“Last night at three A.M. I entered Bobby Pollard’s unlocked vehicle, which was parked on the street in front of his neighbor’s house. I installed a device that is technically a small computer chip but really operates like an alarm clock. In this case it was set to go off five minutes after the car was started.”
“What would happen when it went off?” I ask.
“It would disable the hand controls… neither the brakes nor gas would work, other than by using the foot pedals.”
He continues to describe the rest of the operation. He installed another device to measure pressure on the foot pedals, and both devices could be monitored at a remote location.
“Please take us through what happened when Mr. Pollard started driving,” I say.
His presentation is devastating. I expected that when the hand controls lost power, Pollard would be forced to use his legs to control and drive the car, secure that no one would ever know the difference, since he was alone. Amazingly, Pollard never used the hand controls at all, using the foot pedals the entire time. Every bit of this is measured by computer.
I let Lester off the stand and try to introduce copies of Pollard’s medical records. They show that he was in fact in an accident in Spain but that it was relatively minor. The accident left him paralyzed, but the attending physician found no medical explanation for it.
Dylan objects to the introduction of the medical records, on the grounds that there is no one in the court qualified to authenticate them. Harrison agrees, as I figured he would, and we don’t get to use them.
Next up is Carlotta Abbruzze, a shrink I went to for a while when my marriage was breaking up. I decided I didn’t want to be shrunk, and my marriage broke up, but Carlotta and I remained friends. She has more Ph.D.’s than anyone I know, and she is easily qualified to testify in this case.
I ask Carlotta to explain psychosomatic paralysis. In layman’s terms she explains that while there is no physical reason for it, the paralysis itself is real. She also describes how the human mind, if it leans toward such a syndrome, can be incredibly opportunistic. A minor car accident such as Pollard had could have triggered the immediate mental response to develop the syndrome.
“How long might it last?” I ask.
“Anywhere from a few minutes to a lifetime. When it disappears, the patient might intentionally continue to fake the paralysis, if it is providing some mental comfort for him.”
“Just hypothetically, if a young man whose entire life was dedicated to football came to believe that he was not good enough to make it in the NFL, might even that subconscious realization bring on the syndrome?”
“It’s certainly possible,” Carlotta says.
Dylan’s cross-examination is relatively effective, getting Carlotta to admit that she has never examined Pollard and that she can’t be sure that he has ever suffered from this syndrome. I’m ultimately satisfied with her testimony; the jury understands this is a possible explanation for Pollard’s situation.
To cap off an extraordinary day, I call a devastated Bobby Pollard back to the stand. “Mr. Pollard,” I ask, “were all of your previous answers to my questions truthful?”
His reply is terse. “I take the Fifth.”
“Have you been lying about your medical condition?”
“I take the Fifth.”
“Did you kill members of the high school all-American team that you were chosen to be on?”
“No.”
I let Bobby go and call Pete Stanton. He testifies about Adam’s murder, including the fact that Adam’s computer showed that he had been investigating the high school all-American team. He also confirms that the phone bill from the phone Adam used in my office shows two calls to Bobby Pollard the day he was murdered.
“And where was Kenny Schilling on that day, the day Adam Strickland was murdered?” I ask.
“In County Jail,” Pete says.
Dylan’s cross-examination is quick, as if he doesn’t want to concede Pete has had anything important to say. “Lieutenant Stanton, have you arrested Bobby Pollard for the murder of Adam Strickland?”
“No.”
“Have you decided to?”
“Not at this moment.”
Dylan nods; his point is made. “But you did arrest someone for this murder?”
“Cesar Quintana, but he was released for lack of evidence.”
“And you believed that he was the killer and that the murder was a case of mistaken identity? Is that not true?”
“I believed it then, but I’ve learned a lot since then.”
“But again, you haven’t learned quite enough to make another arrest?”
“It won’t be long now,” Pete says.
Dylan smiles. “I can hardly wait.”
Pete leaves the stand, and I call Dr. Stanley Robbins, my last witness of the day. He testifies as to the properties of potassium and its ability to cause fatal heart attacks while being very difficult to discover.
Dylan’s cross-examination is brief, and a very eventful court day is over. As I’m leaving, Laurie arrives, looking somewhat shaken from her experience at the TV studio with Teri Pollard.
“It was horrible,” Laurie says. “Before she knew what we were doing, she was confiding in me, talking about how difficult their life has been since Bobby’s injury. Then, when she realized what was going on today, and that Bobby was faking that injury… I don’t think she had any idea, Andy.”
Laurie is feeling guilty about having deceived her, and I am as well, but I don’t know how it could have been helped.
I do know one thing… I’m glad I’m not there to hear the conversation in the Pollard house tonight.
* * * * *
TONIGHT’S MEETING is to make the most important decision a defense attorney has to make in every trial: whether or not to let the defendant testify in his own defense. Usually, that important decision is a no-brainer, and my clients would have to walk over my dead body to reach the witness stand. Of course, most of them would prefer it that way.
This case is different, mainly because Kenny is the only person who can testify to a crucial fact: the subject of the “team meeting” the high school kids held in that restaurant those many years ago. Only three people are left alive who were there and know about the pact to share their NFL riches with each other. One is Kenny, one is Pollard, and the other is Devan Bryant, who is currently serving in the United States Army, stationed fifty miles outside of Kabul, Afghanistan. Bryant is unavailable to us, and Pollard seems likely not to aid in his own demise, so that leaves only Kenny.
Kenny wants to testify, which is typical of most defendants. In his view he will tell his story, and everyone will then believe him, and he can go home. This fantasy is greater in celebrities than mere mortals; they are used to their fans hanging on their every word. The problem is, Dylan is not a fan.
Laurie and Kevin are divided on the issue. Laurie thinks that Kenny should testify, that without the story of that pact the players took, there is not a strong enough basis for anyone to accept the serial killing connection. She doesn’t think the statistical-probability evidence, while unequivocal, got through to the jury.
Kevin, with proper lawyer’s caution, is opposed to Kenny testifying. He has seen too many people, many innocent, self-destruct under a wilting cross-examination. Dylan is good. Kevin knows it and doesn’t want to take the chance.
This is a decision I always make myself, with equal amounts logic and gut instinct. Both are telling me that Kenny should not go near that stand, that the benefits of the “pact” story and Kenny’s appealing demeanor will be outweighed by the negative of cross-examination. I don’t want to give Dylan a chance to take Kenny through the facts of this case, most of which are incriminating. And I sure don’t want Kenny up there talking about how he held off the police at gunpoint while Troy Preston’s body was stuffed in his bedroom closet.
Kevin leaves, and I start thinking about my closing statement. Like my opening statement, I don’t write it out, rarely even take notes, because I want it to be as spontaneous as possible. But there are points I want to be sure I cover, so I start mentally ticking them off.
Laurie comes into the den and asks if I want something to eat. I don’t, and I’m about to tell her so when the phone rings. She picks it up. “Hello.”