In Defense of Guilt Page 6

  Bradley was particularly happy to see that the witness now taking the stand had taken his advice and groomed himself better than he had the first time he had done so. Usually unkempt with long, greasy hair and covered from neck to toe with tattoos of skulls, snakes, and other satanic images, Larry Hendricks actually looked civilized. Granted, nothing short of laser surgery could remove his massive quantity of ink, but his hair was at least neatly trimmed, and he was cleanshaven.

  Lauren, on the other hand, was angry, but she couldn’t pinpoint exactly where that anger was directed. The trial had turned into a fiasco, and there was enough blame to go around. Maze obviously could have restrained himself better. However, given the circumstances, his behavior wasn’t that much out of the ordinary for someone who, if found guilty, would be spending the rest of his life behind bars for murder one. No, Lauren had mostly herself to blame—even though her behavior was involuntary. Lauren could not for the life of her rationalize what she had seen within the scope of conventional science, but a meltdown was a meltdown, and that simply CANNOT HAPPEN, she admonished herself.

  Now she was locked away inside herself, giving herself an internal pep talk to stay sane for just one more day. Just one more day of stress, she thought, and then I’ll be home free. If she could only do for herself what Maze could not—keep herself in check and focus on the task at hand—she would be able to take that sabbatical away from the hustle and bustle of high-pressure lawyering, preferably someplace where the sand and tequila poured in equal, generous amounts.

  A hand tapped hers, bringing her back to the present. Ryan gestured to her, then to Bradley, wanting her to object to his particular line of questioning. Lauren had been so distracted she hadn’t heard any of what the opposition was discussing with the witness. She turned to listen.

  “So the sliding glass door leading to the balcony was broken, shattered. But when you arrived, it had been mostly cleaned up. Who cleaned it?”

  Lauren had to make a quick decision. She nodded to Ryan.

  Ryan stood. “Objection. Assumes facts not in evidence.”

  “Overruled.”

  Hendricks waved an accusing finger at Maze. “He said he cleaned it.”

  “Let it be clear that Mr. Hendricks is pointing directly to the defendant, Maze.” Bradley paused a moment. “So, then, where was all the glass?”

  Lauren was back in the game. “Objection!”

  “Overruled.” Turning to the witness, Judge Howell instructed. “You may answer the question.”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t find none.”

  Exasperated, Bradley reworded the question. “If he cleaned it up, did the defendant explain where the broken glass was?”

  “Oh, oh, yeah . . . overboard.”

  Lauren and Ryan both looked at Maze to clarify. Maze was already leaning toward his attorney. Adamantly, he said, “That’s not how I said it.”

  Bradley, for dramatic effect, turned toward the defendant. “Overboard. He suspects his wife is missing and Mr. Maze is cleaning up broken shards of glass and throwing them overboard?” he said, mimicking a shoveling action.

  Ryan’s body language was practically screaming to object. Lauren, already foreseeing how it was going to play out, sat quietly going over her notes.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Did he mention how the glass in the door broke?”

  “His wife threw somethin’ at it.”

  “Is that what Mr. Maze told you?”

  “Yeah,” Hendricks said.

  “Did he say what she threw?”

  “Nah.”

  Spectators began to murmur. Judge Howell banged the gavel twice, a friendly gesture reminding them where they were, as if any of them could have possibly forgotten.

  “Thank you for your time, your patience, and your willingness to come back, Mr. Hendricks. Just one more question,” Bradley paused. “When a passenger spills something or breaks one thing or another—let’s say, for example, a towel rack or a mirror—do they usually clean it on their own or do they call housekeeping?”

  Hendricks chuckled. “Nah. Don’t remember no one cleanin’ up for themselves.”

  “Perfect. Nothing further, Your Honor.” Turning to Lauren, he added, “Your witness.”

  Lauren stood to cross-examine. She scanned the room, looking at all the combatants on the courtroom chessboard. All the knights and bishops were aligned to take the king, but they had forgotten where the opposing queen was positioned. Lauren sauntered toward the witness, but as she looked at Judge Howell—Flash!

  God was sitting on the bench. Lauren slowed and did a double take. However, as quickly as He appeared, the Almighty vanished. Judge Howell rolled her eyes at Lauren, waiting impatiently for her to get on with it.

  Spooked, but only for a moment, Lauren was determined not to let the vision interrupt her train of thought. She quickly regained her composure and coolly approached the witness box.

  “How long were you the ship’s housekeeping steward before the incident which brings us here today?”

  Mr. Hendricks looked up at the ceiling, calculating. “June. October. ‘Bout six months.”

  “Under six months?”

  “About.”

  “My, my, my,” she interrupted. “What if I told you I’ve added up the days? For the record, it was just over four months—four months and three days, to be precise.”

  “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

  Lauren glared at the witness. “I don’t guess.”

  “Argumentative,” Bradley called.

  Although Lauren was nervous about even glancing toward the bench, she looked at Judge Howell. Mercifully, Howell was still human. The judge reminded Lauren that she hadn’t asked a question.

  “Move it along, counsel. Ask your questions, Ms. Hill.”

  Now displeased, Lauren looked up and glared at the judge, practically daring her to turn into God. She didn’t. She glared back, motioning for her to speed up the process. Lauren shifted her position and checked her notes. Uncharacteristically, she had forgotten the question.

  “Mr. State Witness—”

  “Your Honor, argumentative.”

  Judge Howell began to speak. “Let her finish, Mr. Bradley.”

  Lauren turned to the judge, exasperated. Suddenly, a bright flash of light. God had usurped the bench, once more.

  “Overruled,” Lauren murmured, and walked to her table and poured herself a glass of water.

  “What did you just say?” Judge Howell asked, unpleasantly.

  Lauren wasn’t expecting Judge Howell to be Judge Howell. She spun to face the bench. “What? Oh, nothing. Excuse me, Your Honor.”

  Judge Howell was not only not buying it, but also tiring of Lauren’s insolence and was not going to take much more. She hadn’t forgotten Lauren’s earlier outbursts. She folded her arms and sat back as Lauren re-approached the witness stand.

  “As I was saying, mine isn’t a world of guessing, Mr. Hendricks, but one based upon facts in evidence. Now, let’s examine under scrutiny your facts and bring them into evidence.” She paused for dramatic effect, winked at Bradley, and turned back to the witness. Bradley leaned forward, interested.

  “Where were you shortly before becoming the housekeeping manager of the cruise line?” Lauren asked.

  Bradley and Osterman flew out of their respective chairs. In unison, they cried, “OBJECTION!”

  “Sidebar, now!”

  All three attorneys raced to the bench. Maze thought it the perfect opportunity to pester Ryan. He said he had heard from “reliable sources” that a jury finds a defendant guilty or not guilty the moment they see them.

  Ryan turned with a bewildered look on his face. “Where did you hear that? That’s not true.”

  Maze stared, studying Ryan. He was trying to decipher whether he believed what he was saying was true or handing him a line. “How do you know?”

  “I’m a lawyer. That’s how.”

  At the bench, another heated argument was unde
rway. Neither side was willing to budge.

  Osterman listened, wisely keeping his mouth shut to allow his boss the floor. Bradley was trying to keep his voice down, shouting in strained whispers. “This is so inappropriate. It has nothing to do with—”

  Lauren jumped in. “Foundation, foundation, foundation.”

  “What foundation?” Judge Howell inquired.

  “Establishing motive.” Lauren was being purposefully vague.

  “Motive?” Bradley shouted, unable to control himself. Incensed, he looked to Judge Howell for help. He saw he wasn’t getting any from her. She seemed just as curious to see where Counsel Hill was going with her line of questioning. Still, she gave Lauren a strict warning not to cross any established lines.

  Bradley threw his hands up. “I can’t believe this,” he said, starting for the table.

  “Believe it, asshole,” she said, following him away from the bench. Bradley turned to reply, but she was already walking away toward the witness stand.

  “Mr. Prosecution Witness . . . “

  “Objection. Argumentative. The witness has a name.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Mr. Well-Rehearsed.”

  Lauren glanced at her adversary who was bouncing his leg, obviously agitated. He scowled at her. Bradley wanted to object once more but wanted even more for her to get on with it.

  “Do you need me to repeat the question for you?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” Hendricks replied.

  “Where were you, let’s say five months before the incident in question. Where did you call home?”

  “Objection! The witness is not on trial, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Oh, c’mon! Like he said,” and here Hendricks pointed to Bradley, “I’m not the one on trial, here.”

  “Just answer the question, Mr. Hendricks,” she smirked.

  Lawrence Hendricks puffed his cheeks out and released a large puff of air. “I was at Cal.”

  “Cal Tech? Cal State?”

  “Not exactly.” Hendricks fumed. Lowering his voice, he stated, “That’s what we in the joint called Calipatria State Prison.”

  The jury collectively gasped.

  Bradley knew it was futile. A jury cannot unhear what it has heard. However, he threw up his hands and gave a halfhearted “Objection.”

  Triumphantly, Lauren turned to Bradley. “Wow, prison—”

  “Overruled.”

  “What were you incarcerated for, Mr. Hendricks?”

  “Suspicion of selling.”

  Slipping the noose around his neck, she asked, “What, magazine subscriptions?”

  The courtroom ruptured in laughter, prompting Judge Howell to bang her gavel. Lawrence Hendricks squirmed in his chair. His blood was boiling, but he somehow managed to keep a level head. Eventually, the room quieted.

  “Drugs, okay. So what, I was in prison. Big deal.”

  “To me, and everyone here,” Lauren gestured, “it is.”

  The witness was uncomfortable in his chair. She could see it. It was time to tighten the noose even further.

  “Now, tell us, would you, how it was you happened to go from the Hotel Calipatria to such a coveted position as house keeping steward of the luxurious Magical Quest?”

  Bradley didn’t bother objecting. Lauren had eviscerated Hendricks already. Instead, he scratched his head, wondering how she had bested him on this one.

  “My uncle is the purser.”

  “And so, do tell the court, is this your first cruise ship job?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, now, if I had to guess, like you seem to often do, I’d guess you had little to no housekeeping background, unless you count cleaning your cell after the guards had tossed it.”

  Bradley knew he should object to Lauren’s badgering his witness, but by now even he was intrigued. He wanted to hear the next question as much as the judge and the jury, though he felt it would be painful to watch. Besides, what would a protest matter at that point? The quicker his witness was finished, the better.

  “Therefore,” Lauren continued, “you could not discern whether or not passengers were considerate, cleanly, slovenly, et cetera, yourself. Would that not be an accurate assessment of your lack of experience, Mr. Hendricks?”

  Hendricks sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest in front of him. A vein twitched at the top of his heated forehead as he scowled at the defense attorney.

  “The witness will answer the question,” Judge Howell reprimanded. “Be mindful you are still under oath.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” said Lauren. “Look, I’m not trying to belittle you, Mr. Hendricks.”

  “You’re sure doing a good job,” Bradley muttered.

  “In all likelihood, you do not know this, but as a defense attorney, this is my sixteenth murder trial. Now, would you say I was experienced in murder trials?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “And how many cruises had you been housekeeping manager on before the one in question, the one which Mr. Maze was on?”

  Lawrence Hendricks took a deep breath. “Two,” he said, irate.

  “Two? Okay, fine. Now, using my sixteen trials as a measure, would you say that you are experienced in cruise ship passenger habits, based on only two cruises before the one Mr. Maze was on?”

  Hendricks pondered a moment. “Yeah. I mean, no. Sure, I guess I’m not that experienced.”

  “Well, given only two, of course you aren’t. But now, shifting gears: as to the broken glass, are you completely sure my client told you he threw it overboard?”

  “I don’t know where else it could have gone. He said he cleaned it up! Fine. I don’t ‘zactly ‘member what he said he did with the glass.”

  Bradley sat back in his chair, fuming. It would have been nice to know that tidbit before Hendricks’ taking the stand. He’d just made everyone on the prosecution look extremely bad.

  “Well thank you, Mr. Hendricks, for your candid participation in getting to the truth, today. Your Honor, we are done here.” Lauren faced Bradley and smacked her notes against her open palm. Touché!

  Although he hated closing on a sour note, Bradley had no other option. Hendricks had been his last witness. “Your Honor, the state rests,” he said, dejectedly.

  Given the hour of the day, Judge Howell made a few general statements to the jury, and that was it. Court was then adjourned until the following morning.

  The judge felt as if she had been through a war zone. Frankly, she was glad the case was finally coming to an end. She requested that both lead counsels join her in her chambers directly afterward to discuss, among other things, closing arguments.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Justice Susan Howell gracefully slipped off her robe and hung it on the freestanding coatrack in the far corner. Although two metal hooks had been mounted on the wall near the entrance specifically for that purpose, she never used them. She was a woman of superstition and habit, much more comfortable with the old. In fact, besides the wooden coatrack, several other antiquated items graced the newly remodeled office. She could not bring herself to part with the mantle clock which she had to painstakingly wind every three days or so, her father’s Remington Noiseless typewriter from the 1920s, or an old fan whose three blades reminded her of old aircraft propellers. Although it no longer oscillated properly, the relic always hummed to life when she threw the switch. They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore, she often thought.

  Judge Howell told her law clerk to take the rest of the day off, as she would be discussing court matters with the two opposing counsels regarding the Maze case. The young clerk didn’t have to be told twice. Excitedly, she organized her things, grabbed her purse, and rushed out to bask in the Southern California sun. With light traffic that time of day, she figured she would be relaxing at Venice Beach in just over an hour.

  Grabbing a Diet Coke from the personal refrigerator next to her desk—one of the few modern amenities she found
useful and necessary—the judge went to the picture frame on the wall behind her desk. Every day she looked at this handwritten letter from John Quincy Adams to her great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side, congratulating him on becoming a Supreme Court justice. Her mother had handed it down to her the day Howell had been sworn in. Twelve years had passed since then. Howell admired the smooth, flowing strokes of the president’s quill. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like having to write such lengthy documents with a feather.

  Judge Howell pulled the top on her can of soda. As the seal broke, she heard the familiar hiss of released carbonation. A rush of tiny droplets rose into the air, and she breathed in the sweetness of aspartame. She realized it wasn’t good for human consumption, but she couldn’t have the real stuff. It would send her sugar levels through the roof. Besides, she believed she was entitled to a vice or two. She took a long sip.

  As she was about to sit down and go through the messages of the day, the anticipated knock came. Through the door, Judge Howell could hear the familiar voices of the bailiff yukking it up with District Attorney Dillon Bradley. Above the loudness of their voices, she told them to enter.

  The voices grew quiet as the bailiff opened the door. Lauren Hill stepped inside, followed immediately by Bradley. As it was a private meeting, the bailiff closed the door behind him as he left.

  Judge Howell quickly began flipping through her messages. Bradley went to sit down, but without looking up, the judge said, “No, please. This will only take a moment.” Lauren, seizing the opportunity, whipped out her cell phone. Deftly, she thumbed her reply to the inquiry made earlier. Like the question—Sex?—her answer was a simple, three-letter response—Yes. She quickly tucked her phone into a pocket inside her purse and spun around to face Judge Howell.