for opening remarks, a preview of what was to come. This was a statement by counsel, not evidence. That would come later. Hopefully.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Billy Jo was dressed to kill, a bad expression in a Murder One trial. He was wearing a three piece dark suit, black snakeskin cowboy boots, and a silver and turquoise belt buckle. All that was missing was a chaw of tobacco in his cheek and a ten gallon hat on his head. He thought of himself as a modern version of Gregory Peck in
To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

Here his gaze lingered a split second on Juror One, Madeline Wallace. She blushed.

Marta was ready to stand up and object, but he had done nothing wrong.

“First and foremost, I want to thank all of you for being here and accepting your civic duty. You all know the distinguished jurist, the Honorable Robert Sugarman. He will tell you the law and how to apply it. My name is Billy Jo Gibson from West Virginia, and I have been given special permission to appear in the great State of New Jersey for the sole purpose of defending my client, the Honorable Walter A. Kolkolski.” He turned slightly and gestured to the ADA.

“At the counsel table over there is the very lovely, very talented, and very anxious Assistant District Attorney for the State of New Jersey, Ms. Marta Clarke.” Billy Jo paused to take a sip of water. He knew it would be a long opening statement and did not want to rush himself.

“Ms. Clarke has a whole bunch of facts she will tell you. Facts about a former trial where Judge Kolkolski allowed the defendant in that case, the late Anthony Ricardo, to walk. She will tell you of an affair between Mr. Ricardo and the ex-Mrs. Kolkolski, who by the way has been divorced from my client for more than twelve years. She will tell you my client was found in the deceased’s home. All that may be interesting, but it has nothing to do with this case. This case demands proof. Actual proof, hard evidence my client shot and killed the late Mr. Ricardo. And equally important, that he planned to do so. That it was premeditated. Ms. Clarke simply cannot do that. Why? Because there are no facts to support it and my client was the victim of an elaborate plan to set him up. We will tell you during the course of this trial who we believe is the one person who had motive to kill Mr. Ricardo and frame the judge. Sort of two birds with one stone.”

For the next thirty-seven minutes Billy Jo laid out his case and the obvious flaws he saw in the prosecutor’s case. He gave them just enough to nibble on but not enough to quench their appetite. On two occasions he alluded to the real killer without identifying him by name.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I did not mean to be so zealous, but a man’s life, my client’s life, is at stake. No one can be too zealous in the pursuit of justice.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we will take a short recess before Ms. Clarke makes her opening remarks. Please limit the break to fifteen minutes.”

Judge Sugarman stood up as the clerk intoned the well-worn words, “All rise.” He’d had too much coffee this morning.

Billy Jo was pleased with himself; as well he should be. He turned to Wally, who tried to maintain a straight face. A hi-five would have sent the wrong message to the jury.

***

“Ms. Clarke.”

Marta acknowledged the request of the court, stood up, and carefully smoothed out her soft linen outfit. She picked up her notes and proceeded to the lectern.

She decided she needed the jury on her side from Day One. She needed to get their attention. Her biggest visible assets were looks and figure. She wore a cream-colored beige suit, a color very new to her wardrobe, that was unlined. Against her ebony skin, she would stand out in any crowd.

“As you all know, my name is Marta Clarke. I’m an assistant district attorney for Essex County. While I appreciate Mr. Gibson laying out my case so eloquently for me, I believe I am more than capable of handling it on my own. Mr. Gibson appears to have a bad habit of leaving out some vital facts, or at the very least, distorting them. I’m here to correct them. All of them.”

As she began her opening remarks she left the lectern and briefly walked in front of the open window. It was a glorious day out with the sun streaming in. The room became deathly quiet. You could now hear a pin drop. Two minutes later she had wandered back in front of the high windows. She was going over the timeline of her case when she was interrupted.

“Ms. Clarke. Approach. Now.”

Marta was stunned. No one had ever interrupted her during an opening statement or closing argument. It was absolutely unheard of.

“Your Honor, I’m not finished with my presentation and you’re interrupting me.”

Marta had raised her voice at least two octaves.

“Now, Ms. Clarke. Now.”

Everyone in the courtroom knew what was coming. Except Marta.

The judge tried unsuccessfully to modify the tone of his voice

“I don’t know what kind of crap you are trying to pull here, but I’ll not have it in my courtroom. Either you stay the hell away from that window or put a raincoat on.”

Marta had no idea what the hell the judge was talking about until she walked back to the window and looked down at herself. The sun made her linen outfit seem transparent. It was if she had no outer clothes on at all. Every juror, the judge, the court clerk, and bailiff, in fact everyone in the courtroom could see she was wearing white bikinis and a French cup bra.

Marta was mortified.

“Twenty minute recess, Your Honor,” she yelled as she rushed out the door.

“Granted.”

Billy Jo, who had been enjoying the show, buried his head in some files on the table. He refused to look up. He actually felt sorry for her.