Grand Avenue (47 page)

“Maybe you should let someone else handle this case, darlin’,” he’d advised.

“Maybe you should mind your own business,” she’d snapped.

Why couldn’t she listen to them? Was defending
Tracey really worth the loss of her husband’s respect? Was it worth losing her best friends? Did she really believe Tracey was anything other than a cold, calculating little psychopath not above using today’s popular psychology to escape the consequences of her actions?

“I don’t know,” Vicki cried in frustration. What she did know, what she knew deep down in her bones, despite what Susan and Chris and Jeremy thought, was that she was doing what Barbara would have wanted, that above all else,
irrespective
of everything else, Barbara would have wanted her daughter protected. If Tracey had killed her mother for no other reason than she damn well felt like it, Barbara would still have wanted Vicki to defend her, to do everything in her power to keep her daughter out of jail.

She was doing the right thing, Vicki told herself.

Even suspecting that Tracey was dangerously unbalanced and possibly a threat to others? a little voice whispered. Even at the expense of everything she held dear?

“This isn’t about me,” Vicki repeated. The offers from New York, the queries from Hollywood, the attention of the media, none of that mattered. What mattered was honoring her friend’s memory the best way she knew how.

“What a crock,” she heard Susan hoot derisively.

“A nice bit of sophistry,” Jeremy concurred.

Chris turned away, refusing to speak.

“Great,” Vicki said, turning her back on their judgmental images, as they had turned their backs on her.

On one point, however, they were all in agreement:
she had no evidence. She could theorize all she wanted. In the end, she had nothing but Tracey’s word.

“You know, I’m really looking forward to beating your ass,” Michael Rose had said, his image winking at her from across the room.

“No way I’m going to let that happen,” Vicki said out loud. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Take the rest of the day off,” she told her startled secretary before hurrying down the hall.

“I don’t understand,” Tracey was saying. “What are you doing here?”

“I need more,” Vicki repeated, amazed as she always was by the color in Tracey’s cheeks, the way she seemed to be blossoming behind bars.

“I’ve told you everything.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It’s the truth.”

Since when had the truth ever been enough? Vicki wondered, the harsh overhead fluorescent lighting hurting her eyes. “I need more,” she said again.

“There isn’t any more.”

“Think hard, Tracey. Were there ever any witnesses?”

“Witnesses?”

“Someone who might have seen your mother touch you in an inappropriate way.”

Tracey shook her head. “I don’t think so. She only did it when we were alone.”

“Did she ever make a suggestive comment in anyone’s presence?”

“Suggestive, how?”

Vicki tried a different tack. “Is there anyone I can call to the stand to corroborate your story?”

Tracey shrugged, looked away.

“Tracey, is there anyone I can call?”

“No.”

Vicki began circling the rectangular table.
Fuck. Fuck the fuckers. Fuck the lawyers
, she read, thinking this was already true. She was fucked all right. “I need something, Tracey. I can’t walk into court with nothing but your word for what happened that night.”

“You don’t think the jury will believe me?”

“Give them a reason to believe you, Tracey. Give
me
a reason.”

Tracey hunkered down in her chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She rubbed her palms on the pale blue cotton of her prison pants. “There’s something I could tell you.”

Vicki stopped circling, stood absolutely still, waited for Tracey to continue.

“Something that would convince you I’m telling the truth. Something that would convince a jury.”

“What is it?”

“Something about my mother. Something you don’t know. Something I’ve never told anyone.”

“You can tell me.”

Tracey pushed herself back up, so that she was sitting ramrod straight. She motioned with her chin to the chair across the table. “Maybe you better sit down.”

O
pening arguments began on Thursday, January 14, 1993.

Vicki watched Michael Rose rise from his seat behind the prosecution’s table and stride purposefully toward the jury. It had taken three days to select the panel, which consisted of seven women and five men. Eight members of the jury were white, two were black, and two were of Asian descent. Nine were married, two divorced, one single. They had a total of thirty-two children and grandchildren amongst them, of which twenty were girls. All swore they’d neither been influenced by the lurid pretrial publicity nor formed any preconceived opinions. Half looked nervous, their eyes shiny with anticipation as they leaned forward in their seats; the others looked bored, their eyes already half-closed as they leaned back, trying to get comfortable. The judge had already warned them that the trial could last anywhere from three weeks to three months.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Michael began, “good morning.”

And let me thank you in advance, the familiar recitation echoed in Vicki’s head.

“And let me thank you in advance,” Michael continued, fastening the bottom button of his dark gray suit jacket, the one he always wore on the first day of an important trial. Kind of a good-luck talisman, he’d once explained to Vicki. Gray suit, yellow tie for opening arguments, blue suit, red tie for closing.

A man with a plan, Vicki thought as she covered her mouth with her hand and mouthed the words along with him. “The job ahead of you will not be an easy one.”

“Did you say something?” Tracey whispered beside her.

Vicki took her hand away from her mouth, used it to reach beside her and pat Tracey’s hand, knowing the movement would catch the eye of at least one of the jurors. Tracey’s hands were nice and warm, Vicki noted, unlike her own, which felt as if they’d been locked in a meat freezer overnight.

“But I’m going to try and make it as easy for you as possible,” Michael continued. Same damn speech every time, Vicki thought, glancing at Judge Fitzhenry, a deceptively kind-faced man of sixty-four. Judge Fitzhenry might look like everybody’s favorite uncle, with his round face and wisps of white hair, but the friendly smile hid a tart tongue, and the forgiving blue of his eyes concealed a jaundiced soul.

“The facts of this case are really pretty simple,” Michael continued. “Sometime between the hours of
three and five o’clock on the morning of August eighteenth, 1992, a forty-six-year-old woman named Barbara Azinger was brutally beaten to death.”

Vicki watched Tracey’s face as Michael began his dramatic recital of the grisly facts. Tracey looked calm, even serene, in her pale pink sweater and pleated navy skirt, very much the well-behaved schoolgirl she was. Dark curls angelically circled a cherubic face devoid of makeup, save for the tiny kiss of mascara Tracey had insisted on applying seconds before the jury was led in. Her mother’s daughter all right, Vicki thought, watching tears form in the corner of Tracey’s eyes as Michael Rose detailed the nature and severity of Barbara’s injuries. “Don’t be afraid to cry,” Vicki had instructed earlier. “Let the jury see how much you loved your mother.”

Were the tears real or was Tracey simply following the advice of counsel?

None of my business, Vicki reminded herself, eyes restlessly scanning the high ceiling and dark wood of the comfortable old courtroom. I’m only the lawyer. Not the judge and jury. It is not my job to determine guilt or innocence, only to provide my client with the best possible defense.

How many times would she have to remind herself of that before she’d stop feeling so damn guilty? She had a job to do, and she was going to do it. That neither Susan nor Chris had spoken to her in months, that both had volunteered to be witnesses for the prosecution, only heightened her resolve, made her job that much easier.

“My esteemed colleague will try to convince you
that Tracey Azinger killed her mother in self-defense,” Michael continued, his voice an interesting combination of revulsion and disbelief. Now that he’d finished describing the prosecution’s case, he was seeking to discredit the defense in advance, to blunt the effect of the arguments Vicki might put forward. “They will try to blur the simple, straight lines of this case by appealing to your need to believe that children don’t just up and murder their parents for no good reason. And in order for them to do that, they will resort to that obscene old chestnut of blaming the victim.”

Obscene old chestnut, Vicki repeated, picturing a gnarled brown chestnut rolling across the worn beige carpet of the courtroom. Vicki stopped the risible metaphor with the pointed toe of her black shoe and ground it into invisible dust with her heel. She shook her head in mock dismay for the jury’s benefit, glanced at her watch. Michael had been speaking now for almost forty minutes.

“They will tell you that there was a side to the doting mother that no one but her daughter knew anything about, something she successfully hid from those closest to her for more than a decade. They will try to convince you that Barbara Azinger was a monster who regularly and repeatedly molested her daughter.”

But what evidence do they have for these baseless accusations? Vicki heard Michael ask seconds before he actually spoke the words.

“None,” Michael said, answering his own question. “They have absolutely no evidence whatsoever. Nothing but the word of the girl who killed her.”

“Don’t let them get away with this, ladies and gentlemen
of the jury,” Vicki whispered along with him, flicking a tiny piece of white fluff from her green straight skirt.

“The facts of this case are indisputable,” Michael reminded the jurors, all of whom were listening intently. “Don’t be swayed by the theatrics and verbal calisthenics of the defense counsel.”

Verbal calisthenics, Vicki repeated silently. That was a new one.

“Don’t let this girl”—Michael pointed at Tracey, who took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye—“who has already confessed to the killing, murder her mother all over again.”

Vicki was on her feet and in front of the jury before Michael Rose was in his seat. “The prosecutor is right when he tells you the facts of this case are not in dispute, that in the early-morning hours of August eighteenth, 1992, Tracey Azinger took a five iron from her downstairs closet and bludgeoned her mother to death. He’s right when he tells you she later lied about it to the police, that she made up a story about a masked intruder, that she even identified the intruder,” Vicki said, eyes sweeping the spectator gallery, locating Tony Malarek, who acknowledged her with a knowing smirk. “He says she only changed her story when confronted with the mountain of evidence against her. This is true.” Vicki paused long enough to let what she was saying sink in. “And it’s not true.” Her eyes moved steadily from one juror to the next, eventually making contact with each of them. “Yes, Tracey Azinger lied.” Now Vicki turned abruptly to Tracey, confident all the jurors’ eyes would follow. Tracey stared back through
a heavy curtain of tears. “But she lied not to protect herself—another pause, longer than the first—“but to protect her mother.”

Vicki stood still, careful to keep the focus on her client. “She lied because she didn’t want anyone to know the terrible, unnatural things her mother had been doing to her for years. If I may borrow the prosecutor’s elegant phrase, she didn’t want to ‘murder her mother all over again.’ But ultimately she had no choice. Just as she had no choice but to kill the mother she adored in order to protect herself from her mother’s escalating abuse.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Vicki saw Michael Rose shaking his head, as she had done earlier. “The assistant district attorney says we have no evidence to support our allegations. He’s wrong. He says all you have is Tracey’s word. He’s wrong again. He’s also wrong when he asks you to ignore that little voice in your head that keeps asking, ‘Why? Why would a loving and much loved sixteen-year-old girl do such a terrible thing?’ I’m asking you to listen to that voice. It’s the voice of reason. It’s the voice of reasonable doubt.”

Vicki smiled sadly at the jury, then walked briskly past the prosecutor’s table and resumed her seat.

The prosecution first called Lieutenants Jacobek and Gill to the stand. They gave similar accounts of the murder scene, Tracey’s demeanor, her changing stories, her outright lies. Another officer reported having found the murder weapon stuffed into the back of Tracey’s closet, and his subsequent discovery of
Barbara’s engagement ring, tiny flecks of bloody flesh still clinging to its thin platinum band, inside Tracey’s jewelry box. Several forensic experts described in excruciating detail the number of savage blows Tracey had struck, the exact location of the injuries, the damage to the body, the deliberate obliteration of Barbara’s face.

Vicki kept her questions short and direct. There was no point in trying to discredit the physical evidence. Prolonged questioning would only seal the horrific images in the jury’s collective consciousness.

“How would you describe Tracey’s behavior when you got to the house that morning?” Vicki asked each of the officers.

“She was very upset,” Lieutenant Jacobek conceded.

“She was hysterical,” Lieutenant Gill agreed.

“She seemed traumatized,” the third officer read from his notes.

“No further questions,” Vicki said.

On the fifth day of testimony, Michael Rose called Susan Norman to the stand.

“Raise your right hand,” the county clerk instructed as Susan was sworn in. “Please state your name and spell it for this court.”

Susan gave her name, spelled it slowly and carefully, then took her seat, refusing to acknowledge Vicki’s smile.

Suit yourself, Vicki thought, noting that Susan’s red turtleneck sweater brought out the natural blush in her cheeks.