“You called your husband’s boss. Why didn’t you call 911 right away if the situation was as bad as you are saying?”
“I thought I could handle it with him helping me. That’s what I believed.” Luz is starting to lose energy, her anger flattening to surliness. “I never meant for this to happen. I never thought it would end up like this.”
“Like what?”
Luz gestures to the jury, the judge, then the whole courtroom in a widening sweep of her hand. “I never thought I would be here.”
“You never thought anyone would blame you, isn’t that right?”
“No one should blame me.” Luz has crossed her arms again, is staring at Shauna defiantly.
“But you blame yourself,” Shauna says softly, “don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“When you are being honest, you do.”
“I’m not lying,” Luz says, stubborn as a cornered child.
“Well, you weren’t lying yesterday. Do you remember what you said?”
“Not really. Basically, I was out of my mind. Having to relive that night—” Luz breaks off. “You have no idea. You have no idea,” she repeats, “what I have had to go through.”
Shauna nods sorrowfully as she looks at the jury.
“What does mi culpa mean?”
Luz’s eyes get hard. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I am asking you about what you said. To these twelve people. Twenty-four hours ago. What do the words mean, in English?”
Will gets to his feet, putting his hands on the table to steady himself. “Objection, this is badgering. She’s answered the question.”
“No,” Dars says, “she hasn’t.” He says, slowly and deliberately, “Mrs. Rivera Hollis, what do the words mi culpa mean?”
Luz stares stonily back. “My fault.”
When it is finally, horribly, and irrevocably over, Abby turns to Will. Having tried and failed to get her to look at him throughout, to connect with her in any way, he now finds he can barely meet her eyes.
“You did this to her,” she says.
Friday, March 23, 2007
12:30 p.m.
United States District Court
for the Central District of California
When the clerk calls the case after the lunch break, Will is already standing at the lectern. Abby keeps her eyes on Dars as he strides up to the bench, black robe flowing.
“Alright,” Dars says when he has taken his seat, “we are in court outside the presence of the jury, but apparently in the presence of half of Los Angeles.” He smirks at the packed gallery. “All of you media people stayed here for the spellbinding experience of listening to us settle the jury instructions.” He shakes his head at their collective stupidity and shifts his attention to Will and Shauna. “I’ve got the twelve of them back there waiting on us—” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the deliberation room “—and I don’t intend for this to take long. I will instruct them, you will give your closing arguments, and they will start their deliberations this afternoon.
“Now, my practice is to give the standard Ninth Circuit jury instructions. Ms. Gooden has been kind enough to submit the instructions that apply to this case; I’ve looked them over and they seem appropriate. I take it the defense has had a chance to look through them, as well?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Will looks at him steadily.
“Do you have any objections to the instructions proposed by the government?”
“We do, Your Honor.”
Dars raises his eyebrows at this unpleasant surprise. “And what is your objection?”
“We would ask that the instructions on the lesser included offenses be removed. The government charged Mrs. Rivera Hollis with first-degree murder. That has been the government’s theory—their only theory. They aren’t entitled to have the jury instructed on anything else—not second-degree murder, not manslaughter, not criminally negligent homicide. They haven’t offered any evidence to prove those crimes.”
Abby watches as Shauna’s eyes widen. She stands. “Your Honor, it is standard practice to give these instructions. The law is clear. The government needs to show only a scintilla of evidence for these lesser crimes to apply.” She holds up her hand, forefinger and thumb less than an inch apart. “And furthermore, it is beneficial to the defendant because—”
“They can’t even meet the scintilla standard,” Will interrupts. He turns to Shauna. “And with all due respect, the government has no business telling me what is in the best interests of my client.”
Abby’s eyes move to Dars. “Well,” he says to the packed gallery, “I guess you are getting a show after all.” He turns to Shauna. “Madame Prosecutor, are you intending to argue any theory to the jury other than first-degree murder?”
Shauna shakes her head. “Mr. Ellet isn’t entitled to a preview of the government’s closing argument and neither is the court.”
“That’s the wrong answer.” Dars winces slightly, as if in sympathy for Shauna’s misstep. “Luckily for you, I am a big believer in second chances. So let’s try this again. Are you going to argue any theory to the jury other than first-degree murder, yes or no?”
There is a pause and then Shauna says, “No.”
“I thought not.”
Shauna says, “Your Honor, this is sandbagging. And it is reversible error to grant their request. I am asking for the rest of the day to research this issue so that I have a chance to submit a brief arguing—”
“There will be no delay of this trial,” Dars says. “I know the law.”
“Your Honor, if I may,” Will begins.
“You may not, Mr. Ellet. Sit down. We all know who’s running the show here.” Dars turns to Abby. “This has your fingerprints all over it. The whole trial, you’ve been the puppet master pulling on the strings, but not every puppet performed the way she was supposed to, did she?” He looks meaningfully at Luz, whose hand is on the cross at her throat, then back at Abby, his eyebrows raised. “So here you are, with this eleventh-hour stunt.” He leans as far over the bench as he can, his eyes
