“Can we leave now, Your Honor?” I ask. I don’t like this little exchange about my client’s guilt between the prosecutor and the judge.
Bill Henry appraises me, then turns to Devlin. “I’m not so sure the defendant is guilty of anything, Mr. Walker.” Devlin blinks at this and is about to chime in when the judge stops him. “I’m bothered by all these anonymous phone calls. The one that tipped you off that Mr. Hanson was hoarding cash. The one about the New York love nest. And, most of all, the 911 call on the night of the murder. Everyone in this room knows that there couldn’t have been yelling and sounds of a struggle when the victim had been dead for hours. Obviously, there’s another person involved in all of this. And whoever that person is, they’re out to get Mr. Hanson. They made sure the police showed up to catch him trying to destroy evidence. They made sure the whole world knew about his penchant for Asian mistresses—don’t think for one minute, Mr. McFarland, that I was fooled by that dog-and-pony show your client put on about sponsoring gifted foreign-exchange students—and, finally, they blew the whistle on his jet-setting money junket.”
“All of which I’m planning to highlight in my opening statement,” I say, which causes Devlin to squirm in his seat.
“Well?” The judge looks at Walker, meaning, What’s your answer to all that?
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Devlin says, “I don’t think this is the appropriate forum to get into trial strategy.”
This makes Bill Henry smile. Then he leans forward and looks from Walker to me. “I want to make something very clear to both of you. There has been more posturing in this case, both in court and in the public, than I can remember for a long time. That posturing is now over. Do you hear me? Mr. McFarland? Mr. Walker?” We both say yes. “Good. Because whatever happens in this case, whatever result the jury reaches, I will not have it said that the defendant did not receive a fair trial.” With that, William Henry shoos Devlin Walker and me out of his office.
My adversary and I walk to the elevators in silence. We descend without a word. Devlin, I can tell, is waiting for me to start in on him, harangue him about throwing my client in jail on the eve of trial, tainting the jury pool. Instead, I wait for the doors to open, turn to the prosecutor, and smile. “That hearing, the whole money thing,” I say. “Brilliantly played, Devlin. Brilliantly played.”
Devlin’s mouth drops, and his eyes fill with confusion.
I tell him to have a nice day and leave the elevator ahead of him, the smile still on my face.
David and Marcie Hanson aren’t the only ones who can place anonymous calls.
26
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12
David Hanson has been stewing in jail for more than two weeks. Today, the trial begins. Courtroom 1007 is packed. All four of the hard, black benches in the spectator’s gallery are filled. At the prosecution table, Devlin Walker sits motionless, eyes closed, elbows on the table, hands together and formed into a steeple, his two index fingers touching his lips. To his left lies the jury box, where the jurors will enjoy an unobstructed view of the prosecutor throughout the trial. To his right sits Christina Wesley, doing her best to look as thoughtful as her boss, not quite pulling it off.
On the first row of benches behind the bar on the prosecution’s side are John and Margaret Yamura and her brother, Brian. Mr. and Mrs. Yamura sit ramrod straight in their seats, eyes locked forward. I’ve read that both are in their early sixties, but the shock of their daughter’s violent death and the months of grief have taken a toll, and they look older. Brian Yamura caught me glancing at him and his parents when I first came into the courtroom. I saw at once the intelligence in his eyes—and the hostility. Brian recognized me for what I am to him and his family: the enemy. The man working to ensure that his sister’s killer escapes justice.
David and I are at the defense table, across the aisle from the prosecutors. I am closest to the jurors; David is to my right. Susan, at my request, is absent from the courtroom. I don’t want her anywhere near this trial. Yet. Her time will come, I hope. If not, it will be because this whole spectacle imploded like a black hole. To ensure that doesn’t happen, I have secured the presence of the iconic attorney Alexander Ginsberg. I’ve told David and Marcie that I hired him to watch the trial and give me his daily read on how things are going for us. Alexander’s real mission is quite different.
Ginsberg sits right behind the defense table, next to Marcie Hanson. On Marcie’s other side, Vaughn Coburn sits; he will take notes and discuss the progress of the case with me every day after trial. Before the jury comes in, I glance back at my team. Ginsberg smiles at me. Marcie nods imperceptibly. I’ve told her never to smile anywhere in the courthouse, or in public. No one—not the jury, not the press, not the public, not the judge—must perceive her as anything but serious and respectful. She and David both must display the crushing burden the charges have placed on their shoulders. What they must not display, I’ve told them, is their wealth. Gone from David’s finger and wrist are his gold signet ring and Rolex watch. Missing from Marcie is her five-carat Tiffany diamond engagement ring. Her visible jewelry consists only of her gold wedding band and a pair of modest pearl earrings. She is dressed at my instruction in a conservative gray pantsuit with a vest and white shirt buttoned at the collar. I will have no female jurors envious of Marcie’s legs or bust. David is wearing a blue off-the-rack Brooks Brothers suit with a white shirt, maroon tie, and black wingtips. The type of suit you see but don’t notice.
There is one more person whose presence in the courtroom has special importance. Sitting in the second row of benches, behind Marcie, Vaughn, and Alexander Ginsberg, is Piper. It’s been years since she’s attended one of my trials. But I made a point of asking her to attend David’s trial. I told her it would mean a lot to me. I didn’t tell Piper I needed her there to witness the case crashing down around us.