Harrison rules promptly, as is his style. He refuses to prohibit our pointing toward Preston’s associates in our defense, though he will not let us go too far afield. Dylan is annoyed; he believed he had a chance to undercut our defense before we even began. Now he has to collect his thoughts and give his opening statement.
He begins by thanking the jurors for their service, praising their sacrifice and sense of duty. He doesn’t mention their future TV appearances and book deals, just as I won’t when it’s my turn. It’s the unfortunate duty of us lawyers to kiss twelve asses and six alternate asses during every trial.
“There is a lot of attention being paid to this case,” Dylan says. “You have only to try and park near the courthouse to know that.” He smiles, and the jurors smile with him.
“But at its heart it’s a very simple case. A man was murdered, and very conclusive evidence, evidence that you will hear in detail, pointed toward this man, Kenny Schilling, as the murderer. The police went to talk to him about it, and he pulled out a gun and prevented them from entering his house. And why did he do this? Because the victim’s body was in his bedroom, stuffed in his closet.”
Dylan shakes his head, as if amazed by what he is saying. “No, this is not a complicated case, and it is certainly not a whodunit. Troy Preston, a young man, an athlete in the prime of life, was shot through the back of the head. And this man”-he points to Kenny-“Kenny Schilling, supposedly his friend, he’s the one who ‘dunit.’
“Mr. Carpenter will not be able to refute the facts of the case, no matter how hard he tries. He will realize this-he does already-and he’ll try to create diversions. He’ll tell you that the victim, who is not here to defend himself, associated with bad people, people capable of committing murder. Some of it will be true, and some not, but I’ll tell you this: None of it will matter. Even if Troy Preston hung out on a street corner every night with Osama bin Laden and Saddam Hussein, it still would not matter. Because those people, bad as they are, did not commit this particular murder, and that’s all you’re being asked to care about. And soon it will be very clear to you that Kenny Schilling committed this murder, and that’s the reason he’s the man on trial.”
Dylan goes on to detail some of the evidence in his arsenal, knowing full well he can back it all up with witnesses and lab reports. By the time he’s finished, he’s done a very good job, and it doesn’t take a mind reader to know that the jury was hanging on his every word. The entire world believes Kenny Schilling is guilty, and as members of this world, that’s the predisposition the jurors brought here with them. Dylan’s words only served to reinforce their belief, so they considered him totally credible.
Kenny looks depressed, and I lean over and whisper a reminder that he is supposed to look interested and thoughtful, but not to betray any emotional reaction at all. It’s easier said than done; the words he’s just heard from Dylan would be enough to depress anyone.
I stand up to give our opening statement with a modest goal. Right now the jury is thinking that the prosecution has all the cards, and though that may be true, I’ve at least got to show that this is not a mismatch, that we are a force to be reckoned with.
“I’m a curious guy” is how I begin. “When something happens, I like to know why. I want things to make sense, and I feel comfortable when they do.
“When the thing that happens is a crime, then the ‘why’ is called motive. It’s something the police look for in trying to figure out who is the guilty party. If there is a reason or a motive for a person to have done it, then that person becomes a suspect.”
I point toward Dylan. “Mr. Campbell didn’t mention motive; he didn’t point to a single reason why Kenny Schilling might have killed Troy Preston. Now, legally, he doesn’t have to prove what the motive was, but wouldn’t it be nice to have an idea? If someone is on trial for his very life, wouldn’t it be nice to understand why he might have done something? And wouldn’t it be nice to know if someone else really did have a motive and a history of murder?”
I walk over to Kenny and put my arm on his shoulder. “Kenny Schilling has never committed a crime, never been charged with a crime, never been arrested. Never. Not once. He has been a model citizen his entire life, achieved a high degree of success in a very competitive field, and as you will hear, has been a good friend to an astonishing number of people, including the victim. Yet Mr. Campbell would have you believe that he suddenly decided to shoot his friend and leave a trail of evidence that a five-year-old could follow.”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t make sense. We need to have an idea why.
“Well, let’s try this on for size. Troy Preston had other friends, friends with a record not quite as spotless as Kenny’s. In fact, they were more than friends; they were business associates. And that business was a dangerous one: the importation and sale of illegal drugs. And it turns out that Troy’s other friends kill people.
“Yet you will hear that almost no investigative effort was made to determine whether one of the people they killed was Troy. Kenny was an easy suspect, because he was set up to be one by the real killers. The police accepted everything they saw at face value, and here we are, still wondering why.
“Now, Kenny did a stupid thing, and if he was charged with committing a stupid act, he would have already pleaded guilty. He took out a gun, for which he has a legal permit, and fired a shot in the air. Then he prevented the police from entering his house for almost three hours, before voluntarily giving himself up.
“Yes, it was stupid, but there was a why behind it, a motive for what he did. He had just found his friend’s body, a bullet through his chest, in the back of his house. Suddenly, men were at the door trying to get in, men who within moments had guns drawn. How could he know that these men were really police? He had no idea why his friend was shot, and was afraid that the same thing was about to happen to him. He panicked, of that there is no question, but it’s easy to understand why.
“Kenny Schilling is not a man capable of murder. You will come to know him, and you’ll understand that. You’ll also hear about other people, people very capable of murder, and you’ll understand that as well.
“All I hope, all Kenny Schilling hopes, is that you keep asking why and keep insisting that things make sense. I know that you will.”
I get a slight nod from Kevin, telling me that it went reasonably well. I agree with that, but I also know that “reasonably well” is not going to cut it. Not in this case.
It’s late in the day, so Harrison tells Dylan that he can call his first witness tomorrow. It’ll give me something to look forward to.
* * * * *
A TRIAL IS AN incredibly tense, hectic process, yet for me there’s something calming and comforting about it. It’s the only time in my life when I have a rigid schedule, a self-discipline in my actions, and it’s a refreshing change.
Tonight is a perfect example. We have our team meeting at my house, after which Kevin leaves and Laurie and I settle down to dinner. We have take-out pizza, though hers is of the vegetarian variety and in my humble opinion not worthy of the name “pizza.” Luciano Pizza or Jeremiah Pizza or whoever the hell invented it would cringe at the sight of the healthy mess that comes out of Laurie’s pizza box.
Laurie turns out the overhead lights and instead lights candles she had put on the table. It makes it a little tough to see the pizza, but she seems to like it that way. We talk about the case, about what’s going on in the world, about how great Tara is, or anything else that comes to mind. Everything except the Findlay situation.
After dinner my ritual is to go into the den, turn on CNN or a baseball game as background noise, and read and reread our files on the Schilling case. In order to react in a courtroom the way I want to react, I need to know every detail of our case, every scrap of information we have.
Each night, I go over the next day’s witnesses, as well as an area of our investigation that I select more or less randomly. Tonight I’m going over Kevin’s and Adam’s reports on their work in locating and talking to Kenny’s friends and acquaintances, especially those he shared with Preston.
At ten-thirty Laurie and I go up to bed, where I continue to go through the papers. She makes a phone call, which is disconcerting, since she speaks to Lisa, a high school girlfriend from Findlay. Laurie is making real connections, or reconnections, back there, and the knowledge of it makes it a little hard for me to concentrate.
I’m trying extra hard to focus, since I have the uneasy feeling that there is something in these particular reports that is significant and that I’m missing. I’m about to discuss it with Laurie, now off the phone, when Tara starts to bark. Moments later the doorbell rings.
“Let me get it,” Laurie says, which means she’s at least a little worried that it could relate to Quintana.
I’d love to say, “Go ahead,” but I’m too macho for that, so I throw on a pair of pants and go downstairs. I get to the door just as the bell rings again, and I ask, “Who is it?”
“Marcus” is the answer from the other side of the door.
I turn on the porch light, move aside the curtain, and sure enough, there is Marcus. I open the door. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Rope,” says Marcus.
“Rope?”
“Rope.”
“What about rope?” This conversation is not progressing that well.
“He wants to know if you have any rope,” says Laurie from the top of the steps.
“No, I don’t have rope,” I say to Laurie. “Who am I, Roy Rogers?”
I turn back to Marcus. “I don’t have any rope. Why do you need some?”
Marcus just shakes his head and closes the door. I turn to Laurie once he’s gone.
“What is he doing? Should I get him some rope?”
“From where?” she asks.
“How the hell should I know? Maybe there’s a rope store open late around here.”
Marcus seems to be gone, so I go back upstairs and once again get into bed with Laurie. My sense is, I haven’t heard the last of this rope situation, and this is confirmed about five minutes later when the doorbell rings again.
Once again I trudge down the stairs. “Who is it?”
“Marcus.”
I open the door and immediately see a sight that will forever be etched in my memory. Two men, one of whom I recognize as Ugly, the guy Quintana sent to threaten me, are tied up with my garden hose. They are head-to-toe and back-to-back, but stretched out full length against each other. They look like a two-sided human bowling pin, and Marcus walks into the house carrying them over his shoulder. He comes into the room and drops them on the floor, and the thud could be heard in Hackensack. Tara sniffs around them, having absolutely no idea what is happening. Join the club.