Witness to a Trial Read Online Free Page A

and it took, on average, twenty-three minutes. So, around 2:35, Junior arrived at Mr. McGuire’s, spent fifteen minutes doing what he was supposed to do, and left around 2:50. At that point, he was twenty minutes from his home. If he had hurried there, he could have arrived around 3:10.
    According to the pathologist, the deaths occurred between 2:00 and 3:00. However, the pathologist had been quick to explain that this time frame was not exact and could vary half an hour either way.
    Even on direct examination, the defense theory was not convincing. A few minutes here and a few minutes there and nothing seemed concrete. Precise times were not logged in. Memories were not that clear. Did Junior make his delivery at 2:00 p.m., or was it more like 1:45? Were they shot at 3:00 p.m., or was it more like 3:30?
    On cross-examination, the theory was destroyed. Wag Dunlap walked Taggart along the roads and highways until it was abundantly clear that, in fact, Junior Mace
could have
completed the delivery to Heath’s family’s store at 2:00 p.m., then raced home because he suspected something, found his wife in bed with his friend, taken care of that business, and hurried away to Mr. McGuire’s place and arrived there shortly after 3:00 p.m., acting as though all was well.
    Did Junior have time to race to his employer’s warehouse, jump into his own pickup truck, then hustle home for the killings? Perhaps, Wag implied, though it wasn’t clear.
    For two hours Wag harangued Taggart over the times and distances. Swoboda objected. McDover overruled. The lawyers bickered as tempers rose. Taggart eventually lashed out. Swoboda moved for a mistrial again. The judge asked him to sit down. The jurors were frustrated. The spectators were at first amused, then bored.
    Through it all, Junior Mace sat stoically amid the chaos, occasionally shaking his head at the fiction.

10
    With the alibis out the window, the defense had nothing left but the defendant himself. Swoboda followed the conventional wisdom of advising Junior against taking the stand, but Junior would have none of it. If he was to be given the chance to tell the truth, then he would not be denied.
    In a deep, slow voice he measured his words and looked unflinchingly at the jurors. Swoboda lobbed up the easy ones as they covered Junior’s background: education, employment, family, lack of criminal record, no divorces, three children. He loved Eileen, and Son was his closest friend. No, they were not having an affair, and, no, he did not catch them in bed.
    He denied owning a handgun and testified that he did not know a single Tappacola who owned one. It was not part of their culture. A few of the men hunted deer for food, but no one in his family did so. He enjoyed a few beers occasionally but did not consider himself a heavy drinker. He and Eileen had never kept alcohol in their home.
    He told the story of his people and their deep division over the proposal to build a casino on their land. He and Son had led the opposition to it, and they had won the first election by a narrow margin. The vote split their tribe into bitter camps.
    Whoever killed Son and Eileen was now doing a fine job of framing him. Remove Son and remove Junior and the casino would be built.
    Wag stood and pleaded, “Objection. Please, Your Honor. Do we have any proof of this? This is a pretty wild theory with nothing to back it up.”
    “Agreed. Sustained. Mr. Swoboda, please limit the testimony to something that resembles the facts.”
    January 17 had been a typical day for Junior. He made his rounds that morning and had lunch in a country store where he also made a delivery. Around 2:00 p.m., he stopped by Heath’s family’s store, dropped off and picked up ten cylinders of propane, and drove “about a half an hour” to Mr. McGuire’s. He was in no hurry, as always, and drove under the speed limit. He did not detour, did not go home, because there was no reason to do so, and finished his business at