Directed Verdict (Failed Justice Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Revolution. They could be led any way Bob wanted them; all he needed was a small American flag pin in his lapel and to salute the flag as he entered the courtroom.
    No one paid much attention to the Puerto Rican janitor. Apparently he had no apartment houses to maintain or storefronts to rob today.
    The remaining four were middle class working stiffs who did what they were told. The jury was sworn before lunch. Now they could pig out on the house.
    The opening arguments could be boiled down to a succinct few words.
    “He raped her.”
    “No, he didn’t. She wanted it. She asked for it. She went to his place. It was consensual. Only then did she cry rape.”
    The judge was already bored.
    Several of the older female jurors were aghast. A single, unescorted woman going to a man’s room at night. What could she possibly be thinking?
    Victoria told them exactly what she was thinking.
    “I may be capable of many things, including being naïve. I admit that. I take people at their word—another mistake of mine. When someone offers to help me with a school problem and he’s in the same class as me, I assume he’s serious, and honest, and believable, and only wants to help. I guess I’m also guilty of not being very worldly. I guess in a sense I still carry Victorian values.”
    Vicky paused, as she looked each and every juror directly in the eyes until they averted her gaze, as she had been instructed to do.
    “I do not lie. I do not make up stories. I do not say no when I mean yes or maybe or anything else. No means no. I do not yell, scream, beg, scratch, or bite if I mean yes. I do not let someone create bruises on my breasts, tear my vagina, and beat me until I am black and blue so they can later say they thought I really meant yes.”
    The ADA asked that a series of photos be marked for identification only. Once they were authenticated, they would be marked into evidence and shown to the jury. The careful placement of sheets for the sake of modesty, covered the body as a whole, but there were areas of the inner thighs, sides of the breasts, and forearms that were severely bruised. In a few cases the photos were purposely taken the next day when the marks were black, blue, purple, and shades of yellow.
    It was not pretty. It was not meant to be pretty. It was meant to substantiate a story and obtain a conviction.
    Bob knew better than to cross exam. The sooner the photos were stuck in the pile with other exhibits, the better. No sense in having them making a lasting impression by waving them around for the jury to memorize.
    It was obvious Vicky didn’t like rough sex. She stated a dozen times she didn’t like sex at all, and certainly not with a total stranger.
    It took the prosecutor three full days to call all his witnesses, cross and redirect. Victoria made the most credible of witnesses. She didn’t cry or slobber, she wasn’t adamant or vengeful. She was honest, forthcoming, sincere, and most of all, believable.
    The jury was almost bobbing their heads during her time on the witness stand and collectively ready to hand her a hanky during cross. Sugarman was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He needed desperately to shake her to make a mistake and was all too aware the sympathies of the entire jury were with her.
    He could not afford to totally alienate the jury so he did the only prudent thing he could, he subtly backed off. His only shot was during closing arguments. There would be no witness to look at, no drama of replaying the alleged rape scene, no distractions from the judge. There would just be him. He would have the last word. Bob Sugarman had been there before. He had to measure every word, every gesture, and every inflection. This was his time, his stage, his show. It was where the jury would understand or disregard.
    He was paid for them to understand.
    It was consensual, it was consensual, it was consensual. It may have been a mistake, but it was never