Mystery Writers of America Presents The Prosecution Rests

Genres: Anthologies; Police Procedurals; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

After the crime is over, the real drama begins. That's what this riveting collection proves as it carries us from the witch trials to Depression-era Chicago to today's highest-stakes legal dramas. These are thrilling stories of lawyers under pressure, of criminals facing the needle, and of the heartbroken families who hope for justice and who sometimes take it into their own hands.

In James Grippando's Death, Cheated, a lawyer defends his ex-girlfriend against the investors who bet $1.5 million on her death. In Barbara Parker's "A Clerk's Life," a disillusioned clerk at a corporate law firm suspects the worst of his colleagues when one of the firm's employees is murdered. In Phyllis Cohen's "Designer Justice," an accused murderer thinks he's lucked out when he lands a high-priced lawyer, only to learn that there are worse fates than being found guilty.

A page-turning collection -- filled with shocking twists, double-crosses, and edge-of-your-seat suspense.

Release date: April 14, 2009

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 432

Sample

As a prosecutor in the great office of the New York County District Attorney for thirty years, I tried dozens of felony cases—murder,
rape, robbery, burglary, and assaults of every variety. I worked shoulder to shoulder with the smartest cops in the city before
ever taking the results of their investigations into the well of the courtroom and presenting the gathered evidence to a jury
of the defendant’s peers. My adversaries were among the most talented members of the defense bar, skilled in the art of advocacy
and the ability to communicate with those good citizens chosen to judge the fate of their clients.


There were powerful moments of eliciting facts from witnesses that established the necessary elements of brutal crimes, a
few terrifying occasions when the mendacity of my own complainants was exposed by the opposing counsel, the astounding triumphs
afforded to my colleagues and me when a revolutionary scientific technique called DNA analysis was first introduced to the
criminal courtroom in 1986, and every now and then a dazzling turn at cross-examination which nailed the hired gun, the expert
witness of an opponent.


My favorite moment in the trial was always the point at which I rested, at which I announced to the judge and jury that I
had completed the People’s case. It was the culmination of months of preparation and organization, mastering the facts and
scrutinizing the details, interpreting the alleles and loci of genetic fingerprinting, and packaging everything I could gather
to present to the jury in a logical, persuasive, and trustworthy fashion. Defense counsel had taken his best shot at my witnesses,
and might or might not go on to offer his own version of events, but my burden on behalf of the state had been satisfied.


The old maxim claims that a trial is a search for the truth. But as all the participants know, that search should have been
completed long before any of us walk through the courtroom doors to try to convince the jurors of our position. From the discovery
of the commission of the crime, police officers are charged with the responsibility of evaluating the evidence they collect—eyewitness
descriptions and circumstantial facts, and now the remarkable forensic tools that have so radically affected the criminal
justice system.


Then district attorneys are called in on the cases. We take our witnesses as we find them—some of them “innocent” victims,
but many of them flawed human beings—people who lie, cheat, steal, and have violated most of the other commandments before
they ever raise their hands and swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Defendants are arrested and indicted,
hiring private counsel or assigned public defenders to represent them at trial. The search for truth goes on throughout the
entirety of the pre-trial period—lawyers for both sides seek testimonial, documentary, and scientific evidence to corroborate
their witnesses or exonerate those wrongly charged. Most of the time, I like to think, our system of justice has served us
well.


The Mystery Writers of America invited authors—bestselling storytellers as well as new voices—to explore the complicated characters
that inhabit the courtroom. In this wonderfully mixed collection of well-told tales, you’ll meet rogue lawyers and victims
who lie; people who want the system to work and those who use it for revenge or a more personal form of justice; the alibi
witness who is eviscerated on the stand and the killer who gets away with murder. These are stories about the criminal justice
system, and, may it please the court, I—for one—am grateful they are fiction.


I am delighted to offer the exhibits in this anthology to you as part of my case in chief. Again, it’s like my favorite moment
at trial. I’ve given you the best of my fellow MWA writers, and now I get to sit back at counsel table while you evaluate
the evidence.


The prosecution rests, but I hope your enjoyment of these stories is just beginning.

—Linda Fairstein

BY EDWARD D. HOCH

Judge Bangor himself entered Harry Fine’s chambers a few weeks following Harry’s swearing in as the newest justice on the state’s
Court of Appeals. It was a snowy January morning with the windows tightly closed, and Harry’s first thought was that the Chief
would probably light up one of his cigars in violation of the building’s no-smoking rule.


“Harry, do you have a few minutes?” he asked, closing the door behind him without waiting for a reply.

Judge Bangor was the ultimate father figure, a stern but fair man who’d headed the Court of Appeals since Harry was admitted
to the bar a dozen years earlier. He was over six feet tall with snow-white hair and a commanding voice that had many attorneys
quaking in their boots and rushing back to the law library after a session with him.


“Certainly, Chief,” Harry said at once, rising from his chair. “What can I do for you?”

“Sit down, sit down!” He took the maroon leather armchair opposite Harry’s desk. “What I’m about to tell you is in confidence.
I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you at all, but something’s come up which may require our action.”


“You certainly have my curiosity aroused,” Harry said with a smile.

“Did you ever wonder what prompted Colin Penny’s resignation, opening up the seat for you?”

“He said he wanted to spend more time with his family and maybe return to private law practice.”

Judge Bangor snorted. “I doubt if you’ll see him in a courtroom again, at least not in this state. Any sitting justices, especially
on the Court of Appeals, are open to bribery attempts. It goes with the territory in this state. Certain accusations were
made against Judge Penny, accusations that could damage a person’s career even if they went unproven. Rather than allow these
to be made public, we convened a secret session of the court—”


“A what?”

“Perhaps that is the wrong term to use. In any event, all five justices—including Judge Penny—gathered in private to examine
the charges and rumors circulating about his conduct. Much of the evidence concerned a large political donation, beyond the
legal limits, made by a lumber company that won the bidding to cull a portion of state forestland. Another bidder had sued,
claiming the winner had prior knowledge of the bidding. His claim was rejected by a lower court, but it was working its way
up to us. That was when Penny accepted a large political donation from the lumber company.”


“Why are you telling me this?” Harry Fine asked. There was something unsettling about the conversation and he wanted it to
end.


“Because it has become necessary, Harry. In our secret session we heard the case against Colin Penny and listened to his meager
defense. Then he left the room while the four of us discussed his fate. I must tell you, the vote to force his resignation
was not unanimous. Susan Quinn was on his side and spoke vigorously in his defense, but the vote was three to one, or three
to two if we count Judge Penny’s own vote. He was told he would have to resign.”


“He went along with that?”

“He had no choice. The reporter who had the story agreed to kill it if Penny offered his resignation. Otherwise it would have
been all over the papers.”


Fine shook his head. “Highly irregular,” he muttered.

“This is my court, Harry. I will do everything in my power to douse any flicker of scandal before it ignites.”

“You still haven’t told me why I need to know this.”

Judge Bangor paused and reached for a cigar in his breast pocket, then thought better of it. “The reporter who threatened
to break the story about Penny’s illegal contributions now says there is a second member of the court involved. I see us going
through this whole nightmare again. That’s why I’ve come to you.”


“Who’s the reporter?”

“Maeve McGuire. You’ve probably seen her bylines.”

Harry Fine nodded. “She’s a pretty good writer. Ran a short interview on me after my appointment last month.”

“I read it. That’s why you’re the perfect one to contact her.”

“Contact her about what? I can’t ask her to kill a story.”

“Of course not. But you can have a friendly conversation with her, find out what’s going on. All I have is a tip, and I can’t
pursue it personally for various reasons.”


“Couldn’t one of the other justices—?”

“Hardly! If the information she has is accurate, any one of them might be involved.”

“Surely not Susan Quinn!” The feisty brunette judge, only a few years older than Fine, had introduced him to his new position
by tutoring him in the arcane rituals of the Court of Appeals.


Judge Bangor shrugged. “It might be Quinn or Frank Rockwell or Zach Wanamaker. Find out what you can.”

“I doubt if she’ll reveal any big secrets, not to me at least.”

____

FINE PHONED MAEVE McGuire and invited her to lunch the following day. Not wanting it to appear clandestine in any way, he suggested they meet
at the Temple Bar, a restaurant across from the appellate court that was frequented by lawyers and judges. As the hostess
showed them to a table near the window, he saw Judge Rockwell at a nearby table, raising his eyebrows.


Maeve saw it too and commented, “Does he think he’s spotted a blooming romance?”

“I hope not. My divorce isn’t final yet.”

She was an intense, attractive young woman who rarely smiled even when joking. Harry Fine read her columns intermittently
and had seen her around the courts on occasion. He had consented to last month’s interview after winning the appointment to
fill Colin Penny’s term.


“I hope you phoned to give me the inside scoop on the appellate court,” she chided him now. “The word is that Bangor rules
with an iron fist.”


“You probably know more about it than I do,” he told her. “What’s the latest scandal?”

She shrugged. “One a year is quite enough. I assume you know about your predecessor.”

“Judge Penny? I’ve heard talk. I’ve even heard he might not have been the only one accepting illegal campaign contributions.”

“Tell me more!” she urged, flashing one of her rare smiles.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “Did Judge Bangor send you?”

“Let’s enjoy our lunch and not worry about who sent me.”

She shook her head. “Look, Judge Fine, I interviewed you for my paper, but that doesn’t make us lifelong friends. I have nothing
to tell you. As you probably know, I agreed to kill a story about Judge Penny because he resigned from the court. That was
a one-shot, and it won’t happen again. Anything more that I discover about illegal contributions or bribes will end up on
our front page.”


“Of course! I’m not trying to influence you in any way.”

But the luncheon went downhill after that. She dashed off as quickly as possible, pleading another appointment, and he finished
his coffee alone. He was just paying the check when Frank Rockwell stopped by his table on the way out.


“Courting the press these days, are you?” he asked.

“Not really. She interviewed me last month and I felt I owed her a lunch in return.”

“Never get too friendly with the press,” the gray-haired justice advised. “They’ll screw you every time.”

Fine smiled. “Thanks for the advice, Judge.”

Whatever Bangor had hoped would come of the lunch with Maeve McGuire, it hadn’t happened. Fine hated to admit failure to the
Chief and decided to try another possibility on his own. With no pending sessions that afternoon, he drove out to Willow Road,
where his predecessor Colin Penny resided. It was an upper-middle-class neighborhood of older colonial homes, and Penny’s
house was only a few doors away from Judge Wanamaker’s, where Fine had attended a New Year’s Day open house a few weeks earlier.


Zach Wanamaker was at the courthouse, of course, and there was no sign of his wife as Fine drove past the house. He was in
luck with Penny, though. The former judge was sweeping a light coating of snow from his driveway in an obvious make-work effort
to keep busy at something. Fine pulled up and parked.


“I was driving by and saw you out here,” he said, getting out of the car.

“Hello, Judge.”

“I think you can call me Harry,” Fine told him, already regretting that he’d stopped. “How are you doing?”

“Okay. I think I’ll be going back into private practice soon. Taking good care of my old office?”

“Sure,” he answered with a smile. Penny was a decade older than him, a hard age to be starting over. Already his face was
lined, and he seemed to have aged since Fine had last seen him. The word was that his wife had moved out after his forced
resignation and was staying with their son’s family in Arizona. “Stop in and see us sometime.”


Penny tried to smile but couldn’t quite make it.

“I don’t think that would be wise. I’m the black sheep these days.”

“I’m sure you weren’t the only one who took a contribution now and then.”

“No,” he agreed, “but I was the only one Maeve McGuire found out about.”

“Well—” Fine glanced up at the sky, searching for a way out of the conversation. “Think we’ll get any more snow?”

“Any minute, now that I’ve finished sweeping.” He turned away and headed back to the house. “Good seeing you, Judge.”

Fine returned to his car and drove back to the office.

____

HE REPORTED TO Judge Bangor later that afternoon. Judge Susan Quinn was present too and was especially interested in Fine’s brief conversation
with Penny.


“How did he seem?” she wanted to know.

“Maybe a little bitter,” Fine said. “But it’s hard for me to tell. I never knew him that well.”

Judge Bangor wasn’t interested in Penny’s feelings.

“Did he say anything about someone else on the court being involved?”

Susan, at age forty-six, still wore her hair at shoulder length despite some traces of gray. She was married to a successful
surgeon, and the two were popular partygoers in local society. She interrupted to defend Penny. “Isn’t it bad enough you forced
his resignation?” she asked.


He turned to her and said, “My dear, this appellate court is the most important thing in my life. I intend to keep it pure
and uncorrupted no matter who suffers. Now then, Harry, what, if anything, did Colin Penny say to you?”


“Nothing, really. I remarked that there were probably others who’d accepted donations, and he replied that he was the only
one the reporter found out about.”


“Was he speaking specifically of the appellate court?”

“I don’t know. It was just a general comment.”

Susan shook her head. “Chief, you’re carrying this to extremes. Harry has told you everything he knows.”

“Very well,” Judge Bangor agreed. “We’ll adjourn this session for now.”

THE REST OF the week passed quietly. January was often a slow month on the court calendar, and the Chief called only one joint session
on Friday concerning a statute of limitations case. Zach Wanamaker cast the deciding vote to uphold the lower court’s ruling,
and everyone scattered for the weekend.


Fine went down to the parking garage with Wanamaker when it was over. “Going skiing this weekend?” he asked, knowing that
the older man spent time on the slopes whenever he could. He was in good physical shape, with a ruddy outdoor complexion.


“You bet!” Judge Wanamaker replied. “I’m driving up to the mountains tonight, meeting some friends there.”

Fine didn’t particularly care whether his friends were male or female. They were just making elevator conversation. “We’ll
see you on Monday, then.”


Wanamaker nodded. “I’ll be driving back early Monday morning. Have a good weekend.”

Fine spent Saturday and Sunday reading up on earlier appellate court decisions. He had a good working knowledge of the law,
but Judge Bangor could leave him in the dust with citations of obscure cases. Fine’s law clerk had assembled enough reading
matter to keep him occupied for the weekend, and he almost felt guilty slipping away on Sunday night for dinner with a lady
friend.


He was preparing to leave for the courthouse that sunny Monday morning when Judge Bangor phoned. “I just wanted to alert you,
Harry. That reporter, Maeve McGuire, was killed by a hit-and-run driver about an hour ago, on her way to work.”


____

BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK the five justices were assembled in the Chief’s spacious office. Judge Bangor rapped his knuckles on the desk to signal for
quiet, though no one had said a word since entering the office. He took out one of his cigars, but it remained unlit, perhaps
in deference to Susan Quinn, the most outspoken justice on the subject of smoking.


“You all know why we’re here,” Bangor said.

“Miss McGuire made charges against Colin Penny that forced his resignation. And recently I’ve heard rumors that she was about
to make accusations against another of our number. Her death this morning is tragic, of course, but it has nothing to do with
us. I would suggest that if any of us are contacted by the press we merely have no comment other than to express our sympathy
to her family.”


“The press will be all over this,” Frank Rockwell said. “She’s one of theirs.”

He brushed back his gray hair with a familiar gesture and added, “Harry had lunch with her last week.”

Wanamaker turned toward him, a bit surprised by this news, but the Chief hurried to his defense. “I asked Harry to contact
her because she’d recently interviewed him. I thought he might learn if the rumors were true that another justice was involved.”


Fine nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, I learned nothing from her.”

Susan Quinn spoke next. “Where did you hear these rumors, Chief?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Come on!” Judge Wanamaker insisted. “We have a right to know.”

Bangor squirmed uneasily. “All I can tell you is that it was someone at the newspaper who knew what she was working on. It
was the same person who tipped me off about the situation with Judge Penny.”


“What time was she killed?” Susan wanted to know.

“The police tell me it was about seven forty a.m. She started work at eight. They have alternate side of the street parking
and she was crossing the street to her car. A neighbor heard the thump when the car hit her, but no one has come forward yet
who actually saw it happen.”


“Are the police checking garages and repair shops?” Harry Fine asked.

“Of course. That’s the first thing they think of.”

There was little more to be said. None of them wanted to suggest, even obliquely, that Maeve McGuire had been killed to keep
her from revealing anything further about bribery or illegal campaign contributions. Even Judge Bangor finished the session
by remarking that it was a terrible accident.


And yet, the driver hadn’t stopped.

____

FINE WENT BACK to his office and tried to work, but the memory of Maeve McGuire was too strong to shake off. He ate lunch alone at a little
coffee shop down the street and returned to find a pale Susan Quinn waiting in his office.


“What is it?” he asked, immediately on guard.

“I received a message meant for Judge Wanamaker,” she said in a hushed voice. “I’m not sure what I should do.”

“What was it?”

“It was on my voice mail, but it was for Zach. His garage called with an estimate on repairing his car. He’s to phone them.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“He’s not back from lunch.”

Fine stared out the window for a moment. She was asking him what she should do, and he didn’t know what to tell her.

“Can’t you just give him the message when he returns?”

“Harry, what if the car was damaged when he hit—”

“Don’t even say it,” he cautioned. He wasn’t willing to accept the notion that Zach Wanamaker, or any of the other justices,
could be a murderer.


“Should I tell the Chief?” she asked.

“Not yet. Look, it may be nothing. It may be a ding in his door or a damaged tire.”

“You don’t usually get estimates on jobs like that.”

She was probably right, but they needed more information before taking it to the Chief. “Look, could you phone the repair
shop and say you’re Judge Wanamaker’s secretary calling for the estimate? Find out what repairs it’s for.”


“I—I don’t know if I should do that.”

“I’d do it myself and say that I’m Zach, but they might know his voice.”

“You really think we should?”

“We have to know, Susan, before anyone else does. If the police are starting to check repair shops—”

“All right,” she decided. “I’ll call.” She put on her reading glasses to make out the number on her note and punched it into
Harry’s phone.


“Make it sound good,” he told her, shutting the office door.

“Hello?” she said. “This is Judge Wanamaker’s secretary. You phoned him about repairing the damage to his car? He’s wondering
how much that would be.” She listened and jotted down a figure.


“Nine hundred eighty-five dollars,” she repeated, raising her eyebrows toward Fine. “And what would that cover? The right
front fender and the right headlight. And you’ve already notified the insurance company? Very good. When will it be ready?
Not till Friday? All right, I’ll tell him. Thank you.” She hung up.


“You should have been an actress instead of a judge,” Fine told her.

“Sure, or maybe just a secretary.”

“He hit something with his car, or someone.”

“I can’t believe it, Harry. We’ll have to tell the Chief.”

“All right,” he agreed. “We’ll go in together.”

Judge Bangor looked up as they entered his office and closed the door. “What’s up?” he asked, looking from one to the other.

Susan told him what they’d done, about the mistaken message and her call to the repair shop. “It’s probably nothing,” she
told him. “But in view of what happened this morning—”


Bangor shook his head. “I’ve known Zach for twenty years. He couldn’t do anything like this.”

“You’d better ask him,” Fine suggested. “I think he’s back from lunch now.”

A few moments later Zach Wanamaker joined them in the Chief’s office, puzzled by their grim expressions.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Judge Bangor asked, “Did you have an accident with your car, Zach?”

“Accident?”

“A call from your repair shop was on my voice mail by mistake,” Susan told him. “Nearly a thousand dollars’ damage.”

“Oh, that!” He shrugged it off. “Driving back from the mountains this morning I hit a deer. Killed it dead.”

“Did you report it to the police?” Bangor asked.

“Of course! You think I’d break the law? I got home a little after seven, showered, and took the car into the shop. Luckily
I could still drive it.”


“We’ll have to confirm your story.”

“Confirm all you want,” Wanamaker said, his ruddy complexion turning a deeper red than usual. “I damn well didn’t kill your
girlfriend, if that’s what you’re thinking!”


Everyone seemed to freeze at his words, and Fine had the bizarre impression of time standing still. He feared what might happen
next, but there was an opportune knock on the door and Judge Rockwell entered. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked.


The Chief recovered his composure, as if Wanamaker’s words had never been spoken. “Not at all, Frank. Come in. We’re just
discussing the McGuire situation.”


“Terrible! A terrible accident.”

Judge Bangor spoke as if announcing a verdict, without looking at Zach Wanamaker. “It was no accident. I’m calling a secret
session of this court for Wednesday morning at eleven, to consider the murder of Maeve McGuire and any possible involvement
by a member of this court.”


____

BANGOR REMAINED IN his office with the door closed, admitting not even his law clerks, until late in the day.


Then he summoned Fine. Lighting one of his cigars, he said, “Harry, I want you to check out Judge Wanamaker’s alibi about
hitting the deer. See if there’s any truth to it.”


“I don’t know that you should refer to it as an alibi, Chief. He hasn’t been accused of anything yet.”

“Just see if the state police have a report of his car hitting a deer this morning.”

“All right.” He hesitated, knowing he was on slippery ground. “What he said about you and Miss McGuire—”

“—is no one’s business. We were friends for a time and she tipped me off about Penny.”

“What about the latest rumor?”

“She didn’t give me a name. By that time we’d broken up. That’s why I sent you to see what you could learn.”

Fine tended to believe the last part, and it was none of his business if they’d been more than friends.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll check on the accident first thing in the morning.”

But a call in the morning brought only a request for the time and place of the accident, and he had to go to Judge Wanamaker’s
office for that information. The judge was not in a mood to cooperate. “He’s really going through with this secret-session
business tomorrow?”


“Apparently,” Fine told him. “But if I can dig up some evidence, I can act as something of a defense attorney for you.”

“I’m well able to defend myself, thanks. The accident occurred about six forty-five a.m. I know because I was listening to
a morning show on the radio. I used my cell phone to report it, but it was ten minutes before a trooper arrived and filled
out an accident report. Luckily I could still drive the car, and I got back to my house before seven thirty to shower and
change.”


“Where did it happen?”

“Route nine, just south of the city line.”

Fine phoned the state police again and gave them the information, requesting they fax him a copy of the accident report. Ten
minutes later it was on his desk. It seemed straightforward enough: “At 6:57 a.m. I responded to a 911 call and found a silver
SUV at the side of Route 9 near the 13-mile marker. A young buck deer, dead at the scene, had run onto the highway in the
dark from the woods on the eastern side, hitting the right front fender of the northbound vehicle. A large piece of the plastic
fender was broken off, and there was blood and deer fur at the point of impact, but no other damage. Driver and sole occupant
of the SUV was Judge Zachery Wanamaker of the Court of Appeals. He was uninjured and was able to drive the car home after
filing the report. I phoned the highway department to remove the deer carcass and remained on the scene until it was picked
up at 8:05.”


That seemed to be proof enough for Fine. He poked his head in Wanamaker’s office and said, “I have a fax of the police report.”

“Good! One more thing I forgot to mention. I have a witness who saw me arrive home with the damaged car.”

“Who would that be?”

“Oddly enough, it was Colin Penny. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

____

AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK Wednesday morning, when Judge Bangor gaveled the secret session to order in his office, all five justices were in attendance.
Fine shared the leather sofa with Susan Quinn while Judge Wanamaker sat alone in the far corner and Rockwell pulled up another
armchair to be closer to the desk.


“All right, the session will come to order,” Bangor announced. “I hadn’t expected the need for another of these so soon after
the last one, but the untimely death of Maeve McGuire has made it a necessity. As I stated before, this session is in no way
a trial. It is more of an informal inquest to determine the truth or falsity of the rumors going around. I’ve asked our newest
member, Judge Fine, to handle the investigation as it concerns Judge Wanamaker, and he will report to us now.”


Fine rose to his feet, feeling a bit out of his element. He stepped away from the sofa into the neutral area at the center
of the room. ?