CHAPTER TWELVE

After lunch, the prosecution offered a parade of Kyra Burke’s colleagues from Columbia. Most of them seemed reluctant witnesses. Most. Two were young superstars in the modern elite legal academy who failed to entirely hide their schadenfreude. Of course, they had always been on pleasant terms with Kyra but, deep down, found her an ambitious, cold person and suspected she suffered from internalized white patriarchal self-loathing. And she seemed bored at the faculty lunches.

But supporter or not, they all testified to the same theme: Kyra hated Tony Burke—his lying, his hypocrisy, his mental torture of her. But most of all she hated what a courageous group of women revealed him to be: a serial sexual predator. He had mistreated dozens of women, of all ages and backgrounds, simply because they happened to walk across his consciousness in a room, or elevator, or hallway—and with no witnesses.

Of course, the prosecution witnesses said, learning about the flirting, touching, groping, kissing, and assaulting bothered Kyra, tremendously. But what bothered her more was that he terrified those women, before and after victimizing them, and he proceeded to savage them when they dared speak the truth, using all his power and all his contacts in the media. He said these women were not victims, they were the predators, and were continuing to victimize him now by seeking fame and money. “You drag a fifty-dollar bill through the streets of Albany, this is what you end up with.” On and on. “He’s the devil,” she’d told a civil procedure professor.

The two who were not fans also told the jury that Kyra had confided in them that what really burned her was the humiliation of being a professor of employment and gender law and married to the predator whose behavior would be studied in those disciplines for decades. And if she hadn’t used those exact words, that was the sentiment she communicated.

So, not good, Parker thought, watching the onslaught with his practiced resting-lawyer face. He offered no cross-examination. Don’t want the jury to think this bullshit faculty-lounge gossip hurts us. Kyra would explain those statements during her testimony: Yes, the murder victim was a horrible person, but she didn’t kill him.

Next up were the lawyers for the deceased to lay out more motive proof. Before the then-sixty-one-year-old Tony married the then-thirty-one-year-old Kyra, he required her to sign a prenuptial agreement governing their financial affairs in the unlikely event they should divorce. They would share joint custody of any children of their union, who would be supported generously—as she would—until they attained the age of majority. In the event the marriage dissolved without offspring, Kyra would receive a lump sum of $500,000. And that was all.

Parker didn’t want to underscore the importance of this testimony, but he decided to briefly cross-examine to preview the defense testimony. That way, the jurors would think they had figured something out down the road.

“A prenup could be modified at any time by the parties in a divorce settlement, right?” Parker asked the attorney.

“Of course.”

“And somebody like Tony Burke could even decide he wanted to give Kyra more than the prenup provided, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“And he might want to do that, say, in exchange for her promising not to say bad stuff about him after the divorce?”

“I can’t answer that.”

And I don’t really care if you do. “Okay, thanks. Nothing further, Your Honor.”

The testimony about the prenup didn’t seem like much until the second lawyer testified, about Tony Burke’s will.

Shockingly, Tony Burke had failed to update his will, which by its terms provided that his estate should go to his wife and, if she should predecease him, to any children of their union. But at the time he signed the will, Tony was married to Marian Burke, with whom he shortly had his son, Edward. Of course, he was no longer married to Marian. And there laid the wrinkle that made his death of great financial benefit to Kyra.

Because she was his lawful wife, Kyra would inherit his $25,000,000 estate under one of two theories: Either a court would strike Marian’s name and enforce the bequest to “my wife”—Kyra, at the time of his death—or the court would declare the entire will void, in which case the laws of New York provided the assets of a spouse dying without a will go entirely to the surviving spouse. So, either way, if Tony Burke died before he and Kyra divorced, she got $25,000,000.

So better than $500,000 under the prenup. Is that what you’re saying? This was really testing Parker’s bored look, because his mind was racing, trying to decide whether to cross on this at all. Kyra had said she had no idea what the terms of Tony’s will were. But if he suggested that to the witness—“You have no reason to believe Mrs. Burke had any knowledge of the will”—the guy could make shit up and explode it in his face—“Well, actually, my client told me they had discussed the will.” And what was he going to do with that?

Nope, better to let it go. Argue it later. Prosecution has the burden of proof, and they haven’t shown she knew anything about the will. And when she hits the stand, she’s gonna say she didn’t know, so we’re good. And worst case, they have strong motive proof. So what? People don’t kill everyone they’d like to kill, or this courthouse’d be a hell of a lot busier.

“Mr. Parker, are you with us?” It was Justice Zannis, interrupting his reverie.

“Oh, yes, Judge. Sorry.”

“I was asking, do you have any questions for this witness?”

Parker started to say no, but paused as a bolt hit him. He pulled on his suspenders. Why the fuck not. “Uh, just a few, Judge.”

At the podium, he tried to look genuinely interested in a novel legal problem. “Mr. Appel,” he began. “It is Mr. Appel, is that right?”

“Yes,” the witness answered.

“Mr. Appel, isn’t there a third possible legal outcome with respect to Tony Burke’s will?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, as you said, it’s possible a court would interpret the will to give Burke’s money to his wife and, crossing out Marian’s name, the money would go to Kyra, because she was the legal wife at the time of his death, right?”

“That’s correct.”

“Or a court might just decide the whole thing is so screwed up that the will is invalidated and the estate governed by New York law, under which Kyra inherits anyway, right?”

“Well, I can’t imagine a court using words like ‘screwed up,’ but I take your meaning. Yes, that is the other possibility.”

“But there’s a third, right?”

“Not to my mind, there isn’t.”

“The key words are ‘my wife, Marian Burke,’ right?”

“Yes.”

“But rather than cross out Marian’s name, a court might cross out the words ‘my wife,’ concluding that Tony Burke’s intention—because he never changed the will, even after divorcing Marian—was that his estate actually go to Marian, whether they were married or not. Am I onto something here?”

The witness seemed rattled by this. “That seems highly unlikely to me.”

“But it’s possible, isn’t it, Mr. Appel?”

“Maybe. Lots of possibilities in the law.”

Parker paused and then went for it. What the hell.

“So the original Mrs. Burke may have been the one with the reason to want Tony dead, am I right? Before he could change that will?”

The audible reaction from the gallery almost obscured Andy Kwon’s objection, but Justice Zannis heard it.

“Sustained. That’s argument, Mr. Parker. The jury will disregard the question. Anything further, Mr. Parker?”

“No, Your Honor,” he said, turning back to his seat. Okay, that was a swing worth taking.