In Defense of Guilt Page 12

  Looking up from his notes, Bradley cast a perturbed look at her before continuing. “The defense would like you to believe there is reasonable doubt! In the last few months of their marriage, how many times had the police visited the Maze address because of domestic violence issues? Seven!”

  Martin Maze slapped the table. Lauren saw that her client was on the verge of not being able to hold up his end of the bargain and switched seats with Ryan.

  “That’s right,” Bradley continued. “Seven times police responded to their residence because of excessive screaming and dishes breaking.”

  Seeing his displeasure, Lauren leaned into Maze’s ear, “Listen to me—”

  “It’s not true.”

  “It is true,” she scolded.

  “But he’s twisting it.”

  “Of course he is. What didn’t you get from our previous conversation?”

  “I loved my wife.”

  “I know it, and the jury knows it. I haven’t had my turn.”

  Bradley held up his papers. “And here are the reports. An entire stack of them.”

  “I want him to stop,” Maze begged.

  This got her fired up. She had all but forgotten the incident in the restroom. “Listen to me! This is a contest, a competition. Do you understand? That’s what court is, a place where two combatants do battle.”

  Lauren gripped his chin and turned his face to her. Everyone in the courtroom witnessed her frustrated reaction. Even Bradley, in the middle of his statement, noticed the circus show at the defense table.

  “Two combatants,” Lauren continued, “clothed in naked ambition meet in a staged setting designed to twist logic. That is what we do. We twist logic, stretch the truth into adjudged facts and have rendered a prejudice certitude.”

  Bradley cleared his throat and elevated his tone of voice. “Each of these reports states that Amanda Maze feared her husband would become violent toward her and cause injury.”

  “That’s what I do,” Lauren continued, whispering. “And I am the best at it. You don’t need to get upset, stand up, or shout obscenities, and we don’t need the Bible to win.”

  Maze looked at Lauren as if she had just committed blasphemy. As if he were a child facing a bully, he clutched the book tightly and held it close to his chest. “I don’t want to be found guilty. The word of God brings me comfort.”

  “You’re not guilty. We don’t need your antics, the word of God, or the truth,” she whispered. “What we do have are twelve marginally educated citizens of the City of Angels and a whole heck of a lot of statutes. It’s been more than enough to find in your favor.” Lauren let go of his face.

  Maze swallowed. “You sure?”

  “What is it you want me to do? If this book,” she said, taking the Bible, “is helping you with your anxiety, then embrace it. Let its pages save your skin and your soul.”

  For all of his apprehensions, Maze was truly impressed with her confident words, although, in the back of his mind, he knew it was best to err on the side of caution. Maze took back the Bible and opened to the bookmark on Proverbs. “Watch out! Proverbs 6:16. The Seven Deadly Sins. First of all, pride. It always precedes a fall.”

  Horrified, but trying to show it, Lauren took the book and gently closed it. How was it possible Maze was trying to show her exactly the same lesson God had been teaching her? No way could it have been a mere coincidence. Could this be God’s way of reinforcing His wisdom? It may very well have been the final warning. She wasn’t sure what kind of chastisement He might resort to next, and she was now concerned.

  Bradley was finished with his closing arguments and took his seat at the prosecution’s table. He had taken up nearly every minute of time allotted him. The rest of the team huddled around to congratulate him on his courtroom prowess.

  All eyes were then fixated on Lauren.

  But for all her shaken confidence, once Lauren Hill stood and started to give her prepared speech, the woman was on fire. She performed beautifully, conducting a symphony of words. The jurors, who had been questioning her ability as well as her sanity since yesterday, questioned no longer. They listened intently to her as she reiterated detailed arguments in such a way as to make them sound fresh and new.

  “Amanda Maze had a known history of mental illness. She had been diagnosed as being bipolar and having borderline personality disorder. Her medical records attest to that fact. Furthermore, each of you has heard sworn testimony from Amanda’s doctor. He had prescribed a plethora of medications, including antidepressants and lithium. Doctor Barrett testified that it had taken several months to get the dosages adjusted correctly.” Lauren paused. “Mr. Maze loved his wife. I repeat: he loved her. He stayed with her despite her severe illness. He was married to her for five years. Yes, we don’t deny that those were turbulent years, however, that turbulence was brought on by Amanda’s mental instability.”

  The deceased’s grieving mother burst into tears. Bradley turned, dramatically patted her hand for show, and offered her his condolences for the cold and callous way Lauren had presented her daughter to the jury.

  Judge Howell was tired of having to bang the gavel, but at least this time it wasn’t directed toward the defense table.

  Turning to her client, Lauren saw Maze motioning for her to tell them. Without missing a beat, however, she walked over to Maze and, without looking down, casually opened the Bible for him. Then she poured herself a glass of water and, spinning around, walked deliberately to the jury and began to address them directly. “And that lovely cruise was a gift,” she continued. “A gift from a loving husband to an adored wife. A time for them to spend together, allowing her to forget and leave her major troubles behind.” Lauren glanced down at her notes and continued. “No, Amanda Maze was not a ‘world-class swimmer,’ if by ‘world-class’ the prosecution means she’d been in the Olympics or something. However, she most certainly could swim, as her mother testified.”

  Lauren started walking back toward the defense table, motioning for Ryan to pour another glass of water. Obediently, he had it for her before she arrived. Every move, every subtle gesture, was calculated. Sure, she had notes, but pausing to hydrate gave Lauren the opportunity to gather her thoughts and get the words precisely the way they needed to be said to impress the jury. Bradley still had the last word, and Lauren wanted to make sure whatever he had to say was inconsequential. By the time Bradley took the floor in rebuttal, she wanted to ensure that she and the twelve were on the same page and they would deliver a “not guilty” verdict.

  Lauren took a few, dainty sips to wet her whistle, and turned once more to the jury. They were attentive. “Let’s see. We know that on several occasions through her adult life, Mrs. Maze had contemplated suicide. In his testimony, even her ex-husband mentioned one particular incident in which she had held a knife to herself.”

  Some members of the jury jotted notes while several others leaned to converse with one another in inaudible whispers. It seemed they had been reminded of an important detail. It further seemed that Lauren had them eating out of her hand. Inwardly, Lauren smirked.

  “And even though Maze did not testify on his own behalf, he stated for the record during his police interrogation that his wife had promised to take her own life that night.” A calculated pause. “Did she? How are we to know? Is she alive? How are we to know? Did she swim to shore or was picked up by native fishermen and carried to shore? How are we to know? How are we to know anything?”

  Audible murmurs resonated throughout the courtroom. “And furthermore, if she didn’t swim, where is the body? The prosecution hasn’t produced one because there isn’t one. There’s no body, no weapon, and no witnesses who came forward to testify that they saw Mr. Maze harm his wife in any way, much less kill her. The smoking gun the prosecution wants you to see doesn’t exist. There isn’t one. Nothing! As a matter of fact, there is nothing one can logically conclude based upon testimony given and evidence provided. We don’t know anything. I don’t know, Mr.
Maze doesn’t know, Mr. Bradley doesn’t know, Judge Howell doesn’t know, and none of you know. Only God Himself knows.” Lauren glared sternly at the jury and placed both hands on the barrier separating her from them.

  Suddenly, juror number six transformed. Instead of a plump, but otherwise neatly dressed matronly woman, Lauren was staring intently at the all too familiar likeness of the Almighty. He sat quietly looking sternly in her direction.

  Startled once more, Lauren gasped, quickly removing her hands from the barrier. It was as if she had touched something contaminated. Taking a few deep, cleansing breaths and one large gulp of water, Lauren grew determined not to let the vision bother her and fight through it.

  “So,” she continued, “So, what does all of this mean? Putting everything together, the testimony, the flimsy evidence, and shoddy police work? It all culminates in reasonable doubt. Plain and simple. The prosecution would like you to believe it is reasonable to suggest Mr. Maze killed his wife.”

  Suddenly, Lauren did a double-take. Along with juror six, jurors two and eleven also transformed into God. Lauren was temporarily spooked, but she pressed on.

  “What motive does the prosecution offer? A small life insurance policy? Most couples carry them. I’m sure a few of you have policies in place in case of the unexpected and untimely death of your spouse.”

  Jurors one and seven simultaneously turned into God. Rattled, but not broken, Lauren stumbled on. “The . . . Mr. Bradley . . . the . . . the prosecution . . . “ Lauren walked to the defense table, poured herself a third glass of water, and slammed it down like a veteran whiskey drinker. “Sorry, a bit warm in here. At least it is to me.” Fighting the urge to run, scream, or both, Lauren continued. “I tell you, the prosecution would like you to believe it’s reasonable that Mr. Maze killed his wife, because hey, where else could she be, right? Only that’s not the law. That, I remind you, is not the law.”

  Two more jurors transformed into God and Lauren desperately needed to look away. But no, she had to stay focused on the task at hand. She toughened. She walked up to one of the “Gods” staring at her, glared, and defiantly shook her head at Him. He wasn’t going to drive her crazy that easily.

  She placed her hands on the wooden bench separating herself from the Almighty, who was sitting patiently, her hands comfortably rested upon His knees. God smiled back at her. “Go ahead, sit there; stare at me if you must. But hear every word I say and mark them well.”

  Lauren continued. “Their deduction,” she pointed to the prosecution table, “is not, I repeat, NOT within a reasonable conclusion of guilt. It’s underwhelming, to say the least, and has so many holes it’s far afield from reasonable doubt in a murder case.”

  In full throttle, Lauren turned her back on the jury as well as, symbolically, on God. She was not about to let anything stand in the way of her performance. She was in her element and determined to shine.

  “Ask yourselves this,” she continued, selecting her words with care. “Is it reasonable or is it not that a woman suffering terribly from both bipolar and borderline personality disorders, coupled with a sad history of suicidal tendencies, on a night which she and her husband had a deeply emotional argument, might, just might, have let her mind go over the edge, sadly causing her to follow through on her earlier threat of personal destruction?” Her voice elevated for effect. “Is that, or is that not equally REASONABLE SPECULATION as to what happened to Amanda Maze that fateful night?”

  Distraught and reacting angrily, Amanda’s Maze’s mother, sitting with her husband in the first row behind Bradley’s bench, rose to her feet. She could no longer listen to any more distorted lies against her daughter. She could no longer contain her emotions and felt a strong urge to voice her extreme distaste for this personal and vicious attack on her precious Amanda’s character.

  Bradley had warned the parents what the defense would likely say against their daughter in the closing arguments and had cautioned them against lashing out in any fashion. Amanda’s mother, knowing how difficult it would be for her to remain silent, even thought about staying home. But since her entire world had disappeared along with Amanda under those Pacific waves, she would never have been able to forgive herself if she did. As much as she knew it would hurt, she had been compelled to come to her daughter’s defense.

  Something was wrong. As she was trying to vocalize her frustration, she found she was having a great deal of difficulty. Her vision blurred. Her legs grew weak. Thought eluded her. She felt herself slipping out of consciousness. The last thing the woman remembered before going limp into her husband’s trembling arms was believing she had screamed the word “LIES!” Only no words escaped her lips.

  The spectators gasped as Bradley waved for assistance. Two officers helped remove the unconscious woman as Judge Howell banged her gavel in an attempt to restore some semblance of order. Camera bulbs flashed.

  “There will be no pictures!” the judge shouted at the press booth.

  Slowly, the courtroom quieted.

  “You may proceed, Ms. Hill.”

  Normally, Lauren would have been gloating inwardly. She wouldn’t have cared how her callousness had caused loved ones to become distraught. It mattered not. Her job was to defend her client. If the prosecution’s side became incensed because of the harshness of her words or tone, all the better. However, as she gazed at Amanda’s mother being carried out, Lauren found a moment of compassion. She, too, was a mother. What if it had been her daughter? How well would she have survived such an ordeal? Lowering her voice, Lauren continued.

  “Let me be clear, Amanda Maze is not the one on trial here, and I’m not suggesting she deliberately took her own life knowing that her husband would be viciously attacked. Mrs. Maze was a tortured, tormented soul deserving great respect. She was not in complete control of her faculties. But the fact remains, her husband is not a callous killer. He is very much a victim, a widower, the victim of an overzealous prosecution grasping at straws to answer questions by filling gaps with speculation and fabrication, a victim of this day and age of sensational journalism, a victim of fate and circumstance, and ultimately, a victim of his love for a broken woman.”

  Lauren finally turned back to the jury. All twelve jurors staring back at her were God. Each looking the same, with the same expression—displeased and reproachful.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she concluded, staring boldly into the eyes of God, “this is the truth I bring before you.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  As the sun sank into the western sky, the darkening shadows cast by downtown skyscrapers grew longer and longer on the bustling streets below. Lauren Hill stood, staring blankly out her corner office window on the twenty-sixth floor, deep in meditative thought. Orange gave way to hues of pinks and purples as she contemplated the day’s events, but she didn’t particularly notice the beauty of the colors.

  Lauren’s work was done, the case finished. To be sure, it was not one of her more stellar performances. In fact, she could not remember a time when her execution had been worse in the closing days. She prided herself on perfection. When a perfectly laid plan had come together and she could see the light at the end of a long, dark tunnel that was when Lauren was usually at her best. Not this time. This time, she had barely survived.

  On the ground level, streetlights flickered to life, illuminating both highway and sidewalk, one grid at a time. Staring out at the dusky hues of sunset, Lauren continued to reason as the vast urbanity around her lit up.

  Lauren tried to process why God was targeting her. “6:16 . . . 6:16,” she kept mumbling to herself, over and over: the Seven Deadly Sins God had revealed to her. What book was that in? she wondered. With everything going on, she couldn’t remember. It was right there on the tip of her tongue. “Damn it!”

  Because official courtroom duties had taken precedence over learning and retaining Scripture, Lauren had pushed it aside. Now, when she needed recall, it had escaped her. That was stupid. Why didn’t I w
rite it down? Lauren felt compelled to read those verses again, to hear the full message meant for her—everything.

  Thinking turned to dwelling, dwelling to obsession. Her OCD was kicking in. Lauren knew she would find neither peace nor rest until she fully grasped the meaning of what God was conveying to her, but there wasn’t a Bible in her office. Lauren needed a clear head. She knew exactly how to clear it.

  Lauren walked to the wet bar in the opposite corner of the room, past a bookcase filled with law books and her professionally framed diploma from UCLA School of Law. Opening the etched glass door, she searched amongst the assorted bottles of bourbon, cognac, and whiskey. None of those would do. She reached in, pulled out a fifth of vodka, and unscrewed the top. She then went to the apartment-sized refrigerator and took out a bottle of tonic water. Setting it on the counter, she reached for a tall glass. Pouring a third of a glass of vodka, she stopped, thought twice, and filled it to about half. “Gonna need something a wee bit stronger,” she said aloud.

  It was only then that Lauren realized darkness had descended upon her. She flicked on the light and walked back to the window. She sipped. “Yeah, that’s it.” She sipped again and cocked her head back. Lights in the office directly across the street suddenly came on. Squinting, she could faintly see a human form open the top drawer of a tan filing cabinet. She was noticing details. Good! She felt much better.

  Off to the northwest, Lauren saw a bright flash of light out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she couldn’t see anything, at first. Suddenly, there was another flash. That too was good. A rare thunderstorm was moving in from off the ocean. “Nice. Let it pour.”