I focus on his tear-stained face. I know a confession isn’t coming, but there’s still that stray hope that wants to come home.
Do the right thing, you bastard, I say to myself silently. Tell them you killed her.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” he repeats, shaking his head. He wipes his face with his hands again. “I saw the car in front of me brake. Those red lights. I thought I saw something rebound off the front of the car. I thought … at most, I thought maybe it was a dog. I stopped near where I thought the car was when I saw the brake lights. I must have driven past or not far enough … I looked around the area. I never found anything. I swear, I pray and wish every day that I had looked harder. But at the time, I assumed the darkness was playing tricks on my eyes. So, I left. I drove away and I went to sleep, not thinking anything more about it.”
His gaze shifts over to our side of the courtroom. For a second, our eyes meet, but he quickly shifts to looking at the district attorney, Elizabeth Hardick, who is sitting in front of me, furiously writing notes on her legal pad.
“Mr. Douglas, would you have called 911 if you had hit this young woman?” Ramsey interjects.
“There’s no doubt in my mind,” Jeffrey says with a sudden stroke of conviction. “I wouldn’t have hesitated. The … the police brought up that I’ve crashed my car before and that I was drunk. That’s true. But it was three years ago. I’d just broken up with my fiancée, I’d gone to AA, and … it was a Good Samaritan that saved my life that day. His name was Greg Lowe and I’ve been waiting a long time to pay it forward. I know how much it means to me that Greg called an ambulance for me. I would have done it for anyone else without hesitating. I owe Greg that and I owe God that.”
I notice a woman in the jury box nod, like a church parishioner getting into the preacher’s sermon. She’s wearing a crucifix. If this case ends up with a hung jury, I’ll know she had something to do with it.
I can feel the bile rising in my throat. There’s a bad, bad feeling in the air.
“Thank you, Mr. Douglas. Your honesty is admirable.”
Ramsey sits down.
Elizabeth springs up to her feet and approaches the witness stand like it’s her prey.
“Mr. Douglas, you just mentioned your DUI. You talk about it like it’s your only DUI, but it’s not, is it? Did you break up with a fiancée every time before you were caught drunk driving?”
“I wasn’t drunk—”
“The state begs to differ. How many DUIs have you had?”
He blinks, all the grief disappearing from his eyes. For a second, I see the real him, the true him: a man who would run over twenty teenagers just so he wouldn’t have to call a taxi.
But then he bows his head, covers his mouth with his hand, and the repentant man is back. “Four.”
“Also, as we heard from Officer Maguire, your car was conveniently stolen right after this incident. Still haven’t found it yet, have you? In fact, you hadn’t even reported it stolen until after the police got involved with this case.”
“It was a clunker. It wasn’t worth getting the police involved.”
“This nightclub you were at—Black Glacier—you visit it frequently, don’t you? And the bartender recalls you being drunk there shortly before the hit and run. What do you think about that?”
Elizabeth taught me this method of cross-examining a defendant—volley them with all of the holes in their story. Even if they find an excuse for every one of your points, the jury will still sense that something doesn’t add up and they won’t like it if they think the defendant is repeatedly lying to them.
I glance over at the jury box. The woman with the crucifix is frowning as she stares at Jeffrey.
“I think the bartender must have mistaken me for someone else. I only bought one drink. I’m sure he’s just confused. They get hundreds of drink orders.”
I cover my mouth to hide my smile, but Elizabeth doesn’t hide her smirk. She’s about to tear the throat off her prey.
“You believe he was confused?” She steps closer to the witness stand. “Just like you were confused about the difference between a teenager’s body, a dead dog, and a figment of your imagination?”
“Objection. Argumentative,” Ramsey interjects.
“Sustained. Move along, Miss Hardick.”
She should have stayed on him about the bartender. The bartender recognized him in a photo lineup. I grip my hands together, looking over at the jury. They’re intensely focused on the exchange. Except for the youngest man, who is staring at another jury member with a low-cut shirt, but I’m certain he can be swayed by the others.
This isn’t going to lead to a hung jury. Jeffrey Douglas is going to prison and Jenny Dressler is going to get her justice.
At least, I really fucking hope so.
* * *
As we all return to our seats after the court recess, the judge adjusts his glasses.
“Will the jury foreperson please stand?” he asks. The oldest man on the jury takes to his feet. “Has the jury reached a unanimous verdict?
“We have, your honor,” the juror says.
“Please hand it to Deputy Richards.”
I watch the juror give the deputy clerk the verdict form. The clerk hands it to the judge. The judge reads it before handing it back to the clerk.
The deputy clerk clears her throat. “For the crime of vehicular manslaughter, the jury finds the defendant not guilty.”
My jaw drops. Chaos erupts.
The judge starts to bang his gavel. The sound of Jenny Dressler’s mother crying is excruciating over the chaos
