In Defense of Guilt

  In Defense of Guilt

  by Benjamin H. Berkley

  © 2018 Benjamin H. Berkley

  ISBN 978-1-63393-652-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Review copy: this is an advanced printing, subject to corrections and revisions.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800–435–4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  DEDICATION

  To my grandchildren: Dylan, Tess, Raya, Ira, and Simon. You have been an amazing gift for me, for all you have been, for all you are, and for all you are yet to be.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Sevcnteen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lauren Hill strode toward her place at the defense table, her vigorous, long gait slapping her black heels on the marble floor. Her posture erect and sure, she pointed her nose upward and cast a disgusted look at the prosecution. Her perfect courtroom record afforded her unsurpassed self-assurance. So did her looks.

  Although much closer to middle age than she ever cared to admit, Lauren still appeared youthful. With her blonde hair cut in stylish layers, radiant cobalt eyes, flawless creamy complexion, and enviable figure, she turned many heads, and she knew it.

  Stepping in front of the leather desk chair, Lauren tucked her pleated skirt under her shapely legs. It was borderline courtroom-inappropriate, but she did not care. Why should she? Her features were God-given and finely honed. She was well-bred, well-manicured, and sophisticated; she exuded a graceful elegance, poise, and charm more befitting a Versace runway than a Los Angeles County courtroom.

  With puppy-eyed sappiness, her youthful associate Ryan Thompson leaned over to her ear. “You look awesome.”

  Seductively crossing her legs, she winked smugly and whispered, “I know.”

  Her matchless beauty was a clever ruse. Having never lost a case, this ruthless titan in the courtroom often compared herself to a shark in a shallow pond filled with wary minnows. She struck quick, hard, and without warning. Prosecuting attorneys found themselves licking their wounds and shaking their heads in wide-eyed disbelief, questioning how she had so easily eviscerated their airtight case.

  With Judge Howell about to take the bench, Ryan gently nudged Lauren.

  “Take a gander at what our Mensa client is doing.”

  Slumped over a piece of paper and armed with a blue marker, defendant Martin Maze scribbled like a toddler who had just discovered crayons. Rail-thin and high-strung, Maze had also proven to be unpredictable, needy, and belligerent, when not peddling small bags of candy bearing his initials. He was the consummate volatile client. Like a temperamental or even faulty piece of equipment, he had to be continuously monitored or fixed.

  Lauren swiveled in her seat rather than interrupt Maze. He looks horrid, she thought.

  Packing the visitor’s gallery were the all too familiar faces of the media who followed Lauren like paparazzi stalking a celebrity, hoping for a misstep. Also in the courtroom were lucky spectators occupying the coveted seats allotted to the general public and members of the grieving family.

  Hustling toward the judge’s bench, the diminutive court clerk juggled a pile of files that almost toppled past her head. Standing on the two-step riser, she strategically arranged them like a dinner place setting.

  Lauren rotated her chair to face forward, knowing what to expect next. “Here comes our five-minute warning,” she said to Ryan.

  “Please turn off all cell phones,” the clerk announced from her mighty perch.

  A beam of light from high above the judge’s imposing bench glistened on the bronze surface. Bursting forth from behind a cloud, the ray illuminated the great seal of California. The rising, early-morning sun had radiated through the stained-glass window at just the right angle to reflect upon her. Summer in the City of Angels; an omen that Lauren Hill’s brand of justice would be served. “We’ve got this,” she mused.

  But her euphoria ended abruptly. Looking at her pathetic sap of a client, she whispered to Ryan, “Get a handle on him.”

  Although the air conditioning provided a more than tolerable courtroom environment, Maze looked like a wet sponge being squeezed. The profuse sweat from his tightly wrinkled brow plastered his thinning hair to his head. Dressed in a tight-fitting, dark gray flannel suit, he tugged nervously at his collar while salty tears snaked their way from his cheek to the corner of his mouth. Disgusted, Lauren imagined the taste of bitterness on his tongue.

  “He’s coming unglued. It won’t be long before—”

  Head reeling, Maze motioned to Ryan in an unspoken cry for help. The young attorney poured his client a glass of water from the water pitcher on the table and quietly told him to calm down. “Get it together.” Maze’s hands shook profusely as he barely managed to pick up the glass. And with the jury watching from a distance, he spilled some of its contents onto himself. Trying again, he brought the glass to his pursed lips and guzzled.

  Lauren shook her head as Maze bit his nails to the first knuckle. Under the table, his leg pumped a mile a minute. Maze had mentioned that he had not had a sound night’s sleep in God knew when. But there was more. He had aged, somehow.

  Leaning in close to her associate, Lauren said, “Tell him to wipe the sweat, but not the tears.”

  Fighting the smell of perspiration permeating from Maze, Ryan complied and cupped his hand over his client’s ear, relaying Lauren’s command. Maze shot her an irritated expression.

  Responding with a stern, unflappable gaze of her own, Lauren sent the message that she was not about to put up with weepy insubordination. Maze obediently began searching his pockets. Lauren thrust open her briefcase, pulling out a cloth napkin she always carried for just such an occasion. Purposefully and calmly, she slid it toward Maze.

  With trembling fingers, Maze picked it up and wiped the numerous droplets away before taking another huge gulp of water.

  “Good boy,” Lauren murmured.

  “All rise,” shouted the bailiff in an authoritative voice. “The Honorable Susan Howell is now presiding.”

  A former district attorney, Judge Howell received high praise from both the defense and prosecution for being fair, polite, and respectful. The seasoned, white-haired jurist briskly entered the courtroom, taking her place in the high-backed chair while gesturing for everyone to be seated
. “Mr. Bradley. My clerk has informed me that we have some housekeeping to take care of?”

  District Attorney Dillon Bradley stood.

  Bradley exemplified the phrase “eye candy.” His blue suits and white shirts were impeccably pressed, his thick brown hair was always perfectly in place, and his body was lean from countless hours at the gym. Six foot and rugged, the forty-two-year-old was the complete package. Women swooned for him, and not merely because he drove a candy-apple-red Porsche 911. The way he smiled and paid attention made each one believe she was the only woman in the room.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Just an oversight. When we adjourned yesterday, the court numbered one of our exhibits as the People’s No. 4. It should be the People’s Exhibit No. 5.”

  “So noted, Mr. Bradley. You may proceed.”

  Good looks aside, Bradley had amassed a distinguished record of being extremely tough upon the criminal element of Los Angeles County. But missing from his resume was a win against Lauren. He had been outmatched by her a dozen times.

  Determined to break that cycle, he and his team had diligently prepared what he fervently believed to be a solid case against the embattled defendant. For him, no doubt existed concerning the guilt of Martin Maze. Bradley had interviewed the witnesses and read the reports. More importantly, he had read it in the defendant’s face; the word guilt was practically tattooed onto the guy’s forehead. Bradley recognized Maze to be a bona fide liar and a cold-blooded killer.

  “The People recall Captain Lars Johansen.”

  Seated a few rows behind the District Attorney’s table, Captain Johansen slowly navigated toward the witness box, where he had sat for most of the previous afternoon. Like a ship’s ideal captain, the distinguished graying gentlemen sported a neatly trimmed beard. Multicolored bars fastened to the breast pocket of his company’s navy-blue suit represented years of service to the fleet. Lauren pondered. He looks like the Titanic captain who sailed the iconic vessel to her doom that crisp April evening in the North Atlantic. Is this stoic appearance a prerequisite for a cruise ship captain?

  With Johansen in place, Bradley gathered his notes and approached the witness. His line of questioning began with the captain reiterating his duties the day the alleged murder had taken place. As he spoke, Lauren studied the older gentleman’s expressions.

  “Now, Captain Johansen, underneath the ship, there are two,” Bradley held up two fingers for emphasis, “two massive propellers, weighing approximately two tons apiece.”

  “That is correct.”

  Bradley continued, “These two gigantic propellers are always turning, spinning, and churning up the water like a giant, industrial blender.”

  His body language already screaming, Ryan clamored to object. Without redirecting her focus from the captain’s tolerant expression, Lauren calmly dropped a helping hand to Ryan’s knee, digging her nails in ever so slightly.

  “Hold on. Not yet.”

  Reluctantly accepting, Ryan sat disappointed in his chair.

  “Always?” Johansen questioned. “No . . . no, that would not be exactly correct.”

  Bradley surveyed the seasoned captain. “You are saying they don’t always spin? They do not churn the water?”

  “When they are in operation, certainly, if that is what you mean. When engaged, of course, yes. They rotate very rapidly.”

  “And for what purpose?”

  Suppressing a chuckle, Captain Johansen answered, “Why, of course, to propel the ship either forward or backward through the water.”

  “So, when the boat is moving . . . “ Bradley dramatically gestured with his hand mixing and churning, “they’re spinning around, churning up the water like a giant blender.”

  “Correct.”

  Gritting his teeth, Ryan leaned toward Lauren, strongly suggesting she object to “all the blender crap.” She did not respond. Ryan wisely kept his mouth shut and seethed. But needing some distraction, he locked his eyes on the chair on the opposite side of him.

  Maze focused on a crinkled photograph depicting him and his wife standing on the bow of the cruise ship. Frozen in time, they held each other closely, smiling happily for a festive moment shortly before Amanda’s death.

  Where did it go wrong? Maze wondered.

  Tilting his chair, Maze motioned for Lauren’s attention. She had to decide whether to ignore her client and keep her eyes trained on the captain, or give in to this interruption. She chose the latter, only to be startled by her client’s latest revelation.

  “On her computer, she kept playing them all night, over and over again. I stopped it. I did—twice—but she just poured herself more wine and turned it back on, kept playing them and playing them.”

  Exasperated, Lauren interrupted. “What? What did she play?”

  “Everything from country to heavy metal. Songs about suicide. Rascal Flatts, U2, Peter Gabriel, Slipknot, Ozzy. One depressing, kill-myself song after another.”

  Having heard enough, Lauren sat up in her chair, waving her right hand for Maze to cease, but he went on, soon catching the attention of Judge Howell.

  “Ms. Hill. Is there a problem?”

  Uncharacteristically embarrassed, Lauren answered no.

  “Fine. Then I trust you will instruct your client on the rules of civility while court is in session?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Reaching for her yellow pad, Lauren feverishly jotted notes for handling her client’s newest disclosure. She resolved to save the information for impeachment arguments to counter any favorable character statements Bradley would try to enter into evidence. Along with testimony and other damaging evidence already brought out in discovery and before the start of the trial, Lauren had set in motion a not-so-pretty picture of Amanda Maze. Not fair? Perhaps. But all’s fair in love and war, and this certainly was war.

  Bradley inquired, “Your Honor, may I continue?”

  Judge Howell nodded, and Bradley resumed his examination of the captain. “Now, let me ask you this, on the night Amanda Maze was pushed overboard—”

  Before Bradley spoke another word, the barracuda in heels launched from her seat, vehemently objecting to the DA’s line of questioning.

  “Sustained,” Judge Howell exclaimed. “The jury will disregard.”

  Lauren sneered while Bradley kept his amusement to himself. He had known what he was doing; once a jury hears something, they cannot unhear it. The wily prosecutor pushed forward.

  “Captain Johansen, were both two-ton propellers the size of this courtroom?”

  Lauren stood. “Objection!”

  “Overruled.”

  “It’s an egregious exaggeration, Your Honor.”

  Judge Howell began to consider her request. But feeling the moment slipping away, Bradley seized the reins.

  “Your Honor, if it pleases the court and the defense, I will kindly rephrase.” Before receiving a reply, he quickly addressed his witness. “Captain Johansen, can you say the propellers of the ship you piloted that voyage were approximately the size of this courtroom?”

  Expecting to hear an objection, the captain waited for a beat. “Well, ah, maybe combined,” he said, panning from one end of the room to the other. “I’d say that is a fair estimate. Sure.”

  “Okay, now that we have established—”

  Bradley waltzed around the witness stand long enough to shoot Lauren his own vicious sneer. In response, Lauren, pretending to adjust her teardrop earrings, mouthed asshole. Though scratching to respond with something equally vulgar, the prosecutor calmed himself and returned to his witness.

  “Now, let me ask you, sir. Were those enormous, courtroom-sized propellers by anyone’s estimation and definition, spinning . . . “ He trailed off to stare down his brilliant opponent. The lion and hyena circled one another. His voice elevated. “ . . . ON THE NIGHT MRS. MAZE WENT OVERBOARD?”

  Both Lauren and Maze jumped out of their seats, and the members of the jury gasped collectively. Maze exclaimed, “I loved my wife,” w
hile Lauren once again vehemently objected.

  Judge Howell warned Lauren, “Control your client, Ms. Hill, or I will have the bailiff escort him out of the courtroom. Do you understand?”

  Ryan took Maze by the arm and forcefully thrust him into his chair. Taking full advantage of the chaos, Bradley told the client to kindly answer the question. The jury sat up to listen intently.

  “Well,” Johansen began.

  Shooting her client an angry face, Lauren exclaimed, “I still object, Your Honor!”

  Johansen continued. “I would say, depending on the time she went—”

  “OBJECTION. FOUNDATION.”

  “Sustained.”

  Bradley pressed. “Were they, Captain? Tell us. Were they?”

  Overwhelmed, Captain Johansen sought direction from the judge. Unsuccessful, he answered.

  “Well, we traveled a good portion of the night.”

  Lauren screamed, “OBJECTION!!”

  Judge Howell banged her gavel and seized control. “Order. Order in this court.” But neither the defense nor the prosecution paid attention.

  Johansen finished. “Until we reached port in the morning.”

  The entire courtroom ruptured in oohs and ahs. Bradley folded his arms and stood smiling like a Cheshire cat.

  Enraged, Lauren threw her hands up. “Your Honor.”

  “Quiet. Quiet. I will have none of this dissension in my court.” The courtroom abruptly grew silent, though Judge Howell simmered. Breathing deep and fast, she continued. “Both counsel. Approach the bench. Now!” Not to be made a mockery of while presiding over such a high-profile case in front of the scrutinizing media, she needed to retake command of her courtroom.

  Bradley’s grin quickly dissipated. He followed Lauren, and the attorneys converged upon the bench like two jackals examining a fresh kill. Gritting their teeth, they jockeyed for position while Howell discreetly covered her mic. Lauren blinked, and Bradley jumped first.

  “Your Honor, I am only attempting to establish—instead of the proposed, fantastical possibility that Amanda Maze swam a hundred nautical miles and enjoyed sipping banana daiquiris on some remote island—”