“This, ladies and gentlemen, is an execution. It’s a cold-blooded murder on the streets of our city—in the heart of one of our most beloved parks. That’s it. No one disputes these facts. We have our victim, Lars Corbett, right here.” He points at the screen, at the fallen man lying in blood. “We have our defendant, Richard Levine, right here, firing a Glock 19 that ballistics confirmed was the murder weapon, a handgun Levine purchased only two weeks before the murder from a gun dealership in Paramus, New Jersey. We’ve put on the stand fourteen witnesses who saw the murder and identified Mr. Levine as the perpetrator. We presented two other videos from two independent sources that show this same murder from different angles.”
Hickory shook his head. “I mean, my God, what else do you need?”
He sighed with perhaps, in Hester’s viewpoint, a little too much melodrama. Paul Hickory was young, midthirties. Hester had gone to law school with Paul’s father, a flamboyant defense attorney named Flair （yes, Flair Hickory was his real name）， who was now one of her toughest competitors. The son was good, and he would get better—the apple not falling far from the tree—but he wasn’t yet his father.
“No one, including Ms. Crimstein and the defense, has denied any of these key facts. No one has come forward to say that this”—he points hard at the paused video—“is not Richard Levine. No one has come forward to give Mr. Levine an alibi or claim in any way that he didn’t brutally murder Mr. Corbett.” He paused now, moving closer to the jury box.
“Nothing. Else. Matters.”
He said it like that, three separate sentences. Hester couldn’t resist. She met the eye of one of the jury members—a woman named Marti Vandevoort she felt was vulnerable—and did the smallest of conspiratorial eye rolls.
As if he knew what Hester was up to, Paul Hickory spun toward her. “Now, Ms. Crimstein will do everything she can to muddy this very simple narrative. But please, we’re all too intelligent to fall for her shenanigans. The evidence is overwhelming. I can’t imagine a case being more open and shut. Richard Levine bought a gun. He illegally carried it to Washington Square on March 18. We know from the testimony and computer forensic reports that Mr. Levine was destructively obsessed with Mr. Corbett. He planned this out, he stalked his victim, and then he executed Mr. Corbett on the street. That is the textbook definition of first-degree murder, ladies and gentlemen. And—I don’t believe I even have to say this—murder is wrong. It’s against the law. Put this killer behind bars. It’s your duty and obligation as citizens. Thank you.”
Paul Hickory collapsed into his chair.
The judge, her old friend David Greiner, cleared his throat and looked at Hester. “Ms. Crimstein?”
“In a second, your honor.” Hester fanned herself with her hand. “I’m still breathless from that overwrought yet completely irrelevant closing from the prosecution.”
Paul Hickory was on his feet. “Objection, your honor—”
“Ms. Crimstein,” the judge half-heartedly admonished.
Hester waved away an apology and stood.
“The reason I say Mr. Hickory is being overwrought and completely irrelevant, ladies and gentlemen, is…” Then Hester stopped herself: “First, let me say good afternoon to you all.” This was a small part of Hester’s closing technique. She would give them a little tease, make them wonder where she was going, let them bathe in that for a moment. “Jury duty is solemn and important work, and we on the defense team thank you for being here, for participating, for being diligent and open-minded about a man being so obviously railroaded. Lord knows this isn’t my first case”—Hester smiled, checking to see who smiled back, noting the three that did, including Marti Vandevoort—“but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a jury that has adjudicated a case so seriously and intelligently.”
This was nonsense, of course. All juries looked pretty much the same. They were bored at the same time. They were riveted at the same time. Her jury expert, Samantha Reiter, sitting three rows behind her, believed that this jury was more malleable than most, but Hester’s defense was also more insane than most. The evidence, as Paul Hickory had laid out, was indeed overwhelming. She was starting the race miles behind the prosecution. She got that.
“Wait, where was I?” Hester asked.
This was a small reminder that Hester was not a young woman. She wasn’t above playing your favorite aunt or grandmother when she could. Sharp, fair, strict, a little forgetful, lovable. Most of the jury members knew Hester from her cable news show Crimstein on Crime. The prosecution always tried to select jury members who didn’t know who she was, but even if the juror claimed that they didn’t watch the show—not many did on a regular basis—almost all had seen her as a television analyst at some point or another. If a potential juror said that they didn’t know who Hester was, they were often lying, which made Hester want them because, for some reason, that meant they wanted to be on her jury and would probably be on her side. Over the years, the prosecution had picked up on that and so they stopped asking.