CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

 

The People versus Rafael Santiago trial began the first week of January. Seven women and five men sat on the jury. Both sides had carefully screened them, each seeking every edge they could get. Beverly was confident that she had the people she needed to produce a guilty verdict.

And she had a defendant who, by his very nature, fit the composite of a killer you might find in a college course called Violent Homicide 101.

Beverly sat at the prosecution’s table alongside Gail Kennedy, stealing a moment or two to go over the case while waiting for the judge to make his entrance.

An innocent glance at the defense table and Beverly saw K. Conrad Ortega conferring intently with his client. Rafael Santiago looked almost like a different man from the one she had first seen in a lineup. His hair was cut shorter with a part in the side, making him look almost preppy. He wore a sharp blue suit that under other circumstances could easily have given the impression that he was a successful businessman.

Would the jury buy into this?

Or would they see through the facade to his true character?

“It’ll be strange seeing Grant on the bench as a judge,” remarked Gail, wrinkling her nose.

“Not half as strange as it will be for him seeing us in action as prosecuting attorneys,” laughed Beverly. In fact, she had butterflies fluttering in her stomach, though not sure if they were the normal ones that came at the start of every trial or if they were a direct reflection of this particular trial.

This defendant.

This case.

This courtroom.

This judge.

She and Grant had spoken little about the trial, almost as if to do so invited trouble at a time when they were trying to get past recent tests to their relationship outside the courtroom. For her part, Beverly expected Grant to be a fair judge, if not extra tough on her and himself.

She accepted the challenge, wanting only to have the chance to present her case and let the jury decide guilt or innocence.

When the court clerk announced Judge Grant Nunez, everyone rose respectfully. Beverly could tell that Grant was in his element, with his black robe worn over a gray wool suit that she had helped him pick out last week. His head was freshly shaved and seemed to actually give him a more judicial look.

They exchanged warm glances that only they could read into before he allowed everyone to be seated.

Beverly’s first witness was Maxine Crawford. The two had remained cordial even after Beverly learned of her shady past and willingness to spy on her husband to try and save her own neck. And collect what was left of his estate after the government took what was theirs.

What would I have done had I been in her shoes?

The question was impossible to answer, since Beverly could not imagine having ever taken the route that led to Maxine now being in the witness box.

Maxine sported a new hairstyle, wearing her blonde tinted hair in a flat twist. Beverly thought it gave her an air of sophistication and went well with a khaki suit and white blouse with ruffles. It made her look like a school teacher, which always played well with juries.

“What happened on the night of October twenty-ninth?” she asked the witness without preface.

Maxine sat poised and demure. “My husband and I were attacked,” she said pointedly.

“Your husband was Judge Sheldon Crawford?” asked Beverly with an eye on the jury.

“Yes.”

“And where did this attack take place?”

“In our bedroom.”

“Please explain to the court the nature of the attack on your husband.”

Maxine gulped. “My husband was shot to death,” she said painfully.

“While you were in bed?”

“Yes.”

Beverly gazed down at her. “And how many times was Judge Crawford shot?”

“Three.” Maxine closed her eyes for a moment, as if saying a prayer.

“Did you see the man who shot your husband?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Is that man in this courtroom?”

“Yes, he is...”

“Can you point him out to me and the members of the jury please?” Beverly requested.

Maxine lifted her finger and pointed it squarely at Rafael Santiago.

“Thank you,” Beverly told the witness, satisfied that she had held up well thus far. “No further questions.” She would recall her to the stand later.

Ortega stood, buttoning the jacket of his brown suit. “Mrs. Crawford,” he began, “you testified that you were in bed during the time your husband was shot. Can you tell the court what you were doing?”

Beverly flew up like a rocket. “Objection! This is totally irrelevant!” she snapped, even if she didn’t entirely agree that it was.

“Sustained!” Grant peered at Ortega. “I don’t think we need to go there. Keep your questions where they should be, Counselor.”

Ortega pursed his lips. “How far were you from the person who shot your husband?” he asked the witness.

Maxine considered this. “About five feet, more or less.”

“Well, is it more or less?”

She looked at Beverly. “Five feet.”

“Was the light on?”

“No.”

“So you were able to see this person who fired the shots with the light off from five feet away?” the attorney questioned.

“It was still light outside,” Maxine responded nervously. “I could see his face...his body—”

“It was around seven o’clock that your husband was shot,” said Ortega. “Correct?”

“Yes,” came a tentative reply.

“Well, as far as I know,” Ortega attacked her, “it’s pretty dark in Eagles Landing after six o’clock in late October. Too dark for most of us to be able to make out anyone clearly in a room with no lights on—”

“Objection!” Beverly was steaming. “Your Honor, he is not qualified to know what she saw in the room that night. Nor can his speculation on what constitutes pretty dark be presumed to be the gospel insofar as lighting conditions in a house. Besides, our eyes can adjust to even ‘pretty dark’ light, enabling us to see what’s before us.”

“Sustained,” blurted out Grant. “Mr. Ortega, there has been no indication that inadequate lighting was a factor in this crime. I think the witness had sufficient illumination to be able to see the man she identified as having shot her husband!”

“He cut the light on...” Maxine blurted out.

“What?” Ortega fixed her face in a moment of confusion. “But you just told this court there were no lights on. Are you changing your story now?”

Maxine gulped while holding his gaze. “You asked me if the light was on when he shot my husband. It wasn’t. But then he turned it on before he raped me.”

Ortega rolled his eyes skeptically. “Now why would he do that, Mrs. Crawford? Especially when you consider that he let you live. Not the type of thing you’d expect from a man who just murdered your husband and wouldn’t want you to identify him.”

Maxine sighed, turning her eyes at the defendant and back to his attorney. She explained tearfully what only now had come to her, “He said he wanted me to see him and remember what was about to happen for the rest of my life. Then he made me suck on his penis while holding the gun to my head...”

Ortega grimaced and for a moment was speechless before saying tonelessly, “No further questions, Your Honor—”

Grant nodded and eyed Maxine sorrowfully. “The witness may step down.”

Beverly watched Maxine walk away. The two exchanged glances and Beverly silently applauded her for standing up to Ortega and helping their case at the same time with an important piece of information they had not previously discussed, but was powerful for the prosecution in going after Rafael Santiago.

* * *

Beverly next called the Medical Examiner for Wilameta County to the stand.

Doctor Julia Duval was a middle-aged woman with platinum blonde hair swept up in a chignon. Silver glasses hung low over blue eyes.

“Dr. Duval, can you tell us the results of the postmortem examination on Judge Crawford?”

“Certainly,” she said evenly. “Sheldon Crawford died from a gunshot wound to his face, just above the right cheek. It caused a massive rupture in his brain.”

“And what other injuries did he sustain?” Beverly asked.

“Aside from his face being shattered, Judge Crawford was shot once in the lower back, fracturing his spine,” explained the witness, “and another time in the upper back. This one caused extensive internal damage, including a punctured lung and several cracked ribs.”

Beverly winced, though she managed a smile at the doctor and thanked her.

“Just a couple of quick questions, Dr. Duval,” said Ortega, approaching her. “What was the approximate time of death?”

“I’d say between seven and seven-thirty.”

“That’s P.M.?”

“Yes,” she responded with a straight face.

Ortega paused, giving the jury the benefit of a sweeping glance. “Were you able to learn anything else about Judge Crawford’s condition that could have contributed to his death?”

Beverly voiced an objection. “The witness has already testified as to the cause of death, Your Honor!”

“Overruled,” Judge Nunez said weakly. “You may answer the question.”

Julia Duval looked uneasy as she wrinkled her forehead. “Judge Crawford had advanced liver disease,” she informed the attorney. “This would likely have killed him in six months to a year. But there’s no reason to believe that—”

“No further questions,” Ortega cut her off expertly.

* * *

“Maybe it would have been better if you had gotten Dr. Duval to talk about the liver disease,” Grant told Beverly after court had been adjourned for the day. “It was a head’s up counter strike by Ortega.”

Beverly fumed. “It was dirty ball,” she insisted, dismissing Crawford’s prior medical condition, in spite of the irony. “What killed the judge, plain and simple, were the three bullets fired into him by Ortega’s client at point blank range.”

“And I’m sure the jury will see that,” Grant said coolly. “Give them some credit for having brains, Beverly.” He put his hand on her breast.

“Don’t,” Beverly said harshly, pushing his hand away from the front of her blouse, despite feeling a tingling in her nipple. “Now is not the time.”

“Lighten up, baby.” Grant looked annoyed. “This isn’t the end of the world, either way. And short of a smoking gun, there certainly isn’t any reason I can see that you won’t get a conviction here. Not unless you find a means to self-destruct and allow Ortega to jump all over it.”

“I have no intention of self-destructing.” She pouted.

“That’s good to hear.” He grinned unevenly.

Why am I acting like a first year prosecutor? Beverly chided herself. Ortega was only fighting tooth and nail for his client as any good attorney—or even a bad one—should do. But that hardly meant she had a major fight on her hands in winning this case.

Not when virtually everything pointed to Rafael Santiago as the perpetrator of the crimes in which he was charged.

Any competent jury would weigh the facts above the innuendoes in rendering a just verdict.

Beverly sucked in a breath and offered Grant a genuine smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “Just continue to kick ass in the courtroom. You’re doing fine.”

She kissed him softly on the mouth, and then used a finger to wipe the lip gloss from his lips. “Can you come to dinner tonight?” she asked anxiously.

Grant licked his lips appetizingly. “Try and stop me.”

Beverly smiled wickedly. She wouldn’t even if she could. If he played his cards right, there might even be dessert afterwards.

In fact, she was certain of it.