THE LAWYER by James Patterson and Nancy Allen - Chapter 1

IT WAS a Monday morning in Biloxi.
I had on my best suit, fresh out of the dry-cleaning bag. I wore my lucky tie, the one my wife, Carrie Ann, had given me
two Christmases ago. I’d bought a new pair of cap-toe oxfords for the occasion because my old ones were worn down
at the heel.
I didn’t want to look shabby next to my client on this big day.
The capital murder trial State of Mississippi v. Daniel Caro was set to begin.
I took a deep breath to center myself, gave a final glance at the note card in my right hand, made eye contact with my
audience.
“I’m Stafford Lee Penney, attorney for the defendant, Dr. Daniel Caro. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is what
the evidence will show.”
I’m a second-generation Mississippi attorney. My father, Charles Jackson Penney, is also a trial lawyer in Biloxi,
Mississippi. He has been known to proclaim—so often over the years that I’ve lost count—that a lawyer wins or loses
his case in the opening statement.
The old man is half right. After fifteen years of practicing law, I know you can lose a jury with a weak opening. But the
opening is too early to win the case. Witnesses will take the stand and evidence will pour in; there are too many
unknowns, too many battles to be fought.
Particularly in the Daniel Caro murder trial.
“We all heard the district attorney, Henry Gordon-James, outline the evidence he plans to bring before you,” I said. “He
went on and on about exhibits and experts, didn’t he? Made all kinds of promises. But you need to think about what Mr.
Gordon-James failed to mention. What word did he not say?”
I took a step forward. I wanted to move closer to the jury to ensure they’d listen to my key point.
“Ladies and gentlemen, that word is circumstantial. All the evidence in this case is purely circumstantial. The
prosecution will not produce a single witness or a shred of evidence that directly ties my client to the crime he’s been
accused of committing.”
I was warming to the speech. I could feel it. My blood was pumping; the words flowed easily.
“The criminal defendant in this case, Daniel Caro, is highly regarded in this community. He grew up in Biloxi, received
his medical degree from Duke. His ob-gyn practice is a blessing to this town. For over a decade, he has delivered our
babies and cared for our mothers and wives and daughters. Dr. Caro is an asset to this region. I’ve known him all my life.
We played Little League baseball together. He’s my client and my friend.”
That last line contained a gross exaggeration. Caro and I weren’t friends. In fact, I’d never particularly liked him. He
wasn’t my kind of cat. But the opening statement was my opportunity to humanize him before the evidence demonized
him.
After I wrapped up my client’s glowing bio, I took two steps to the right to signify a change of direction.
“The events that you’ll hear about in this trial are tragic, undeniably horrific. They never should have happened
anywhere, certainly not in Biloxi.”
Careful, I thought. It was time to mention the murder victim, to speak her name. It was imperative that I proceed
delicately.
“Aurora Gates’s untimely death was a terrible loss. She was an exceptional woman: Valedictorian of her class at Biloxi
High School. A promising law student at Ole Miss. Her future was bright. Someone took a gun and stole that future
from her, cut her life short.”
Time to switch it up and alter the tone.
“But the person who committed that vile act was not my client, the man who sits in the courtroom today.”
I teased a few items after that, hinting at important evidentiary points I intended to score at trial without directly
revealing the strategy. My father has another saying about the start of a jury trial: A defense attorney who shows his
hand in the opening is a damn fool.
The old man’s not wrong. We see eye to eye on that one.