Fixer (eBook)

2

The first bombshell came at about 3:00 PM, two hours after the jury got the case and began its deliberations. The court officers notified everyone that the jury had sent out a note. The judge would be taking the bench in ten minutes.

Word spread fast throughout the Homicide Bureau. A senior trial assistant asked, “What the hell is this all about? Isn’t it a little early for a note?”

“Beats me Al, but duty calls.” Ian grabbed his suit coat and his trial file. The smile on his face betrayed the feelings in his bowels.

“You better wash your face; you got some mustard there from your sandwich.”

“Thanks Al. I’m my usual mess.”

The fact was that Ian was not usually a mess. He was in good shape: 6’, 150 lbs. He ran marathons and played a respectable game of golf. He was not a fancy dresser, but his suits fit, his pants were pressed and his shoes were well shined. As far as he could see, there were no mustard stains on his tie. His greying temples were striking against the pitch black of the rest of his hair. He was nicely tanned from running and playing golf. There was a distinctive scar by his left ear where a kid threw a fire cracker at him when he was younger. It gave him a bit of a macho look that women loved. They also loved his steel grey eyes and his brilliant white teeth. He was single. He would make a great catch.

He had been in the Homicide Bureau of the New York County District Attorney’s Office for the last seven years and was clearly recognized as the top trial lawyer. He was well respected by the senior pros in the bureau, and the younger assistants loved him. He was always looking for ways to involve the junior people in his trials. Taught by some of the best, he knew it was his duty to pass it on. He got a healthy share of “Good luck” as he went down the hallway toward the elevator bank.

He was trailed closely by Detective Joseph Jackie, known by all as Robbie, and Detective Eustice H Smith. Smith was never, ever called Eustice. He was just plain Smitty. These were the two detectives who originally caught the mannequin case. They had invested a large portion of the past year finding Conti and getting the case to trial.

Bringing up the rear, scrambling as fast as he could, juggling papers everywhere, was Louie Balzo, a rookie in the Homicide Bureau. This was Louie’s maiden trial voyage, and he looked like he was going to throw up.

When Ian’s group got off the elevator on the twelfth floor, they were met by Nails Ballen, Conti’s lawyer. With Nails was Bunny, his ever-present associate wearing her ever-present mini skirt. Ballen’s real name was Hopewell J. Ballen, but everyone called him Nails. He seemed to like it. He looked like a nail—tall and skinny—with thinning black hair swept back, and reading glasses that he always wore down at the end of his nose.

“What do you hear, kid?” demanded Nails.

“Nothing, Nails. I just got a call that there was a note from the jury and to come up to court.”

“Bullshit. Those court officers are always giving you ADAs little hints. What have they told you?”

“That there was a note and the judge would be taking the bench in ten minutes. That was nine-and-a-half minutes ago. I went to the bathroom.”

“Despite the bathroom you are still full of shit, and besides, what is confidential about a note? Someone’s got to read it.”

“I have no idea what is going on, but it’s too early for a verdict. They probably want some part of the charge explained to them. Bunny, don’t you think Nails should be more careful of his language in front of you?” Bunny rolled her eyes.

Ian went into the austere wood paneled courtroom. It, like the rest of the Criminal Courts Building, reflected the art/deco style. It bore one of those telltale depression era murals all along one side of the courtroom, featuring, naturally, the blindfolded Lady Justice and her scales.

Instead of going to the prosecutor’s table with Louie and the detectives, he went over to Davey Garr’s desk. Davey was the clerk of the court. He’d worked in the courts for a hundred years.

“What’s going on, Davey?”

“Bad news,” Davey said. “Bad news,” he repeated slowly, and left to get the judge. Ian had heard Davey the first time.

When all the jurors were seated, Judge Hastings said, “I am in possession of a note submitted to me by Juror Number 1, your foreperson, which I ask be marked court’s Exhibit 21.”

“That would be 22, your honor,” Davey Garr said. “We are up to 22.”

“Whatever. Mark it as court’s Exhibit 22 and hand it to me.” It was clear that Judge Hastings was not happy. Hastings took a long, exasperated breath and continued, “The note reads as follows:

‘Your honor, as soon as we began our deliberations, one of the jurors got up from the table and said, “You people are on your own on this one,” and he pulled a chair over by the window and sat. We asked him what was wrong and he wouldn’t say anything to us other than “You are on your own.” The rest of us started to discuss how we felt about the case and he just sat there and looked out the window. We asked him if he wanted to share any thoughts or opinions and all he said was “You are on your own.” We would like some help about what we should do. This note was written by the other eleven of us.’”

Ian, and everyone else in the courtroom, watched the jury as Hastings read the note. Most of the jurors were looking at juror number 11 who sat with his head down and his eyes shut as if he were sleeping.

Louie whispered, “I think it’s number 11. He is sitting in the back row toward the right.” Louie was proud of himself.

“Yep, thanks Louie,” Ian acknowledged.

Hastings was clearly pissed. “Now listen to me very carefully, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Each one of you took an oath and swore that you would listen to all the evidence as it was being presented to you in this courtroom. You swore that you would diligently consider that evidence and try to determine where the truth lies. You swore that you would respectfully listen to your fellow jurors, consider their arguments and their positions, calmly and carefully present your own arguments and positions and that you would all attempt to come to a unanimous decision. Now I am charging you that you have an obligation to live up to those promises. You are to go back to the jury room and do just that. All of you. You are now directed to continue your deliberations.” The jury filed out of the jury box and out the courtroom door to the jury room.

At 5:30, there was another note. It was essentially the same news, except it was obvious that eleven jurors were in agreement. Nails saw his client going down if juror number 11 caved in and immediately moved for a mistrial. Hastings knew “11 to 1s.” He’d experienced them many times before. He denied the motion for a mistrial, and ordered the jury to continue deliberating, confident that the holdout would buckle.

Two days, six notes and eight mistrial motions later, it was clear that number 11 was not budging. There would not be a verdict, and a furious Hastings declared a mistrial and excused the...