Then Klaus rose to his feet. Posture stern, voice forceful, he said, “Klaus Pohlmann, of Pohlmann, Cunningham, Turk, Your Honor. May I present my second chair, Miss Nina Fox Reilly.”
“I know Ms. Reilly.” Salas inclined his head slightly, formally, not hinting whether he bore any lasting grudges based on their previous skirmish in court. Nina stood, then sat down, tucking her skirt carefully around her knees. Stacked neatly in front of her were the contents of her case: the motion files; the trial briefs, including the one she had whipped out ten days before; her laptop with a fresh battery; research pages downloaded from Lexis, the online research service; and her other lucky pen, labeled “Washoe Tribe Welcomes You.”
From the corner of her eye she surveyed the jury of twelve and two alternates. Madeleine Frey, wearing a stiff expression and a black suit, seemed prepared for a funeral but determined in advance not to weep, not a good omen, but the rest of the eight-woman, four-man jury seemed to be in excellent spirits, leaning forward, eyes bright, eager to do their duty.
Their expressions would change, Nina knew, as the trial went on. A couple of the men would reveal their opinions of the proceedings by dozing, eyes open. Some of the women’s faces would turn fretful, then later on sour, and would ask, Are you people aware that nobody is doing my laundry? And then there would be one or two eerie metamorphoses as a man or woman flamed up, determined to convict or acquit. The job of the rest of the jurors would become to withstand this fiery certainty when the time came, and to vote on the facts.
“Any new motions?” Salas said. With a loud answering squeak, Klaus pushed his chair back. Jaime held his pen at the ready, waiting for Klaus to move for a short continuance before the trial had commenced, as he had threatened.
Thick silence smothered the courtroom.
“No motions, then. Mr. Sandoval, your opening statement.”
Jaime put his pen down and rubbed his mouth as if he were giving it a lube job. Frowning at Klaus for the unexpected switcheroo, he stood up and and walked over to within a few feet of the jury box. Under his sober and appraising gaze, they straightened up.
“On behalf of my office and the State of California, I would like you to know that your services in the pursuit of justice in this courtroom are greatly appreciated,” he began. “I know, Judge Salas knows, that it isn’t easy for you to put aside all the important tasks of your lives for the next several weeks. Your work is the most important work of all here, and you have my grateful thanks for being willing to help us.”
He paused to let those so inclined pat themselves on the back.
“Christina Zhukovsky,” he said. “Forty-three years old, she was a woman respected by her peers, a woman of intelligence and conviction. She had lived in the Monterey Bay area all her life, and was a prominent member of the Russian-American community to which she belonged.” He looked down, then back up at the jurors, as if pausing for a swift, sincere prayer. “Now she is dead.”
Nina thought, Okay, I’m chilled, and that means the jury is, too. Jaime was known for concise but touching opening statements, a characteristic for which he had won praise back when they both attended the Monterey College of Law. She remembered that the defense’s opening statement was nonexistent at the moment. Fretting about that, she lost track of the next few sentences.
“We will prove,” Jaime was saying, “that between one and three A.M. on Friday night, April eleventh of this year, someone came to the door of Ms. Zhukovsky’s home. She let this person in, and together, they went into her kitchen. She was drinking a nightcap, a small glass containing brandy.
“We will show that the visitor attempted to grab Ms. Zhukovsky, and that she fought back-fought for her life, and managed to throw the glass at the attacker, cutting him. We will show that her bravery wasn’t enough. She was strangled. Dr. Susan Misumi, the pathologist who performed the autopsy on this unfortunate young woman, will tell you exactly how that occurred. It wasn’t instantaneous. Christina had perhaps two full minutes to know she was dying and to suffer the awful helplessness of being the victim of murder.”
Nina heard a sort of group exhalation behind her. Jaime Sandoval would never achieve the heroic stature of a Klaus Pohlmann, but he knew how to move the courtroom to care by invoking the spirit of a dying woman.
“We will show you that the killer had prepared and planned his actions. He stuffed Ms. Zhukovsky’s strangled body inside several plastic trash bags and wrapped them with laundry cord. He hid the body, and laid his disposal plans.”
Stefan hadn’t gone to the grave site and discovered Christina’s body until the following night. Since nobody knew where her body had been kept, since they had found no evidence of Christina’s body in Stefan’s car, Jaime was obscuring. Nina made a note to herself to emphasize the lack of proof that Stefan had hidden Christina’s body for a full day.
“The next night, Saturday, he transported her body to Cementerio El Encinal, Monterey’s municipal cemetery.” Jaime came closer, almost to the bar behind which the jury sat, and raised his voice.
“Where better to dispose of a body? No one would look in a grave,” he said. “He hoped she would disappear into the old dust of others who had the dignity of proper burial, maybe never missed. Maybe missed but never found.” He hesitated, to allow the jurors to consider how wrenching that would be. “His footprints were found at the scene. He dug up the grave of her own father, Constantin Zhukovsky, a man who had died more than twenty years before, and he placed her body in that open hole he had dug, and then he covered her up and stamped”-Jaime stamped his foot on the floor-“the earth down.” He lowered his voice again, so low the jurors in back leaned forward to hear. “He used his boots to spread the gravel around, to hide the body he had dumped. There was no grace, no decorum in her burial, no family there to grieve her properly, and no attempt made to restore peace to the grave he had just desecrated. He finished his dirty work.”
Klaus leaped to his feet, vigorous as a boy of twelve. “Objection!” he shouted.
Jaime, startled out of the spell he was casting, jerked his head around.
“I object! He is arguing his case, making poetical leaps instead of telling the jury what facts he intends to prove! Ridiculous-”
“Counsel, come forward to the bench,” Salas said. Nina began to rise but Klaus waved her back. Jauntily, he stepped up to the side of Salas’s dais, where Jaime already stood. They put their heads together and Salas hissed for a full minute. As the judge wound down, both Klaus and Jaime bobbed their heads like marionettes.
Klaus returned and sat down.
“What’d he say?” she whispered.
“He said if I interrupt again in an attempt to force a mistrial he would jail me,” Klaus whispered back, and offered her the small smile. “But I was right, was I not, Miss Reilly?”
“I’m not sure,” Nina said, voice hushed, courage uneven. “Klaus, please. Don’t do that again. He wasn’t that bad, and we don’t want Salas to get-”
“Oh, I promised to be a good little boy from now on,” Klaus whispered, “and I intend to keep my word. Salas doesn’t give second chances.” He chuckled. “Look at Sandoval, so upset to be tripped in the middle of his showy dance number.”
“The objection is denied,” Salas said, face impassive. “Counsel, you may continue.”
“Thank you,” Jaime said. Pointedly turning his back to Klaus, he approached the jurors again. Taking a deep breath, he glanced over some notes in his hand and continued. Unfortunately, when Klaus broke the spell for him, he had broken it for everyone. The emotionally laden graveyard burial had yielded to a procedural mood.
“Officer Jay Millman of the Monterey Police Department will testify regarding a traffic stop he made near that very same cemetery at about two o’clock on Sunday morning, the night of April twelfth into the thirteenth. He will identify for you the defendant over there, Stefan Wyatt, as the person driving the car in question. He will indicate to you what he found in plain view in that vehicle that led to the arrest of Stefan Wyatt for the murder of Christina Zhukovsky.”
Interesting style, Nina thought, momentarily diverted from the notes she was making for her own opening. Jaime was creating suspense. Those jurors were in for a nasty shock when they heard just what it was Stefan had in that duffel bag. She had seen Jaime in action before, and she saw the amount of care that had gone into this argument. She also understood that he was pushing the limits of what he could do in his opening statement.
She would do the same, once she had an opening statement.
Another pause, but one that held no nervousness. Klaus hadn’t permanently dented Jaime’s self-possession. Pacing, arms behind his back, Jaime’s lips whitened with the seriousness of his purpose.
“What Officer Millman saw falling out of a duffel bag in the back seat of the car driven by Stefan Wyatt, ladies and gentlemen, were bones, human bones. Those bones, we will show, were all that was left of a man named Constantin Zhukovsky after twenty-five years of peaceful rest.”
Well, Nina thought, Klaus was right. Jaime was getting more fanciful than he should, but she understood the impulse. He wanted to give the jurors a framework for thinking his way, and he also couldn’t resist exploiting the more bizarre facts of the case.
She made a note to herself. She came after he did, and that position held inherent strength. She needed to use it to mitigate his every harm.
“We will prove that the defendant declined to make any statement about how he could legitimately be in possession of human remains. A thorough search of nearby cemeteries undertaken by the Monterey Police Department resulted in the discovery of the disturbed grave of Mr. Zhukovsky, who had died in 1978, with the surface sloppily restored but not intact.” Jaime wet his lips, giving everyone a chance to hearken back to Stefan’s callousness.
“When that grave was reopened, Christina Zhukovsky’s body was discovered on top of Mr. Zhukovsky’s casket, which had been tampered with. We will present testimony from our forensics investigator, Detective Kelsey Banta, showing that Christina’s apartment was then searched and blood samples collected from pieces of glass found on the kitchen floor. We will show that subsequent DNA testing matched those blood samples with the blood of the defendant, Stefan Wyatt.” A few of the jurors turned to eyeball Stefan, who yanked at his necktie until Nina quietly suggested he stop.
“Detective Banta will testify as to another significant fact. When Mr. Wyatt was searched in the early morning hours of Sunday, April thirteenth, his pocket contained a medal. A small Russian military medal,” Jaime went on, showing them a size with his hands, “very old, a gold medal which had been buried with Constantin Zhukovsky.
“Very briefly, then, this is what we will prove to you in the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen. One: that Miss Zhukovsky was strangled by a killer who premeditated the crime. Two: that in fighting for her life Miss Zhukovsky wounded the defendant, who left his blood behind in her apartment. Three: that the defendant was stopped soon after the murder, driving away from the cemetery with remains from a grave in which her body had been buried. And four: that the defendant had in his pocket a medal stolen from the same grave.
“There are many other facts which we will prove in the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen. We will prove, for instance, that the defendant actually left his footprints at the grave site. But I have found that it is best to have in mind the ones which irrefutably must lead to a finding by you that this defendant killed this lady.
“This isn’t a complex case. The defendant was sloppy enough to drive around with his taillight out. All you need to remember right now are three facts about the defendant: bones were found in the back seat of the defendant’s car, an unusual medal was located in his pocket, and he left blood at Ms. Zhukovsky’s apartment.”
Jaime steepled his fingers and held them to his mouth. “It is a serious responsibility,” he said, “to sit in judgment on another human being. Yet you have accepted this awesome duty and I know you will carry it out with diligence and fairness. Thank you.”
The jurors, heads inclined toward Jaime Sandoval as if bent by a powerful wind, nodded, every last one of them. What a fine, upstanding prosecutor, their expressions told Nina. He’s only after fairness for this poor lady who that bastard-sidelong looks at Stefan-probably killed.
Somebody needed to correct that impression. Klaus, unruffled, ostentatiously examined his fingernails. Nina had been trying to write down Jaime’s main points, trying to keep the flood of anxiety down.
“Miss Reilly will make the opening statement on behalf of the defendant,” Klaus said.
“It’s customary for lead counsel in a trial to make the statement,” Salas said, thick eyebrows knitted over his reading glasses.
“We are an equal-opportunity defense team,” Klaus said, on his feet again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jaime asked.
But Klaus, now seated, was enjoying a sip of water. Nina rose and looked down at the notes she had taken while Jaime was making his statement, which seemed so grossly inadequate she had to look up again, swallow, and read them one more time.
Flowery greeting. Right. She introduced herself and Klaus, and presented Stefan, who looked seriously at the jury, biting his lip.
