Murder One (31 page)

He turned his wrist to admire it and returned her whisper. “So do I.”

She squeezed his hand, then allowed hers to retreat back beneath the table.

Cerrabone and Rowe had draped their suit jackets over the backs of their chairs. At the moment they were wheeling a large flat-screen television on a stand so that it would be visible to the members of the jury. Satisfied, Cerrabone continued to walk about the room like a stagehand arranging his props for the show’s performance—brown paper bags sealed with blue painter’s tape containing the evidence to be introduced and an easel for the series of blowups he would use. In the corner of the room, the sliding-glass door—replete with the single concave hole and the spiderweb of cracks—stood upright on a dolly. The blood on the interior of the glass had dried to a rust color.

At nine
A.M.
sharp, Underwood’s bailiff, the attractive, dark-skinned woman of Indian descent, stepped into the courtroom with Judge Reuben Underwood hot on her heels. He ascended to the bench before she had finished her instruction for all those present to rise.

“The People of the State of Washington versus Barclay Alison Reid. Judge Reuben Underwood presiding.”

“Are there any preliminary matters before we bring in the jury?” Underwood’s tone clearly intended to convey “And God help the attorney who says there are.” There being none, he instructed his bailiff to bring in the jury.

Trials unfold much like theater productions, with the spectators getting to see both the actors onstage with the curtain up, as well as what transpires backstage, when the jurors leave for the jury room. The eight men and six women had an inkling of the nature of the case from the questions Sloane and Cerrabone had asked during the voir dire selection. As they took their seats, picking up the spiral notepads they would use throughout the trial, several looked over at Barclay.

Underwood’s face had transformed, and he sat looking like a proud father—or in the case of some youthful jurors, a grandfather—smiling down at his children. When he spoke, it was in a benevolent tone, and he wasted little time before thanking the jurors for their service. He then provided them with the basic allegations of the case they were about to hear. Finished with the stipulated statement to the jury, Underwood turned to Cerrabone. “Mr. Cerrabone, you may give your opening statement.”

Cerrabone approached the jury box holding a yellow notepad. He maintained the appearance of the everyman in an off-the-rack brown suit a little too wide in the shoulders, a little too long in the cuffs, and bunched at his loafers. He put his pad on the railing beneath the bench, and it promptly slid over into the well and onto the clerk’s desk, bringing nervous laughter from the jury and those seated behind them in the gallery. “Butterfingers,” Cerrabone said.

Sloane wondered if the act had been purposeful.

Recovering with a shrug, Cerrabone gave a slight bow to Underwood, to Sloane, and finally, to the jury. “May it please the court, respected counsel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I am Rick Cerrabone, and I represent the people of the state of Washington.” He paused as if to gather his thoughts. Someone coughed. “A moment ago Judge Underwood read to you a stipulated statement of the
allegations
the state has brought here today against the defendant, Barclay Reid.” Cerrabone pointed and looked at Reid, as all good prosecutors were trained to do, the belief being that if the prosecutor
couldn’t be certain, then neither could the jurors. “The statement read to you did not contain any facts, because there are no facts before you. That’s my job, to present to you the facts of this case through the evidence that I will solicit from persons seated in that chair—police officers, detectives, the medical examiner, and forensic specialists, which is a fancy term for people with expertise in certain fields such as bullets and guns.”

A few jurors smiled. Cerrabone seemed to find his stride after the initial jitters. “You will find the facts to be uncomplicated, and when I am finished, I believe you will have no doubt of the charge brought here today, that Barclay Reid”—this time he moved to within inches of the front of their table—“with premeditation and forethought, shot and killed Filyp Vasiliev.”

Cerrabone paused again. This time Sloane knew it was for effect.

“This is a tragedy, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, which was argument and not fact, but Sloane was loath to object during another attorney’s opening or closing statement. A jury could perceive an objection as Sloane trying to keep information away from them. Besides, he thought it was a good line and he could now use it himself.

“The evidence introduced will be that just over a year ago, Ms. Reid’s daughter died from an accidental overdose of heroin. That is the conclusion of the county medical examiner. The medical examiner will testify that an autopsy of Carly Oberman revealed that she had ingested a lethal combination of heroin and crushed amphetamines, a concoction known on the street as ‘cheese.’ Now, there is no such thing as good heroin, but the heroin that Carly Oberman ingested was more pure than normal. It stopped her heart, and she died.”

From his peripheral vision, Sloane noticed Reid drop her head, the first time she had done so since entering the courtroom.

“Any time a young person dies, it is a tragedy. The police arrested the man who supplied Carly Oberman those drugs, and he is incarcerated here in the King County jail, awaiting trial for his crimes. Witnesses will testify, however, that following her daughter’s death, Ms. Reid became a crusader against drug dealers, and as part of that crusade, she pushed the United States attorney’s office and federal agents with the Drug Enforcement Administration—”

This time Sloane stood. “Objection. Your Honor, I apologize for
the interruption, but I object to the prosecutor’s use of the word ‘pushed’ to describe a nearly yearlong investigation by the U.S. attorney’s office against Mr. Vasiliev after which the U.S. attorney, not Ms. Reid, filed charges.”

“Sustained. Pick a different word, Mr. Cerrabone.”

Cerrabone acted nonplussed. “Ms. Reid was intimately involved in the U.S. attorney’s investigation to bring charges against Mr. Vasiliev for drug trafficking, including trafficking in heroin. Witnesses will testify that Ms. Reid told them she held Mr. Vasiliev responsible for the chain of distribution that supplied the drugs that killed her daughter. Now, as I mentioned, the U.S. attorney’s office brought charges against Mr. Vasiliev. However, a federal district court judge decided that certain evidence obtained in that investigation could not be admitted in court. The evidence will show that as a result of that ruling, Mr. Vasiliev, while
charged
with drug trafficking, was never convicted. What does this have to do with the case I will present to you? Let me explain.

“After Mr. Vasiliev walked out of that federal courtroom Barclay Reid would go before the television cameras and proclaim her fight was not over, that she would continue to pursue those who supply drugs that kill. You will hear her say on that tape, ‘I will avenge my daughter’s death.’”

Cerrabone looked to his notes, another calculated moment to let the jurors ruminate on Barclay’s words.

“Witnesses will testify that Ms. Reid was upset at the outcome, and one of those witnesses, Dr. Felix Oberman, Ms. Reid’s former husband, will testify that she expressed frustration with the federal case and specifically told him, ‘If I had known it was going to be this much trouble, I would have put a bullet in the back of his head and been done with him.’”

Two of the female jurors sitting in the front row and a male juror in the back row glanced at Reid.

Cerrabone continued, systematically laying out the evidence he would introduce to prove Barclay’s guilt. Sloane took notes, but only a few; he’d tasked Pendergrass with that responsibility, and the young lawyer scribbled furiously as Cerrabone continued for another twenty minutes.

Using aerial blowups showing the location of Vasiliev’s home on the easel, Cerrabone re-created the crime scene as Rowe encountered it. He advised that the evidence would show that Reid owned a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson handgun but could not account for the whereabouts of that gun; a ballistics expert would testify that based upon the trajectory of the bullet, it was fired by a person of a certain height range into which Barclay fell. He discussed that Reid was a triathlete and what that meant, and how it fit with the state’s theory of how the crime was committed. He discussed the size-seven shoe prints and what the tracker, Kaylee Wright, would say they revealed. He left the most damaging evidence for last, advising the jury that Barclay had no alibi for the morning of the shooting, that she had told Detective Rowe she was home in bed, asleep.

Cerrabone changed the blowup on the easel. “In fact, a witness, a young man coming home after a late night with friends who lived in this house, half a mile down the street, will testify to the contrary.” Cerrabone used the aerial photograph to orient the jury to the location of Vasiliev’s home, the public easement, and where Joshua Blume claimed to have seen Barclay. “And what this young man will testify is that he saw the defendant, Barclay Reid, jog up this path in a dark Lycra suit and pull a bike from the bushes. Mr. Blume will testify that although it was dark, there is a nearby street lamp.” Cerrabone identified it on the photograph. “And that he had enough light to identify Ms. Reid beyond any doubt.”

With that pronouncement, Sloane noticed several other jurors turn their heads and glance at Barclay.

Cerrabone was as billed—workmanlike. His opening took just over forty-five minutes: efficient, with enough detail to arouse the jurors’ curiosity and suspicions without boring them. He had laid out a highly plausible scenario that included a motive, a weapon, opportunity, and perhaps most important, a seemingly false alibi that would cause the jurors to immediately question what Sloane was about to stand and tell them.

As defense counsel, Sloane had the choice of making an opening statement immediately following Cerrabone’s or waiting until the
state had presented all of its witnesses and rested its case. Sloane didn’t think that was much of a choice. He wasn’t about to let the jurors sit for days and nights considering Cerrabone’s words without giving them something to consider in rebuttal. Cerrabone had called Barclay a crusader, but he had implied she was actually a vigilante, an argument he would surely make in his closing argument—that citizens cannot take the law into their own hands. He would argue that the rule of law did not change simply because Filyp Vasiliev was a drug dealer; that a judicial system for the people, by the people, and of the people meant
all
the people, including low-life scumbags like Vasiliev.

Sloane approached the jurors without notes and, like Cerrabone, addressed the court and his opposing counsel. About to begin, his eyes swept across the jurors, but unlike his other trials, he could not feel them, could not assess their thoughts and predilections. They sat alert and attentive, but it felt as if an invisible pane of glass had been erected in front of them. He could see through it, but his words would not penetrate.

“This
is
a tragedy,” he started. It was not how he had intended to begin, but those words came to him. “The tragedy is that a mother who has lost her only child to drugs, and who Mr. Cerrabone told you has since devoted her life to not only bringing that drug dealer to justice but to empower every citizen to bring drug dealers to justice, now sits before you accused of murder.”

Cerrabone could have objected, since the statement was argument, but Sloane had used the prosecutor’s words, and Cerrabone could not be heard to object without losing some credibility with the jurors.

“The evidence will prove that Filyp Vasiliev
was
a drug dealer. The investigation to which Mr. Cerrabone made mention resulted in the confiscation of ten kilos of heroin, which the DEA estimated to have a street value of between one and a half and two million dollars, drugs smuggled into this country in the tires of cars Vasiliev sold at his car dealership in Renton.” Sloane paced but did not wander. “Federal agents involved in that investigation will testify that Vasiliev used couriers through a sophisticated and complicated network of employees to dispense these drugs onto the streets, then used his car
businesses to launder the proceeds of the sale of those drugs. On this there should also be no dispute.”

He waited as if to give Cerrabone every opportunity to challenge him, hoping the jurors would take the silence as a tacit admission.

“Those agents will explain to you, ladies and gentlemen, that the drug business is not unlike the purchase and sale of other commodities—like used cars, for instance. The buyer often purchases the drugs on credit at a wholesale price, sells them at a retail price on the street, pays his supplier, and uses the profit to reinvest in more drugs. They will tell you that when the drugs are confiscated, the seller has a problem. He has no product to sell on the street, no income, and thus no ability to pay the supplier.

“Yes, Mr. Vasiliev walked out of a federal courtroom, but those federal agents involved in the investigation will tell you Vasiliev was far from out of the woods with the people who supplied him the drugs.”

At this Cerrabone stood, and rightly so. “Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is getting more into speculation and argument than fact.”

Underwood, who had sat listening with his hand at his mouth, one finger pointed toward his temple, agreed. “Sustained. I will remind the jury that opening statements, any statements by the attorneys, are not evidence. They are statements of what counsel believes the evidence will show. Mr. Sloane, stick to what the evidence will show, without speculation.”

Sloane simply nodded. He had crossed the line, but he had done so on purpose. He had goaded Cerrabone to object in order to make his next point, and the judge, in dressing him down, had actually aided his cause.

“Now, the prosecutor has told you his version of what he believes the facts will prove transpired. He has offered the
circumstantial evidence
he believes is sufficient beyond a reasonable doubt to convict Barclay Reid. Circumstantial evidence, ladies and gentlemen, is a bit like speculation—it requires you to make a deduction, to conclude from one piece of evidence that something else must have occurred. Circumstantial evidence is not direct evidence. Let me explain the difference. Direct evidence would be a witness who sits in that chair telling you, ‘I saw Barclay Reid shoot Filyp Vasiliev.’ There will be no
such witness. The prosecution also will not produce a gun with Barclay Reid’s fingerprints on it. The prosecution wants you to
deduce
from the
circumstantial evidence
that Barclay’s gun is missing, that
she
must have used it to kill Mr. Vasiliev, then thrown it away. But there will be no direct evidence that she did this.