The Justice Game Page 30

  Jason walked over to his counsel table and stood behind the chair he had been sitting in. “There’s an empty chair at the defense counsel table. Until now, I’ve been sitting here. But I’ve decided I’m not going to sit here anymore. Why? Because this is the number one chair at the defense counsel table, and the person sitting in this chair ought to be a lawyer for Larry Jamison. He’s the one who pulled the trigger.”

  Next, Jason leaned over and asked Case McAllister to move down a seat, freeing up the second chair at the defense table. “This chair,” Jason said, “ought to belong to Jarrod Beeson. Right now, he’s a little busy, spending twelve months behind bars for participating in a gunrunning operation. He bought the gun for Larry Jamison, knowing that Jamison couldn’t purchase it on his own. In fact, Beeson bought more than twenty guns from Peninsula Arms and turned right around and sold many of them to criminals.”

  Jason stood there for a moment, his hands on the chair in front of him. “This is Beeson’s seat.”

  There was only one chair left at the counsel table, the seat now occupied by Case McAllister. Behind the table were several other leather chairs for legal assistants and others helping the lawyers. Jason took two of those chairs and moved them parallel to the counsel table but several feet away, on the opposite side of the table from the jury. He asked Case McAllister to move into one of those seats.

  For the rest of trial, Jason and Case would be sitting there, with no table to put their notes on. It would be awkward but it would be a lasting visual reminder of his opening statement.

  But Kelly Starling was on her feet. “Judge, I object to this… whatever it is. It’s certainly not an opening statement; it’s more like musical chairs.”

  “It’s unusual,” Jason said, “I admit. But I’m not aware of any rule that says we’ve got to sit at the table instead of next to the table.”

  “Let’s get on with it,” Garrison said. “Objection overruled.”

  “This last chair,” Jason continued, “the last one actually at the table, is for Peninsula Arms. They engaged in numerous straw sales. They have actually been cited three times by the ATF. And they sold this gun to Jarrod Beeson knowing that he would in turn sell it to somebody else who wasn’t a legal purchaser. Yet you won’t hear from the store’s owner or the clerks; they’re all taking the Fifth Amendment.”

  Jason surveyed the table and walked back to the jury. “There are only two reasons the plaintiffs are trying to put my client at that table. The first is because my client has money—”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained. Watch yourself, Mr. Noble.”

  “The second is because my client sold guns to Peninsula Arms even though they allegedly knew the gun dealer had sold some guns illegally. But let me ask you a question. When you buy a car, do you expect the car dealer or car manufacturer to check your driving record and refuse to sell you a car if you’ve got a few speeding tickets? No. You expect the government to suspend your license if you’ve got too many tickets to be driving. But if the government allows you to drive, and you’ve got a valid license, you expect the car dealer to sell you a vehicle. Ford’s job is to sell cars, not police the roads.

  “In the same way, it is the responsibility of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms—we commonly refer to them as the ATF—it is the ATF’s job to police the gun stores. It is MD Firearms’s job to manufacture guns—good guns, guns that work as advertised—and then sell those guns to any licensed firearm dealer.”

  Jason pointed to the defense table. “I asked you to watch that gun,” he said. “Did you notice that the gun hasn’t moved? It’s not an animate object with a conscience and a sense of good and evil. That gun is simply an object. It can be used for good, like the SWAT team used their guns, or evil, the way Jamison used this particular gun.

  “Jamison pulled the trigger. Beeson supplied the black market. Peninsula Arms sold guns illegally. And MD Firearms? All they did was manufacture a lawful product that worked as advertised and then sell it to a licensed firearm dealer operating with the blessing of the federal government.

  “Use the left side of your brain, and ask yourself this simple question: Other than the fact that my client has money, why is MD Firearms even sitting in this courtroom?”

  70

  After lunch, Kelly put Blake Crawford on the stand to tell his story. His lips forced a smile or two as he talked about Rachel, but his eyes never joined in. The dark circles under them reflected a lifetime of sadness at the age of thirty-two.

  Kelly walked Blake through several old videos and still photos to illustrate the life and times of Rachel Crawford. Blake was careful not to turn his wife into a saint. Rachel had an ornery side, he said—that was part of the reason he loved her. But she also had this sense of justice. If the good Lord intended for Rachel to die young, then at least she died while fighting for something she believed in—the rights of young international students who fell victim to Larry Jamison’s human-trafficking schemes.

  Kelly had provided Blake with a general outline of the questions she would be asking, but she hadn’t gone over them word for word. She wanted the testimony to be spontaneous, and she was hearing many of the answers herself for the very first time. As she listened, she realized that she had been so focused on Blake as a client that she had really not spent much time thinking about Rachel.

  “You quoted Martin Luther King Jr. in your opening statement,” Blake said. “One of the things that motivated Rachel was another quote from Dr. King: ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.’ It’s why she did investigative reports on people like Larry Jamison.”

  At that moment, Kelly realized how much she and Rachel were alike. Their mutual desire to help the poor and oppressed. Their crusader mentality. Even the focus on this particular issue: human trafficking.

  A few minutes later, as Blake struggled to explain what it was like not having Rachel in the house, he choked up, fighting back emotion. Kelly felt tears stinging her own eyes, both in sympathy for Blake and in the stark recognition that Blake and Rachel had enjoyed something together that Kelly had never experienced.

  “Do you need to take a break?” she asked.

  He shook his head, as she knew he would. “I’m sorry,” he said. Kelly could tell every jury member wanted to tell him there was no need to apologize. “I just miss her so much.”

  Kelly let that statement linger and then started a series of questions about the plans Blake and Rachel had for a family. It was the part of Blake’s testimony that Kelly had been dreading most, but she found it easier to get through than she had anticipated.

  At the end of nearly three hours of testimony, interrupted by only one fifteen-minute break, Kelly circled back to Rachel’s quest for justice.

  “Did that sense of who Rachel was—the way she fought for fairness and justice—did that impact your decision to file this suit?”

  Kelly half expected an objection from Jason, but her opponent hadn’t objected once during the entire testimony. He sat there in his chair next to his client, legal pad on his lap, looking both pitiful and silly as he tried to make do without a table to write on.

  “I’m not one for conflict and confrontation,” Blake said. “I believe in forgiveness. But if we can save one other family from going through this kind of pain, it will be worth it. I know it’s what Rachel would have wanted me to do.”

  “No further questions,” Kelly said, returning to her seat.

  Jason stood up at his chair and didn’t even move toward the witness. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Crawford.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your Honor, I have no questions for this witness.”

  * * *

  During the remaining hour of court on Wednesday, Kelly called Bob Thomas, the WDXR news director, to the stand. She wanted to end the first day strong and emblazon that video footage on the jury’s mind.

  Thomas had been in the studio when Jamison entered, and it was Thomas who had calle
d 911 for help. After the initial round of shooting, he had been hiding from Jamison behind some equipment. While plotting a strategy to thwart Jamison, Thomas had been pointed out by Lisa Roberts. After that, he had gone into the control booth to make sure the WDXR feed was live on the air as Jamison had demanded.

  He described in vivid detail how he had watched Jamison threaten both Lisa and Rachel with his gun, spewing his vitriol for the live television audience. Thomas described how helpless he felt and how it seemed like forever before the SWAT team arrived. At the end of his testimony, Kelly asked him to identify the tape and then introduced it into evidence. At a few minutes before five, she asked the judge if she could show the tape to the jury again.

  Jason stood. “They’ve already seen it once, Judge. How many times are we going to make them watch it?”

  “I’m entitled to show it once during opening and again during the case,” Kelly said.

  “I don’t think it’s changed any,” Jason countered. “And the jury’s got a pretty good memory. But if you insist, I’ll withdraw my objection.”

  You jerk, Kelly thought. Jason’s well-timed objection had just blunted the effectiveness of her second showing. Now it looked like Kelly was just trying to play to the jury’s emotions.

  Which, of course, she was.

  Still, she had no choice but to roll the tape a second time. She noticed that the jury’s reaction was more muted this time. Halfway through, she wished she had saved it for closing.

  The tape concluded at a few minutes after five. “No more questions,” Kelly said.

  Judge Garrison looked at Jason. “Shall we save cross-examination for tomorrow?”

  Jason stood and shrugged. “Actually, I only have a few quick questions. No sense making the witness come back a second day.”

  Garrison frowned. “Make it quick.”

  Jason positioned himself in the middle of the courtroom. “So if I understand this correctly, for a while you were hiding from Jamison.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How far away—ten feet, twenty?”

  “I don’t know; probably more like thirty or forty.”

  “Okay. Did Jamison ever have his back turned toward you?”

  “Yeah. Once or twice.”

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Thomas?”

  “No.”

  “On that particular day, do you wish you’d had a gun?”

  The witness hesitated, shifting in his seat. “I wish I could have done something to stop that madman. So, yes, I guess I would have liked to have had a gun.”

  “No further questions,” Jason said, returning to his seat.

  Before he sat down, Kelly was on her feet. “Redirect, Your Honor. Just one question.”

  Garrison nodded.

  “On that day, Mr. Thomas, do you wish Larry Jamison had not had a gun?”

  “Oh, most definitely.”

  71

  When court adjourned, the adrenaline that had been coursing through Kelly’s body all day suddenly disappeared. It felt like somebody had just squeezed every ounce of emotion out of her, leaving her drained and lifeless. The wear and tear of a day in court was worse than her most demanding swim meets had ever been.

  She left court side by side with Blake Crawford, stopping on the steps of the courthouse to field questions from the press. It seemed like years ago that she had entered the courthouse jacked up to give her opening statement. She had hours of work still ahead of her tonight, and then she would be back first thing tomorrow to do battle all over again.

  The pressure was unbelievable. The high points of a trial were so exhilarating, the low points so devastating. And the crazy thing was, she loved every minute of it.

  She answered a dozen or so questions, keeping her responses bland and professional, then headed to her car. She had spent the early evening hours of the previous day preparing Blake for his testimony. Afterward, she worked on her opening until 1 a.m. She hadn’t had time to get a minute of exercise in nearly four days. As she climbed into her car, she felt sluggish, hungry, and physically exhausted.

  As she started the car, her BlackBerry buzzed—Darcie Rollins, her firm’s PR director. “Are you on your way to the hotel?” Darcie asked.

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I need you to go to the WDXR studios. They’re letting you use the satellite uplink for some interviews tonight. First one starts at 7:00.”

  “What interviews?” Kelly said.

  “You haven’t checked your messages?”

  “What interviews?”

  Kelly waited. When Darcie finally answered, her voice sounded less enthusiastic. “We set up three interviews with cable shows—CNN, CNBC and Fox. You can get them all done by 8:30.”

  Kelly almost lit into the poor woman. She didn’t have time to play TV celebrity. She’d be lucky to get in bed by midnight even if she went straight to work. Somehow, miraculously, she kept her temper in check. “I can’t do these interviews,” she said. “I’m in the middle of a trial.”

  But Darcie wouldn’t take no for an answer. The senior partners at the firm sensed an unparalleled marketing opportunity. Darcie was just following orders. She had already committed Kelly; they couldn’t back out now.

  This time, Kelly let her anger play itself out. She vented for nearly three minutes, blasting the firm and her senior partners and even Darcie for being so insensitive. She ultimately agreed to do two of the shows but made Darcie cancel the Fox interview. “And Darcie…”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you dare schedule one more interview without checking with me first.”

  “O-kay,” Darcie sounded hesitant. “No more after tomorrow morning.”

  “What?”

  “You were such a hit on the Today show last time around. They really wanted you back. They’re sending a crew to your hotel.”

  * * *

  By the time Jason arrived at the office, his father and Case McAllister had already met. They were comparing guns and swapping firearms stories like old friends. You would have never known that Jason’s dad harbored a deep resentment toward MD Firearms.

  Andrew Lassiter, meanwhile, was hunched over a computer in the conference room, oblivious to everyone else. Bella was playing hostess and providing a running commentary on the status of various tasks.

  Jason gathered his team in the cramped conference room, nudging aside Andrew Lassiter’s stacks of documents and spreadsheets so they could all have a place to sit. Bella brought in dinner in Styrofoam containers—lasagna and salads from the Purple Cow.

  Jason hardly touched his food as he focused on the list of tasks to be completed. “Our first priority is to get this shadow jury in place,” he said. “I feel like I’m running blind until we start getting that feedback.”

  Andrew launched into a five-minute explanation of why the process was taking so long. Bella rolled her eyes.

  “Can we have them in place by tomorrow night?” Jason asked.

  Before Andrew opened his mouth, Case chimed in. “A simple yes or no will do,” he said.

  “It’s not that easy,” Andrew murmured, though he wouldn’t look at Case. “Bella and I have interviewed close to two hundred prospects on the phone. If we want exact matches, it takes time.” He shook his head a little, a nervous twitch that Jason hadn’t seen before. “This isn’t what I’m good at—talking to potential shadow jurors. At Justice Inc. I had other people doing that.”

  “Can you help him, Dad?” Jason asked.

  Jason’s father shrugged. He was probably thinking that he hadn’t flown in from Atlanta to do secretarial work, but he didn’t say no.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Jason said.

  They spent another half hour bickering about the mountain of tasks that needed to be addressed: witnesses to prepare, deposition designations to complete, preparation of cross-examination questions, legal research, factual research… Jason got depressed just talking about it. Every item they surfaced generated five additional
unfinished items. Bella kept grousing about how it would be impossible to get it all done.

  Finally, Case had heard enough. He took charge of the meeting and assigned responsibilities and deadlines for each task. He insisted that Jason be freed up to focus on developing his cross-examinations of the witnesses.

  “I’ll make another pot of coffee,” Bella said. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Two hours later, Jason took a break and wandered down the hall to a makeshift office his dad was using as he called potential mock jurors. His father occupied the only chair in the room, so Jason leaned against the wall, waiting for his dad to finish his call.

  “Thanks for coming,” Jason said.

  “You’re still my son,” his father said, locking onto Jason with bloodshot eyes. “From what I was hearing, it sounded like you could use a little help.”

  Jason wasn’t sure what that meant, so he let it pass. He closed the door and placed a sheet of paper on the desk in front of his dad. “I didn’t bring you up here just to help manage the shadow jury,” Jason said.

  “That’s a relief.”

  “I really need you to investigate a couple of jurors.” Jason nodded toward the sheet. “Three and Seven. Nobody else can even know you’re doing this.”

  “What for?” Jason’s dad narrowed his eyes and his thick eyebrows drew together. Jury tampering was a felony.

  “Nothing illegal, Dad. I’ve just got a feeling that they’re holding something back, that for some reason they’re out to nail me.”

  “A feeling,” his dad said sarcastically.

  “It’s complicated,” Jason replied. “I can’t tell you anything else right now.”

  Jason’s dad stood. “I’m your father, Jason. If you’re in trouble, I need to know.”