Tremont took a moment to let the graphic description sink in. The room was very still.
“The state intends to prove,” he said, “that the defendant, Hamilton Luther, murdered Mr. Black in cold blood. That he followed him into the alley, seized the bowling pin from a refuse bin, and struck him from behind, causing him to fall to the ground. That he then proceeded to continue beating Mr. Black’s skull with twelve to fifteen heavy blows while Mr. Black lay stunned and helpless beneath him.
“This is a serious crime,” Tremont continued. “But Mr. Luther has a long history of violent offenses. Forensic evidence will prove that Mr. Luther was at the crime scene, that he left his fingerprints on the weapon, and that the forensic profile of the attack matches his height and build closely. Eyewitnesses and security cameras witnessed him fleeing the alley shortly after Mr. Black entered it, the victim’s blood literally on his hands. The evidence will prove Mr. Luther’s guilt beyond any reasonable doubt and, in the end, you must find him guilty of this horrible crime. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Counselor,” the judge said, as Tremont returned to his seat. “Mr. Luther, you may present your opening statement.”
Luther rose slowly. He glanced around the jury box, licked his lip nervously, and approached the jury.
“Ladies and—and gentlemen,” he said, stammering a little. “I know I got a past. I did a dime in Stateville for putting a guy in the hospital. But that was my past. I ain’t that man no more.” He swallowed and gestured vaguely over his shoulder, toward Tremont. “This guy is going to tell you about all this CSI stuff that says I did it. But all those reports and pictures don’t tell the whole story. They leave a lot of stuff out. I ain’t a lawyer. But I’m gonna tell you the whole story. And then … then I’ll see what you think about it, I guess.” He hovered for a moment longer, awkwardly, then nodded and said, “Okay. I’m done.”
“Thank you, Mr. Luther,” the judge said. “You may return to your seat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luther said, and did so.
“Mr. Luther, you are charged with first-degree murder,” the judge said, still in her rote-memory voice. “How do you plead?”
“I …” Luther looked down at some notes in front of him and then up again. “Not guilty, ma’am.”
Hell’s bells.
The full legal might of the state of Illinois was being thrown at Luther. The man seemed sincere enough. But apparently the only defense he had to offer was a story. A story from an ex-con, no less.
I wanted to hear him out. I knew all about being judged for things that were out of my control. But I was pretty sure Luther was going back to jail.
“Mr. Tremont,” the judge said. “Is the prosecution ready to begin?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tremont said.
“Very well,” she said. “You may call your first witness.”
TREMONT SPENT THE afternoon driving nails into Luther’s coffin, thoroughly, methodically, and one at a time.
He did exactly what he said he would do. He brought out each case of physical evidence, point by point, and linked Luther undeniably to the scene of the crime. Luther had been photographed by a grainy black-and-white security camera coming out of the alley’s far side, spattered in blood. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon, in the blood of the victim. The officer who arrested him had taken blood samples from his skin and clothing matching those of the victim. He additionally gave testimony of Luther’s past criminal record, which had landed him in jail as a young man.
When given a chance to cross-examine, Luther shook his head, until he got to the testimony of the arresting officer, a black man in his late forties named Dwayne. He rose and asked the officer, “When you brung me in, was I injured?”
Officer Dwayne nodded. “You were banged up pretty good. Especially your head.”
“Where at?” Luther asked.
Dwayne grunted. “Back of your head.”
“Any other injuries on me?”
“You were one big bruise,” Dwayne said.
“How big was the victim?” Luther asked.
“About five-four, maybe one fifty.”
“Weight lifter or something?”
“Not so you’d notice,” Dwayne said.
Luther nodded. “You known me awhile. How come?”
“I was the one who arrested you the first damn time.”
“Officer,” the judge said.
“Beg pardon, Your Honor,” Dwayne said hurriedly.
“I remember that, too,” Luther said. “In your experience, a businessman like that handle a guy like me?”
“Unless he’s armed or got a lot of training, no.”
“One more question,” Luther said. He squinted at the officer and said, “You in my neighborhood ever since I got out. You ever think I’d be trouble again?”
“Objection,” Tremont said. “He’s asking for pure conjecture.”
Luther frowned and said, “Beat cops deal with ex-cons on a regular basis professionally, ma’am. Figure that qualifies him as an expert opinion on potential, uh …” He consulted his notes and spoke in a careful, clear tone. “Recidivism.”
The judge eyed Luther and said, toward Tremont, “Overruled. You may answer the question, Officer.”
“No,” Dwayne said. “I’ve seen you with your kids. I wouldn’t have called you for it.”
“In the arrest report,” Luther said, “does it say what I kept asking the officers?”
Dwayne cleared his throat and looked down at a notepad in front of him. “Yeah. ‘The suspect kept asking, Where is she? and Is she all right?”
“Who was I talking about?”
Officer Dwayne turned a page and cleared his throat. “ ‘The suspect claimed that he only began the confrontation with the deceased after witnessing the man drag a female child, Latino, around the age of ten, into the alley,’ ” he read. “Subsequent investigation could not confirm the presence of any such person.”
“How hard did they look?” Luther asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me,” Luther said. “In your opinion, how hard did the investigating detectives look for a little girl who might clear an ex-con from being guilty of a murder of a big-shot businessman?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“I’m not a detective,” Officer Dwayne said. “I can’t speak to that. But I’m sure they followed departmental guidelines.”
My finely honed crapometer, garnered during my days as a legitimate, licensed private investigator, went off. Cops were as thorough as they could be, but that wasn’t always supremely thorough—that was why private investigators could stay in business in the first place. It was understandable: A city the size of Chicago has an enormous caseload, detectives are always buried in work, and the investigations get triaged pretty severely. The preponderance of evidence, absence of witnesses, and Luther’s status as an ex-con would have made this case a slam dunk, a low priority—and, most of the time, the cops would have been right. Once the evidence was all taken and dissected and duly reported on, as far as the police were concerned, they had their man. And there was already a mountain of fresh justice waiting to be pursued on behalf of new victims. Even the most dedicated and sincere police detective could understandably have dropped the ball here.
“Sure,” Luther said. He sat back down again and said, “I’m done.”
The judge looked at the clock and asked, “Mr. Tremont, do you have any further witnesses?”
Tremont listened to something his assistant whispered and rose. “Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”
“Then so will we,” she said. “Mr. Luther, the defense can begin its case in the morning. I remind the jury that the details of this case are confidential and not to be discussed or disclosed. We will reconvene here at nine a.m.”
“All rise,” the bailiff said, and we did as the judge left the room.
I frowned as Luther was escorted out.