The Small Murder

“My client wishes to enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honor,” said Brian Henry, the court-appointed attorney for Gavin Small. The lawyer unbuttoned his ill-fitting suit and sat down beside his client.

“Are you sure?” replied Judge Milton.

Unperturbed, Henry stood, buttoned his jacket, and said, “We are, Your Honour.” He unbuttoned his jacket and took his seat once more.

The judge raised his considerable eyebrows, sighed, and announced that the state’s number one prosecutor, Carlton Lancaster may proceed.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” the dashing lawyer said. 

Brian Henry admired and loathed the pinstriped navy suit and tan wingtips of his combatant as Lancaster strode to the twelve peers that comprised Mr Small’s jury. Lancaster gave them a comforting smile and Henry scowled.

“Good morning,” Lancaster said through teeth as straight and white as piano keys.

Henry thought he looked even more like a television evangelist than usual.

The jurors looked at each other to see who would respond and how. Evidently, it was not clear to them if talking directly with members of the proceedings was permitted.

“There is no need to be nervous,” Lancaster assured them. “You only hold a man’s life in your hands.” He smiled again and the jurors smiled back.

Henry scribbled a note and pursed his lips. Mr Small leaned in and Henry allowed him to see his note, saying: I hate this guy.

Lancaster continued, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we’ve all seen courtroom movies. We all know the scene: the hotshot lawyer, the airtight case. The defendant with no money, no alibi, no chance. And the only person who can save him from spending the rest of his life in jail is the bumbling public defender who’s just there for his paycheck. Then, in the spirit of Hollywood, the defendant wins.” Lancaster raised his hands to the heavens. Then he dropped them to the railing of the jurors’ gallery with a thud that reverberated through the chambers. “But that’s Hollywood,” he said sternly. “This is real life. A real woman’s life was taken, and a real man must be held accountable.”

Lancaster clasped his hands behind his back and paced; sombre energy fell upon the room as if he had paid the cleaner to dim the lights on his cue.

“Make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen. What you are about to hear are two tales of the same murder. One will make your blood boil. A gripping account of betrayal; of heartbreak; of tragedy visited upon a man who has suffered unimaginable pain. The other, ladies and gentlemen, is the truth.”

Lancaster pointed to Brian Henry who shrunk under his righteous gaze.

“Mr Henry here will tell you a fantastic story today. An intriguing tale of a mystery man; a stalker lurking in the shadows. A night the defendant spent alone in a bar, conveniently without any witnesses, and returned home to find his wife slain. Stabbed in the heart with her favourite Japanese chef’s knife. And whose fingerprints do you suppose were found on the murder weapon? Gavin Small’s. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, there was no mysterious stalker. There was no affair. There was no trip to a bar during the hours of 11pm and 1am on the 15th of June. Mr Small, in a fit of jealous rage over an imaginary affair, murdered his wife of thirteen years then did everything to avoid being caught.” Lancaster paused. He bowed his head low and nodded to himself. “Yes, indeed, ladies and gentlemen. We ask of you a grave undertaking. But you must not hesitate in your duty. For it is you who will provide justice for Mrs Small and her family. Do not be swayed by Mr Small’s meek appearance. Behind his glasses and mild-mannered temperament is a cold-hearted killer. A man that must never again see the light of day but through the iron bars of Blackwater Federal Penitentiary.” After a suitable pause, his words hanging in the air, Lancaster turned away from the jurors with practised gravitas and winked at Brian Henry as he paced back to his side of the courtroom. He sat and accepted the muted gestures of support from the gallery. Water was poured, notes were scribbled and passed. Judge Milton, if Henry was not mistaken, looked upon Lancaster with something resembling fatherly pride.

Chairs creaked and papers shuffled. A chuckle came from the prosecution’s bench, occupied now, Henry noticed, by the latest of Lancaster’s pretty assistants. 

Brian smelled the dust of the old courtroom and thought about the high school gym where he’d been thoroughly and regularly beaten up by jocks. Jocks like Lancaster; Henry naively thinking as he was pummeled, I’ll have my vengeance. But now he got beaten up in this room, too.

“Mr Henry,” said a distant voice.

Mr Small tapped Henry on the elbow and the lawyer stirred. 

“Mr Henry?” said Judge Milton, clear as a bell. “Are you ready to proceed?”

“We are, Your Honour,” Henry said. He stood, buttoned his jacket, and walked to the jurors. He felt, as far as jurors went, that these ones looked particularly unfriendly. He wondered if they’d eaten breakfast.

“Good morning,” he said. The jurors remained stone-faced. One, Brian noticed, scratched her nose with her middle finger in what he interpreted as a deliberate act of hostility. “Have you had breakfast?” he asked. He winced at his tepid opening statement and looked down to avoid the jurors’ faces. Henry saw he had buttoned his jacket askew and corrected its alignment.

“I only ask about your breakfast,” he said as his mind scrambled to bring some semblance of the authority Lancaster commanded, “because I believe you will feel sick to your stomach once you hear what my client has been through. You will be repulsed at the injustice. Nauseated at his presumption of guilt. You will puke at the…at the…well, you will be very upset indeed about what has happened to my client, Mr Small.”

Brian Henry walked back to his desk and took a sip of his water. If anyone was feeling ill in the courtroom, it was not the jurors. Mr Small looked up at his lawyer for assurance that his next defensive salvo would be more effective. In a moment of client solidarity, Henry hoped for the same.

He returned to the jury and said, “In this country we abide by a sacred rule: innocent until proven guilty. Until proven guilty. Mr Small has been afforded no such luxury.” He paused for effect but, more so, to think of something else to say. “It is true that more often than not, the police will rightly question the husband first in matters of a woman’s murder. Indeed, Mr Small was the very person who invited the police into his home. He called 9-1-1 himself upon the discovery of his wife’s lifeless body. And it was Mr Small, the husband, who cast doubts into the minds of officers when he was, as Mr Lancaster described it, ‘conveniently’ at a bar by himself for three hours, despite displaying no outward signs of having been drinking. It is, in fact, well-known that Mr Small does not drink, so why would he have gone to a bar at all? Especially until 1 o’clock in the morning. Why indeed,” Brian said and walked to Lancaster’s bench. He looked at the notes being passed between Lancaster and his attractive assistant. Lancaster made an attempt to shield the missives but Brian made out an invitation to join Lancaster for a drink in an hour.

An hour? Henry fumed at the assumption that his defence was so weak that the prosecution would be sipping victory cocktails by lunchtime. 

Henry addressed the jury again. “Mr Lancaster suggested that your duty here today is a grave one. And indeed it is. But Mr Lancaster himself can tell you that there is no duty on God’s green Earth so grave as that of a defendant fighting for his life against baseless, spurious, and entirely unprovable charges without, I might add, a scrap of evidence.” 

Henry had been insufficiently prepared for the delivery of his last sentence and it petered out to a croak with his lack of breath. He sucked in a lungful of air and became quite light-headed. He found himself thinking of Lancaster’s assistant. Of her flirtatious rapture at the hotel bar as Lancaster told stories of his courtroom conquests; their inevitable retirement to the rooms upstairs where all the bigshot lawyers took their mistresses. The rooms that cost more than his entire month’s wage for a single night.

Then, in a moment of divine epiphany, perhaps brought on by a mixture of an oxygen-starved brain, no food, and four fingers of breakfast scotch, it dawned on him.

Henry collected himself and addressed the jury with vigour.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is no doubt questions should be raised about the whereabouts of my client, Mr Small during those hours. There is no doubt, the fingerprints on the murder weapon are incriminating. There is no doubt, it is strange for a man who doesn’t drink to visit a bar for three hours. But these are not the facts. These are circumstantial events. Your duty in this courtroom is to decide beyond reasonable doubt, is Gavin Small—again—beyond reasonable doubt; absolutely, without question, responsible for the murder of his wife?” Henry felt the surge of adrenaline he’d only heard about in theory and witnessed in movies when a lawyer knows he is onto something.

“As Mr Lancaster said earlier, you will hear two tales of a murder. He also said one of them will be fiction. But that is not for you to decide. You are to decide if Mr Lancaster’s version of events is beyond a reasonable doubt. And once you hear what I have to say today I have no doubt whatsoever that you will have no choice but to acquit Mr Small.”

Brian Henry paced to his bench and took a seat. Mr Small took the pen and scribbled a note on the yellow legal pad: What happened?

Henry simply lifted his hand in assurance and settled back into his chair.

“The prosecution will call its first witness,” said Judge Milton.

Lancaster stood and said, “The prosecution calls Mr Rodney Barton.”

A broad-shouldered man in a white shirt and a thick, trimmed beard swore on the Bible and took his seat in the witness box. Lancaster approached the man, greeted him with his signature bedside manner and said, “Mr Barton, would you tell the court what it is you do for a living?”

“Well, sir, I manage the Sea Cow.”

“The Sea Cow is a bar, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

After establishing the owner’s history of service, his standing in the community, and his impeccable health and safety record, Lancaster asked if he was working on the night in question.

“And were you on duty between the hours of 11pm and 1am that night?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“And do you recognise the man sitting at the bench over there? The man who claims to have been sitting at your bar for three hours on the 15th of July?”

“No, sir. I do not.”

Brian Henry looked to the gallery and the nods of approval as if the judge were delivering, with every point awarded to the prosecution, a nail into Mr Small’s gallows.

“No further questions, Your Honour,” said Lancaster.

Judge Milton said, “Your witness, Mr Henry.”

Henry stood, buttoned his suit, and said, “How long have you been in this courtroom, Mr Barton?”

“Ah, well I’d say nearly three hours now, sir.”

“Nearly three hours. And how many people would you say were in your bar on the night of the 15th?”

“I couldn’t say exactly.”

“Rough guess,” said Mr Henry. “Five? Twenty? A hundred?”

“More like twenty?”

“Let’s say there were twelve. Would that be a fair estimate?”

“I suppose,” the barman said, squinting with suspicion.

“I’d like you to close your eyes for a moment, Mr Barton.”

The barman looked at the judge who simply shrugged. The man closed his eyes.

Henry continued, “Now you said you’ve been in the courtroom for three hours. I’d like you to describe the member of the jury sitting on the top row, three in from the left if you please.”

Rodney Barton pressed his eyes tighter still and pursed his lips. At last he said, “I can’t, sir.”

“Very well, Mr Barton. What colour tie is Mr Small wearing today?”

“Red?”

“Let the record state,” said Henry with fire in his belly, “that the defendant is not wearing a tie.”

Time and again, the prosecution called into question Mr Small’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. Time and again, Brian Henry countered the accusation that no one saw Mr Small at his alleged location because Mr Small was so forgettable in his appearance.

“Your Honour,” said Henry at last. “Are we to condemn every plain man or woman to life in prison simply because no one remembers them being somewhere they said they were? Are we to lock up every person on the suspicion of murder because they have no friends to vouch for their whereabouts?”

No doubt frustrated that he was an hour past his estimated time for drinks with his assistant, Lancaster launched into the juicier arguments. When he called Mr Small to the stand, the restless gallery showed signs of settling. For now, surely, was the decisive moment. It was only a matter of time before they could leave the court, justice served, honour restored for their murdered Mrs Small.

“And what of the knife?” Lancaster bellowed. “The murder weapon found with your fingerprints on it? Your bloodstained shirt?”

“Who among us,” rebutted Mr Henry, “When faced with a loved one—a knife driven into their heart—would not try to render aid?”

Lancaster said, “Why did you go to the bar that night, Mr Small, if you don’t drink?”

“I found a note—”

“Ah, yes,” Lancaster interrupted. “The mysterious note. Please continue, Mr Small.”

“I found a note in the mailbox saying ‘meet me at the Sea Cow at 11’. So I went there to find out who she was supposed to meet. I stayed until 1 before realising I didn’t know what date they were supposed to meet.”

“When you came back, that’s when you found your wife murdered with your fingerprints on the weapon.”

“Objection, Your Honour,” said Mr Henry for no other reason than he felt he hadn’t offered an objection all day.

“On what grounds?” said Judge Milton.

“Badgering the witness?”

“Do you feel badgered, Mr Small?”

“Not particularly, Your Honour.”

“Overruled,” said the judge.

When it was Brian Henry’s turn to question Mr Small, he asked if his client was feeling alright; did he feel uncomfortable with the questions being asked of him?

“No, sir,” Mr Small replied.

“And that’s because you’ve done nothing wrong, isn’t it Mr Small?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“But you can see how a jury might consider the evidence against you quite overwhelming, can’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And that’s why you’ve hired the best lawyer money can buy, isn’t it?”

Mr Small furrowed his brow. “Sir?”

“You murdered your wife. The murder weapon has your prints all over it and you have no alibi for your whereabouts. On top of that, you believe your wife has been having an affair behind your back.”

“Yes,” Mr Small replied, unsure.

“Open and shut case, Mr Small. I’d say you’re going to the electric chair. Even then, you don’t stump up the cash for a decent lawyer?”

“No, sir.”

“I’m confused,” said Mr Henry. “Why not get someone like Mr Lancaster?”

“I can’t afford him.”

“Can’t afford him? But your wife’s family seems to be able to?”

“I believe he offered pro bono. She had worked for Mr Lancaster.”

“Had worked?” Henry asked. “Past tense?”

“She was a bookkeeper. She quit after finding some, what she called ‘irregularities’. Laundering money, she thought. But she went back to work there a week later. I asked what happened and she said it was all a misunderstanding. Then, I saw someone in our backyard one night. When I found the note, I thought it must be her lover.”

As Mr Small broke down, Henry stalked the courtroom.

“Do you remember what the note said, Mr Small?”

“Absolutely. I stared at it for hours.”

“And what did it say?”

“Meet you for a drink? Sea Cow, 11pm.”

“And did you recognise the handwriting?”

“Objection, Your Honour,” Lancaster called out. “Is the accused a handwriting expert?”

“Overruled,” said Judge Milton. “Answer the question.”

“No, I did not,” replied Mr Small.

“Would you recognise the handwriting if you saw it again?”

“I’d know it anywhere.”

“Where is the note now?”

“I ... gave it to you?”

Henry retrieved a plastic bag with a note and presented it as exhibit B and placed it next to the bloody knife.

Henry marched to Lancaster’s desk and tore the note from his legal pad.

“Is this the handwriting you saw?”

Mr Small’s face was ashen.

“Mr Small?” Henry said.

“I-It’s the same.”

“And would you read the note aloud for the court, please?”

Mr Small cleared his throat and read Lancaster’s note to his assistant. “Meet you for a drink? Sea Cow, one hour.”

”Your Honour, the note that lured Mr Small away, providing the opportunity for Mrs Small’s murder was written by Mr Lancaster.”

It was Henry’s turn to point his finger.

As the court erupted, Judge Milton pounded his gavel for order but the clack-clack-clack of the timber hammer was lost beneath the din. Lost to all, that is, but the ears of the public defender who calmly buttoned his jacket. To him, it sounded like applause.