“I don’t, really, but I’d like to know for sure. It’s been nagging at me.”
“I can check it out. What would it have to do with this case?”
“Nothing directly,” I admitted. “I can’t see where there’d be a connection.”
“Although Jerome does have that mystery bank account.”
“That wouldn’t tie into this. They need money; if they were involved with Juarez and were moving his money for him, they sure as hell wouldn’t be sending it Jerome’s way.”
“No, they wouldn’t.” She thought for a moment. “Do you think Jerome knew anything about it?”
I shook my head. “He would’ve brought it to his agency’s attention if he did. They would have gone after the tribe as well. Another feather in his cap.”
“Maybe he was going to. Bust Juarez, then go after the tribe.”
“If he was going to do that, he wouldn’t have killed Juarez. He would have tried to leverage him.”
“Okay,” she said, getting up. “I’ll look into it. But if you don’t think Jerome’s connected, why get involved? It isn’t your case. Don’t you already have enough on your plate?”
“More than enough. And I don’t want to prolong the agony, that’s for sure.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’ve got an itch. When I get an itch, I scratch it. Anything I can find out about Juarez could be helpful. It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but what the hell, you’re on the payroll.” I voiced another thought I’d had. “While you’re checking on that, find out if the Nevada casinos are the money behind the tribe.”
“That would make more sense,” she said. “Although that wouldn’t have anything to do with this case, either.”
“It would eliminate a variable. Old John Q.’s a crafty bastard. He’s got something up his sleeve, he has to. If he could make a connection between Juarez, the tribe, outside gambling interests, anything that presents Jerome in a more sympathetic light, it could muddy the waters.”
I walked her to the door. “That’s our Achilles’ heel, you know. We’re prosecuting a cop for killing a scumbag. Some people can’t get behind that. Hopefully, none of them are on our jury.”
“For God’s sakes, will you give it up already? That’s bullshit, and you know it,” she came back at me, using my own arguments. “Breaking the law is breaking the law, regardless of the circumstances or the players. You’re the prosecutor, Luke, not the judge or jury. You do your job, let them do theirs. That’s all you can do.”
That was a good jolt of reality. Which I needed to hear.
“I know.” I still couldn’t help fretting. “It’s there. And it’s one note John Q. Jones is going to play. He’s going to compose a symphony out of it, if he can.”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Good morning.”
We were into it. At last.
I stood at the podium, facing the jury. Jerome was seated across the aisle from my table, sitting next to John Q. Jerome looked sharp, dignified, professional. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie. His hair had been cut short, marine-style. He sat ramrod straight, staring intently at me.
Behind me, seated in the first row of the gallery, were my detectives and Riva. Tom Miller and his deputy Bearpaw were also there, in one of the back rows, as was Bill Fishell, who had come up from Sacramento for the beginning of the trial. Once my opening statement and John Q.’s were over, Miller and Bearpaw would have to leave the courtroom, because they were on my witness list. This was a big case for Fishell; the credibility of his office was on the line, because he’d sanctioned and paid for this.
No DEA people were in the courtroom—they were conspicuous in their absence, but I’d expected that. They wanted to distance themselves from this as much as they could. To them, it wasn’t a trial against their department. It was against one man who had broken the rules.
An assortment of reporters were present, newspaper and television. More would show up later, when we started calling some of the dramatic witnesses, such as Jerome’s sister, and again when the jury went out to deliberate. The consensus was that Jerome was guilty. He’d already been tried and convicted in the press—we were putting the official imprimatur on it.
I wasn’t talking to the media. No interviews, no off-the-record remarks. I wanted this to be as little a circus as possible.
As I was about to begin, the door in the rear opened, and Nora slipped into the chamber, taking a seat in the back row. I’d thought she might show up and had hoped she wouldn’t. I had segregated her from the case as much as I could, giving her the dry details as they came to me, and nothing more—no strategy, no consultations. Under normal circumstances I could have used her knowledge and savvy, but these weren’t normal circumstances. I was still skittish around her. She’d made a few overtures about getting together socially, with Riva and me, but I’d rejected them, offering Riva the explanation that I needed to be independent from her, which included social independence, to maintain the integrity of my investigation. Riva was fine with that; the two women hadn’t struck a chord. I was hopeful that we’d finish the case without personal incident, I’d get out of Dodge, and I’d never see her again.
She tried to make eye contact with me. I turned away, avoiding her, my attention on the jury, my mind and energy focused.
“As you know, my name is Luke Garrison. I represent Muir County and the state of California as an independent prosecutor, specifically assigned to this case. That doesn’t happen often; which should tell you this is an important case, a special case.
“I want to thank you in advance for the job you’re going to do here, over the next days and weeks. It’s a difficult task, being a member of a jury, especially in a case like this one, where the crime is so terrible and the stakes are so high. We have brought a charge of murder in the first degree against the defendant, Sterling Jerome. Murder in the first degree is as strong an indictment as the state can bring against someone.”
Technically, that isn’t true. We could have gone for murder with special circumstances, which would have brought the death penalty into play. But this wasn’t going to be a death-penalty case. I’d made that decision, and Fishell had concurred. Nora had fought for the whole enchilada—she not only wanted Jerome on the cross, she wanted to hammer the nails in herself—but I had overruled her. Given the cast of characters and the overall situation, I didn’t feel it warranted that; more important, as a practical consideration, I was afraid that by asking for the death penalty against a federal agent who had killed a public scourge I would force some jurors to come in with a not-guilty verdict. This way we could have what we wanted—a murder conviction—without putting these twelve ordinary men and women through more emotional turmoil than what they were already going to have to deal with.
“This trial is special, because this wasn’t an ordinary murder. The people involved make it special. Now of course,” I said, “any murder is heinous, awful—but this one was special way beyond that. This trial is about a law officer who decided to take the law into his own hands. He decided, all by himself, that he was above the law. That the laws you and I have to live with, including the law against murder, didn’t apply to him. That the biblical commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill’ didn’t apply to him. That it was okay for him to kill Reynaldo Juarez because Reynaldo Juarez was a criminal, a bad man. That for Sterling Jerome it wasn’t enough to be an officer of the law, arrest a man, and turn him over to the system and let justice take its course. Sterling Jerome decided, all by himself, that it was okay, acceptable,
permissible and desirable,
for him to be judge, jury, and executioner.
“This isn’t going to be a difficult case for you to follow. In any criminal case, you look for certain things. You look for motive, and you look for opportunity. The state is going to prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Sterling Jerome had the motive to kill Reynaldo Juarez. When you hear some of the witnesses testify to that motive, it’s going to knock you out. You’re not going to believe that a man who had the motives to kill another man, like Sterling Jerome had against Reynaldo Juarez, could have ever been placed in the position Sterling Jerome was allowed to be placed in, so that he could carry out his motive. But it’s there, and we’re going to show it to you.”
I paused to let them catch up with me. Then I walked to the edge of the jury box, so that I was right in front of them.
“And he had the opportunity. In fact, ladies and gentlemen, of all the people who were present when the murder of Reynaldo was committed—over sixty people—Sterling Jerome, and only Sterling Jerome, had the opportunity to commit this murder,” I repeated my last sentence. “Only Sterling Jerome had the opportunity to commit this murder.”
I took another brief interlude. I like to do that. It separates one thought, one piece of the puzzle from another. It’s easier for people to assimilate and understand that way. Not one big idea, one overwhelming concept. Details, adding up to the bigger picture.
“We will show you…we will prove to you…that Sterling Jerome was obsessed with Reynaldo Juarez. That this obsession had gone on for decades. That it wasn’t a professional obsession, a lawman going after a criminal. Mr. Jerome’s lawyer is going to try to make that case, but he won’t be able to. Because we will show you that this was personal, down to the gut of Sterling Jerome, a blood vendetta that consumed him, robbed him of reason, negated his ability and sworn duty to act in a professional manner. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this was a crime of misguided honor, and revenge.”
I walked back to the podium. I wanted to put air between me and them, give them a breather.
“The defense is going to tell you that no one actually saw Jerome fire the bullet into Juarez’s brain. And they’re going to tell you that the actual bullet was never matched to Jerome’s gun. And that’s all they’re going to tell you, because that’s all they have.”
I glanced over at the defense table. John Q. was noodling on his notepad, putting on a show of not-paying-attention nonchalance; Jerome, conversely, was staring daggers at me. I wanted him to get riled up—the jury would see the aggressiveness in his body language and assume that attitude translated into the way he lived his life. If I was lucky, I’d bait him into committing some overt physical act before the trial was over. Actually coming at me, physically, was probably too much to hope for, but I’ve been around men like Jerome. When you’re as rigid and angry as they are, you can’t bend, so you crack.
“We don’t have an eyewitness to the actual murder. I admit that freely, right now. And we don’t have the gun that killed Reynaldo Juarez. There’s a good reason we don’t, and we’re going to explain that to you, and show you how that leads directly to Sterling Jerome, and only Sterling Jerome.”
There’s always a right place to stop. This was the right place, at this time.
“I haven’t even told you about much of the other evidence we have that directly links Sterling Jerome to this crime. That’ll come out during the trial. But I can promise you this: When this trial is over and both sides have had their say, you will agree with me without any question, all of you, that only one man could have committed this murder.”
I turned and pointed to Jerome, my arm straight out, my accusatory finger aimed right between his eyes.
“This man. Sterling Jerome.”
After a ten-minute recess, it was John Q.’s turn. He ambled up to the lectern, looking like Marlon Brando (in his present, unsvelte mien) playing Clarence Darrow, deliberately disheveled, his coat unbuttoned, snapping his bright yellow galluses, a piece of his shirttail pooched out from his trousers.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of this jury,” he boomed, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber. Smiling broadly, he pivoted his fleshy body so that he was looking at me, and by extension, focusing the eyes of the jury on me as well.
“Behold our distinguished prosecutor, the Honorable Luke Garrison, attorney-at-law, former district attorney of Santa Barbara County, down yonder in this fair state of ours, a hero who single-handedly saved a dozen lives in the desert last year at great risk to his own, a man admired by all in his profession.”
I smiled. What a bullshit artist.
“A man who, by the way, left the business of prosecuting criminals to defend them, in large part because when he was in the business of prosecuting them, he made a mistake and prosecuted the wrong man for a particular crime, the crime of murder, and caused that man to be put to death in the gas—”
“Objection!” I thundered, jumping out of my seat.
I rarely object during an opening or a closing, but John Q. had crossed the line, big-time. He’d blindsided me. What he had just said was unprofessional, and highly unethical, which I found discomforting, especially this early in the trial, because John Q. is professional and ethical, that’s an essential part of his character, one of the main reasons why he’s so highly respected. And he’s funny and theatrical and I’d been caught up in his act, lulled by his sonorous voice and grandiose presentation.
John Q.’s starting off on this tack was also a tacit admission, as I read it, that he had no confidence in his case and was going to try a series of end runs, smoke screens, and fancy maneuvers to try to confuse the jury. If you don’t nave the goods, dazzle them with footwork.
“I’m not the object of this trial. Your Honor.”
“Sustained!” Judge McBee affirmed, loud and clear. “Counsel will refrain from any subjective referring to opposing counsel.”
He turned to the jury. “Forget you heard those utterances about Mr. Garrison. Drop them completely from your minds.” To the court reporter: “Strike all Mr. Jones’s remarks up to this point.” Back to the jurors: “Lawyers sometimes get carried away in their opening statements. This trial is about the guilt or innocence of the defendant. The lawyers are presenters, they are not the accused. Don’t confuse them with the person on trial, because they aren’t.” Glaring at John Q., McBee threatened unsubtly, “Although some lawyers are held in contempt and thus become defendants in a different fashion.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said, sitting down. I glanced over at John Q., who was taking McBee’s admonition with good grace, even humor.