Blind Justice (24 page)

TOLLETSON SEEMED FRESH as a Tic-Tac.

As is the rule, the prosecution got the first word in closing argument. Tolletson spoke without notes for two and a half hours—and he was masterful.

He used charts to fully explain the jury instructions the judge would give. Visuals are always a good idea for the jury.

He stopped at emotional points, letting it all sink in with the jury, his voice rising and falling as appropriate. He painted Howie in broad strokes as a jealous husband and Rae as the helpless—and pregnant—victim.

“This is a case of first-degree murder,” he said in conclusion. “No more, but certainly no less. The very nature of the crime proves it. Twenty-five stab wounds to the body of a young mother carrying a child inside her even as she cared for the one child she had. And you heard the defendant declare how much he loved that child. Was it love to deprive him of his mother? Was it love to kill the only mother he knew as well as the baby brother or sister she carried in her womb? Was it, ladies and gentlemen?”

He stopped here and let the jurors answer in their heads.

“Then you heard the defendant, faced with incontrovertible evidence against him, come up with this story that he saw the devil in that room. Well, ladies and gentlemen, if he saw the devil, he must have been looking in a mirror because the devil who committed this crime is sitting right over there.”

Tolletson pointed at Howie, looked at him for a long moment, then returned his gaze to the jury. “When the defendant’s lawyer gets up to argue, I plead with you not to let him obscure the issues. His client stabbed an innocent victim—two innocent victims, really—to death. In cold blood. After planning the crime. It is your job to hold him accountable for this horrific act by bringing in a verdict of guilty on the charge of first-degree murder. Thank you.”

Judge Wegland thanked Tolletson, then informed everyone that I would begin my closing argument after lunch. It was eleven-thirty, and she ordered us back by one o’clock.

I wondered where to go during the break. My brain felt like oatmeal, due to lack of sleep and an alcohol bath the night before, and what I really wanted was a bed. Trip asked me if I wanted to be alone to prepare. I told him yes without really knowing why—maybe so he wouldn’t lecture me.

I decided to find a far corner in the courthouse cafeteria and try to down some soup. It tasted like bile.

Sometimes you can read juries, other times you can’t. Or you can get a partial read while the rest of the panel remains obscured.

Then there’s the worst scenario, where you think you have a certain juror or two in the bag, ones who are absolutely for you, and it turns out they lead the charge against you in the jury room.

This jury was a complete puzzle. It might have been the fact that I was barely able to remember what I wanted to say, let alone read the minds of twelve Hinton citizens. The only ray of hope was juror number seven, a middle-aged woman who looked, if you can believe it, slightly like my mother. When I stood up to give my argument, she smiled at me in a way that made me feel reassured.

I spoke with my legal notepad in my hand. At least I had a good outline of the points I wanted to raise and felt like I hit them, one by one. My brain was still warm cereal, but halfway through the summation I began to hit a stride. It was something I just felt, like an athlete who reports being in “the zone.” I was there, I thought, right there—fully in tune with my argument, my client, the jury, and even the judge.

“Ladies and gentlemen, as jurors you fulfill the most important civil duty in our system of justice. You stand between the government and a fellow citizen accused of a crime. That’s the way our founding fathers wanted it. They knew full well what it was to be paraded into court on trumped-up charges, so they put protections for all of us into the Constitution. This isn’t like other countries where there is no jury, where it’s the prosecutor or a policeman who sits where you’re sitting, where there is no burden of proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Turning slightly, I pointed at Benton Tolletson. “In this country, it is not Mr. Tolletson who tells the judge what the facts are. No, here in the United States he is required to prove his case to you, twelve citizens, and to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. Mr. Patino doesn’t have to prove anything to you. What you the jury say to Mr. Tolletson and all the power behind him is, ‘You prove these charges you’ve brought. You call this man a murderer. Well then, you prove it to us beyond a reasonable doubt.’ That is a jury’s solemn duty, ladies and gentlemen.”

Now I swept my hand toward Judge Wegland. “In a little while the judge is going to read you several important instructions on the law. When you were picked as jurors, you gave an oath. You swore that you would follow the law as the judge gave it to you, whether you agreed with it or not. You are sitting on this jury because we believed you. We believed and we trusted that you would follow the law as the judge gave it.

“She is going to tell you that any defendant in a criminal trial is presumed innocent. That presumption goes right into the jury room with you, and it remains unless the evidence convinces you beyond a reasonable doubt. Let’s talk about that a moment.”

I tossed my legal pad on the counsel table. I didn’t need it anymore. What I was going to say from now on was from memory and instinct.

“If you go back into the jury room, ladies and gentlemen, and you discuss this case, and if after that discussion you say to yourselves, ‘You know, Howie Patino probably did it,’ your verdict must be not guilty. That is the law because
probably
is not enough to convict anyone in this country.

“And know this: a verdict of not guilty, based upon your reasonable doubts, doesn’t hurt us. It doesn’t hurt society or the government. Indeed, society always wins. We all win. You are protecting all of us from being convicted of crimes without evidence. Without that protection, we cease to be the country we are.”

I then spoke about the evidence and the witnesses and the weaknesses in the prosecution’s case. I spoke for roughly two hours, and when I concluded, I faced the jurors squarely and gave them the bottom line from the depths of my being. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just ask you to look at Howie Patino. I say to you, you cannot look at this man, you cannot hear him testify and believe in your hearts that he is a murderer. Putting aside all the problems with the investigation in this case, the sloppy handling of evidence, the fact that the police failed to even consider that another person committed this act—put all that aside, ladies and gentlemen, and listen to your gut instincts.”

I was spent, physically and emotionally. Somewhere inside me I had the thought that I should keep talking, talk till I dropped, but I knew I couldn’t. I’d laid it all out there. I’d done the very best I could. There was just no more to give.

All I had left to say was this. “Return Howie Patino to his son, ladies and gentlemen.”

My head was throbbing as I took my seat. There was silence in the courtroom for an extended moment, then Adele Wegland asked Benton Tolletson if he had more to say. He did, of course. The prosecutor always gets the last word.

But I hardly heard a word he said.

The drama was over.

All except the waiting.