Sons of Fortune

“Good morning, counselor,” said Nat.

“Good morning, Nat,” replied Fletcher, looking up from a pile of papers, “I hope you’re prepared for a week of boredom while we select a jury.”

“Have you settled on a profile for the ideal juror?” Nat asked.

“It’s not quite that easy,” said Fletcher, “because I can’t make up my mind if I should select people who support you or me.”

“Are there twelve people in Hartford who support you?” asked Nat.

Fletcher smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor, but once the jury’s sworn in, I want you looking serious and concerned. A man to whom a great injustice has been done.”

Fletcher turned out to be right, because it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that the full complement of twelve jurors and two alternatives were finally seated in their places, following argument, counterargument and several objections being raised by both sides. They finally settled on seven men and five women. Two of the women and one of the men were black, five from a professional background, two working mothers, three blue-collar workers, one secretary and one unemployed.

“How about their political persuasions?” asked Nat.

“My bet is, four Republicans, four Democrats, and four I can’t be sure of.”

“So what’s our next problem, counselor?”

“How to get you off, and still grab the votes of the four I’m not sure of,” said Fletcher as they parted on the bottom step of the courthouse.

Nat found that, whenever he went home in the evening, he would quickly forget the trial, as his mind continually returned to Luke. However much he tried to discuss other things with Su Ling, there was so often only one thought on her mind. “If only I’d shared my secret with Luke,” she said again and again, “perhaps he would still be alive.”

46

On the following Monday, after the jury had been sworn in, Judge Kravats invited the state’s attorney to make his opening statement.

Richard Ebden rose slowly from his place. He was a tall, elegant, gray-haired man, who had a reputation for beguiling juries. His dark blue suit was the one he always wore on the opening day of a trial. His white shirt and blue tie instilled a feeling of trust.

The state’s attorney was proud of his prosecution record, which was somewhat ironic because he was a mild-mannered, church-going family man, who even sang bass in the local choir. Eden rose from his place, pushed back his chair, and walked slowly out into the open well of the court, before turning to face the jury.

“Members of the jury,” he began, “in all my years as an advocate, I have rarely come across a more open-and-shut case of homicide.”

Fletcher leaned across to Nat and whispered, “Don’t worry, it’s his usual opening—but despite this, comes next.”

“But despite this, I must still take you through the events of the late evening and early morning of February twelfth and thirteenth.”

“Mr. Cartwright,” he said, turning slowly to face the accused, “had appeared on a television program with Ralph Elliot—a popular and much respected figure in our community and, perhaps more importantly, favorite to win the Republican nomination, which might well have taken him on to be governor of the state we all love so much. Here was a man at the pinnacle of his career, about to receive the accolades of a grateful electorate for years of unselfish service to the community, and what was to be his reward? He ended up being murdered by his closest rival.

“And how did this unnecessary tragedy come about? Mr. Cartwright is asked a question as to whether his wife was an illegal immigrant—such is the stuff of robust politics—a question I might add that he was unwilling to answer, and why? Bec

ause he knew it to be the truth, and he had remained silent on the subject for over twenty years. And having refused to answer that question, what does Mr. Cartwright do next? He tries to shift the blame onto Ralph Elliot. The moment the program is over, he starts to shout obscenities at him, calls him a bastard, accuses him of setting up the question, and the most damning of all, says, ‘I will still kill you.’” Ebden stared at the jury, repeating the five words slowly, “I will still kill you.”

“Don’t rely on my words to convict Mr. Cartwright, for you are about to discover that this is not rumor, hearsay or my imagination, because the entire conversation between the two rivals was recorded on television for posterity. I realize this is unusual, your honor, but under the circumstances, I’d like to show this tape to the jury at this juncture.” Ebden nodded toward his table and an assistant pressed a button.

For the next twelve minutes, Nat stared at a screen that had been set up opposite the jury, and was painfully reminded just how angry he had been. Once the tape had been switched off, Ebden continued with his opening statement.

“However, it is still the responsibility of the state to show what actually took place after this angry and vindictive man had charged out of the studio.” Ebden lowered his voice. “He returns home to discover that his son—his only child—has committed suicide. Now all of us can well understand the effect that such a tragedy might have on a father. And as it turned out, members of the jury, this tragic death triggered a chain of events that was to end in the cold-blooded murder of Ralph Elliot. Cartwright tells his wife that after he has been to the hospital, he will return home immediately, but he has no intention of doing so, because he has already planned a detour that will take him to Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’s house. And what could possibly have been the reason for this nocturnal visit at two A.M.? There can only have been one purpose, to remove Ralph Elliot from the gubernatorial race. Sadly for his family and our state, Mr. Cartwright succeeded in his mission.

“He drives over uninvited to the Elliots’ family home at two A.M. The door is answered by Mr. Elliot, who has been in his study working on an acceptance speech. Mr. Cartwright barges in, punching Mr. Elliot so hard on the nose that he staggers back into the corridor, only to see his adversary come charging in after him. Mr. Elliot recovers in time to run into his study and retrieve a gun that he kept in a drawer in his desk. He turns just as Cartwright leaps on him, kicking the gun out of his hand, thus ensuring that Mr. Elliot has no chance of defending himself. Cartwright then grabs the pistol, stands over his victim and without a moment’s hesitation, shoots him through the heart. He then aims a second shot into the ceiling to leave the impression that a struggle had taken place. Cartwright then drops the gun, runs out of the open door and, jumping into his car, drives quickly back to his home. Unbeknownst to him, he left behind a witness to the entire episode—the victim’s wife, Mrs. Rebecca Elliot. When she heard the first shot, Mrs. Elliot ran from her bedroom to the top of the stairs and moments after hearing the second shot, she watched in horror as Cartwright bolted out of the front door. And just as the television camera had recorded every detail earlier in the evening, Mrs. Elliot will describe to you with the same accuracy, exactly what took place later that night.”

The state’s attorney turned his attention away from the jury for a moment and looked directly at Fletcher. “In a few moments’ time, defense counsel will rise from his place and with all his famed charm and oratory will attempt to bring tears to your eyes as he tries to explain away what really happened. But what he can’t explain away is the body of an innocent man murdered in cold blood by his political rival. What he can’t explain away is his television message, ‘I will still kill you.’ What he can’t explain away is a witness to the murder—Mr. Elliot’s widow, Rebecca.”

The prosecutor transferred his gaze to Nat. “I can well understand you feeling some sympathy for this man, but after you have heard all the evidence, I believe you will be left in no doubt of Mr. Cartwright’s guilt, and with no choice but to carry out your duty to the state and deliver a verdict of Guilty.”

There was an eerie silence in the courtroom when Richard Ebden resumed his place. Several heads nodded, even one or two on the jury. Judge Kravats made a note on the pad in front of him, and then looked down toward the defense counsel’s table.

“Do you wish to respond, counselor?” asked the judge, making no attempt to hide the irony in his voice.