He again touched his sister’s shoulder. “It’s important in a criminal trial to put your hands on your client if you’re the defense lawyer. It shows the jury that you’re not scared of your client, and they shouldn’t be either.” This nugget came from Professor Pamela Adams, the dean of criminal law at Cumberland with whom Jason had set up several meetings.
“This is my sister. Jana Rich Waters. She isn’t perfect by any stretch, but she’s lived here in Marshall County all her life. She’s served this community on numerous committees and chaired the Gothic Guild, the First Methodist Church Women’s Group, the Ladies of the Lake auxiliary board, and too many other organizations to count. She and Dr. Waters have two children, Niecy and Nola. Their relationship was strained at the time of Dr. Waters’s murder. We won’t be denying that. But remember something as the state trots out its evidence that Ms. Waters was unfaithful, that she was worried that Dr. Waters was going to divorce her, that she had a drug problem. None of those things speak to whether she paid Waylon Pike to kill her husband.” Jason was arguing, which was prohibited in opening, but Knox had said he should push the envelope. “If the state objects, it makes them look bad. You’re representing a criminal defendant on trial for her life. The judge will likely give you some leeway.”
Jason glanced at Shay Lankford, who was frowning, but she made no move to object. “Again,” Jason said, as he walked back toward the jury and put his hands on the railing, “at the end of the day, when all is said and done, all they have is Waylon Pike.”
Jason spent the rest of his opening discussing the virtues of the burden of proof, which was carried solely by the state. “Jana Waters doesn’t have to offer any evidence in this case. The sole burden rests with the state to prove to you beyond a reasonable doubt that Jana Waters is guilty of murder. If you have one doubt . . . just one . . . then the court will instruct you to return a verdict of not guilty.”
He closed with similar words to the prosecutor but with an obviously different expectation. “I’m confident that when you hear Waylon Pike testify and the lack of any corroborating evidence to back up his story, you’ll return the only verdict that justice demands. Not guilty.”
When he took his seat, Jason felt his sister’s hand on his again. She gave him a squeeze, but Jason didn’t look at her. He was hyped up and tried to calm himself down. He thought he’d done a good job, but as Knox had warned: “You never really have a clue what the jury is thinking. Don’t drive yourself crazy trying to figure that out. Just do your job.”
Jason exhaled a ragged breath. Do your job, he told himself.
“Is the state ready to call its first witness?” Conrad asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Shay said, standing and gesturing to the back of the courtroom for a deputy to open the doors. “The state calls Waylon Pike.”
64
Waylon strode to the stand wearing a black suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He felt ridiculous, but these were the orders of the state and his court-appointed lawyer. He’d just had a quick briefing with his attorney, Louie Taylor, who everyone seemed to call “Louie T.”
“Just tell the God’s honest truth,” Louie T had instructed. “That’s what you’ve proffered to do, and it’s the only way you get any favor when this thing is over. With any luck, they’ll give you life in prison with the chance of parole in fifteen years.”
“Great,” Pike had said.
“Don’t screw this up,” his attorney had said, his last words before the deputy had summoned him.
As he took his place at the witness stand, Waylon looked out at the courtroom. His eyes immediately latched on to Jana Waters. She wore a black dress fit for a funeral, but even though it didn’t show much skin, the woman was hot. Waylon had a flashback of what she looked like under her clothes, and he peered down at the wooden bench.
Tell the truth, he told himself. He wanted to laugh as Shay Lankford approached, but he kept his expression grave. I shouldn’t be here, he thought. I should be on a beach in Cancun. Or the mountains. Any damn where but here.
But alas, he’d been stupid. He’d blabbed his mouth, a problem he’d had his whole life.
“Please state your name for the record,” the prosecutor said.
“Waylon Pike.”
“Mr. Pike, on the night of July 4, 2018, did you kill Dr. Braxton Waters?”
As rehearsed, he didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I did.”