play. Like the old Oklahoma fumblerooski, where the center and quarterback drop the ball. Everybody goes one way and the guard grabs the ball and walks in for the touchdown."
It was crazy. No evidence. Just an angry young woman searching for villains. Blaming others for her father's descent. The old fumblerooski, for crying out loud! I looked at her. A tear came to those dark eyes and then another. I looked at the hypodermics and the tiny bottle. And back at those wet, dark eyes.
"Where do we start?" I asked.
9
PROXIMATE CAUSE
I was cruising on autopilot. On a very rough flight. I hadn't slept or thought about closing argument since Susan Corrigan handed me the vial and told me it was a murder weapon. I still felt it in the palm of my hand, the glass cool and smooth to the touch. Succinylcholine, a laboratory name. Like the clear liquid itself, impersonal as death.
The vial added a new dimension to Susan's bald allegation that Roger Salisbury killed her father. She had an exhibit. How juries love exhibits. The murder weapon, something to take back into the jury room and fondle.
My mind bounced it back and forth. I looked at Roger
Salisbury sitting next to me. Salt-and-pepper hair well groomed, an oval face that was nearly delicate, intelligent eyes. Almost a scholarly appearance, an overall impression of competence. He looked like what he was, a physician. A healer, not a killer. But I had seen him stripped bare— literally—and wondered if his taste in after-dark activities could lead him to murder.
That's what Susan Corrigan wanted me to think. Maybe I was playing the fool for an elaborate scheme, Susan Corrigan throwing me a curve. She could have had the mono-grammed leather valise made up in any shopping center. The liquid could have been water. She could be in cahoots with Melanie Corrigan to get me to tank the case. Or at least to distract me enough that I boot it. Hauling me over the night before closing argument. And me leaping for the bait, a wholesome dark-haired young woman, maybe underneath the Ivory soap just as mendacious as Melanie Corrigan. But I didn't have time to think about it. Dan Cefalo was clearing his throat and approaching the lectern. He looked remarkably normal in a dark blue suit and a white shirt that stayed inside his pants. He turned to Melanie Corrigan, gave her a fatherly smile, then bowed in the direction of the judge.
"May it please the court," he began, "and ladies and gentlemen of the jury. First I want to thank you all for coming down here and spending a week listening to a bunch of lawyers and doctors. I know it hasn't been easy, but without the aid of responsible citizens such as yourselves, we wouldn't have a justice system."
This is the thank you folks part of closing argument. It's a way to butter up the jurors, then get down to the nitty gritty: asking them to spend several million dollars of someone else's money.
"So on behalf of Mrs. Corrigan here," Cefalo continued, nodding and drawing their eyes to the plaintiff's table, "and on behalf of all of us whose privilege it is to serve, we thank you. You had to leave your jobs and families but that's what makes our system great. I love it, the American system of justice. It's what separates us from the barbarians and Communists."
I was starting to feel very patriotic and wondering when he would get into it.
"Now the first thing to remember when I'm up here and when Mr. Lassiter gets up here, is that what we say is not evidence. This is just lawyer's talk, and you know the old expression, talk's cheap. They call this closing argument, but I'm not going to argue with Mr. Lassiter. Think of me as a guide. I'm going to guide you through the evidence so that when you go back into that jury room, you can decide the case on the evidence you heard from that witness stand and the law as Judge Leonard instructs you."
Two of the jurors nodded. Cefalo was starting with the low-key approach. I'm, your pal; let's think this
It was crazy. No evidence. Just an angry young woman searching for villains. Blaming others for her father's descent. The old fumblerooski, for crying out loud! I looked at her. A tear came to those dark eyes and then another. I looked at the hypodermics and the tiny bottle. And back at those wet, dark eyes.
"Where do we start?" I asked.
9
PROXIMATE CAUSE
I was cruising on autopilot. On a very rough flight. I hadn't slept or thought about closing argument since Susan Corrigan handed me the vial and told me it was a murder weapon. I still felt it in the palm of my hand, the glass cool and smooth to the touch. Succinylcholine, a laboratory name. Like the clear liquid itself, impersonal as death.
The vial added a new dimension to Susan's bald allegation that Roger Salisbury killed her father. She had an exhibit. How juries love exhibits. The murder weapon, something to take back into the jury room and fondle.
My mind bounced it back and forth. I looked at Roger
Salisbury sitting next to me. Salt-and-pepper hair well groomed, an oval face that was nearly delicate, intelligent eyes. Almost a scholarly appearance, an overall impression of competence. He looked like what he was, a physician. A healer, not a killer. But I had seen him stripped bare— literally—and wondered if his taste in after-dark activities could lead him to murder.
That's what Susan Corrigan wanted me to think. Maybe I was playing the fool for an elaborate scheme, Susan Corrigan throwing me a curve. She could have had the mono-grammed leather valise made up in any shopping center. The liquid could have been water. She could be in cahoots with Melanie Corrigan to get me to tank the case. Or at least to distract me enough that I boot it. Hauling me over the night before closing argument. And me leaping for the bait, a wholesome dark-haired young woman, maybe underneath the Ivory soap just as mendacious as Melanie Corrigan. But I didn't have time to think about it. Dan Cefalo was clearing his throat and approaching the lectern. He looked remarkably normal in a dark blue suit and a white shirt that stayed inside his pants. He turned to Melanie Corrigan, gave her a fatherly smile, then bowed in the direction of the judge.
"May it please the court," he began, "and ladies and gentlemen of the jury. First I want to thank you all for coming down here and spending a week listening to a bunch of lawyers and doctors. I know it hasn't been easy, but without the aid of responsible citizens such as yourselves, we wouldn't have a justice system."
This is the thank you folks part of closing argument. It's a way to butter up the jurors, then get down to the nitty gritty: asking them to spend several million dollars of someone else's money.
"So on behalf of Mrs. Corrigan here," Cefalo continued, nodding and drawing their eyes to the plaintiff's table, "and on behalf of all of us whose privilege it is to serve, we thank you. You had to leave your jobs and families but that's what makes our system great. I love it, the American system of justice. It's what separates us from the barbarians and Communists."
I was starting to feel very patriotic and wondering when he would get into it.
"Now the first thing to remember when I'm up here and when Mr. Lassiter gets up here, is that what we say is not evidence. This is just lawyer's talk, and you know the old expression, talk's cheap. They call this closing argument, but I'm not going to argue with Mr. Lassiter. Think of me as a guide. I'm going to guide you through the evidence so that when you go back into that jury room, you can decide the case on the evidence you heard from that witness stand and the law as Judge Leonard instructs you."
Two of the jurors nodded. Cefalo was starting with the low-key approach. I'm, your pal; let's think this
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