Shadow of Power (38 page)

We wait for another eighteen minutes before the jury files in. When a jury comes in, it is always the same, the rush of emotions, the anxiety. My stomach produces enough acid to etch the concrete on my driveway. You find yourself leaping at every little sign, looking for signals. The sure and certain giveaway is when one or more of the jurors smiles at the defendant.

None of them do this today. The fact is that not a single one of them makes eye contact with Carl, or anyone else at our table. This is not good.

Quinn allows them to settle into their chairs. “The court will come to order.”

He waits for things to settle down out in the audience, until all you can hear is a couple of coughs and some throat clearing. “Mr. Foreman.”

The jury foreman rises.

“Has the jury arrived at a verdict?”

“It has not, Your Honor. We are deadlocked.”

A hung jury. There is commotion in the audience behind us, people up out of their chairs.

The judge hammers his gavel. “The court will come to order. You people out in the audience, take your seats and be quiet.”

When I turn, I see the expression of concern on Sam Arnsberg’s face, Carl’s dad, seated in the front row directly behind us. He’s not sure what this means, nor is Carl.

“What’s happening?”

“Just sit tight. Don’t talk to anybody, don’t say anything.”

Two of the deputies move up and stand just behind the bar railing at our backs. They are both facing out to the audience.

Everything now rests in Quinn’s hands, and I can tell by his expression that he is not happy.

He clears his throat. Quinn is considering his options as he sits up there on the bench. “Mr. Foreman.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Now, I don’t want you to tell me what the vote is or which way the jury is leaning, but if I were to send you all back into the jury room to
deliberate a little longer, do you think it’s likely that you would be able to arrive at a verdict?”

“I doubt it, Your Honor.”

This is not what Quinn wanted to hear.

“I’m going to ask the jurors to return to the jury room and just sit tight for a few more minutes. You’re not to deliberate, just sit there and relax.”

“What’s going on?” says Carl. “Does that mean I’m free?”

“Not yet,” I tell him.

The jury files out.

“I’ll see counsel in chambers. The defendant can go back in the lockup, just for a few minutes.”

The lawyers follow Quinn back to his office, but before he gets there, he stops for a second, tells us to go into the office while he talks with his clerk, Ruiz, just outside the door.

When he finally comes in, he doesn’t take off his robe but flops into his chair.

“Any motions?” he says.

Quinn is inviting Tuchio to make a motion for the dynamite charge.

“We would move that the court issue the modified Allen instruction to the jury, Your Honor.”

This is the polite name, the formal name. Many defense lawyers call it the “dynamite instruction,” because to them that’s what it is—a means to blast recalcitrant jurors, holdouts, into knuckling under and voting for conviction. The instruction in modified forms and variations has been around since the late 1800s and derives its name from the case that coined it,
Allen v. United States
.

It is generally brief, no more than a page when printed out on paper. In short, what it allows the judge to do is to instruct the jury that the state and the taxpayers have spent a great deal of money and the lawyers and the court have spent a great deal of time and energy to try the case. It also reminds them that if they fail to arrive at a verdict, the case may have to be retried. In effect it’s a mistrial, and that if this happens, it will cost more money and time. After some soothing words assuring the jurors that no one is trying to jimmy them into giving up an honestly held conviction, it ends with the bold statement that it is their duty to arrive at a verdict if they can do so.

Of course, by now all they remember is the last line, the “duty to arrive at a verdict” part delivered to them by God, who has just scowled at them from the bench. Some defense lawyers will tell you of cases in which the jury didn’t even get out of the box and back to the jury room before they voted to convict.

“Your Honor, you heard the jury foreman when you asked him if they could arrive at a verdict,” I say.

“He said he doubted it,” says Tuchio. “He didn’t say they were irreconcilably deadlocked.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a mouthful for anybody,” says Harry.

Quinn reaches into his drawer and pulls out the binder with jury instruction, looking for the page with the dynamite charge.

His clerk comes into chambers behind us and closes the door.

“Your Honor, can I ask you that before you read the charge to the jury—” I begin.

“Just a minute,” says the judge.

Ruiz cups a hand and whispers into the judge’s ear. Quinn swivels around in his chair so that they are both sheltered by the high back of the chair between us.

When the judge finally wheels around ten seconds later or so, he looks at me. “You were saying something, Mr. Madriani.”

“I wanted to ask you that before you read the charge to the jury, if you could one more time talk to the jury foreman to gain some kind of sense as to the real feasibility of a verdict?”

“That’s a fair request,” says Quinn. “Let’s head on back out.”

Eight minutes later the jury is back in the box. Carl is seated between Harry and me.

“The court will come to order,” says Quinn. “Mr. Foreman,” he says.

The jury foreman is back on his feet.

“Let me ask you one more time. If I were to send the jurors back into the jury room for further deliberations do you think they would be able to arrive at a verdict?”

“It’s not likely, Your Honor.” He says essentially the same thing a second time.

Quinn looks out from the bench. “At this time the court is going to declare a mistrial. The defendant is discharged. Mr. Tuchio, you’re free to file new charges.”

“Your Honor! Your Honor!” Tuchio is on his feet, one hand waving behind him at the audience, trying to get them back into their seats. This is like putting the genie back in the bottle. “May I request that the jury be polled?”

“That’s a fair request,” says the judge. “Everybody take your seats. Sit down, please. We’ll be through in just a minute.”

“Am I free?” says Carl.

“You are for now.”

He smiles at me, then turns and looks at his dad, a broad grin.

One by one they stand in the jury box and announce their verdict. Harry is taking notes on the jury sheets, the pages from jury selection, so we will know how they voted.

When they’re finished, Harry doesn’t have to tell us the tally. It is eleven to one for acquittal. The lone holdout, the woman in the jangling jewelry.

You can almost see the relief on Tuchio’s face. He has dodged a bullet by half an inch.

“The defendant is discharged,” says Quinn. “Free to go,” he says.

At least for now, unless Tuchio decides to recharge him. There is no double jeopardy in the case of a hung jury. The prosecution can do it all over again to the same defendant, with the same charges.

“Court is adjourned,” says the judge.

There is pandemonium in the courtroom, reporters leaning over the railing. They want to talk to Carl.

I tell him not to say a word, to keep his mouth shut. Harry takes him by the arm and goes with him back to the lockup and the jail to get his personal items and keep him away from the media.

One wrong word and Tuchio will jump on his back and use it against him in another trial.

At least in terms of a jury, the shock of the Jefferson Letter is past. It is not likely to have the same numbing effect if Tuchio does it over again. He also knows, as I do, that the Jefferson Letter is, without question, a tin-plated phony.

O
ver the phone that night, Harry and I put our heads together and came to the same conclusion, that the magic pill that caused the judge to declare a mistrial was not the declaration of the jury foreman but the whispered message of R2-D2, his clerk, as they huddled behind the judge’s chair in chambers seconds before we came back out.

Quinn had said something to Ruiz as we were first going into chambers to argue over the dynamite instruction. Harry and I will never know, but if we had to guess, the judge had dispatched his clerk to talk to one of the bailiffs who normally usher the jury around. Dirt travels, and people talk. It is not unusual for deputies and bailiffs to pick up smoke signals and drums telling them with some certitude what’s going on behind closed doors.

This is what Ruiz was telling the judge behind the chair. That they were deadlocked eleven to one and that the single holdout had her heels dug in and her position had become a question of pride.

The blond hairs in the envelope presented me with a process of elimination, a question between the two of them, Trisha Scott and Richard Bonguard. If you didn’t think long and hard, you might flip a coin trying to come up with the answer.

I made the long-distance call and left a message with the secretary. Less than an hour later, the secretary called back, a meeting was set. The next day I flew east.

Harry had asked me once what possible reason Bonguard might have to kill the golden goose, his megabucks client Terry Scarborough. Among the theories is that it’s possible he had no choice. He knew Margaret Ginnis. They met at a political function. He thought that Antonin Scalia, the leading edge of the right wing on the Court, was the wit, but he didn’t like his politics. Ginnis held the balance of power on the Court. So when things happened in the islands, who was Margaret to call but her friend, her former agent, her political ally, Richard Bonguard? It was possible that working together, in secret, they could change history. It was possible, but not likely.

The reason, unless I miss my bet, is that there’s no way Bonguard could have known at the time of the murder that the Jefferson Letter was a fraud. And it was this fact that propelled the murder. Unless I’m wrong, Ginnis would never have told his wife what he was doing. The risks were too great. He would not want to put her in jeopardy if things went wrong, risked having her accused of collusion and conspiracy. But there was one person, sufficiently in the shadows and therefore safe, with whom he might share the secret: his trusted former clerk.

That night, as Harry and I flew east toward Miami and south to Curaçao, we must have passed Trisha Scott in the air, jetting the other way. She was in a frantic dash to reach our office, racing to slip the envelope with the Jefferson Letter and a few of her own clipped hairs under our office door. Scott saw what was happening. Reading news reports of the trial, watching the revelations minute by minute on television, she knew that the only way to stop us from looking further, to prevent us from stumbling over what was really happening, was to deliver the evidence and hope that this would draw the attention of the world back to the trial. But she was already too late.

When I called to make the arrangements, I insisted that we meet in a public place. I no longer know who it is I’m dealing with. Here in a crowded room, I feel safer. It is the same Washington restaurant where we first met for dinner.

We spend a couple of minutes in false pleasantries—the weather, politics. I’m not entirely certain if she realizes why I’m here. She is animated, sitting erect in the chair, actually laughing once at something she heard in one of the campaigns. She is also very nervous.

Then I broach the subject. “I take it you do understand that it’s over now?”

She gives me a quizzical expression, then leans in toward the table. “Excuse me?”

“It’s over. All of it,” I tell her.

She makes a perfect oval with her mouth as if she wants to say,
What’s over?
But as she studies my face, she stops herself. She closes her mouth and doesn’t say a word.

In this instant, Trisha Scott looks as if she’s aged ten years in the seven months that have passed since our last meeting.

“I am not a cop. I’m not a reporter. Under other circumstances I wouldn’t even be here tonight. But I have a client, and he’s still hanging out there on the line, in jeopardy. Do you understand?”

“I read that in the newspapers. I’m sorry to hear it,” she says. “But I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

“Then let’s cut to the chase,” I tell her. “I left a memorandum on my desk with an e-mail to my partner as well as to the district attorney with your name, phone number, and address on it, just in case something bad were to happen to me during my trip here tonight. I told them to find you and to pluck a few hairs and that all their questions would be answered.”

This seems to freeze her in place.

Trisha Scott could feel safe sending off bits of her hair in an envelope under our office door because she knew there was no national database for hair samples as there is for fingerprints. Unless there was someone to point the way, to connect her to the crime, the hair evidence might serve to exonerate Carl without implicating her. I wanted this on the table early, so that if she had plans to send me to join Scarborough, she would know from the get-go that they are fruitless.

“It’s over. Do you understand?”

It takes a few seconds, and then she seems to wither in the chair. Whatever will or determination was left evaporates almost in the blink of an eye. I find myself suddenly looking at a different person across the table, at what I can only characterize as a catatonic mask.

For a long time, she says nothing. She takes a drink of water, her eyes suddenly scanning the restaurant. She sets the glass back down and seems to look right through me as she gathers her thoughts.

“I want you to understand…I wonder…I wonder if I could go to the ladies’ room?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.

“Police?”

I nod. They’re not here yet. They are on their way, but she doesn’t have to know this.

“Oh, God! I want you to understand how it was. It’s important that you understand.”

“We don’t have much time,” I tell her.

“There was no other choice,” she says. “All the way out on the plane, I got more and more angry. Terry Scarborough was the kind of person who left a trail of ravaged souls as he cruised through life. By the time I got to that hotel, I was seething.”

“You don’t have to say anything. You’ve probably already said too much.”

“No,” she says. “I’ve been holding it in so long. Nobody I could talk to. I have to…I was thinking as far ahead as my brain would allow. I had the cab let me out two blocks from the hotel so there’d be no record of a taxi having dropped me. For a time I actually thought that—given how I felt, the anger—that I could kill him with my bare hands. But he was bigger than I was, stronger. I didn’t have a gun. Even if I did, I wouldn’t know how to use it. I thought about a knife. Maybe I could buy one. But I’d read enough briefs on appeal in criminal cases. I knew if I did that, even if I got rid of the knife, there’d be a trail. Wounds in the body would tell them the length of the blade, whether it was serrated, probably right down to the make and model. I’d read enough about it. I knew they could do it. They’d start checking all the shops, recent sales, anybody buying a single hunting or butcher knife. And even if I used cash, the salesclerk would remember this woman, because her eyes were all red from crying. I decided I couldn’t buy a weapon. I’d have to improvise, use whatever I found in the room—a lamp, a heavy knickknack off one of the shelves.”

“But then you didn’t have to go looking for a weapon, did you?”

“No. But you already know about that, the hammer in the stairwell. I didn’t want to get into the elevator. Too many people would see me.”

“How did you know what room he was in?”

“I called Dick Bonguard on his cell the night before. I had Dick’s number in Outlook on my computer. I knew that Dick would be trailing along with Terry on the book tour. I told Dick I had something I needed to fax to Terry. He gave me the hotel and the suite number.

“I climbed fourteen floors, all the way to the top. Every three or four flights, I’d stop to catch my breath. That’s when I saw it.”

“The hammer?”

“It was as if God had reached down and put it there and I was his avenging angel. I took it, put it in my purse. I had a good-size bag I always used for travel. I carried it over my shoulder, and I climbed to the top.”

“And the raincoat, the gloves?”

“The raincoat was in a little pouch, in the bottom of my purse with the gloves. I knew if I hit him with the hammer, there would be blood. It would get all over me and I’d be trapped there. From everything I read in the papers—and believe me, I kept up with the progress of your case every day,” she says, “the police never found the gloves?”

I shake my head.

“I dropped them in a trash can someplace. I don’t even remember where.”

“The police wouldn’t have looked very hard,” I tell her. “It didn’t fit the facts of their case. They had a fingerprint on the murder weapon. But it wasn’t yours.”

“I know,” she says. This seems to bother her more than the actual killing itself, the fact that Carl and his parents have been dragged through hell. “I would never have let him go to prison or die,” she says. “You have to believe that. I was buying time. That’s all I was doing. I knew that sooner or later I would have to do something to put an end to it. When the news of the Jefferson Letter broke, it was almost a relief. The very thing I’d been hiding so long was now out in the open. There was no need to hide it any longer.”

“So you fed it to us, hoping that it would be enough?”

She nods nervously several times. “Why didn’t it work?”

“One obstinate juror,” I tell her. “The way it goes sometimes.”

“Then if he’d been acquitted, you wouldn’t be here tonight.”

I shrug. She’s right. If Carl were on the street, free, out from under, this wouldn’t be my job. And given the theory of the prosecution, if Carl
were acquitted, they would never be able to convict Scott—that is, if they even found her, which is unlikely.

“So you went up the stairs, put on the raincoat and the gloves. You had the hammer in your purse.”

She nods.

“How did you get into the room?”

“I knocked on the door. How stupid is that? I wasn’t sure if he was in or, if he was, whether he was alone. I knew when he opened the door he’d be surprised to see me. And standing there in a raincoat. I had a story ready. I was going to tell him that I was in town on business and there was something I needed to talk to him about if he could spare two minutes—anything to get inside the room.”

“Because you knew you were running out of time,” I say.

“Yes.”

“So what happened when he opened the door?”

“Strange thing was, he never even looked at me. He was busy reading something, a piece of paper in his hand. Before I knew it, he was walking away. He said, ‘Put it on the table’—something about a check. Then I realized he thought I was room service. Suddenly there he was, sitting in the chair, his back to me, reading some papers, making notes, completely oblivious to the fact that I was even standing there. At that moment I think I just exploded. What he had put me through, and he didn’t even know it. Not that Terry would have cared.

“You want to know the truth?” She looks me straight in the eye now. “It was easier than I ever thought it could be. I closed the door and walked up to the back of the chair, and I swung that hammer, over and over and over again, until the muscles in my arms burned.” She breathes heavily, takes the napkin and wipes her eyes.

“At some point I must have closed my eyes, because when I opened them again, there was blood everywhere—on the ceiling, on the walls, soaking into the gloves I was wearing, spotting and running down the raincoat. I didn’t realize it at first, but the reason I stopped swinging was that the hammer was stuck. The claws were lodged in the top of his head. I couldn’t look at it. For some stupid reason, I had to pull it out. I pulled and twisted. The hammer came loose, and his body fell on the floor. I dropped the hammer.

“It’s amazing. I…You’d think you would go into shock after something like that, but I didn’t. I was overwhelmed with this incredible urge to run, to get out of there. I knew that any minute somebody with a tray was probably going to be at the door. But I wasn’t finished.”

“You had to find the video of Ginnis and Scarborough at the restaurant.”

“How did you know?”

“It never came into evidence, but we have a copy,” I tell her, “from Scarborough’s apartment.”

“The police had it?” she says.

“Yes, but they didn’t know what it was.”

“I assumed that Terry had copies, but I didn’t think anyone would pay any attention to it. Terry had tons of tapes and DVDs all over the place. What was one more or less?”

“That was the reason you were running out of time?” I say. “You couldn’t be sure how long you had before Scarborough went public about the Jefferson Letter, the fact that Ginnis, a member of the Supreme Court, had manufactured it.”

“Arthur didn’t know he was being taped. I had to find the tape and the letter itself, Terry’s copy, the one Arthur had given him. I knew Terry well enough to know that he would have both of these with him. If he was getting ready to out Arthur in the media over the letter, he would never leave these behind in his apartment or trust them to a safe-deposit box. Terry was paranoid. Put something in a vault and people with power, especially people in government, can always find a way to get at it. The only safe place was in his pocket or the briefcase he was carrying. So I looked.”

“And of course you were still wearing the gloves.”

She nods.

This accounts for all the little smudges of blood on Scarborough’s attaché case, the large sample case by the side of his chair, and the leather portfolio by the television, where she found the letter folded neatly, lying on top.