Blood Defense (25 page)

FORTY-SIX

W
e packed up and I went home.
I made myself go to bed at eleven, but I was so keyed up I didn’t manage to fall asleep until one a.m. Good news: I didn’t have the dream. Bad news: I only got about five hours of sleep.

But I still woke up wired. I always do when I’m in trial. It doesn’t matter how late I stay up or how much I drink. I pop out of bed like someone zapped me with a Taser.

I tanked up on coffee anyway. The adrenaline wouldn’t last all day, and I needed to be sharp. I was about to start the hardest part of the case: picking the jury. It’s an old saying that you win or lose your case during jury selection. But for a change, that old saying is absolutely true. And I think of it as a game of trying to catch the liars. Not necessarily deliberate liars. Most people who say they won’t hold it against your client for being a gangbanger or a drug addict—or a cop—really mean it. They’re wrong, but they’re not lying.

Others really are just flat-out lying. Either because they want to get off the jury or because they want to get on.

In a case like this one, there’d be a lot more of the latter. Some because they hope to sell their story later; others because they want a front-row seat to the biggest show in town.

Don’t get me wrong, the fact that some people want to be on a jury doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad news. But I have to dig a little harder to figure out how they really feel about my client, because they’re more likely to lie about it.

I put on my only good suit, which was starting to show signs of serious wear and tear around the seat and elbows. But it was my good-luck charm, my confidence armor. I was just finishing my usual bowl of oatmeal when Xander called to tell me he was downstairs. A jolt of adrenaline made my stomach lurch. I dumped out the bowl, grabbed my briefcase, and headed out, heart pounding, brain running two hundred miles an hour. This was it.

I slid into the backseat.

Xander smiled into the rearview mirror as he pulled away. “Big day! You nervous? I sure would be.”

“Yeah, I am.”

I always had first-day-of-trial jitters. But they’d be gone once we got down to business.

My cell phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out and saw that the caller ID said
BLOCKED
. I knew who that was. I let it go to voice mail. When I checked the message, I found out I was right. It was Celeste. I clicked off and deleted the message the moment I heard her say, “Samantha.” I didn’t need this right now—or ever. I could tell by her tone that this message would be like all the rest. This was the fourth time she’d called me since I told her not to call me anymore, and her messages were always the same: she ordered me to call her back “immediately,” said I was a “thoughtless ingrate” who didn’t appreciate all she’d “sacrificed” for me, and accused me of being a “disappointment and a spiteful, terrible daughter.”

Why she thought messages like that would persuade me to call her left me completely befuddled. “Why on earth does she think that will work?” I asked Michelle.

“Because it always has. You’ve been putting up with that kind of behavior all your life. Do you honestly expect her to change? If you’re waiting to hear her say she’s sorry—for anything—you’re living in some alternate universe. And you need to stop listening to those messages. The only thing you’ll get from them is more proof that you should’ve done this long ago. Do you really need it?”

No. I didn’t. And I really needed to stop hoping she’d say something that even remotely showed she gave a damn about me. So I stopped listening and just deleted her messages.

The courthouse steps were more packed than ever. The same posters were there, demanding justice for the victims and saying unkind things about Dale—like
PEARSON
’
S A RAPIST, KILLER
!
and
LOCK UP THE SERIAL-KILLER COP
!
But this time I noticed two
JUSTICE FOR DALE
!
posters that sported a pretty decent-looking photo of him. That was probably as good an omen as I could hope for, all things considered.

This time, I wasn’t taking any chances. I didn’t get out of the car until the deputies were at my door. And when I did, I made myself stand up straight. A few in the crowd closest to the sidewalk noticed me and shouted out, “It’s the lawyer for the murderer!” They started to boo and yell. “You’re defending a serial killer!” and “You’re a scumbag!”

I guess being famous wasn’t going to cut it anymore. It had never been this ugly. A chant went up: “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”

So much for presumed innocent. I wondered how much of this my jurors had seen.

It took ten minutes to get an elevator, and when I finally made it to Department 106, I saw that every seat was filled. The benches on the prosecution side of the gallery were filled with Chloe’s and Paige’s family, friends, and other supporters (
that is
, actors hoping for exposure) and some press. But the defense side was all reporters. That’s because there was a lot more room. Dale’s family wouldn’t be coming, and most of his friends were working. But I spotted Detective Rick Saunders and waved to him.

Zack was already set up at his side of counsel table. I headed to my side and dropped my briefcase on my chair, intending to go into lockup to see Dale. But the bailiff stopped me, saying the judge would be out any second.

In fact, the very next second, as it turned out. Tall, with slicked-back gray hair and an aquiline nose, he moved to the bench with a long, firm stride. The moment he sat down, he ordered the courtroom cleared. “Let’s make room for the jurors.” No “Good morning, counsel,” or “Anything you’d like to take up?”

But it was exactly what I’d heard about him. Judge Traynor—also known as the Freight Train—didn’t believe in wasting time. Los Angeles had been forced to close courts down for at least one day a week because of budget shortfalls. Traynor hated it—openly. He’d written a few op-ed pieces calling for an end to this “absurdly poor set of priorities.”

While everyone filed out, a bailiff brought Dale out of lockup. He was dressed in a good navy-blue suit, but his eyes were red, and his face looked puffy. When he sat down, I leaned toward him and whispered, “Are you okay? Did those guards bounce you around?”

His eyes were full of apology. “No. No more than they had to. I’m so sorry, Samantha. I—”

“Not now. I just wanted to make sure—”

Dale shook his head. “I just got no sleep is all. They get us up at three a.m. to make the court bus, and I’m surrounded by snorers. It’s like a motorboat convention.” He smiled. “Got any makeup?”

“Sure. A little blush and some mascara and you’ll be good to go.”

The courtroom had emptied quickly; the prospective jurors were coming in.

Dale looked over his shoulder at them. “What did you think of their questionnaires?”

There was no point trying to hide it from him now. “We’ve got a really young bunch.”

“That can’t be good for me.”

“But it might be just as bad for the other side.” And that was about as optimistic a statement as I could make.

Michelle and Alex came in and joined me at counsel table. I always like to have as many eyes as possible during voir dire. While I’m talking to one juror, they can be watching the rest of the group to see how they’re reacting to me. I passed out legal pads for everyone—including Dale—to write on.

Judge Traynor did most of the questioning and gave Zack and me just fifteen minutes each. Some lawyers bitch about getting so little time. I don’t mind. Especially when you have questionnaires, it only takes a few minutes to figure out whether a juror is good or bad for you. After that point, you’re just wasting time second-guessing your gut instinct.

Zack seemed to have the same theory. He took only ten minutes to question the jury, and I did the same. I’d hoped to get a quick recess to talk to Michelle and Alex before we started kicking jurors, but no such luck. That was okay for now. I had a few I was absolutely sure of. The young woman in the ponytail who’d graduated from California State University at Northridge had seemed okay. Until she said her ex-boyfriend was a cop and she’d almost taken out a restraining order on him. A young black man had sounded good. Until he admitted that he thought Dale looked guilty. I appreciated the honesty, but still . . .

I’d gone through all my must-gos and was heading into my list of not-sures before Traynor finally gave us a break. As the jurors started to leave, Alex whispered to me. “That truck driver guy in the number-one seat should be okay for you.”

I glanced at the man. He had shoulder-length hair and a pierced nose. “You sure?”

“Truck drivers are usually good for law enforcement, according to the book—”

“Wait a minute. That PI wrote about jury selection? You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“No. It’s a different book. It’s by a lawyer:
How to Influence Juries and Win Your Case
—”

“Written by one of the dumbest losers in the business. The truck driver’s history.”

Michelle nodded toward a young woman who’d just stepped out of the jury box. “What about the Barbie doll with all the hair extensions?” They were blonde and down to her waist.

I thought she was pretty good. “She seems like the open-minded type. I like her.”

Dale looked worried. “She’s awfully young.”

I nodded. “They all are. Are you okay with her otherwise?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

By my count, six had to go. Three could stay. The rest . . . I’d see who we got after the six I planned to toss. But so far, not one—and I mean not a single
one
of those jurors—remembered having a positive experience with a cop.

We worked well into the lunch hour—which Judge Traynor decided should be a lunch
half
hour—and by three o’clock, we had our jury. Six women, six men, not one above the age of forty-five. Just shoot me now.

Judge Traynor had the clerk swear them in. We picked four alternates, the judge gave introductory jury instructions, and then he announced that we’d do opening statements after a fifteen-minute break.

Zack and I exchanged “Huh?” looks across the courtroom. Any
other judge would’ve sent the jury home and let us do openings
tomorrow.

Not the speeding bullet that was Judge Traynor.

The prosecution goes first, which would give me a chance to see how the jury responded to Zack. The minute he stood up, three of the women gave him hundred-watt smiles—probably picturing him in boxers. I mentally kicked myself for leaving them on.

The courtroom was set up with a screen on the wall at the end of the jury box for PowerPoint or videos. Zack started by telling the jury about how Chloe met Dale when he responded to the burglary call, about the strains in their relationship that started to surface almost immediately, and then moved on to the night of the murders. He started with the witnesses who heard Chloe and Dale fighting. “One of them heard Chloe say she was breaking up with him. And earlier that night, Chloe told her sister that’s what she was going to do. That’s motive, folks. One of the most common motives there is.”

Zack moved on to the crime-scene video. The big screen made it even more dramatic. He paused on the ugly frame showing Chloe’s lifeless body.

“Dale Pearson punched her in the face, knocked her to the floor, and then he stabbed her to death—buried that knife up to the hilt, straight into her chest,
four
times. I know the defense is going to say a burglar did this. But, ladies and gentlemen, this is
not
what a surprised burglar does. This is what an angry lover does.”

Zack let the image linger on the screen as long as he could, then moved on to the frame showing Paige’s body. Though she was facedown, the blood trail that showed how she’d tried to crawl away from her killer was even more gruesome.

“Paige wasn’t supposed to be home. But after Pearson stabbed Chloe to death, she became a witness who couldn’t be allowed to live. Paige was a classic example of collateral damage. The evidence will show that Dale Pearson came up behind her, stabbed her in the back, then jabbed the knife into her throat. Now, he knew the women had just had a burglary, since he’d been the cop who handled the call. So he decided to make this look like the work of the burglar, and he began to ransack the room. But then he saw Paige move. She wasn’t dead and she was trying to crawl away. He couldn’t have that. He went back and cut her throat . . . and finished the job. It was a cruel, brutal way to kill, and a torturous way for Paige to die.”

Then Zack went through the physical evidence—the DNA, the hairs and fibers, and the fingerprints. He wrapped up with the usual prosecutorial flourish. “In sum, ladies and gentlemen, the evidence will prove overwhelmingly, well beyond a reasonable doubt, that Dale Pearson is guilty of these heinous murders. And the next time I talk to you, I’ll be asking you to do what the evidence demands. Convict Dale Pearson as charged of the murders of Chloe Monahan and Paige Avner.”

It wasn’t a good opening. It was a great one. If I’d been on the jury, I knew what my vote would be. And I could see that I wasn’t alone. The jury stared at him, their expressions rapt. A few had even nodded. They were with him all the way.

As a general rule, I don’t give an opening statement. I like to keep my options open. But I had to do it now. I couldn’t let the jury go home tonight without giving them a reason to question Zack’s story. I didn’t have much. But I had to make the most of it.

I walked over to the podium and looked at each of the jurors as I spoke. “I don’t usually give an opening statement. That’s because the defense doesn’t have to prove anything.” I paused and made eye contact with each one of the jurors to hammer that point home. “The prosecutor did a great job of making his case look airtight. But it’s not. In fact, it’s riddled with holes. The truth is, the case against Dale Pearson is based on assumptions. But as you all know, verdicts have to be based on
evidence
, not assumptions.”