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Dan was relieved that they managed to complete the juror selection, but since it took most of the day, the judge postponed opening statements to the following morning. He was grateful for the additional chance to strategize, incorporating what he learned about the jurors during the quizzing. He even practiced his opening a few times for his teammates.
As he entered the courtroom the next day, he spotted Zachary Coleman in the gallery, rolling about in his wheelchair. Benny and his wife Dolly were present, though he didn’t spot the other son, Phil. Why were they here? Sure, they didn’t think Ossie was really Ossie. But even if they didn’t want him to inherit, did that mean they wanted to see him executed?
Today, he wore a cheaper suit to court. Not as cheap as Kilpatrick’s. He didn’t want it to be obvious that he was reacting to what Kilpatrick said. And in truth, he didn’t own anything that cheap. But he toned it down a bit. From Zenga to Brooks Brothers.
He still used the cane, but the aching in his back had subsided somewhat. He thought about choosing a tie that matched the cane but decided that was taking coordination too far.
Prudence Hancock was in the courtroom. Scouting for Sweeney, no doubt.
While he contemplated where to go first, Prudence strode right up to him. “Good to see you again, Pike. Hate the suit.”
“Well...you know. Juries.”
“If you think you’re going to convince them you’re a man of the people, forget it. They’ve already got you pegged.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you’re a highly compensated showboat and they know it. Might as well be who you are. At least that’s honest. Juries respect honesty. And they turn on anyone they think is putting on a show.”
He’d be more irritated if he didn’t know she was right.
“Dr. Sweeney instructed me to ask if you were okay.”
He tried not to sneer. “Tell him I’m fine.”
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
“And he wanted me to say that his offer still stands.”
“So does my complete disinterest.”
“Your funeral. I personally have my heart set on engaging in some extreme sports with you. I want to see what you’re really made of.”
Was this going where he thought it was going? “Maybe after the trial.”
“I understand you need time. But when you’re ready—I know a great place for heliskiing.”
One of the most dangerous extreme sports. But he didn’t doubt her. “I’ll keep that in mind. Excuse me—I need to get to work. Please give Sweeney my worst.”
He headed to the defense table. Ossie sat with Maria—and both looked worried.
“Top of the morning, Ossie.”
“Looks like you’re walking a little easier.”
“Yeah. Practically back to normal again. Hey, I’m sorry about that business with the consultant.”
“He thinks I’m guilty.”
True. “He’s concerned the jury will think you’re guilty. And he wants to make sure we do whatever we can to avoid that.”
“Everyone thinks I’m guilty. Do you see how my relatives glare at me?”
He did. “You’re probably imagining that.”
“I’m not. They hate me. My own family hates me.”
“Families are complicated. Once all legalities are smoothed out, things will change.”
“They will never accept me. Even if I win. I might get the money. But what’s the point of money when you don’t have family?”
Maria tried to comfort him. “They’ll come around, Ossie. It just takes time. But right now, we need your head in the game. Focus on the trial.”
He didn’t appear any happier, but he didn’t argue. “If you say so.”
A few minutes later, Judge Smulders called the court into session and asked for opening statements. Kilpatrick went first. He scrutinized the prosecutor carefully. He sensed that every move Kilpatrick made, every syllable he uttered, was carefully calibrated, possibly pre-tested, for maximum impact. He appeared to be wearing the same suit, with a different shirt and tie, and a rather potent aftershave. Not unpleasant, but noticeable.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Thank you for allowing me to speak to you this morning. I wish we were meeting under happier circumstances. My mother used to bring me out to St Pete during the summer when I was young. She was a teacher, so she always made the most of summer months. She loved to get out in the boat, ski and swim. Wonderful woman. This is sort of a homecoming for me.”
All completely irrelevant, of course, but he knew why Kilpatrick was saying it. He was acting more like a pal than a lawyer, trying to get the jury to warm up to him. His Southern accent helped. Seemed smooth and pretty, like a glass of bourbon, neat. Was it his imagination, or was Kilpatrick’s accent thicker when he spoke to the jury?
“Course I don’t know much about boats and watersports. I can’t afford to live on a boat and spend my money on daredevil sports like my worthy opponent.” He gestured toward the defense table. “Only thing I ever did with a kite was fly one at the park. But I do love this area. My momma taught me to love the water, and she’s always been the biggest influence on my life.”
Okay, if the man didn’t get to the case soon, he was objecting. The unsubtle digs were bad enough, but this ingratiating talk about his mother—to a jury that was predominantly female—was offensive.
“But I’m afraid there won’t be much swimming this week. We have a serious matter before us—the most serious kind there is—so I’m going to have to ask you all to be patient, to remain attentive, and to give this difficult matter the respect and consideration it deserves.”
He bobbed a little from one foot to the other. “Here’s my promise. I will not waste your time. No showboating, no tricks, nothing that isn’t important. I’m not a slick high-flyer. I’m a worker bee. I get the job done, no theatrics, no messing around. I’m a straight shooter, so if I say something, you can darn well believe it’s true. My momma taught me to tell the truth, and that lesson has stuck with me ever since.”
This was more than a little improper, but Judge Smulders didn’t say a word. If anything, he appeared to be mesmerized.
“This case is quite simple, ladies and gentlemen. My opponent will try to complicate matters, but there’s nothing complicated about it. It all comes down to three facts, each of which we will prove beyond a reasonable doubt.”
Of course it would be a list of three. That was the mathematical key to success in public speaking, and an old lawyer trick. People called it the ‘rule of threes,’ or ‘mathematical truth.’ Every story should have three parts. Every list should be a list of three. Lists of threes seemed to have an almost magical resonance. You saw them everywhere—poetry, literature, the Bible. Jokes often had three people going into a bar or something happening three times—the last time resulting in the punchline. Contract lawyers frequently used lists of threes—even though the three words were redundant synonyms. Goods, chattel, and personal effects. Right, title, and interest. Give, bequeath, and bestow. Somehow, in the human brain, a list of three equaled truth.
“First, the young man who pretends to be Ossie Coleman committed this murder for the same reason he pretends to be Ossie Coleman. A billion dollars waiting to be claimed. That amount of money might be a sore temptation to the gentlest of people—but as the evidence will show, this defendant is not the gentlest of people.
“Second, though the entire family opposed this young upstart’s claims, the victim, Harrison Coleman, posed a particular problem, because had known the real Ossie well. So he had to be eliminated. The evidence will show that the defendant met with the victim and, after an unsuccessful bargaining attempt, killed him.
“Third.” Kilpatrick raised three fingers, just in case someone was having trouble keeping count. “We have a veritable avalanche of scientific and forensic evidence showing that the defendant was at the scene of the crime, met the victim, hid the murder weapon, and had the ability to perform a...frankly terrifying means of disposing of the body. We can argue all night about eyewitnesses and memory—but science doesn’t lie. And in this case, science points in one direction. If that weren’t enough, in his dying moments”—he whirled around and pointed at Ossie—“the victim wrote his name at the scene of the crime.”
He took another step even closer to the jury. “I will show you the plain, unvarnished truth. It may disturb you. May even shock you. But these are shocking circumstances. I am confident that once you have seen this irrefutable evidence, seen the world for what it is and acknowledged that science does not lie—you will find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree.”
With that, Kilpatrick pivoted and took his seat.
He exchanged a glance with Maria. They didn’t speak, but he knew what she was thinking. He liked to believe that he was the best courtroom orator in town.
But Kilpatrick was better. Way better. Perhaps all these years of doing essentially the same thing had allowed him to hone his skills. But that opening was a masterpiece. Short, succinct, effective—even a little entertaining. Most importantly, it got the jury thinking the way he wanted them to think. Yes, it was stagey, calculated, manipulative—but it was also persuasive. The trial hadn’t even begun, and Kilpatrick already had the jurors leaning in his direction.
Good thing he’d spent the night practicing. This needed to be the best opening he’d ever delivered.
“Mr. Pike. Would you like to open at this time?”
“Yes, you honor.” He walked to the right side of the jury rail—if only to create some contrast. “My compliments to Mr. Kilpatrick on that fine opening. He’s a pro. That’s why they brought him in from New York City, where he lives, to try this case in St. Petersburg.” Complete dirty pool, but what the hell. Kilpatrick started it. “I know you will take your job as jurors seriously, so you’re not going to be as interested in lawyering as you are in the facts.”
He paused, smiled, then continued. “My name is Daniel Pike and I represent the defendant, Ossie Coleman. Yes, I live on a boat—it’s cheaper than property tax around here—and I love water sports, but that’s not relevant, so let’s talk about the case. This may surprise you but—I actually agree with much of what Mr. Kilpatrick said. In fact, I agree with most of it.” Seem reasonable, not antagonistic. Find common ground. Act as if you’re only helping them see the truth. “For instance, I agree that when this kind of money is in the mix, some people will be driven to extreme actions. I also agree that this crime was horrific. It was planned and calculated with a cold-blooded efficiency and maturity that only someone in complete control could master. And I also agree that science can provide reliable evidence—if it’s interpreted reliably.”
He walked slowly toward the other end of the rail, trying to create visual interest to keep the jurors alert. “But that’s where Mr. Kilpatrick and I part company. Everything else he said is bogus and unsubstantiated, part of a concerted effort by powerful forces to frame my client for a crime he did not commit. There are a host of potential heirs to the Coleman family fortune—so why single out my client? Ossie is still tied up in lawsuits—filed by the family, not by him—intended to determine inheritance rights. Surely he would wait to see how that comes out before he started executing the other relatives. On the other hand.” He turned and cast an eye toward the many Coleman relatives in the gallery. “If you’re a relative concerned about how the civil trial might come out, framing Ossie for murder might seem like a smart move. Because if he’s found guilty of murder, even if he wins the civil trial, he won’t be permitted to collect the dough. As you view all the evidence in this case, keep asking yourself a single question: How can I know who is guilty when there are other people with the exact same motive, same opportunity, but more maturity, more resources, and a far greater ability to commit the murder?
“The scientific evidence is important, but most of these technical matters—DNA and tox screens and such—require interpretation. The forensic experts Mr. Kilpatrick intends to call to the witness stand are all people who work for the police department, people who have repeatedly come to court to say what the DA needs them to say. I will point out the flaws in their testimony and the holes in their so-called science to demonstrate that the evidence is not only questionable—it isn’t even very good science. The prosecution even plans to call a homeless person, a Dumpster diver, to testify about what he allegedly found in the trash. Now ask yourself—if the prosecution had airtight scientific evidence, why would it resort to a witness like that?”
He placed his hands on the rail. “I am concerned that some of you may be so repulsed by this crime that you want to vote to convict just to feel that someone has been punished. You must resist that instinct. Your verdict should be based upon evidence, not emotion. Don’t be manipulated. Be logical. Use your brains. Be critical thinkers. To convict you must find that this mastermind murder and chemically complex body disintegration was executed by one young boy, who so far as anyone knows, has never hurt anyone in his entire life. Does that make sense? Or is it more likely that someone older, wiser, with more wherewithal, is responsible?
“Unlike Mr. Kilpatrick, I’m not going to make any promises. I’m just going to remember that you have already made a promise. You promised to faithfully execute your duties as jurors. That’s a heavy responsibility. And an important one. I trust you to fulfill it.”
He looked up and smiled. “At the end of the day, just remember one thing. To convict, you must find that Mr. Kilpatrick has proven his case against Ossie beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s a high standard. It’s meant to be. If you feel the prosecution’s case is anything less, regardless of what you privately or secretly think, you must find Ossie not guilty. That is your sworn duty. And I know I can count on you to execute it faithfully.”
He turned and walked back to the defendant’s table, but as he passed, he gave Mr. Kilpatrick a raised eyebrow. Okay, Mr. Hired Gun.
Game on.