Claim of Innocence Read online

  “We’ve been trying to keep it low-key. We haven’t made a statement to the press, and Valerie hasn’t, either.”

  As we stepped into the hallway, Maggie was stopped by a man with bright eyes who must have been at least eighty. I recognized him as a famous judge who had stepped down over a decade ago but was always being profiled in the bar magazines as someone who spent his retirement watching over the criminal courthouse where he had presided for so long.

  “Hey, Judge!” Maggie said casually, shaking his hand and patting him on the arm. “How’s the golf game?”

  “Terrible this summer!”

  “It’s always been terrible, sir.”

  The judge laughed. Maggie was like this at work—irreverent in a respectful kind of way. But she had an immediacy to her and a clear-cut way of speaking to people like judges, other attorneys and politicos, as if she had been intimately involved on their level for decades.

  The judge moved on. A few steps later, I saw Maggie’s receptionist, whom I knew from my frequent visits to Martin Bristol & Associates. “Hi,” I said to her, but stopped short in my greeting when I saw the woman next to her.

  Valerie Solara was a beautiful woman. She had golden-brown skin and eyes that were so dark they were almost black. Her gleaming ebony hair was pulled away from her face, showing her high cheekbones, her elegantly curved jaw. She wore a brown dress with tiny, ivory polka dots and a wide leather belt. But it wasn’t so much her beauty that struck me. It was the feel of her—some kind of powerful emotion that hung around her like a cloak.

  And suddenly I knew what that emotion was. I’d felt it for a large part of my last year, after my fiancé disappeared, after my friend died, after I was followed, after I was a suspect in a murder investigation. The emotion was fear.

  6

  Back in the courtroom, Maggie explained to Valerie that I would be helping on the case. Valerie looked confused, but nodded. Maggie then took the middle of the three chairs at our table so she could speak to both Valerie and me during jury questioning.

  The state had the right to question potential jurors first. Tania Castle flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder as she looked at the jury questionnaires. She began calling on potential jurors, asking them whether they or their family members had been victims of a violent crime, whether they were members of law enforcement, whether they could be fair. When she was done, she consulted with Ellie, the other state’s attorney, and they booted two of the jurors, who were replaced by two others from the gallery.

  Maggie held out our copies of the questionnaires. “You’re up,” she said.

  “You’re letting me go first?”

  She nodded, then leaned in and whispered instructions to me.

  When she was done, I took the questionnaires from her hand. “Got it.”

  I glanced at Valerie, whose face seemed to war be tween calm and dread. I gave her my best it will be fine expression.

  Wishing desperately for that expression to be true, I strode toward the jury box, exuding what I hoped was a composed, authoritative air, even though my skin felt tingly, as if my nerves were scratching against it.

  We wanted to present Valerie Solara, Maggie had said, as a mom, a Chicagoan and a friend. Valerie had lost her husband some years back and in order to be able to afford her daughter’s private school, they’d moved from their upscale Gold Coast neighborhood to the west side of the city, into a cheaper apartment. We wanted jurors who were devoted parents, or jurors who lived either north or west as Valerie had, or even widowers. Basically, we wanted people who seemed as much like our client as possible.

  I looked at one potential juror and smiled. “Ms. Marshall. You mentioned on earlier questioning that your husband is a police officer, is that right?”

  She nodded. She was a heavy woman with faded blond hair and splotched skin. She looked annoyed about having to be here, but her previous answers had shown she had some interest in being on the jury. She was also obviously in support of anything law enforcement; one of those people who believed the police could do no wrong.

  I want her out, Maggie had said fiercely. In Illinois, an attorney can ask that a potential juror be dismissed for “cause”—meaning a situation where it was evident that a potential juror could not be impartial—as many times as they wanted. But what if it wasn’t evident that person was unfair? What if the lawyer just had a feeling? Then you had to use a “challenge.” But each side only got a certain number of challenges. My role was to try and get the juror to say something that would rise to the level of “cause.”

  “Given your husband’s job,” I said, “do you believe you would be able to stay fair and impartial throughout the trial?”

  “Of course,” she said, clearly annoyed. Exactly what I wanted.

  “It could be days, even weeks, until Valerie Solara will be able to present her own evidence. Will you be able to wait until you hear all the evidence before you decide whether the state has proven their case beyond a reasonable doubt?”

  “Yeah.” She crossed her arms and glared. She struck me as someone who wanted to be on the jury for the sake of being able to say so to her friends.

  “Do you have children, Ms. Marshall?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ll have to answer out loud for the court reporter, ma’am.”

  “No,” she said loudly.

  “Have you ever seen your husband testify in any cases?”

  Now her face lightened. “Yes.”

  “And have you ever encountered a situation where your husband testified in a case where the defendant was not guilty of the crime of which they were accused?”

  “Oh, no,” she said immediately. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he’s a policeman.”

  “And police officers know who is guilty.”

  “Right.”

  “Is there a situation you could imagine where a police officer might testify and that person might end up being innocent?”

  “No.”

  I had her. I didn’t want to look triumphant in front of the whole jury, so I asked a few more questions, all benign, before I turned to Judge Bates. “Your Honor, I’d request that Ms. Marshall be excused from the jury for cause.”

  He nodded. “So granted.”

  Judge Bates looked at the jury. “Ms. Marshall, we thank you for being here today. You may leave.” He nodded at the sheriff to show her the way out. “Continue, Ms. McNeil.”

  I picked out a thirtyish guy with hair flattened to his head in a way that was technically stylish but not on him, and who had been staring at my legs since I’d been in front of him. “Mr. Heaton.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a suggestive kind of way.

  I asked a couple of questions, enough to see that this guy would say yes to whatever I wanted. I thanked him and wrote W on the questionnaire, my shorthand for I-want-this-one-on-my-jury.

  I turned to the woman next to him and questioned her, then another.

  During the process of voie dire, you needed to not only pick out the jurors you wanted dismissed, but also win over the jurors you wanted to keep. You had to chat and crack a couple of jokes and respond to the judge and read one juror’s face while you read another’s body language out of the corner of your eye and keep your ears open for a C’mere a sec from your cocounsel—and you had to do this all at the same time and make it look smooth. I loved voie dire.

  By the time I was done with the panel of jurors, I felt great. I walked toward the table and saw Maggie give me a pleased nod.

  I glanced at Ellie Whelan, who regarded me for a second before she returned her gaze to the questionnaires in front of her. If I was correct, her eyes had held grudging respect.

  I sat next to Maggie. “I want to do it again.”

  7

  Maggie let me handle two more panels of jurors before she took over, but the judge kept the jury questioning surprisingly quick compared to civil court. Once the jury was swor
n in, the judge gave them directions about reporting for duty the next day. Then they were dismissed.

  Maggie, Valerie and I went into the order room where Martin Bristol had been that morning. We sat at the same table. Valerie looked more shaken than earlier. “It’s really happening,” she said.

  Maggie nodded but didn’t appear worried. I was sure she’d heard such sentiments from other clients before.

  Just then, Maggie’s phone buzzed. She grabbed it from her pocket and looked at it. “It’s my mom. She never calls when I’m on trial. It must be about my grandfather.”

  Valerie’s eyes closed at the mention of Martin Bristol.

  Maggie left the room and shot me a look over her shoulder. Take charge.

  I turned to Valerie and put on my best lawyer face. “So Valerie, let’s talk a little bit and let me explain why I’m here.”

  She nodded fast and looked into my eyes, clearly wanting to be reassured.

  “As you apparently saw this morning, Marty is feeling ill. He’s never really shown his age, but he is in his seventies.”

  Valerie gave a short shake of her head. “But he doesn’t seem old.”

  “You’re right.”

  “He came to me so certain we would win. He believed me, and I found myself trusting him, which is unlike me.” Her small, dark-skinned hands flew to her face again, and she looked as if she might cry. “He promised to win my case.”

  I sensed she wanted to say something else, so I remained silent.

  “And now…” She looked at me, then her eyes darted to the door, and I could almost hear her words. Now, I have you two.

  I leaned forward, my hands on the table, wide apart. “Valerie, I’ll ask you to do something right now. Please don’t underestimate either Maggie or myself. Maggie is one of the best criminal defense lawyers in the city, and in large part that’s because she was trained by her grandfather. I’ve also done a lot of trial work. We are both much more experienced than we look. And—well, I was thinking about this during jury selection—frankly, I think it gives a good impression for two women to represent you on this particular case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re accused of killing your friend.” I sat there and let the words sink into the room, as much for Valerie as myself. I was sure that Maggie and Martin had engaged in numerous conversations with Valerie before, but now that I was one of her attorneys, we needed to have an honest discussion ourselves. “Anyone would want Martin Bristol on their case. But I have to tell you, it’s not bad that you now have two young women whom the jury may see as the friends we are, representing you when you are accused of killing your friend.”

  She said nothing, a look of concentration settling into her face.

  “Our presence tells the jury we believe you.” I didn’t mention that Maggie had told me many times that she didn’t always believe her clients; she didn’t need to.

  Valerie took in a large breath, seeming to gather strength from somewhere inside her. Her eyes softened. “I’m glad you are here. I thank you for it. And yes, I understand what you are saying. By the way…” She paused. “I did not kill Amanda.”

  I nodded. “Maggie told me you’ve said that.”

  Her mouth pursed. “I want you to believe me.”

  I nodded. I wanted that, too. “Look, I don’t try criminal cases often, but the fact that I’m not usually a criminal lawyer is a benefit to you because I bring other things to the table.” I thought about it. “Maybe when we’re outside the courthouse, you and I could talk about what happened. Maybe if I hear everything from you, I could see other avenues for this case.”

  I would have to see if Maggie was all right with that. Maggie had always said she didn’t need to have that kind of discussion with the clients, and maybe there was a little bit of protecting herself from hearing too much. But now that I was back in the law, I didn’t want protection from it. I wanted to be hit with it.

  “Okay.” Valerie’s eyes looked deeply into mine, and I thought I could read a message there. Thank you.

  Suddenly, I remembered something that pleased me about being a being a lawyer. It wasn’t just the excitement of a trial. I liked helping someone who truly needed it. I liked finding solutions that a person wouldn’t be able to reach themselves.

  “Do you have any restriction for your bail?” I asked Valerie.

  “No. The state’s attorneys asked that I be required to stay at home and wear an ankle monitoring bracelet, but Martin put up a fight.”

  We both smiled. Marty Bristol was fairly unstoppable once he put on the gloves.

  “But essentially,” Valerie said, “I’ve just been going home every day. It’s been very hard. Amanda was my best friend, along with Bridget.” She saw me raise my eyebrows in question. “Bridget is—was, I guess—a friend of Amanda’s and mine.”

  “The woman who is going to testify against you.”

  Her face twisted as if seized by something. “Yes. So now I don’t have Amanda or Bridget. My daughter, Layla, has been living with me. She just started her sophomore year at DePaul University, but she’s moved back with me because of this…” She raised a hand and waved it around the room. She looked down and smoothed her dotted dress, crossing her lean legs demurely. “Sometimes I wonder if it will be the last time we ever get to spend any time alone together.”

  The pain of her statement hit me. “I don’t want that to happen to you,” I said. “Let’s make some time to meet outside the courthouse. Either at night or this weekend.”

  She met my eyes, nodded and gave me a small smile. In that, I could see a tiny sign of life—the life Valerie Solara used to have.

  “Tell me,” I said, turning to Maggie when she returned and Valerie had left, “what do you want me to do tonight?” On a big trial like this, there was always so much to do—contact witnesses, draft motions, prepare direct exams and crosses, research issues that had arisen that day.

  “Do whatever you had planned,” Maggie said, lifting her trial bag, a big, old-fashioned, leather affair handed down from her grandfather. “I’ll give you transcripts to read to get you up to speed. But you could do that this weekend. We’ve got openings tomorrow, and I’m ready to handle that.” She furrowed her brow. “My grandfather was going to cross the detectives next week. I’ll get his notes.”

  “How did your mom say he’s doing?”

  “Same.” She slid some grand jury transcripts across the table to me and snapped the trial bag closed, a frown on her face. “I may have you handle one of the detectives on Monday.”

  “Really? Do you think I can? I’ve never crossed a detective before.”

  “Yeah, well, I think this detective in particular might be the best place for you to start.”

  “Why?”

  A pause. “It’s Vaughn.”

  It took a moment for the name to register, then my voice rang out. “Damon Vaughn?”

  The bailiff walked into the room, apparently to retrieve something from the judge’s desk. He stopped at the sound of my indignant voice, lifting an eyebrow.

  I turned back to Maggie and dropped my voice. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that the detective who made my life a living hell is testifying in your case.”

  “Well, before today I was going to let Martin massacre him on the stand, then tell you all the gory details. I didn’t think you would be trying this case with me.”

  I thought about Vaughn, a lean guy in his mid-forties. The first time I’d met him was at the office of my old firm after Sam disappeared. The next time was at the Belmont police station after my friend died and I realized that Vaughn suspected me of killing her. Usually, I hated no one. But I hated Vaughn.

  “That mother trucker,” I muttered.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “You’re still on your not-swearing campaign?”

  I nodded. I was trying to quit swearing. I didn’t like it when other people swore. The problem was it sounded so good when I did it. Still, I replaced goddamn it with Go
d bless you and Jesus Christ with Jiminy Christmas and motherfucker with mother hen in a basket. Maggie was forever mocking me about it. “But I think this requires the real thing,” I said. “That mother fucker.”

  “So you want a shot at crossing him?”

  I thought about it, then smiled a cold smile. “Let me at him.”

  8

  When Maggie and I left the courthouse, the city was hot and humid, and the air crackled with a Thursday-night near-weekend buzz.

  “I wish I had my Vespa here,” I said. I had driven a silver Vespa since law school. I found it cathartic and freeing.

  Maggie nodded at a sad-looking parking garage across the street. “I’ll drive you home.”

  I glanced up and down the street. “Can’t I get a cab?”

  “Not in this hood.”

  “Just drop me off somewhere I can get one.” Maggie lived on the south side, while I was Near North in Old Town. “You have too much to do tonight to be schlepping me around.”

  As we crossed the street, Maggie said, “Don’t you think it’s time to get rid of the Vespa?”

  My head snapped toward her. “Get rid of the Vespa?” My voice was incredulous.

  She looked at me with sort of an amused air. “Yes. Honey, I think it’s time.”

  “What do you mean, it’s time? Gas is expensive, and it’s an easy way to get around.”

  She gave me a look that was more withering than amused now. “How did you get to court this morning?”

  “The El.”

  “Then how did you get to 26th and Cal?”

  “Cab.”

  “And now I’m driving you home.”

  “You’re driving me to get a cab.”

  We entered the parking garage and took a stairway—one that smelled like urine—to the second floor. “Whatever,” Maggie said. “My real point is you are too old for a scooter.”