The Plinko Bounce, page 23
Andy spoke for fifty minutes. Before sitting down, he told the jury—saving his strongest argument for last—he hoped they’d think back to his remarks on Wednesday. “If you recall,” he said from the middle of the courtroom, “I asked you to always hold the commonwealth’s case up against this critical question: What motive did my client have to harm a total stranger, and what motive did Cole Benson have to harm his wife? From everything you’ve learned, especially from Officer Hubbard, we now know Mr. Bullins had no reason to kill Alicia Benson. None. No reason to kick her or cut her throat from ear to ear. However, it’s clear Cole Benson, as demonstrated by his own admissions and actions, was extremely eager to move his girlfriend into a larger role. He showed you his unmistakable motive. He showed you why he’d have reason to be frustrated and enraged and violent—his wife had been an impediment for him and his mistress for months.”
Benson was seated in a folding chair diagonal to Morley, and he bowed, covered his face, and shook his head. Andy glimpsed him in the periphery, enraged and on the cusp of erupting, victimized and understandably furious, his pants leg hiked so there was a pale band of skin above his dress sock.
“The other consideration I asked you to keep in mind,” Andy continued, “is a focus on why murder happens. In my experience, two things are at the root of almost every killing.” He held up a finger. He paused. He looked directly at Cole Benson. “Sex.” He held up two fingers. He angled them to point toward the gallery. “And money. Here, ladies and gentlemen, you have them both. Cole Benson had a young mistress, and a divorce would be expensive. Not to mention embarrassing, since he’d no longer be the ‘great Mormon patriarch,’ to use Audrey Clayton’s term.”
“This is a purely circumstantial case, and the commonwealth wants you to arbitrarily convict my client for doing exactly what Cole Benson did. Two men entered the Benson house during the time Alicia was killed, but only her husband had multiple reasons to want her gone, and he needed a fall guy so he wouldn’t be dogged by an open murder case for years and years and scrutinized as a suspect once the cops discovered his mistress. On behalf of Mr. Bullins, we’d respectfully urge you to find him guilty of the crime he actually committed: obstruction of justice. Thank you.”
From the first syllable he uttered to the jury, Morley’s disposition was dramatically different. The flashy showman broke character and became earnest and genuinely invested. Even a glib operator like Morley was moved by Cole Benson’s plight and the case’s ugly reversal, and his hour with the jurors was raw and frank. Every person in the courtroom who experienced his stem-winder believed Peter Morley was desperately convinced of his truth, bone-and-marrow convinced, and his argument to convict didn’t come off as typical lawyer’s song and dance—it was personal and heartfelt, pained, and all the more powerful because of it.
His voice gritty, his words bathed in conscience, he explained Andy’s sleight of hand, the defense’s trickery and misdirection. “Essentially, a very clever attorney is asking you to find Cole Benson—a devout, good man, with a long history of community service—guilty of adultery, adultery he never concealed or denied. Mr. Hughes hopes to fool you into forgetting about an innocent dead woman because her husband made a mistake. Don’t put the wrong person on trial. Don’t lose track of why we’re here and let a stone-cold killer go free.”
Morley was so focused that he shed his usual affectations. He bore down on the jury, and he finished his argument with his belt buckle against the gallery’s railing, close and urgent. “This tale the defense has patched together is a cruel farce and full of gaps. Tell me, please: Have you heard any evidence of when and how and where this alleged agreement to help Damian Jr. was made? No, you haven’t. The only direct evidence you have on the subject is Mr. Benson’s denial under oath. Do you have any confirmation of this alleged plot other than a contrived email from a guilty man with nothing to lose? You do not. Does a man, despite a doctor’s diagnosis to the contrary, just suddenly up and decide, ‘hey, I have terminal cancer?’ No he doesn’t. Please don’t be deceived. Trust your eyes, the video, the blood on Mr. Bullins’s pants and your common sense. Don’t go looking for a solution to a legal problem that doesn’t exist. We’d ask you to return a murder conviction.”
Judge Leventis dismissed the two alternates and sent the remaining twelve jurors to start their deliberations at noon. The lawyers shook hands and exchanged well-wishes, and Morley, his vanity quickly revived, re-moussed his hair, pinned his own campaign button to his lapel, and gabbed with the press while Stella sat stoically at the commonwealth’s table, occasionally swiping her phone. A deputy brought in cases of bottled water and boxes of pizza for the jurors, staff and attorneys. Andy and Kellie snagged waters and two pizza slices and holed up in a basement storage room, an intricate, complicated spider’s web attached to the light fixture, water damage staining the far wall.
“No matter how this ends,” she told him, “you squeezed out every ounce you could for Bullins.”
Andy smirked. “I’m sure he’ll be appreciative.” He was eating his pizza from a flimsy, greasy paper plate, and he set it on a cardboard box of printer-ink cartridges stacked three high. He and Kellie were sitting in faded red cafeteria chairs. “I’m tired. I hope we can take a long vacation soon. Very soon.”
“I hope so too,” she said. “It’d be nice if we could go somewhere warm, like Nassau, but the pandemic has put the kibosh on most everything Caribbean.” She sipped her water. “Or Savannah would be fun. You could meet my sister. I love Jones Street—the tree-tangle tapestries with light tumbling through, the Spanish Moss, the slender row houses, the red-brick street, like the road to Southern Oz. Growing up, it was as if I lived in the grandest blanket fort ever built.”
“Well, I assume the plague has landed in Savannah as well, and December’s pretty blah in Georgia.” He grinned. “I thought you only lived there for a few years. You’re a Tidewater girl. Why the sudden nostalgia?”
“Yeah, fifth and sixth grade, but it’s such a marvelous city. You’d have a ball.”
“Honestly, I was in the market for something a little more prosaic. A modest hotel suite with a view, room service, a king bed, a fireplace, Guinness and Netflix. Last I saw Longmire and Henry Standing Bear, they were in quite a pickle. I have a full season left to watch.”
“Could we spring for champagne and mix in a Virgin River episode every now and then?”
“Definitely. Maybe we could see what’s available in Charlottesville. The Boar’s Head or—” A knock on the door interrupted him. “Damn, they can’t have a verdict—it’s barely been fifteen minutes.”
The door opened and Bailiff Howell stuck in his head, grinning. “I have a VIP visitor I figured you’d wanna see.” He beckoned behind him, and Noah came scampering into the room and hugged his dad, who lifted him off the ground and kissed his cheek.
“What’re you doing here?” Andy asked, his son still suspended.
“His mom snuck him in to watch the closin’ arguments,” Howell explained. “I think he was right proud of his dad.”
“You were awesome,” Noah said. “You’re already on YouTube.”
“Where’s Brooke?” Andy asked. He kneeled and put his son on the floor.
“She’s upstairs,” Howell replied.
“She’s welcome to hang out with us here in the cushy storage room if she’d like.” He eyed Kellie.
“Yeah,” she said. “More than welcome.”
“The man next to me,” Noah gushed, “well, sorta next to me ’cause there’s Covid, he said you were the best lawyer he’s ever seen.”
“I doubt that,” Andy demurred. “I’m not even the best lawyer in this room.”
“Hey, Kellie,” Noah said, slightly shy around her since they’d only seen each other twice before.
“Hey, Noah,” she answered. “I like the new haircut.”
Andy texted Brooke, and she joined them several minutes later, standing in the doorway but going no farther. After they visited for a while, she told her son it was time to leave, and he fussed about wanting to stay until the jury decided the case.
“Might be hours,” Andy explained. “Pretty boring. I’ll call you as soon as I hear, okay?”
“Okay. But I still wanna come to your house tonight like I’m supposed to. I don’t care if it’s late.”
“We’ll see. Thanks so much for being here. What a great surprise.” He peeked at Brooke. “Thanks to your mom as well.”
“Not every day your old man goes to work and it’s national news,” Brooke said.
“Even if it’s midnight, you promise you’ll call?” Noah asked.
“Midnight, no.” Andy smiled. “And it might be bad news. Never know. Give me a hug before you go.”
The boy gave him a high-five instead, and when Andy told him he loved him, he replied, “You too. Don’t forget to come and get me tonight.”
“He’s a determined little fellow,” Ralph remarked.
And then…they marked time. There wasn’t a peep from the jury by three o’clock, and at three thirty, the lawyers met and had some tentative discussions about a plea, a better offer for Bullins, but he wasn’t interested, just cackled and threatened, “Those sons of bitches are gonna get what’s coming to them.”
Andy sighed and slumped. “Just when I thought you couldn’t be any worse, you find a new bottom,” he muttered.
At four thirty, the jury sent a note inquiring about a phrase in one of their instructions, and Judge Leventis brought them into the courtroom and patiently explained the words and the law. Mr. Morris, now dressed in a tasteful Christmas sweater, thanked her and told her the twelve of them were enjoying each other’s company as much as masked folks in a tight space possibly could. Several jurors chuckled, and the lady next to Morris mentioned something about “new friends.”
“They seem pretty jolly,” Vikram remarked to Andy. “Probably a positive sign for us.”
“I quit trying to predict juries years ago,” Andy replied.
At six o’clock, the jurors asked for a dinner break, and they were loaded into a small school bus and driven to a local sub shop, SUBstitution, where three deputies babysat them.
At eight fifteen, Ralph opened the door to the storage room and announced: “They have a verdict, Andy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Andy and Kellie met Vikram on the stairs, and they hurried into the buzz and hubbub and anticipation, spectators hastily taking their places, cops ringing the room, laptops opening, cameras beginning to stir, the clerk arranging files. Bailiff Howell, his voice resonant, his hands clasped behind him, announced court was in session, and everyone stood as Judge Leventis walked to her seat on the bench, poised and stern. “We’re back in session and on the record,” she said. “Please bring out the jury.”
“We got this,” Damian whispered. He touched Andy’s elbow. “Don’t worry, my man.”
The twelve men and women, somber and inscrutable, filed into the gallery, and Mr. Morris handed the verdict form to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge. She silently read the decision, her reaction a blank, obscure, revealing nothing.
“Please rise, Mr. Bullins,” she directed him. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, listen as your verdict is announced. ‘We, the jury, find the defendant, Damian Bullins, guilty of obstruction of justice.’ Signed by Hobart Morris as foreperson, dated December nineteenth, twenty-twenty. So say you all?”
The jurors nodded, and most responded with yeses. The judge polled them individually, and each panel member confirmed this was his or her decision. Damian located his new lady friend among the spectators, looked at her, smiled, and tapped his heart with an open hand. He hugged Andy, who struggled not to appear repulsed and wedged his forearm against Bullins’s chest to separate them. Nothing else mattered now. The maximum sentence available to the jury was twelve months of misdemeanor time, which required only six months of actual incarceration, and Damian Bullins would be set free by midnight, home for the holidays.
Next, the jury received Damian’s abysmal criminal record, brief evidence and subdued comments from the lawyers. They returned to the law library for deliberations and swiftly agreed on a twelve-month sentence. Morley vanished and sacrificed Stella to read a short statement to the media, disingenuously thanking the people of Patrick County for delivering the commonwealth a guilty verdict.
Hobart Morris and eight of his fellow jurors agreed to a one-time meeting with the press, after which they’d have nothing else to say, ever. The other three jurors, eager to fade away, left together in a hurry, arms linked, eyes downcast, accompanied by a cop, and kept mum. Wearing masks, five men and four women stood in a semicircle in the law library and answered questions.
Andy watched the entire interview online the next morning, and he expected the jurors to feel scammed and snookered, angry because they’d been hoodwinked by a slippery lawyer and a court system that diced up the truth and allowed them only shards and tidbits. He’d observed their expressions during the sentencing, seen their reactions when they’d learned about Bullins’s criminal history, the prior felonies and crimes of violence. Upon hearing from the judge the most severe punishment for obstruction of justice was twelve months in jail, a young man, a college kid taking virtual classes from his parents’ home, said, under his breath, sadly bewildered, “Wow.”
Oddly though, by the end of their first-and-last national interview, these nine people were anything but disappointed or publicly dissatisfied with their verdict. Damian had confessed and was high on meth and was a racist who’d directed the N-word at the victim, the reporters kept repeating, and the more they politely questioned and prodded, or sympathetically inquired as to regrets, the more the jurors dug in and defended their decision.
“So what if he confessed?” a juror blurted. “He was supposed to take the blame, wasn’t he?”
“It ain’t our fault we didn’t hear nothing about his confession and him using bad language or the drugs,” another juror volunteered. “We made the correct decision based on what we were shown. Maybe you should be complainin’ to the judge.”
A welder from Woolwine said, “Reasonable doubt, like the judge told us. How was this not reasonable doubt?”
“I read about the alleged confession in the papers,” a woman responded. A retired school teacher who’d moved to the county from Chicago, she’d been a conscientious note-taker. “But the judge and lawyers told us what we’d seen before coming to court didn’t count, to forget it, so I did, and hey, you can’t believe half of what you hear in the media these days anyhow.”
“Well,” Morris protested, the last comment before they all left, ill and defiant, “isn’t a man like Damian Bullins, a criminal, the kind of person you’d hire to help you do this? His record helps prove our point, okay? Saints don’t get hired to cover up a murder. Yeah, I wish we could’ve given Bullins more time, but we couldn’t. We gave him the max, the twelve months. We went through the case with a fine-tooth comb, and everybody agreed. There’s somethin’ real hinky about Mr. Benson and his story. He’s an odd duck. Why would he give money to a kid he doesn’t know if he barely has any relationship with his dad? That check proves they’d talked and discussed things, way more than you’d have dealings and conversations with some basic hired-hand stranger.”
The jurors exited the library with the press still raining questions, and as the bailiff and several cops escorted them to the parking lot and their vehicles, cameras and reporters in tow, the night black and freezing, Morris hesitated on the sidewalk and faced the newswoman and tape recorder closest to him. “Occurs to me, we did our job and followed the law, and maybe you people oughta start focusing on the bigger picture in this murder situation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sunday evening, Andy and Kellie arrived at The Greenbrier in West Virginia, where they stayed in a cottage not far from the main building. Despite the pandemic, the resort was festive with lights and decorations. A huge Christmas tree sparkled at the entrance, and oodles of sleighs, candy canes, nutcrackers and snowmen illuminated the grounds, as bright as could be. Inside, red bows and poinsettias bedecked the lobby and hallways. Their cottage was pet friendly, so Patches made the trip, and the concierge arranged for both Longmire and Virgin River to be streamed on the television. The view wasn’t much, but there was a fireplace and a king bed and room service, and they only left their lodging to bundle up for walks with the dog and a single trip to the fancy formal dining room for a meal, coat and tie required.
Monday at dusk, they were buzzed, close to drunk, and they sat on their winter porch underneath a wool blanket, the holiday lights starting to come alive as the sky drained, and they sidled up to talk of love. He said it first, then she said it back, and they sealed the bargain with Veuve Clicquot straight from the bottle, and the next morning, as soon as they were awake, she made him repeat it, sober and groggy, made him tell her he loved her in case he’d just been champagne-struck the night before.
Driving home to Henry County on Tuesday, they broached the possibility of moving in together, living at Andy’s, and he suggested, after several quiet, contented miles, right before the speed limit dropped at Fincastle, she might want to consider bringing over some of her clothes and so forth in January, but they’d have to stay separate whenever Noah visited, at least for a while.
“Sure. Yes. I’d like that,” Kellie said. “I think we should. A lot of changes are coming our way. Let’s hope we don’t strangle each other.”
•••
The office was open until noon on December 23, and Andy was at work early, eight o’clock, dressed in jeans and a chamois shirt. Patches was quickly in his favorite spot, sprawled beside a corner register, enjoying the heat. Andy and Kellie had turned off their phones, avoided the news, and made themselves scarce for three blissful, oblivious days. A tall stack of pink messages was on his desk and a yellow “SEE ME” Post-it note from Vikram was stuck to his chair. He’d brought a thermos of coffee from home, and he was unscrewing the lid when he heard loud, insistent banging on the locked front glass door. He peered out from his office, and through the door’s stenciled letters and numbers, he recognized Damian Bullins and his bedraggled fiancée, Misty. “Damn,” he said. He considered ignoring them but realized he’d have to deal with Bullins eventually and might as well put the shit show behind him as soon as possible.
