Time of Departure Read Free Page A

to do it.”
    â€œI thought Whitman was a special case. If we start hiring jury consultants for every trial, it’s going to become a budget issue.”
    â€œI’m not saying every case. But definitely the big ones. Look at it this way: What we spend on experts, we could save on hung juries and retrials.”
    â€œI don’t know.” Sam sighed. “Maybe I’m just getting too old for this job.”
    I squeezed his arm. “Come on, now. Don’t you quit on me!”
    *   *   *
    I suppose I could have warned Stirling McCandless about what I was planning to do before he got up on his hind legs and made that big tear-jerking pitch to Judge O’Connor. But one of the first things Sam Grayson had taught me was never to interrupt my opponent when he was making a mistake. And … I wanted to hear McCandless say it. I wanted to hear him repeat the lies his client, Barbara Hauser—former jewelry chain owner and now convicted felon on her own plea—had told him.
    So when we entered the courtroom earlier, I’d just nodded to McCandless and taken my seat.
    â€œâ€”and so, Your Honor,” he was saying as he wrapped up a thirty-minute waterspout of distortions, “the regrettable facts are clear: My client is deeply remorseful for the financial loss she has caused to each and every one of her former employees. Although she would dearly wish to make good on those very substantial losses, her grave physical condition makes it virtually impossible for her to pay restitution in the near term, and as the medical reports we have filed with the Court show, she is in no position to serve a custodial sentence of any length, or at all.” He took a long overdue breath and then resumed his bleat. “The traffic accident was not her fault and, coming on the heels of her arrest and public humiliation, can only be viewed today—in these proceedings—as a substantial mitigating factor.”
    Stirling laid a theatrically comforting hand on his client’s shoulder.
    â€œJudge, in these highly regrettable circumstances, a suspended sentence, with a lengthy probationary period, is really the Court’s only viable option.”
    Stirling’s client sat slumped in her wheelchair, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She looked utterly pathetic. From the moment her daughter rolled her into the courtroom, her posture of defeat and hollow-eyed despair had been on constant display for all to see.
    The judge gazed down at the defendant. Plainly, he was affected by what he had heard. The defense had drawn the best judge in the circuit for their case. Evan O’Connor was every inch a gentleman jurist: quietly spoken, even tempered, and scrupulously fair. He was also inclined to err on the low side when it came to sentencing in cases of nonviolent crime. Stirling McCandless knew that, and so did I.
    But I knew something else about Judge O’Connor.
    He could not tolerate a liar.
    The judge’s blue eyes turned to me. “Does the State have a reply?”
    â€œYes, Your Honor. In fact, we have a witness to call.”
    McCandless leapt to his feet. “We object, Your Honor! We’ve had no notice of any witnesses to be called at this hearing!”
    â€œThat is correct, Your Honor. I will explain.”
    â€œWho is this witness?” O’Connor asked.
    â€œYour Honor is familiar with Mr. Edward Carlyle, from our office.” I gestured toward the tall, heavyset man who was sitting behind me. One of the first African-Americans to head up an ATF Field Division, Eddie had joined our office after his retirement from the Bureau. He worked just as tirelessly for us as he had for the feds.
    â€œWhy should I agree to hear evidence from the State Attorney’s Chief Investigator at this stage of the proceedings?”
    Eddie reached into an inner pocket of his jacket, removed two DVDs, and passed them to me. I checked the labels, selected