Sandrine's Case (9780802193520) Read Free Page A

your mother, so very . . . photogenic. My God, how much juicier can it get?”
    But in his opening argument Mr. Singleton had made it even juicier than various media outlets—both local and national—had already made it. In the most perfervid language of which he was capable, he’d described a deadly intrigue hatched in the hothouse atmosphere of a small town liberal arts college, with emphasis, of course, on “liberal.”
    That wasn’t all.
    I don’t read genre literature but I’d seen enough movies based upon those sorts of books to understand that into Coburn’s pristine, even pastoral setting Mr. Singleton had introduced a generous helping of noir. He’d pointed out Sandrine’s insurance policy, for example, a rather obvious nod to Double Indemnity. And, based on that first salvo, I’d guessed that as the trial moved forward he’d almost certainly describe me in such a way as to ensure that the jury would indeed hear the postman ring twice. He would build his case against me brick by brick. By the time of final arguments he would have painted the portrait of an arrogant and foolish man—by any standard an immoralist—who’d clumsily conceived and even more clumsily carried out a plot to kill his wife, his motivation being money, sex, or simple selfishness, take your pick. The jury would hear all this and, after they’d heard it, they would cheerfully send me to the Great State of Georgia’s heart-stopping, muscle-relaxing equivalent of the gallows.
    â€œSandrine Allegra Madison did not die of natural causes,” Mr. Singleton gravely intoned in the final line of his opening argument. “Sandrine Allegra Madison was murdered.”
    With that statement, delivered with a quite sincere show of quivering moral outrage, Mr. Singleton returned to the prosecutor’s table. He did not smile but I knew he was quite satisfied with his performance. He glanced at Morty as if to say, Top that, Jew boy!
    Opening Argument:
For the Defense
    I glanced at Morty, who does indeed look like an anti-Semitic version of a typical yeshiva boy with his curly black hair, slightly crooked nose, and thick black glasses. He nodded softly, assumed his “What, me worry?” pose, and rose slowly from his chair. Once on his feet, he drew in a deep, theatrical breath then strolled with a deliberate lack of urgency toward the plain wooden lectern that rested a few feet in front of the judge’s bench. A thoroughgoing actor, Morty gave every appearance of thinking it quite unnecessary to make any opening statement at all since nothing Mr. Singleton had said was actually worth addressing. His gait was unhurried, and to this leisurely pace he added an air of weariness by which he wished to convey to the jury that he shared their opinion that Mr. Singleton was a pathetic little wimp who had given them nothing but empty rhetoric by way of opening argument, and that he was absolutely certain they had found every single word of it a stupendous waste of time.
    â€œYour Honor,” he began once he reached the podium, “ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”
    He brought no notes with him, and so he looked only at the jury as he continued. Who needs notes, he was asking them with this ploy, when there is no evidence whatsoever against poor Sam Madison, a grieving widower now unaccountably charged with the murder of his beloved wife?
    â€œYou know, I’m sorry that you good people have to be seated in the jury box today,” he began, “because I’m sure you’d rather be at your jobs or at home with your families. And frankly, ladies and gentlemen, you shouldn’t be here, because before bringing a person to trial, the State is obligated not just to have evidence but to have evidence that is beyond a reasonable doubt. N o. Let me correct myself. This is a murder case. A capital case, if you can believe that, and, frankly, ladies and gentlemen, I