Dr. Keeting was very clear. Although a person’s blood alcohol level can continue to rise for an hour or more after the beverages are consumed, in Brian Wesley’s case this would not have changed the facts.
“So you’re telling us that it is possible that Mr. Wesley’s blood alcohol level was lower than .24 at the time of the collision?”
“Perhaps. Based on progressive absorption, it is possible his blood alcohol might have been as low as .18 at the time of impact.” Dr. Keeting was dressed in a three-piece suit and spoke with a great deal of authority. Hannah added him to the list of people she would later thank.
Matt turned slightly toward the jury. “So what you’re saying is that even if Mr. Wesley’s blood alcohol level was lower than what it was while taken at the station, the lowest it could have been was .18, or more than twice the legal limit, is that right?”
“Yes.” Dr. Keeting paused. “Of course, there is great possibility that the defendant’s blood alcohol was actually higher at the time of impact. Absorption reaches a certain peak sometime within an hour after consumption. After that, the level begins to decline.”
Matt looked surprised, and Hannah stifled a smile. “So, if that were the case, what would Mr. Wesley’s highest possible blood alcohol level have been, Dr. Keeting?”
The doctor checked a stack of notes in front of him on the witness stand. “According to our projections, the defendant might have had a blood alcohol level as high as .28.”
Finch spent nearly an hour cross-examining Dr. Keeting, but it was like trying to poke holes in a brick wall. Later that afternoon when court adjourned, Matt assured Hannah the testimony had been better than he’d hoped.
“The best is yet to come.” Matt smiled as he and Hannah strolled alongside Carol Cummins toward the elevator.
Hannah looked at him. “The bartender?”
He nodded. “Found something out yesterday that will help a great deal.”
“Good. He’s the last witness, isn’t he?” Hannah pushed the elevator button as they waited with a handful of people.
“Right. Wait ’til you hear him. He’s great.” Matt leaned closer to Hannah and Carol, speaking in a whisper. “Answered prayer.”
Carol nodded.
Oh, brother. Hannah looked away. “Come on, Matt. Give credit where credit’s due.”
She waited for a retort but it didn’t come.
Matt gained more points the next day. Brian Wesley’s coworkers and former bosses testified about Brian’s alcohol problem and how well he hid it. Next came three people who ran state-sponsored alcohol awareness classes. Each provided the jury with proof that Brian Wesley was indeed aware of his problem and that he’d been counseled about the dangers of drunk driving.
A representative from the state’s parole board brought in documentation signed by Brian stating that he understood that if he drank and drove again someone could very well die. The department of motor vehicles showed proof that Brian was driving without a license at the time of the collision.
The week wore on, and Hannah sometimes found herself tuning the testimony out while she focused on Brian Wesley. What kind of animal was he, anyway? What had he seen in those final moments before driving his truck into her family? She seethed as she stared at him. He was loathsome and worthless, and he deserved life in prison. Now that he was days away from getting it, her hatred toward him was so intense it left her drained, empty, incapable of any other emotion.
Harold Finch, meanwhile, remained relatively quiet. He objected occasionally, but not nearly as often as he had at first. Hannah figured he probably didn’t want to alienate the jury.
Matt’s final witness was Nick Crabb, the bartender from The Office. In brief and succinct testimony, the bartender told the jury that he’d been bothered by the defendant’s drinking. He had asked him if he’d needed a ride home, but despite the fact that he’d seen Brian drink large quantities of beer and whiskey, it was difficult to determine if the man was dangerously drunk or not.
“Think back, Mr. Crabb.” Matt settled his hands in his pants pocket and gazed thoughtfully at the witness. “Do you remember how many drinks the defendant consumed that afternoon?”
Nick squirmed in his seat nervously. “Well, uh, it’s been almost a year now, and we have a lot of people sit at the bar.”
Matt nodded. “I realize that, Mr. Crabb. I’m asking—to the best of your knowledge—if you can tell this court how many drinks the defendant had?”
Nick nodded. “Okay. Well, after the accident I wrote some notes.”
Finch leaped up. “Objection, your honor. We have no way of knowing when the witness actually wrote those notes.”
Hannah’s pulse raced when Judge Horowitz looked intrigued. He turned to the witness. “Did you date your notes, Mr. Crabb?”
“Yes, your honor. I’m a business student at Cal State Northridge … and, well, I guess I write the date on just about everything.”
Judge Horowitz smiled. “And you are willing to testify under oath that you wrote those notes immediately after the accident?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Very well. Objection overruled.”
Hannah turned briefly toward Carol, and the two shared a quick grin. This was why Matt had been looking forward to the bartender’s testimony. The man kept notes!
Matt cleared his throat and continued. “Let me see if I understand this. After the accident, you wrote down the date and some details about the defendant, is that right?”
“Yes, I have it right here.” Nick held up a piece of notebook paper.
“I see.” Matt moved closer to the witness stand and peered at it. “And what prompted you to write these notes?”
Nick swallowed and glanced nervously at Brian Wesley. “I, uh … I read about the accident in the newspaper, and I knew the guy’d been drinking at The Office. I served him. I figured I might have to talk about it one day in court, so I jotted down some details.”
Matt smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Crabb. That was very conscientious of you.”
Hannah saw Harold Finch whisper something to Brian Wesley.
Matt continued. “Now, did you note anywhere on that sheet how many drinks Mr. Wesley consumed on the afternoon in question?”
“Yes … it’s, uh, right here.” Nick studied the piece of paper. “I served Mr. Wesley about six shots of whiskey and eight beers.”
A murmur ran through the courtroom, and Hannah shut her eyes. Fourteen drinks. No wonder Tom and Alicia hadn’t lived long enough to say good-bye.
Matt waited for the crowd to still. “So fourteen drinks altogether, is that right?”
“I’m estimating, but I think so. It could have been more.”
Matt raised an eyebrow, and Hannah saw him glance briefly at the jury. She followed his gaze and saw that they looked stunned. They might drink, they might know someone who drank … but fourteen drinks? “Now, Mr. Crabb, did you make any notations about how long Mr. Wesley had been drinking?”
Nick glanced down at his notes again and gulped. “Yes. He came in after lunch sometime, maybe one, one-thirty. And he left after three.”
Harold Finch looked restless but he remained in his seat.
Matt nodded. “Is there any way you can be certain about those times, Mr. Crabb?”
Hannah willed the bartender to say the right thing. Please … please …
“Well, there was a movie running on the bar TV, Rocky II. Mr. Wesley arrived just as I was putting it in, and it was over by the time he left.” Nick glanced at his notes once more. “I figured that had to be at least two hours.”
“Fine. So he drank for two hours—fourteen drinks, maybe more—is that right?”
“Yes, sir.” Hannah watched the young bartender expectantly. She knew what was coming.
Matt stood squarely in front of the witness stand. “At some point Mr. Wesley decided to leave, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Were you concerned that he might be too drunk to driv
e home?” Matt kept his tone matter-of-fact. This wasn’t the time to point fingers at the bartender.
Nick Crabb sighed, and Hannah saw the burden he carried. He’d been the final line of defense, the only one who could have stopped Wesley from getting into the truck and barreling down Ventura Boulevard. He’d had the chance and he’d missed it.
Nick drew a deep breath. “Yes. Just before he left I decided he was too drunk to drive.”
Murmurs rose across the courtroom, and Matt waited a moment. He raised his voice slightly, and the jurors strained to hear. “Did you act on that decision?”
Nick nodded. “Yes. I asked him if he was okay to drive.”
Hannah felt her heart sink. She followed Matt as he paced slowly toward the jury. “Do you remember what Mr. Wesley told you?”
Nick sighed again. “Yes. He told me to mind my own business.”
Across the courtroom Finch leaned over and whispered something else to Brian. Hannah glared at them and turned her attention back to Matt.
“Then what happened?”
“I … I told him to sit down a minute … told him I’d call a cab so … so he wouldn’t have to drive home.” Nick hung his head.
“What next, Mr. Crabb?”
“He got mad.”
Matt raised an eyebrow. “Could you explain your answer, Mr. Crabb.”
The bartender straightened, and for a moment his eyes connected with Hannah’s. He was sorry. Hannah could see that, and she wasn’t sure how she felt. This man’s testimony would help put Brian Wesley away for a very long time. Then again, if only he’d said something different, done something … physically contained Brian, anything … perhaps they wouldn’t be here today. Perhaps they would all be home living life the way they were supposed to. Happily ever after.
Nick was silent, and Matt tried again. “Mr. Crabb, please explain to the jury what you meant when you said that the defendant got mad when you offered to call a cab.”
“Well, he told me he could drive home if he wanted to. Then he cussed at me a few times. He told me he was leaving, and he turned around and left.”
“Do you have some sort of test, some way of determining whether a person who has been drinking should or shouldn’t drive?” Matt slipped his hands in his pockets and leaned slightly against the railing.
“Yes. My boss had told me to watch how customers talk, how they walk. Mr. Wesley seemed okay that way, but he’d had a lot of drinks in a short time, and I was worried. So I did what the boss said to do in that situation. I offered him a cab. When he refused, I thought I was out of options. There was nothing more I could do.”
“Okay, now let’s see if I have this straight. The defendant, Brian Wesley, spent two hours drinking at least fourteen alcoholic beverages, then refused your offer of a cab and left the bar despite your warnings. Is that right, Mr. Crabb?”
The bartender swallowed, struggling to find his voice. “Yes.”
“No more quest—”
“There’s something else.”
Matt looked at Nick in surprise, and the young man met Hannah’s eyes once more.
“If I had to do it over again, I’d tackle him to the floor, tie his hands, anything. The only way out would be over my dead body.” His voice was barely a whisper, his eyes were still on Hannah’s. “I’m sorry.”
Tears spilled onto Hannah’s cheeks. She nodded and hung her head. It was easy to hate Brian Wesley, easy to hate any attorney who would defend him. But this man, this college student, was not her enemy. They had both lost that day and clearly he, like Hannah, still suffered.
Finch bounded to his feet, his face red. “Objection! The witness’s statement went beyond the scope of the question, your Honor.”
Hannah looked at the judge and saw him nod sternly. “Sustained. The jury will disregard the last statement.”
Matt paused a moment, and Hannah knew he was allowing the jurors time to soak in what had just happened. Nick Crabb had apologized to her. Finally Matt looked up from his notes and thanked the witness, turning him over to the defense.
Harold Finch whispered something else to Brian and then stood up. Hannah thought he looked like a snake. A boa constrictor. She wondered if the jury saw him the same way.
“Mr. Crabb, has the defendant ever done anything to personally wrong you?” Finch’s voice was sharp, full of accusation.
Nick blinked twice. “No. I don’t know what you mean.”
Finch shook his head and cast a knowing look at the jury. “Listen, here, Mr. Crabb. Isn’t it true that you were hired by the prosecution, instructed to write those notes, and paid to appear here today in order to ruin the defendant’s chances at an acquittal?”
Matt was not typically quick to object, but this time he was on his feet and doing so forcefully. “I object, your honor. Mr. Finch is badgering the witness about something that was not brought up in the direct. If it isn’t brought up in the direct—”
“Yes.” Judge Horowitz peered over the rim of his glasses at Harold Finch. “If it isn’t brought up in the direct, it cannot be brought up in the cross. You should know that Mr. Finch. Objection sustained.”
Finch continued to question the bartender for more than an hour, always stopping just short of harassment. Finally he tried to cast doubt on whether Nick Crabb had even tended bar the afternoon of the accident. In response, Nick produced another sheet of paper.
“What’s that?” Finch’s tone was filled with mockery. “More notes?”
“No, sir.” Nick held the single sheet of paper higher so that Finch could see it. “It’s a copy of my time card from that day. I asked the owner for a copy of it after the accident, when I figured I might need to testify in court at some point.”
Hannah wanted to laugh out loud. Finch had been caught at his own game. Had he avoided this line of questioning, the jury would never have seen the meticulous care Nick Crabb took to present accurate details. Now the idea of the defendant consuming fourteen drinks looked like the gospel truth.
Hannah caught Matt’s expression, and he winked. This one was theirs.
She could have kissed him!
Matt had another chance with Nick on redirect, and he used the opportunity to establish the specifics of the photocopied time card. Nick had indeed worked that afternoon. He had started at 11:00 A.M. and clocked out at 3:30 P.M. The details were perfectly in keeping with Nick’s testimony. When Matt was finished with the bartender, he turned to the judge and nodded. “The state rests, your honor.”
“Very well.” Judge Horowitz scanned the courtroom. “It’s nearly three o’clock, so we’ll adjourn until tomorrow at which time we will hear from the witnesses for the defense. Court dismissed.”
Hannah closed her eyes and said a silent thanks to Matt Bronzan. They were halfway there, and because of Matt, Brian Wesley’s days of freedom were disappearing fast.
Carol leaned toward her. “I need to get going. See you tomorrow.”
As Carol left, Hannah was engulfed by a sea of reporters. When she had answered each of their questions, her eyes searched the front of the courtroom for Matt. Twenty minutes had passed, and Hannah figured he would be gone, but she found him leaning against the prosecution’s table, his arms and ankles crossed, staring at her. Their eyes met, and the air seemed charged … alive … between them.
She waited while he gathered his files.
The trial was half over. Hannah could barely contain the sense of joy and victory she felt. When Matt stood and their eyes met again, she didn’t hesitate. She went toward him, into his open arms, laying her head against his broad chest, letting her tears of gratitude fall on his shirt.
His arms wrapped around her back and held her close. And for the first time in decades, Hannah found herself being held by a man other than Tom Ryan.
Twenty-eight
He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver.
LAMENTATIONS 3:13
Brian Wesley showered earlier than usual the next morning and paid particular
attention to his appearance. He would be the first witness to take the stand in his defense, and he wanted to be clean and neat. If he really was a changed man—and he believed he was—then he needed to look the part.
Hot water pounded his shoulders, and steam filled the bathroom of Jackson’s boxy apartment. Lord, I’m gonna need your help today. I can’t do it alone.
Brian closed his eyes. The next few days would be the hardest in his life. First he would testify, talk about his past failures and how he’d become a changed man in the process. Then, at some point, Harold Finch would call Carla as a witness. She would testify that Brian never actually intended to kill another person.
Finch had been square with him. He would serve time in prison regardless of the verdict. Worst-case scenario, driving under the influence held a penalty of several years. And if the jury didn’t convict him of first-degree murder, they would certainly give him the maximum for driving drunk. Ten years, maybe more.
Brian’s heart began beating fast, and he recognized the beginnings of an anxiety attack. Times like this he could still taste the alcohol, still feel his body reaching for the drink that would destroy him.
“Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Do not be anxious about anything, but in …”
Over and over he repeated the verse from Philippians 4. It was a weapon, a demon slayer, and he used it every time they came back. Funny thing, too. Because as long as he could remember, relief from anxiety had always been something that came in whiskey bottles and beer cans. But this … this Scripture thing—having God’s word memorized, ready to wield like a weapon anytime the beast of anxiety appeared—this was really something.
Better than the bottle ever was.
That Bible lady had explained it best: Scripture words were alive and active. They worked every time. They never lost their power like some dime-store battery. Brian stepped out of the shower. “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything …” One thing was sure. This Bible thing was truth.