Every Reasonable Doubt (27 page)

C
oping with the pain of what I hoped was my temporarily broken marriage was harder than I’d ever imagined it could be. Every time the phone rang I prayed it was Jefferson. Most of the time it was Special, calling every five minutes to check up on me. I finally had to tell her to stop it because my nerves couldn’t take it.

When I walked back into the courtroom Monday morning, I vowed to put my personal problems out of my mind and pour one hundred percent of my energy into being the third chair on the Montgomery defense team. Not that I hadn’t already been doing that.

So far, even with Bryson’s testimony, the case was still a close call. At least that’s what all the TV pundits were saying. Neddy’s cross-examination had effectively discredited Bryson’s testimony. One local radio station even conducted a poll asking listeners to call in with their thoughts on Bryson’s credibility. The final results placed him neck and neck with the mother of the boy who sued Michael Jackson. I hoped the jury felt the same way.

Neddy’s opening statement was short and sweet. By introducing Bryson’s testimony, Julie had demonstrated that Tina had a motive to kill her husband, so Neddy hammered away at the only thing left in her favor—the fact that the prosecution’s case was totally circumstantial.

Neddy’s style was quite different from mine. She preferred to stand a good distance away from the jury box, never invading the jury’s personal space.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she began. “As you already know, I’m Neddy McClain and I’m one of the attorneys representing Mrs. Tina Montgomery.” She turned and glanced warmly in Tina’s direction. “You’ve heard a great deal of evidence from the prosecution. Some of it seemingly pretty damaging to my client. But I use the word
seemingly
, because in a trial, the evidence isn’t always as it appears.”

“You’re now about to hear our side of the story, which will differ significantly from the prosecution’s version. And as you listen to our case, there are some things I want you to remember and take particular note of.”

Neddy painstakingly ran down a long list of missing evidence, the most significant being DNA that might link Tina to her husband’s murder.

“You have to remember that Mr. Montgomery was viciously stabbed, over and over and over again. Yet, there’s not a shred of physical evidence—a drop of blood, a hair fiber, or even a footprint—linking my client to her husband’s murder. The standard of proof here is reasonable doubt. You have to believe—
beyond a reasonable doubt
—that my client killed her husband after twenty-seven years of marriage. Is it really reasonable to believe that she killed him right in the middle of a ritzy fundraising dinner she organized in a hotel full of her friends and colleagues? You be the judge.”

She went through several other implausible facts, skillfully making eye contact with each member of the jury. “I ask that you listen to our evidence with the same open mind that you used to consider the prosecution’s evidence. If you do, you’ll know beyond a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen, that Mrs. Tina Montgomery is innocent of the crime for which she has been charged.”

I surveyed the jury. In addition to Juror No. 7, three of the white women also seemed to have vibed with Neddy’s appeal. I couldn’t make a call as to the rest of them.

During the first two days of the defense’s case, Neddy presented a parade of witnesses who’d helped Tina with the fundraiser. All of them testified that they didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about Tina the night Max was killed. A hotel worker who helped Tina carry some leftover programs out to her car after the event was over cast serious doubt about the fact that Tina could have killed her husband and returned to her fundraising duties as if nothing were wrong.

The night before our third day of testimony, David, Neddy, and I camped out at the office poring over the daily transcripts, searching for any holes in their testimony that we needed to fill. We had already put on the bulk of our case during our cross-examination of the prosecution’s witnesses, meaning most of the information we wanted the jury to hear had already been elicited. It didn’t make sense to recall the same witnesses to rehash the same events. That could bore the jurors, or worse, piss them off.

The only witnesses we had left were another four or five character references we planned to call who would testify that Tina was an upstanding member of the community who could never hurt a fly. There was not a single witness, on either side—other than Garrett Bryson, whose motives are suspect—who testified that they had ever seen Tina angry or upset. She was always the epitome of graciousness. We wanted to leave the jury with the impression that Tina was simply too sweet to commit murder.

It was close to midnight and the O’Reilly & Finney conference room smelled of stale pizza and cold coffee. The table was littered with soda cans, balled up napkins and half-used legal pads.

“What’re you staring at so intensely over there?” Neddy said to David. She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

“I don’t believe it!” David said.

“You don’t believe what?” Neddy stood up to stretch, showing no real interest in David’s outburst.

“I think we missed something—something big.” David was bending over a document, holding it just inches from his nose.

Neddy and I walked over to David’s end of the table and peered over his shoulder. He was reading the autopsy report.

“Look at this,” he said excitedly, taking a yellow marker and highlighting several words.

We both silently read over David’s shoulder.

“Look at the amount of blood in the intracranial region,” he said.

“We already know how he died, David,” Neddy said disappointedly, flopping down into the seat next to him.

“No,” he said, “I think the coroner may have missed something.”

“So,” I said, wanting him to stop all the theatrics and get to the point, “exactly what did he miss and why do we care?”

“What if Max didn’t die from the stab wounds?” He looked earnestly at both of us.

“And what if O.J. kidnapped the Lindbergh baby?” I said. “Maybe you should make a Starbucks run. I think you might be suffering from caffeine withdrawal.”

I pulled out a chair on the other side of the table, and sat down across from the two of them.

“No, I’m serious.” He looked at Neddy and then at me. “What if Max Montgomery didn’t die from his stab wounds?” He stood up and began walking around the room. He was smiling now and his eyes were as bright as the yellow highlighter he was twirling between his fingers.

David was getting on my nerves with his dramatics. “If Max Montgomery wasn’t stabbed to death, then how did he die?” I asked.

David lowered his voice to a whisper as if he were scared someone might overhear us. “What if he died from an aneurysm?”

I smirked and folded my arms. “And what if the President is going to nominate you for the next vacancy on the U.S. Supreme Court?”

David’s eyes begged for understanding. “You don’t get it,” he said. “Based on what I just read in that autopsy report, it’s possible that the man had an aneurysm. You don’t get an aneurysm from stab wounds.”

“And how would you know that?” I asked.

“I know that because my father’s a neurologist and my mother’s a medical transcriber and they’re both hypochondriacs. While you guys grew up watching
Brady Brunch
reruns, the three of us were discussing blood vessels, tissue samples, and neurological functions. My parents thought that if I ate, drank, and slept medicine, I’d grow up to be some famous surgeon. Instead, it totally turned me off to medicine. They still haven’t forgiven me for going to law school.”

“You probably couldn’t have gotten into a decent medical school anyway,” I said.

“Wanna bet?”

“Children, children, please behave,” Neddy chided. She had an engrossed look on her face. “Go on, David.”

I couldn’t believe she was actually buying David’s bizarre theory.

“Like I said,” David continued, “according to the autopsy, there was a lot of blood in Max’s head. That shouldn’t happen from a stab wound. But a ruptured aneurysm could be one explanation it. And it looks like the coroner missed this.”

“So you’re saying you think Max had an aneurysm that ruptured?” Neddy asked.

He nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t stabbed to death,” I said.

“Maybe it does,” David said. “If the aneurysm happened first, then even though he was stabbed, he wasn’t
stabbed to death
.”

Neddy and I gazed at each other with baffled expressions.

David ignored the cynical expression on my face. “Most people who suffer from aneurysms have a family history of the condition. What if Max did?”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You actually want us to go into court tomorrow and argue that Max was already dead from a ruptured aneurysm when he was attacked in that hotel room?”

David looked me in the eyes, his face deadly serious. “You got a better theory?”

D
avid and Neddy headed off to court the next morning, while I stayed at the office and scoured the Internet, reading everything I could find about aneurysms. While there was some risk that the jury would wonder about my whereabouts, our need to explore David’s theory far outweighed any harm that might result from the curiosity about my absence. David confirmed his hypothesis with a phone call to his father, who agreed that a ruptured aneurysm was indeed a possible explanation for the excessive blood in Max’s cranium. His father also confirmed that this was something the coroner could have easily missed.

As I continued my research, the more I read, the more I found myself believing that it was actually possible that this aneurysm theory might have some validity. Neddy planned to stretch out what little testimony we had left to give Detective Smith and me time to dig up some information about Max’s medical history. Unfortunately, Tina knew little about her husband’s medical history. She directed us to the three doctors she knew of. The first two were too busy to take my call. I decided to make a personal trip to the office of the third, whom Tina believed was the most recent doctor Max had visited.

By 9:30 that morning I was parked outside the office building of Dr. Davon Davis, waiting for his office to open. I sat in the car and reread the information I’d printed out from the Internet. It frightened me that you could be otherwise healthy but suddenly drop dead from an ailment you didn’t even know you had. After reading one website where aneurysm survivors shared their experiences, I promised to get myself an MRI as soon as the trial was over.

When I walked into Dr. Davis’s office, the first thing that struck me was that it looked like a hotel lobby. Dr. Davis definitely wasn’t part of some low-cost HMO that accepted ten dollar co-pays.

The artwork on the walls was probably purchased at a gallery on Melrose. The muted orange, mustard, and beige walls made me want to fold up in a yoga pose. I couldn’t quite place the smell that seemed to be shooting from the air vents. It could’ve been Jasmine. The place resembled a plastic surgeon’s office, not a neurologist’s. The two middle-aged white women waiting to see the doctor didn’t look the least bit sick.

After identifying myself as a lawyer and telling the receptionist that I had an urgent, private matter to discuss with the doctor, she told me Dr. Davis would try to squeeze me in between his patients. I was hoping to gather the information I needed and then meet Neddy and David back at the courthouse in time for the lunch recess.

After about twenty minutes, I got up and approached the receptionist, a straw-thin blonde, for the second time. Her tight, low-cut blouse revealed a pair of massive breasts that were almost resting on the desk. They had to be full of silicone.

“Any idea when Dr. Davis might be able to see me?” I asked again, trying not to stare at her big boobs. The thought of having breasts that large made my back hurt.

“I’ve told him you’re here,” she said, sweetly, not an ounce of attitude in her voice. “It might help if you could give me a little more information about why you need to talk to him.”

I paused. I didn’t want word leaking out about our new theory. In my experience, secretaries and receptionists were the single most reliable transmitters of gossip. I couldn’t have Ms. Blond Betty Boop on the phone after my departure calling up the local TV news station with a scoop. We wanted to make sure our theory, if true, hit Julie like a neutron bomb. But I had to get Dr. Davis to talk to me first.

“Well,” I said, lowering my voice, “as I told you before, this is a really confidential matter. I represent the wife of Max Montgomery, who was a patient of Dr. Davis. I need to talk with him about Mr. Montgomery’s medical history. Mr. Montgomery’s wife is on trial for his murder and we think the doctor may have some information that could be helpful to her defense.”

The flash of recognition in her eyes told me that she’d had more than a receptionist-patient relationship with Mr. Max. The dude had really made the rounds.

“Well, patient information is confidential,” she said, still as polite as a Wal-Mart greeter. She could definitely teach the grumpy receptionist at my doctor’s office a thing or two about customer service.

“This is a matter of life and death,” I said, wondering if her hauntingly green eyes were also phony. “I’ll only need just a few minutes of Dr. Davis’ time. I believe the doctor may be able to help save Mr. Montgomery’s wife from being wrongly convicted.”

The receptionist stood up and dashed through the private door behind her.

It was only another five minutes or so before she showed me into the doctor’s office. His personal digs were just as lavish and trendy as the rest of his office. The colors here were soft blues and greens. Definitely the handiwork of an interior decorator.

When Dr. Davis held out his hand to greet me, all I could do was stare. His white coat was crisply starched and he had a clean-cut boyish face. His body was lean but muscular. I suddenly felt out of place in this palace full of beautiful people. Everything about him was perfect. Perfect caramel-colored skin, perfectly trimmed mustache, perfectly buffed fingernails. Definitely gay.

“Ms. Henderson, how can I help you?” he said, flashing a set of bright whites whose glossy shine told me they had been under the laser. I had not expected the deep baritone in his voice.

“Dr. Davis, I represent Tina Montgomery.” I pulled out my business card and handed it to him. “You’re probably aware that she’s on trial for the murder of her husband, Max Montgomery. He was one of your patients.”

He nodded.

“I don’t think she killed her husband,” I said, realizing for the first time, that if Max had indeed suffered an aneurysm, then my statement was actually true. “And you can help us prove that.”

“How so?” he asked.

“First, what I’m about to tell you is highly confidential and I need your agreement to keep it that way. It’s very important that you don’t share our conversation with anyone, even your staff.”

He nodded again.

“We believe Mr. Montgomery may have experienced a ruptured aneurysm just seconds before he was stabbed,” I said, carefully watching his reaction.

He arched a single brow. “So is your theory that the aneurysm killed him, not the stabbing?”

“Exactly.”

“So, you’re not saying that Mrs. Montgomery didn’t try to stab her husband to death, only that the aneurysm beat her to it?”

He was definitely quick. “No, not at all. We’re saying that Mrs. Montgomery didn’t stab him
and
that whoever did was stabbing a man who was already dead.”

He scratched the back of his head. “So exactly what is it you need from me? I have a very busy practice. I don’t have time to be hauled into court.” Even when he frowned, he looked good.

I sidestepped his concern. If he had the information I was hoping he did, he would definitely have to testify. We’d have Detective Smith serve him with a subpoena, leaving him no choice. “What we need,” I said, “is to find out whether Mr. Montgomery had any risk factors for aneurysms.”

“You understand that that’s confidential patient information,” he said.

“Yes, I do. But his wife’s on trial for his murder. The autopsy report shows that there was an excessive amount of blood in his cranium at the time he died. We understand that could be an indication that he had a ruptured aneurysm.” I took the autopsy report from my briefcase and handed it to him, then watched as he began to read it.

“But our theory alone is not enough,” I continued. “If Mr. Montgomery had been diagnosed with an aneurysm or had a family history of aneurysms, that information, coupled with the autopsy report, might be enough to convince the jury that the aneurysm is what killed him. And that would win Mrs. Montgomery an acquittal.”

He looked up from the report and seemed to be mulling over what I’d just said. But I could already tell from his body language that he was going to help us.

“Mr. Montgomery had been having excruciating migraines for several months,” he said. “About four weeks before he died an MRI confirmed that he had a brain aneurysm.”

Dr. Davis abruptly stopped. A look of regret covered his face. “I scheduled surgery. Twice. But Mr. Montgomery put it off both times. Claimed he had business matters he couldn’t postpone even though he knew failing to have the surgery could kill him.

What he had just said got me so excited I had to force myself to remain seated. I wanted to snatch the phone from his desk and call Neddy.

He turned to look out of the window to his right, probably wondering if he should have tried harder to get Max into surgery.

So your theory that Mr. Montgomery died from a ruptured aneurysm isn’t just possible, Ms. Henderson,” Dr. Davis said, turning back to face me. It’s quite probable.”