We were having our typical Saturday evening dinner with our customary group of friends, referred to by my wife, Pamela, in her usual haughty way as “the gang.” During dessert, I decided I could take no more of my life with her. I had to end it. One of us had to go. Divorce was not an option open to me. Suicide was out of the question. I enjoyed life away from the woman too much, and I was a coward. Watching her sip after-dinner coffee with her upraised pinky, gaily tossing her head back as she laughed in her frivolous manner, I decided to kill her. Understand my cowardly tendencies related only to bringing about my demise. I held no such trepidations with helping my “dear wife” shuffle “off this mortal coil,” as the Bard so aptly put it.
The act of killing Pamela itself, I decided, would not be problematic for me. I was furious, determined. My loathing for her knew no bounds. In addition, it should be easy enough to get away with. Simply put, the end must look as if it were an accident. And, if murder entered the minds of the authorities, there ought to be a multitude of others with reason enough to want her dead. I was not the only person out of whom she had kicked the intestines. My spouse’s self-important, cavalier airs had infuriated and injured many people I could name. Heaven only knows the figure to which such a population might swell if one added the people of whom I was not even aware.
She always appeared to waltz through life, oblivious of the pain and suffering she caused others. Her uncaring ways annoyed many people. She had hurt others to a significant extent. Although pretending to be unaware of the harm she caused, the lady frequently appeared calculating and intentionally hurtful in her actions and words. The dinner that night was a prime example. During a lull in the conversation, Pamela offhandedly commented on seeing one of our mutual friends with another woman, not his wife, somewhere out of town. Raised eyebrows and whispered conversation ensued.
She had hurt others to a significant extent.
As I beheld her self-satisfied expression, I realized she was still the raven-haired, high-cheek-boned beauty I’d fallen in love with those years before. But she had to go. Those beautiful gray eyes that had enthralled me and enchanted others caught in their range had lost their appeal for me. The time had come to end it.
“You realize, my dear, your unnecessary comment tonight will cause yet another painful episode in the lives of four of our friends.” We were driving home, and I was no longer willing to be silent regarding her behavior. She ignored me. Undeterred, I prodded her, “Pamela?” Pamela. She was always “Pamela.” “Pam” was too pedestrian for her. The full name was indeed appropriate. The shortened version may have imparted too much in the way of genuine warmth and fun to a person incapable of either characteristic. Although the urge to use the latter name to annoy her often pressed me, I avoided it to keep a civil air between us. Why that was important to me, I have never understood. It was, however, to prove vital now that I’d decided to kill her.
“Whatever do you mean, Gerald?” she asked, her dismissive tone clear. Gerald. She never, ever used the shortened form of my name either. My entire life, everyone has known me as Jerry. But my “better half” has always used my given name. It preserved her tone of refinement. The couples in our “gang” often smiled at me when she used it. I fumed, yet grinned in return.
“You know very well the comment to which I’m referring. That remark concerning Henry Chastain being seen upstate with Emily Thompson outside the bed-and-breakfast inn. How could you be so careless? You know full well the tongues will wag your juicy morsel around until it somehow reaches Bonnie Chastain and George Thompson. Then there will be hell to pay. Four more lives in chaos because you must repeat things you’ve heard.”
“I did not hear it, Gerald. I saw it with my own eyes when I was antiquing with Janet last weekend.” She stared out her passenger window at the passing city lights in an effort not to look in my direction. In the reflection from the darkened window, I glimpsed the evil smirk she often wore when she had knowingly said or done something cruel. “Besides, I cannot help the loose tongues of others.” Her countenance showed the recognition of the incongruity of her statement. We said nothing more regarding the matter. I took solace in the thought the population with a motive to kill Pamela had increased by four as of this evening.
Attempting to reason with the woman was an exercise in futility. There was no permutation of her character. As I saw it, one important fact will make it easy for me to get off scot-free with her murder. No one, not even my wife, had any inkling of the extent of my unhappiness or of any marital strife between us. There was no “other woman,” as the pulp-fiction writers put it, lurking in the shadows. No large life-insurance windfall, which might arouse the suspicions of the authorities, waited for me after her death. All these years, I have seethed in silence. Though I am not a Rockefeller, I have always made a very comfortable living. Throughout our marriage, I provided Pamela everything she wanted. The need to seek employment never burdened her.
None of the usual motives for murder were present. The only dilemma I now faced was the manner with which to complete the task. The “how” occupied my thoughts constantly for the next few weeks. For years I’ve read and enjoyed the genre of murder mysteries, never contemplating I might someday need to employ the methods used by fictional characters to achieve their ends. Above everything else, the key was not to get caught. As a result, I dismissed one means after another by which to dispatch her. And I never ventured near the trap of Internet research which so often snared real-life killers.
None of the usual motives for murder were present.
* * *
Inauspiciously, Pamela, through her typically careless ways, provided a means by which I might rid myself of her for at least a time. One day several weeks after that Saturday night dinner, while returning home from luncheon with one of the “girls,” the dear woman ran a red light, struck another vehicle broadside. She killed its unfortunate driver and sole occupant, one Mr. Hector Garcia. Mr. Garcia’s older, dilapidated subcompact was no match for my spouse’s mammoth, luxury SUV. Unlike Garcia, she was unscathed by the mishap.
My wife later told me she had been on her cellular telephone at the time of the accident. She was, no doubt, relaying to another of her group a juicy bit of gossip derived from her noonday repast. More significantly, she had imbibed several martinis during her meal. The EMTs examined Pamela at the scene and pronounced her physically all right. The police, however, found her to have been driving under the influence of alcohol. They arrested my “dear” wife and summarily carted her off to jail, charging her with vehicular homicide, a felony in our state.
I was at my office at the time of the accident. On learning of Pamela’s arrest and, more important, determining to my chagrin she’d sustained no life-threatening injuries, I contacted my attorney, Chuck Weatherington. After hearing of her predicament, Chuck reminded me he only practiced civil law. And, while he’d be happy to recommend several criminal lawyers who might handle the case, he could not help with her defense.
He advised me the maximum penalty for Pamela’s transgression was fifteen years in prison. Further, he speculated, this being an election year, I could expect the district attorney who was seeking reelection to prosecute her to the fullest extent of the law. That sounded fine with me. Fifteen years imprisonment seemed inadequate for a crime involving a death. But I had to accept what little prison time the law allowed. Last, my friend recommended I call an attorney as soon as possible to arrange for bail and for her release. Chuck even offered to place calls for me to get an attorney on her behalf. Thanking him for his offer, I told him I’d make the arrangements.
But, before I telephoned any of the lawyers Chuck had suggested to me, I experienced an epiphany. This abrupt turn of events redirected my thoughts on how to relieve myself of the woman without leaving too much to chance. There had to be a means by which I might appear supportive in her plight, while surreptitiously ensuring her incarceration, thereby ridding myself of the missus for a time. Who knows what might happen if they imprisoned her? Inmate-on-inmate murders occurred with regularity, according to the media. An annoyed fellow prisoner might kill her, saving me the trouble. At the very least, I’d have more time to plan her “accidental” death upon her release, should that distasteful eventuality arise. Besides, I believed any attorney Chuck might recommend accomplished enough and sufficiently motivated to do a good job defending Pamela. I’d have none of it.
Inmate-on-inmate murders occurred with regularity, according to the media.
Instead of calling to secure legal representation, I telephoned the detention center to determine whether they had scheduled any court date for Mrs. Sutherland. The less-than-sympathetic person with whom I spoke told me Pam was to go before a judge early the next morning, for what they called an “initial appearance.” The man suggested I might visit my wife at the jail that afternoon. I left my office and drove to the county lockup. As I checked in with the jail staff, I studied the people in the lobby waiting for their jail visits. If they were any indication of the types awaiting Pamela on the “inside,” I told myself, she’ll never survive incarceration.
When they brought her to the visitation area, she looked lost and haggard despite her best efforts to appear to rise above her current surroundings. After only several hours of confinement, a fair amount of Pam’s self-importance had faded from her demeanor. However, in my presence, she regained a measure of her proud luster. My spouse was happy to see me. But it disturbed her I had not brought a lawyer and a bond to release her from the “hellhole,” as she put it. Pam appeared to be rapidly gaining an intimate knowledge of the vernacular of the criminal element.
Her rather loud demand to know why Charles, as she always called him, was not present brought an admonishment and mild threat from a nearby female deputy sheriff. Pamela was aghast at her treatment at the hands of such “unrefined” people, but calmed herself. After explaining Chuck dealt only with civil matters, I added I was in the process of securing a criminal defense attorney to arrange for her release.
Finally, I informed her of what I’d been told concerning her court date the next morning. The thought of spending a night in such horrid conditions among the unwashed masses of our county’s penal system mortified my wife. She made it clear I was to have an attorney for her in the courthouse. My heart leapt with joy at the disheartened look on her face when I told her I was doing my best. When visitation ended, they took her, clinging pitifully to assurances of my efforts on her behalf, away.
My heart leapt with joy at the disheartened look on her face….
At home that evening, I focused on researching the Internet for information. Our telephone rang incessantly, which told me the news of the lady’s mishap had made the rounds. I ignored it while I roamed the cyber highway for facts I felt might help me.
* * *
The next morning found me sitting in a courtroom well before the time set for the call of Pamela’s case. I intended to set my objectives in motion by dealing directly with her prosecutor. Approaching the district attorney’s table, I asked the man standing there whether he was handling the Sutherland case. He glanced up from a file folder and nodded toward a woman standing nearby. The prosecutor’s office assigned Pam’s case to a fervent young assistant district attorney. During subsequent events, I learned she held a particular vendetta toward well-to-do people driving in an intoxicated state and their overbearing families.
As I walked toward her, she brusquely kept me from moving past the rail which separated the public seating area from the well of the court. Then, she admonished me courtroom protocol allowed only court personnel and officers of the court to come beyond that point, except by explicit invitation of the judge. I regained my composure and asked, “Are you the prosecutor in the Sutherland case?”
The young woman eyed me warily and said she was.
“I’m her husband–”
She threw her hand up to silence me. “Stop right there, Mr. Sutherland.” The prosecutor flipped through files in a box on the table until she located what I suspected was Pamela’s case file. She perused it. A brief smile played at the corners of her mouth. The woman’s face hardened again as she turned to me. “I suggest you get your wife an attorney as soon as possible. Then I will discuss the case with him or her.”
“See here,” I retorted quietly, “my wife is a very prominent woman in this community. We are well known and well respected. And I know the district attorney personally.” In truth, I had only met the man once, briefly, at a chamber of commerce meeting some time back. I seriously doubted he might recall either me or the event itself.
As I’d hoped, the state’s attorney was astonished and irritated at my presuming to sway her with name-dropping. Moreover, she did not share my desire for a hushed conversation. “Well, with due respect, sir,” she pronounced loudly, “maybe you should go talk to my boss, because I have a job to do. My job is to prosecute your wife fully. And I don’t believe for one second the district attorney will expect anything less from me!”
Her response in the open forum of the court embarrassed me, but I tucked away my pride and pressed on to achieve my aim. Quietly, I asked about a bond while hinting broadly that, despite our wealth, Pamela would never think of leaving the state or the country, although she might easily do so. “A minimal bond is in order in this circumstance. In fact,” I asserted, “you should release her on her own recognizance.” Thank you, Internet. “Yes, her own recognizance. That is the proper thing to do in this case.” I knowingly overreached, as those in the legal profession are fond of saying. My effort did not go unrewarded.
“Excuse me, Mr. Sutherland! Your wife killed a man while driving under the influence of alcohol! Surely you can understand that! I will not be on record allowing your wife to sign her name and walk away from the jail without paying bail to ensure her return to this courtroom! An ‘own recognizance’ bond is out of the question! In fact, considering the flight risk you’ve hinted at, I’m opposing bond entirely!”
My blustery attitude had sufficiently aroused the assistant district attorney’s ire. Game, set, and match with one antagonized state’s attorney. The temptation to spit the word “allegedly” back at the young woman and incurring more of her wrath and histrionics was almost too much for me. Instead, I “sulked” away under the glares of those who’d heard at least the prosecutor’s side of the exchange. Periodically, a heavyset woman, seated in the row in front of me, turned and glance askew at me as if I were a being dispatched from an extraterrestrial mode of transportation. Hidden behind her in the back of the gallery, I used every bit of my self-control not to smile at my success.
Game, set, and match with one antagonized state’s attorney.
At the appointed time, the judge took his place on the bench. When the inmates filed into the courtroom, I hardly recognized my wife. She looked as if she had not slept a wink. Without makeup, her face showed an age and weariness I’d never seen. The ill-fitting jail clothing in which they’d dressed her did nothing to help her appearance. Looking miserable, prisoner Sutherland spent the entire time clutching her elbows. Gone was the brief recapture of her arrogant bearing I’d seen at the jail the day before.
As she turned her gaze away from the judge and tried desperately to find me in the crowd, one of the sheriff’s deputies leaned toward her and whispered. She pulled back from him as if insulted by his mere presence. She ignored him and continued to scan the packed room. Discreetly, he grabbed her arm and firmly turned her attention to the judge who was addressing the prisoners. From behind the aforementioned stout woman, I saw Pamela’s shoulders shaking as she whimpered. Not even her sad, beleaguered form aroused any sympathy in me. Truly, my heart had hardened, and I’d set my course regarding her.
The judge spoke to each inmate individually. He advised them of their charges, of certain rights, and of the absolute need to have counsel, either retained by them or appointed by the court through the public defender’s office. When he reached Pam and asked whether she had counsel or needed to have one appointed for her, she hesitated and tried again to search for me. When the same deputy moved slightly in her direction, she quickly turned back to the judge and blurted, “My husband will hire an attorney for me, I’m certain! He should be here!”
His Honor searched the room beyond the courtroom well and asked whether her husband was present. To keep her from panicking, I stopped using my “shield,” rose, and said, “I’m here, your honor! I’m Mr. Sutherland!” While the heavyset woman’s eyes followed me closely, I stepped forward as I spoke. “I’m sorry, your honor, but the acoustics back here are terrible. Yes, I will hire an attorney for my wife. I haven’t been able to do so before now. I want to request a bond for her.”
The young prosecutor cast an icy glare my way and, as I’d hoped, rose to the bait. “Absolutely not, your honor! These are very serious charges here! And, with the financial means available to this defendant, there is too great a flight risk!”
“All right, Ms. Winkler. That will do for now.” Turning his attention from the prosecutor to me, the judge continued, “Mr. Sutherland, I suggest you get the benefit of counsel for Mrs. Sutherland as quickly as possible and let them make the appropriate motion for bond. I’ll hear from both sides at that time.”
Thus, having dismissed me, the judge quickly moved on to the next detainee. Afterward, when the deputies led the prisoners away, Pamela was still sobbing. Initially, I didn’t understand why the courtroom crowd continued to grow despite friends and family members leaving after the judge had addressed each prisoner. When my wife’s group departed, I thought the court session had finished. But the judge moved to another court calendar, this one for an upcoming trial term. With nothing else pressing to do, I stayed to observe the proceedings. Possibly, I thought, I might find exactly the attorney I have in mind for my “dear” wife.
When the prosecutors announced they’d negotiated several guilty pleas, the judge proceeded with those before going to the scheduled calendar. The court clerk summoned those defendants and their attorneys to the well of the court.
… the judge moved to another court calendar, this one for an upcoming trial term.
As the judge, prosecutors, and defense attorneys methodically proceeded with their business, I noticed a particular defense attorney who represented several of those pleading guilty to the crimes charged. However, it was not his adversarial skill which caught my attention. It was that a few of his clients, as shown by their demeanor and words, were less than enthusiastic in accepting his advice to plead guilty. Several of them appeared to resent him serving as their court-appointed lawyer. One young man recoiled in apparent revolt when this attorney whispered something to him. A deputy had to “calm” him. In addition, his clients’ sentences seemed a tad harsher than those of the other defendants charged with similar crimes.
The attorney appeared to stumble through the proceedings as smoothly as a hog on ice. He impressed me as only marginally proficient at what he was doing. I studied him more closely. He was a flaccid-cheeked, baggy-eyed middle-aged man sporting thick eyebrows, and a shaggy, salt-and-pepper beard. His facial expression was that of one who has lost a thing of vague significance and has no idea of where to look for it. One could probably find more trustworthy looking characters in a mug book.
He stood before the bench, his clothes in total disarray. The man wore a mostly untucked shirt and coat of an indefinable checked pattern. Both were wrinkled despite being stretched over a ponderous belly. The tie he wore looked as if it might provide a soup of an unknown composition if placed for a time in a vessel of boiling water. In short, he looked like an unmade bed. From the court proceedings, I learned his name was Edward Easley.
In short, he looked like an unmade bed.
When the judge took a brief recess, I approached the front of the room, but before I got his attention, Easley disappeared into an inmate holding cell adjoining the courtroom. I then diverted my line of travel to the prosecutors’ table or as close as possible to it without breaching the “sacred decorum” of the courtroom. The young lady I’d spoken with earlier was putting case files back in the box. She glanced sideways in my direction, stopped what she was doing, heaved a deep sigh, and snapped, “Mr. Sutherland! I’ve already told you I am opposed to a bond for your wife! I’ll not discuss the issue with you any further! You need to hire an attorney!”
To bring the tone of our conversation down, I gently responded, “I understand, Miss, and I will hire an attorney. I only want to ask you if you would recommend Attorney Edward Easley for my wife’s case. She–”
As I spoke, a hint of a smile crossed her lips, but she held back as she interrupted my inquiry, becoming stony-faced once again. “Yes, Mr. Sutherland, I know Mr. Easley. I’ve had many cases with him. But the law prohibits me making a recommendation about any particular attorney.”
With her last words, the older assistant district attorney with whom I’d initially spoken, and with whom she shared the prosecution duties in the courtroom, approached the table. His gaze at me told me at once she’d told him of our earlier exchange. To forestall potential difficulty, he intervened. “Any trouble here, Lynne?”
“No. No trouble. Mr. Sutherland here was just asking if I knew ‘Easy Eddie.’ He wants to hire him for his wife’s case.”
Giving his younger partner a look of stern disapproval, he turned to me and said, “Mr. Sutherland, we cannot recommend an attorney to you. Whether to hire Mr. Easley is strictly your decision to make.” Returning to his partner, he whispered, “Easy there, ‘Miss Vicious.’”
With that, they shared a knowing glance and smiled at an inside joke as I turned to walk away. That bit of banter sealed my decision. The slovenly Mr. Easley was my man. A short time later, Easley reappeared in the courtroom. As the court was still in recess, I again approached the rail and tried to get his attention. Finally, he turned and walked to where I stood. “Yes, sir? Can I do something for you?” Easley’s breath was brutal, and his clothing smelled of ancient cigarette smoke and sweat. His voice was like sandpaper.
“Yes, Mr. Easley, is it? I want to speak with you concerning my wife’s criminal case.” I introduced myself and gave him a brief explanation of the situation, including Pamela’s incarceration.
“And she’s charged with vehicular homicide?” the man confirmed. “It’s a pretty serious charge, Mr. Sutherland.” He frowned in thought. Because of the allegations against her, he appeared hesitant.
“You can handle such a serious case, can’t you, Mr. Easley?” I asked, feigning a genuine concern for his ability. I removed my checkbook from my suit pocket and tried to sweeten the deal. “Within reason, money is no object.”
On seeing my checkbook, his eyes revealed a spark of avarice. He hastened on, “Oh, certainly, Mr. Sutherland! I was simply reflecting on the severity of the charges your wife faces. It’s just a big case and may involve a lot of work. I can handle her case, no problem.” His demeanor reflected less confidence than his words. Nonetheless, he adopted a bold manner concerning his fee. “I’ll need a ten-thousand-dollar retainer,” he muttered, his eyes trying to gauge my reaction to such a sum.
His demeanor reflected less confidence than his words.
The fee he sought took me aback. Considering what I’d witnessed of his abilities in court that morning, it was an exorbitant figure. Although ten thousand dollars was more than I wanted to part with for an inept defense of Pamela, it was a small price to pay to rid me of her. When I realized I didn’t have a pen, Easy Eddie was quick to offer his well-worn writing implement, which bore the name of a motel chain. As I wrote the check, I asked, “Do you think this will cover the full representation, Mr. Easley?”
“Oh, one can never tell what surprises may lie around the corner, Mr. Sutherland.” When I turned ashen, he quickly took the check from my hand and added, “But this should cover the entire case, including a trial, nicely. If that changes, I’ll let you know immediately.”
When I asked for his business card, he fished around in his pockets and produced a somewhat dilapidated one from his coat. As he handed it to me, he asked for its return once I’d copied his address and phone number from it, mumbling something regarding new cards being on order. My confidence in Easley’s inability was flourishing.
The rundown area of town in which his office was located struck me as I copied his address. “I see your office is in the old Belvedere Building. It’s a fairly rough section of town nowadays.”
“Well, most of my clients come from the rough part of town, Mr. Sutherland.” Leaning closer to me, he confided, “It will be a nice change of pace for me to represent someone such as your wife.” Plucking his card and pen from my hand with anxious fingers, he added, “Now, the first order of business will be to get a bond for Mrs. Sutherland. We must get her out of jail. She may have to be subject to house arrest, surrender her passport, and–”
Fearing where this was leading, I cut him short. “Mr. Easley, can we talk in confidence?” Because Easley had to return to court when it reconvened, we adjourned to a nearby bench in the hallway crowded with attorneys, police officers, and witnesses involved with other cases. I did my best to look devastated. “As much as I love my wife, I hate to say this, but your client needs to stay in custody.”
Easley carefully walked the thin line between advocating firmly on his client’s behalf and not losing the check I’d just given him. “Please understand, Mr. Sutherland, I represent your wife, not you. It’s her best interests I need to be looking after.”
I glanced around, and then leaned toward Easley, speaking in hushed tones as if imparting a dark secret. “Rest assured I, too, am concerned for Pamela’s best interests, Mr. Easley. And I say this with that in mind. Look, I love her deeply, but I know her better than anyone. She is a careless and, dare I say it, a foolish woman sometimes. She is self-absorbed and can connive occasionally. The woman requires, shall we say, ‘special handling.’
“She is a careless and, dare I say it, a foolish woman sometimes.”
“I’m afraid, if she’s released, she’ll do something silly, say something inane which will come back to hurt her case at trial, or, heaven forbid, in her sentencing. I really need you to believe me on this, Mr. Easley. After all, she’s charged with running a red light while driving under the influence. She was probably talking on her cell phone at the time. A man is dead as a result, and she has no remorse,” I pleaded.
I’d been studying his face as I spoke. He was listening intently and appeared to be making sense of what I was saying. I paused, giving him time to digest my arguments, before continuing. “Besides which, one more thing occurs to me, Mr. Easley. Just between us, Pamela has a tendency to dress up for every occasion and to put on haughty airs, if you know what I mean. If you have to go to trial, wouldn’t she make a more sympathetic defendant if she’s kept from her fine clothes, the beauty salon, and her makeup?”
Easley sat back, looked at me with a mystified expression for a moment, and then replied, “I think I see your point, Mr. Sutherland. You know her better than I do at this juncture. Let me go talk with her, and then I’ll call you. Fair enough?”
Eager to bring our close dialogue to a swift conclusion owing to, among other things, his breath, I stuck out my hand and concluded, “Yes, thank you. Please, please keep me in the loop.”
“That I will do, Mr. Sutherland. But what do I tell Mrs. Sutherland if she asks about a bond?”
I smiled in amused contempt. His question yet again confirmed my choice of attorneys. Here was her counselor seeking my advice on how to deal with his client. “Tell her the odds are very much against her being given a bond with these charges. Add that, if you ask for a bond under the circumstances of her case, it will serve only to antagonize the judge and the public, who read the newspapers, hear the news. This is the same community who will sit on any jury she may have. Remind her a man is dead at her intoxicated hands.”
Easley studied me through the look of a perpetually hung-over countenance and nodded his agreement, if not his understanding. With a handshake and a reminder to Easley I’d be waiting for his call, we parted. As I walked out into the bright mid-afternoon sunlight, I realized Mark Twain had been correct. He said, “lawyers are like other people–-fools on the average, but it is easier for an ass to succeed in that trade than any other. To succeed in other trades, capacity must be shown; in the law, concealment of it will do.” Easley excelled in the concealment of it.
* * *
I returned to my office, confident in my choice of attorney, but still concerned to an extent my charming Pamela may yet manipulate the seemingly malleable Easy Eddie. Until I heard from him, my mind could not focus on work, so I called it a day at three o’clock.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at home, sipping a lovely Bordeaux, nibbling smoke Gouda, and contemplating my existence without my “dear” wife. Whether from the wine or from a satisfaction with the recent turn of events, a feeling of contentment enveloped me. I even allowed myself to take a few of the phone calls from our friends. Everyone offered compassion, whatever help I might need, or companionship, at least one of which, it occurred to me, came from a female friend with questionable motives. These I graciously declined in the best somber, heartbroken voice I could feign. I was doing just fine, thank you. Regarding the latter “offer,” I thought, if doing away with the little woman was in the offing, I could ill afford any dalliance at this point.
* * *
“Your wife is disconsolate in the extreme, Mr. Sutherland.” Several days had passed. Easley and I were walking through a torrential rain from the parking lot to the visitors’ lobby of the detention center. The downpour only added to the misery of having to spend unwanted time with Pamela, pretending I cared. With our respective umbrellas bumping each other, Easley struggled to walk close enough for me to hear him above the clashing thunder as I affected concern. I’d done a great deal of feigning lately. “I feel a visit from both of us might help her attitude,” he cantered onward.
The downpour only added to the misery of having to spend unwanted time with Pamela, pretending I cared.
Later, inside one of the small visiting rooms, we sat across from Easley’s client, who slumped on the other side of a wire-reinforced window. She rewarded our efforts to see her with a freezing glare and stony silence. The stark whiteness of the painted cinderblock walls only added to the coldness of the woman’s reception. She was angry, arrogant, and defensive by turns. I tried to break the tension by asking whether there was anything I might do for her.
“There certainly is something you can do, Gerald! Get me out of this hellhole! No more stalling about this! I want answers now, Gerald! I’m living in horrid conditions among filthy cretins! And they are procreating!” she exclaimed with some hauteur.
Although taken aback by the forcefulness of her riposte, I couldn’t help taking pleasure in and adding to Pamela’s unhappiness, while trying not to tip my hand. “Procreating? Here in the jail?” I asked incredulously, glancing at Easley. “Are there conjugal visits here?” I exclaimed in mock horror with a wince.
Before Easley could respond, she folded her arms across her chest in revulsion. “Don’t be disgusting, Gerald!” She’d rebuked me as usual. “Of course not ‘in here.’ But their families come trouping through the visitors’ area with their stair-step children in tow. They are subhuman, there are more of them than there are of us, and they are breeding, Gerald!”
A disconcerting thought suddenly came to me. I suspected Easley always met with his client in an attorney visiting room, segregated from the general visitor’s area. “How do you know what people come to the visitor’s section? Has anyone besides Mr. Easley come to see you, Pamela?”
“Well, a few of our crowd have been here to see me, thank God. I don’t know how I could survive without my dear friends. You haven’t been a constant source of comfort.” Pamela saved me from making an inane excuse for not visiting her as frequently as she thought I should by shifting her fierce glare from me to her lawyer. She regarded him with pursed lips and an expression of disapproval. “Now, Mr. Easley, what have you done for me? I’m not impressed with your efforts thus far! I want out now!” she trumpeted.
Easley, responding to an attack on his professional competence, gathered himself and retorted. “I have been working diligently on your case, Mrs. Sutherland. And I–”
“Well, I cannot see any effort from in here!” Pamela bristled in a tone of icy contempt. She was making a mistake quarreling with her defender, but she’d never been one to worry about what impact her words might have on others or, in return, to herself. “Please elucidate!”
Having to respond to his client’s demand upset Easley, but he held his righteous indignation in check as he continued undeterred. “As I was going to say, I have investigated the facts of the case thoroughly. Because the prosecutor won’t listen to anything I have to say and is being hard-nosed concerning any plea negotiations, I feel we should take this matter to a jury.” Inwardly, I was smiling at the thought of twelve fair-minded citizens judging defendant Sutherland’s actions in this case. Easley continued trying to reason with the woman. “It is my considered opinion the case for the defense has significant merit.”
“… I feel we should take this matter to a jury.”
Oh my, yes, I was thinking when Easley dropped his bombshell. Your ‘considered opinion’ and five dollars will get you a cup of plain, black coffee at Starbucks.
“To that end, I have filed a demand for a speedy trial.” He beamed at me with a glow, as if a child waiting for my approval after a recitation.
I failed him in his expectations. “You’ve done what?” His words stunned me as my mind tried to wrap around what I’d just heard. Was this the effort of an incompetent, or had Easley actually found a glimmer of hope on which to pin a trial? Had I missed something? Certainly, I did not believe one could find optimism considering the facts as I understood them. The suspicion I saw in Pamela’s eyes as she stared angrily at me caused me not to voice my thoughts.
“I did a good thing,” Easley said, childlike, almost pleading. “I filed a speedy trial demand.” His answer was a shade less confident than he intended. He looked at me and continued hesitantly, “It’s a right guaranteed by the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution.”
“I’m familiar with the document and with the concept, thank you.”
Pamela quickly returned the conversation to the center of her universe: Pamela. “What exactly does that mean for me, Mr. Easley?”
“It means, my dear lady, the prosecution has to try you very soon or they must dismiss the case. It’s a compromise tactic, my dear Mrs. Sutherland, for you staying in custody pending your trial, which should be forthcoming very soon.” Easley could kowtow with the best.
The defendant was obviously not paying attention to her attorney. “And if they don’t try my case soon?” she challenged Easley with a tenor of frosty disdain.
He gave me a fleeting look, and then leaned toward the window and raised his voice as if his client were some distance away, rather than just not listening. “If the state does not try your case within a set time period, the law requires them to dismiss it. Or the judge will do so. Even if they try the case, I feel very good about our chances!” Again, Easley’s demeanor reflected less confidence than his last words.
My wife momentarily stared at Easley as she digested his words. Then she began nodding vigorously and beamed. “Excellent, Mr. Easley!” She relaxed, and he sat back, pleased with himself.
The lawyer had cast the die. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to appear the ever-caring husband, I interjected, “See, Pamela, I told you I’d find the best attorney I could for you!”
Thus emboldened, Easley pressed on. “To prepare for the trial, I want the names of several character witnesses for you. They must be close friends, who can testify they don’t believe you’d ever drive under the influence and have never seen you do so.”
Although still fairly confident in my choice of attorney, a sick feeling washed over me. What had become of the defense counsel I’d watched in court the first day? That lawyer with the eager self-confidence of a rabbit caught in a snare? These questions were racing through my mind and forced me to speak. “I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Easley. Your optimism comes as fabulous news to us. But what of the police who examined her at the accident scene and pronounced her guilty of driving under the influence? Surely he will testify!”
Easley merely smiled and advised us he was preparing for it. Beaming with a newly found self-confidence, he said nothing more. He informed his client the deputies would dress her in her own “street clothes” for the trial if I provided them. By law, the jurors could not see her in inmate clothing. Easley explained he wanted her to appear as ordinary as possible. Over Pamela’s objections, he told her she was to wear a plain black or dark blue suit, a white blouse, and no makeup. Her only jewelry was to be a wedding ring.
Ignoring her protests to the contrary, he insisted her hair was to be neat but plain. No arguments allowed. He instructed her to show no response during the proceedings, except for the well-timed sign of grief at the mention of the deceased. Easley expressed the opinion tears would be a nice touch.
When I asked, the lawyer advised he’d learned Mr. Garcia was alone in the world. So there would be no grieving widow or fatherless children sobbing, playing on the tender mercies of the court or the jury. Finally, he reminded Pamela of something he must have told her during a previous visit. He was her only friend and confidant. She was to speak to no one else about her case. “I’ll be back soon. And often,” he told her as we stood. Suddenly, Easley appeared far from out of his element. And Pamela was more satisfied with the circumstances than I might have expected. Evidently, she had even accepted her plight of remaining in jail until the trial. Hopefully, she and Easley were overconfident regarding his ability to extricate her from her predicament.
Suddenly, Easley appeared far from out of his element.
“I still don’t understand why the hell you filed a speedy trial request!” I was striding back to my car, trying desperately not to show my anger and frustration. Easley was loping beside me, working to keep pace in the pouring rain.
“Demand. Not a request, a demand, Mr. Sutherland. I explained it back there. It was a trade-off for Mrs. Sutherland sitting in jail. From meeting with your wife, I concluded you may be correct in your assessment of the ‘dangers’ of her getting a bond. But she was quite insistent on getting out. So I compromised. I thought you’d both be pleased, but I feel the need to remind you it is your wife I represent, Mr. Sutherland.”
We had reached my coupe by this time. As I opened the car door, I turned to him, and, playing the apologist, sighed. “I understand, Mr. Easley. Please forgive me. All this is so foreign to me, so upsetting. We both have the utmost confidence in you. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” As I drove away, leaving him standing in the rain, his pants soaked from the knees down, I watched his face in the rear-view mirror. I looked for any indication he’d caught on to my true feelings about this situation, hoping I’d not overplayed my hand. There was none. Despite his sudden attempted foray into the realm of “legal genius” and my “reassurances,” the dulled-eyed look of uncertainty he’d exhibited in court that first day had returned. Maybe this appearance of competence was merely a momentary anomaly on his part.
* * *
Because of Easley’s speedy trial motion, the court scheduled Pamela’s trial to start a few weeks later. As the date approached, an odd bonding evolved between the defendant and her attorney during their meetings, two of which I attended. The jail authorities now allowed them to meet in an attorney conference room at the jail. Here, no glass partition separated them, and they huddled together, speaking in hushed tones. I merely sat off to the side and observed this form of “dance” between the two. Easley started calling my wife “Princess Pamela.”
Although I initially took this as a comment on her haughty mannerisms, he earnestly meant it as a compliment. His client delighted in his references, giggling as if a schoolgirl every time. She truly looked upon Easley as her “rescuing knight,” hanging on his every word, her adoring eyes reluctant to leave him.
Likewise, he enjoyed the attention this sophisticated, attractive woman lavished on him. Her genuine interest in him and his work on her behalf buoyed him, gave him renewed energy as he went about his preparations. It belied his appearance of a perpetual hangover. Despite the interplay between them, it seemed to me an exercise in futility owing to the overwhelming evidence against her. During the meetings I attended, Easley never revealed much of his plans for her defense. The lawyer only spoke in broad terms about the witnesses he’d scheduled on her behalf and the general nature of a trial. He mentioned virtually nothing of what his investigation had revealed.
The lawyer only spoke in broad terms about the witnesses he’d scheduled on her behalf ….
This, I figured, was because there was nothing about which to speak. He had no plan of attack. My confidence in the weakness of Pamela’s defense, and in the man presenting it, remained. I felt akin to an old crone knitting beside the guillotine, waiting for the blade to drop and the crowd’s cheers to rise.
* * *
“Here are my wife’s clothes.” I handed the requested clothing to Easley, who gave them to a female deputy. We were standing in the courtroom early on the first day of the trial, and jury selection was to begin in an hour. Easley turned back to me, as I continued, “I’ll bring a different blouse, along with clean underwear, every morning.”
“Good. Very good, Mr. Sutherland.” I remained “Mr. Sutherland” to Easley who continued to hold me at arm’s length, as they say. Perhaps I’d unintentionally given him too much insight into my genuine feelings about my wife and her trial. While we stood together briefly, I noted Easley had maintained the same high level of “sartorial splendor” for the trial as he’d displayed every occasion since I’d met him.
In the pretrial atmosphere, he was fidgeting as nervously as a children’s party clown with Tourette’s syndrome. Easley went on hesitantly, “I’ll need you to sit in the gallery just behind your wife and me. The jury needs to see your concerned face every day. If you see or hear the name of anyone in the jury panel you know or know of, please tell me immediately. Getting the right jury is always important, but it could be most crucial in this case.”
I reluctantly agreed and, with time before the court proceedings were to begin, walked to a nearby café for a cup of coffee. There I encountered a few women from the “gang” who were attending the trial, supporting us. Two of them were to be character witnesses for the defense. I bought a round of café lattes for the group. As I was paying, I noticed Ms. Winkler, the prosecutor in Pamela’s case, was also there getting a “pre-battle” pick-me-up. She was standing at the other end of the counter with a baby-faced, diminutive police officer. He looked as if better suited making undercover arrests for underage drinking at a middle school sock hop rather than driving a patrol car. The officer appeared to be someone who constantly thinks his authority is being challenged and doesn’t intend to stand for it.
She was standing at the other end of the counter with a baby-faced, diminutive police officer.
When she met my glance with an icy glower across the coffee shop, I knew at once her attitude toward my wife’s case had not changed since our earlier meeting. Good, I thought as I smiled, I need her fired up and ready to convict.
“Look who I’ve brought!” I’d returned to the courtroom with the members of my wife’s “gang” in tow and was trying to regain Easley’s confidence in my position regarding Pamela’s circumstances. Easley’s client was already wearing her black suit and seated at the defense table, looking respectable and confident but uncharacteristically plain. She huddled with her counselor, who turned and smiled as he saw us approach. Ms. Winkler and the policeman, who I later learned was the arresting officer in the case, came into the courtroom just behind us. She pushed past us as our friends spoke to Pamela across the rail under the watchful eyes of the sheriff deputies. Winkler moved to the prosecution’s table as the bailiff announced the judge’s entry and called the courtroom to order.
After a few preliminary matters, including the sequestering of the witnesses outside the courtroom proceedings, the judge sent for the prospective jurors and jury selection began. Easley soon returned to his old form. He stumbled through the selection process hesitantly, somehow completing the task, although the procedure moved at a glacial pace.
During her opening statement to the jury, Ms. Winkler glided around the courtroom as easily as a professional ice skater. It was in sharp contrast to Easley, who, during his opening remarks, appeared uncertain, confused. As she watched him, Pamela’s confidence drained away like bathwater. Ms. Winkler smiled at his apparent ineptitude and, occasionally, cast a smirk in my direction as I sat in the gallery behind the defense table. I saw the jurors smiling at each other when he periodically gave the impression he was at a loss. His disheveled form only added to the sad picture. I was very pleased.
The first person called to give evidence for the State was the sole eyewitness to the accident, a certain Mrs. Eleanor Godfrey. A large, middle-aged woman, with unconvincing blond hair, blue eyes the size of silver dollars, and red cheeks like Santa Claus in those old Coca Cola magazine advertisements. Heavily weighed down with makeup, she wore an assortment of colored scarves and bright costume jewelry. Mrs. Godfrey approached the witness stand with a strut intended to derive the most from the unaccustomed attention her presence there evoked.
Once sworn in as a witness, Ms. Winkler guided her carefully through her testimony. She left the jury with a clear picture of my wife’s careless actions, at least from Mrs. Godfrey’s perspective, which led to the untimely death of Mr. Garcia. The witness had been sitting in her car in a left-turn lane at the intersection. Her left-turn traffic signal was red. But, according to her testimony on direct examination, the light for the traffic traveling from her direction and going straight through the intersection was green. Mr. Garcia’s small red car drove into the intersection from her direction where Pamela’s SUV struck it broadside.
Mrs. Godfrey described the “horrible” crash in very emotional terms, dramatically dabbing her eyes at the appropriate times. After the collision, she further related, she had called 9-1-1 on her cell phone and stayed to speak with the responding police officer. Ms. Winkler confidently turned the witness over to opposing counsel for cross-examination.
Mrs. Godfrey described the “horrible” crash in very emotional terms, dramatically dabbing her eyes at the appropriate times.
As Easley rose to question the witness, his forehead glistening with perspiration, he futilely attempted to smooth his crumpled suit. I noted the crooked knot of his skinny tie had slowly fallen away from his collar as the day wore on. The witness turned her focus to Pamela’s attorney, eager to continue her part as the center of attention. Easley moved toward the witness with the majestic deliberation of a pachyderm. He started questioning Mrs. Godfrey as if uncertain where to go with this damning testimony but intent on asking something of her to appear to earn his fee. In due course, he asked her what first brought her attention to the crash itself.
She squirmed slightly in her seat, glanced at the prosecutor, and responded, “Well, first I heard this horrible noise. Then I looked up and saw this small red car spinning away from the SUV. Counterclockwise, I think it was spinning.” After a brief motion with her hand to reenact the scene in her mind, she concluded, “Yes, it was counterclockwise.”
Easley paused, inclined his head, and smiled faintly. “Now, Mrs. Godfrey, I don’t think you mentioned ‘hearing a noise,’ and then ‘looking up’ to see the result of the accident when the prosecutor was questioning you a moment ago.” As he so stated, he turned and gave Ms. Winkler a fleeting glance of puzzlement. He then returned to the witness. “Is that your testimony regarding what you saw at the scene of the accident? You first heard a noise and then looked up to see Mr. Garcia’s car spinning?”
“Well, yes, but Ms. Winkler didn’t ask me that here today, sir.” Mrs. Godfrey was clearly defensive at this point. The jury showed a distinct interest in this bit of information.
“So, Mrs. Godfrey, what exactly were you doing when you heard the crash?” Easley had stumbled, no doubt unwittingly, onto a kernel of hope. And, like a bulldog, he wasn’t going to let go easily.
“I was looking through my purse for my cell phone. It was ringing, you see, and–”
“In that case,” Easley put it to the witness, “you were not looking at the traffic light in front of you, were you? Then, honestly, you have no idea whether the light Mr. Garcia passed through was green, yellow, or even red, do you?”
Mrs. Godfrey looked to Ms. Winkler for help. None forthcoming, she resigned herself to her own answer. “Well, it was green when I started looking for my phone!” Pleased with her response, she smiled at the jury. They did not return the favor.
I could not believe what I was hearing! While I realized this was only the first witness, the trial wasn’t to go this way! I could only hope Winkler returned on redirect examination with case-saving questions. Easley sat at his table and patted Pamela’s arm. For her part, the defendant seemed not to be following the significance of what the witness had said. Perhaps she was still dreading, whereas I was more than ever counting on the testimony of the arresting officer.
… the defendant seemed not to be following the significance of what the witness had said.
“How long were you looking through your purse for your phone before you heard the crash, Mrs. Godfrey?” Ms. Winkler was trying to rehabilitate her eyewitness.
Mrs. Godfrey’s defensive posture had grown as she felt the glow of her star’s spotlight fade with the impact on the jury of her uncertain testimony. “Well, surely for no more than a minute!” A minute! With that blow, the prosecutor subsided to her chair. She’d decided to cut her losses.
When Mrs. Godfrey left the witness box, it was with her obvious relief. No doubt, the defense attorney would regurgitate much of her testimony in his closing argument to the jury. Three other peripheral bystanders, none of whom could add anything significant to the state’s case, testified. Afterward, the judge recessed court for lunch. Easley whispered briefly with Pamela as the jury filed out of the courtroom. When the last juror had disappeared, sheriff’s deputies ushered my wife to a cell with defense counsel in tow, still talking to his client.
* * *
Before we returned to court from the noon recess, I captured Easley’s attention as he meandered along the old marble floor of the courthouse hallway. I had to know where we stood now. As I was formulating a question which would not betray my despair over the earlier testimony, Easley slapped me on the back. The lawyer waxed effusively. “Mrs. Godfrey certainly didn’t hurt our case one bit, did she, Mr. Sutherland? I feel very good about the case now! Reasonable doubt, Mr. Sutherland! Reasonable doubt! Onus probandi!” Easley hurried away toward the courtroom, leaving me with unanswered questions, unhappy prospects, and uncontrollable frustration.
The first officer who responded to the scene of the wreck, the one I’d seen in the coffee shop with Ms. Winkler, was next called to testify. The assistant district attorney led him through the events of that fateful day, ending with his arrest of the unrepentant Pamela for driving under the influence. Surely, I thought, these inescapable facts were enough to harden the jury against her. Again, a confident Ms. Winkler turned her witness over to the defense attorney.
The assistant district attorney led him through the events of that fateful day ….
“How long had you been on the police force at the time of this accident, Officer Hoffman?” Easley was examining the witness with more confidence than he had yet shown in any part of the trial.
“Around eight months.”
“And did you have any law-enforcement experience before that?”
“No, sir.”
“Any military experience?”
“No, sir.”
“No military police experience then.” The words formed more a statement than a question. “Now you testified on direct examination you completed your academy training as prescribed for certification as a law-enforcement officer in this state, right?”
As the officer nodded, uncertain of where Easley was going, the judge instructed him to answer aloud so the court reporter could make a record of what he said. “Yes, sir,” he replied to both the judge’s instructions and to Easley’s question, his voice booming as he leaned toward the microphone at the witness stand.
“Other than the routine class or two at the police academy, have you had any specialized training in making driving under the influence assessments or arrests?”
“No, sir.”
“How old are you, officer?”
“I’m twenty-four years old, sir.”
“And prior to this accident, how many DUI arrests had you made?” Easley had evidently determined he’d beat the word “accident” into the jury’s thought process.
Officer Hoffman hesitated and looked to the judge for a second. When the judge proved to be unavailable for any answers, the officer responded somewhat defensively, “This was my first DUI arrest, sir.”
“Please tell the jury, Officer Hoffman, what assessment process, what roadside sobriety tests you used to determine my client was driving under the influence of alcohol at the time of the accident.”
Again, Easley had aroused defensiveness in a witness. “Well, she admitted she’d been drinking. And I could smell alcohol on her breath. Also, she was obviously glassy-eyed and unsteady on her feet. So … none.”
“Fair enough, officer. Now let’s just stop for a second and consider each one of those things you just said led you to her arrest for drunk driving. You say she said she’d had a drink. Did she say how many drinks?”
“No.”
“One drink? Three drinks? Ten drinks? What?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Ms. Winkler was on her hind legs trying to salvage her case. “Asked and answered!”
“Your Honor, this officer has made a claim against my client which is at the very heart of this case. The jury has a right to know how he reached his conclusion and if that conclusion holds up to the light of day!”
“Objection overruled. Answer the question, Officer Hoffman.”
Suddenly, I found I’d hired Perry freaking Mason! Easley pressed the witness. “Did my client say how many drinks she’d had that day, officer?”
Hoffman was becoming more frustrated. “No, sir, she only said she’d had a drink with her lunch,” he grumbled.
“A drink! One drink! And speaking of which, in your limited training related to drunk driver assessments, did you learn food intake can dramatically reduce the effect of alcohol on a person’s faculties?” Here, I supposed, Easley was falling back on his personal experiences.
“Yes, sir, I did, but she was unsteady on her feet!”
“We’ll get to that in a minute. First, tell the jury how many drinks it takes before you can smell alcohol on another person.”
“Well ….”
“Yes?”
“Well, I guess, depending on what they were drinking, it could vary.”
“So possibly only one drink could give off the odor? But that might not necessarily be enough alcohol to impair someone, right? Did Mrs. Sutherland say what she’d had to drink?”
“No, sir.”
“And as you just testified, it would be guesswork, without more information, whether that amount of alcohol, whatever the amount, was sufficient to impair someone anyway, right?”
Hoffman remained silent but turned a particular shade of violet. The jury was very attentive.
“Let’s move on, officer. You said my client was unsteady on her feet, right?” Not waiting for the obvious answer, Easley continued, “Now she’d just been involved in a serious automobile accident, right?”
“Yes.”
“Have you at least investigated other automobile accidents in your vast eight months on the force?” A suggestion of sarcasm filled the air between the two men.
“Objection! Argumentative!”
“Objection overruled, Ms. Winkler. Mr. Easley is entitled to a thorough and sifting cross-examination. You may continue, counselor.” The judge gave a hint of a smile as he spoke. I suspected he was relishing the exhibition of newfound abilities in an attorney who had stumbled through court appearances before him many times.
The judge gave a hint of a smile as he spoke.
Easley simply stared at the officer for a long minute. Hoffman turned over the question as if it were an unfamiliar article. Finally, he relented. “Yes, I’ve investigated car accidents.”
“Fine. Now, it’s not unusual for such an accident to stun a person, leaving them glassy-eyed and/or unsteady on their feet immediately following the episode, is it? Especially if they’ve hit their head during the accident?”
“Well … no.”
“And such manifestations are not necessarily related to the consumption of alcohol, are they, Officer Hoffman?”
Hoffman was showing signs of losing his temper. He glared at Easley and answered through gritted teeth. “No!”
“Before you arrested my client and hauled her away, or at any time thereafter, did anyone else with your department confirm your assessment of Mrs. Sutherland as being under the influence?”
The officer begrudgingly muttered his response in a low tone. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Officer Hoffman. I didn’t hear your answer.” Easley coarsely prodded as he glanced at the jury.
“No!” This time, the red-faced policeman nearly shouted his answer.
Here, Easley paused to let the obvious defensiveness of the officer envelop the jury. Continuing with a gentler thrust and parry, the defense counsel calmly moved on. “Now, Officer Hoffman, one last question. Did you or, to your knowledge, did anyone else administer a Breathalyzer test on Mrs. Sutherland the day of the accident day to determine whether she was, in fact, intoxicated?”
“No, sir.” Hoffman had accepted defeat.
Easley sat down wearily. Watching his repose, one might have imagined him as Hercules in the midst of his twelve labors. Ms. Winkler did not try to rehabilitate Officer Hoffman. As the somewhat discredited policeman sulked away from the witness stand, she called her next witness. However, one look at the jury showed the prosecution’s case has breathed its last gasp.
The jury seemed to fall into a state of somnambulism during the completion of the State’s evidence, which only provided further confirmation of the few innocuous facts to which previous witnesses had testified. The testimony inadvertently offered the additional tidbit of the unfortunate Mr. Garcia’s illegal presence in this country. Easley’s witnesses for Pamela held her to be a good, caring person of upstanding character. It demonstrated either how little people really know about each other or in what low regard they hold an oath to tell the truth.
Easley’s witnesses for Pamela held her to be a good, caring person of upstanding character.
As much as I hated him for it, I had to admit Easley clearly and concisely summed up the case in his closing argument, hammering home two salient points. First was the chief “eyewitness” for the State had witnessed nothing except the aftermath of an unfortunate accident because she’d been digging around in her chaotic handbag. The second point defense counsel fervently articulated, regarding the evidence produced by the state, related to the testimony of Officer Hoffman. The young officer, he argued, could not testify, nor was anyone else able to show beyond a reasonable doubt his client was driving under the influence of anything.
Whether due to Easley’s efforts, because of their reaction to an overzealous young officer, or owing to the community attitude toward illegal immigrants, the jury quickly returned a “not guilty” verdict. As Easley and Pamela hugged each other in celebration and Ms. Winkler stormed off in total disgust, my world crashed around me. The judge released Pamela from custody at once.
* * *
Later that evening, we found ourselves at an obligatory celebratory dinner with the esteemed defense counsel, who modestly acknowledged “even a blind hog can find an acorn once in a while!”
Now I’m sitting here, peering across the top of my wineglass, seething with anger, watching the two of them revel as if schoolchildren let out for the summer. I realize I’ve returned to square one. But now I’m trying to decide whether I’m going to kill only Pamela or my wife and her lawyer. ©