The Brass Verdict

restrictions and geometric differentiations were all elements of the map. You can’t always get all of that from a police photo. Sometimes you have to see it for yourself. This is why I had come to the house in Malibu. For the map. For the geography of murder. When I understood it, I would be ready to go to trial.
    From the corner, I looked at the square cut out of the white carpet near the bedroom door. This is where the male victim, Johan Rilz, had been shot down. My eyes traveled to the bed, where Mitzi Elliot had been shot, her naked body sprawled diagonally across it.
    The investigative summary in the file suggested that the naked couple had heard an intruder in the house. Rilz went to the bedroom door and opened it, only to be immediately surprised by the killer. Rilz was shot down in the doorway and the killer stepped over his body and into the room.
    Mitzi Elliot jumped up from the bed and stood frozen by its side, clutching a pillow in front of her naked body. The state believed that the elements of the crime suggested that she knew her killer. She might have pleaded for her life or might have known her death could not be stopped. She was shot twice through the pillow from a distance estimated at three feet and knocked back onto the bed. The pillow she had used as a shield fell to the floor. The killer then stepped forward to the bed and pressed the barrel of the gun against her forehead for the kill shot.
    That was the official version anyway. Standing there in the corner of the room, I knew there were enough unfounded assumptions built into it that I would have no trouble slicing and dicing it at trial.
    I looked at the glass doors that led out to a deck overlooking the Pacific. There had been nothing in the files about whether the curtain and doors had been open at the time of the murders. I was not sure it meant anything one way or the other but it was a detail I would’ve liked to know.
    I walked over to the glass doors and found them locked. I had a hard time figuring out how to open them. Nina finally came over and helped me, holding her finger down on a safety lever while turning the bolt with her other hand. The doors opened outward and brought in the sounds of the crashing surf.
    I immediately knew that if the doors had been open at the time of the murders, then the sound of the surf could have easily drowned out any noise an intruder might have made in the house. This would contradict the state’s theory that Rilz was killed at the bedroom door because he had gone to the door after hearing an intruder. It would then raise a new question about what Rilz was doing naked at the door, but that didn’t matter to the defense. I only needed to raise questions and point out discrepancies to plant the seed of doubt in a juror’s mind. It took only one doubt in one juror’s mind for me to be successful. It was the distort-or-destroy method of criminal defense.
    I stepped out onto the deck. I didn’t know if it was high or low tide but suspected it was somewhere in between. The water was close. The waves were coming in and washing right up to the piers on which the house was built.
    There were six-foot swells but no surfers out there. I remembered what Patrick had said about attempting to surf in the cove.
    I walked back inside, and as soon as I reentered the bedroom, I realized my phone was ringing but I had been unable to hear it because of the ocean noise. I checked to see who it was but it said PRIVATE CALLER on the screen. I knew that most people in law enforcement blocked their ID.
    “Nina, I have to take this. Do you mind going out to my car and asking my driver to come in?”
    “No problem.”
    “Thank you.”
    I took the call.
    “Hello?”
    “It’s me. I’m just checking to see when you’re coming by.”
    “Me” was my first ex-wife, Maggie McPherson. Under the recently revamped custody agreement, I got to be with my daughter on Wednesday nights and every other weekend only. It was a long way from the shared custody we’d once had. But I had blown that along with the second chance I’d had with Maggie.
    “Probably around seven thirty. I have a meeting with a client this afternoon and it might run a little late.”
    There was silence and I sensed I had given the wrong answer.
    “What, you’ve got a date?” I asked. “What time you want me there?”
    “I’m supposed to leave at seven thirty.”
    “Then, I’ll be there before that. Who’s the lucky guy?”
    “That