OOM: The Bogeyman Factor
Sep. 29th, 2008 04:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dr_temperance“We’re past forensics . Now it’s about the story.”
David Barron, Max’s attorney, sedately paced the length of the prison visiting room, while Brennan, her brother, Max, and Clark Edison sat around the table picking at the cartons of Chinese take-out. No one was in an especially good mood. In spite of their best efforts, the outcome of the trial was not looking good for Max Keenan. Tomorrow they were remounting the defense.
But the defense was officially out of admissible ammunition.
“Jurors like to think they know what happened,” David said, off the questioning looks he was getting. “We did a good job in showing that maybe Max didn’t commit this murder, but we didn’t give the jury a satisfying alternative. One they can go home to their families and say, ‘Here’s what really happened.’”
“They need a Bogeyman,” Russ said hopelessly, dropping his fork and pushing aside his plate of untouched food. “And it’s Dad.”
Brennan frowned as her mind quickly and efficiently turned over her brother’s words and Mr. Barron’s proposed strategy.
There was no such thing as a literal Bogeyman, of course. Monsters of that sort didn’t actually exist. It was purely a product of folklore. An amorphous embodiment of terror. In this story, her father was the only Bogeyman who fits the presented evidence. And while Brennan was generally opposed to the notion that cases were won or lost based on a laywer’s storytelling ability rather than the clinical facts, the fact remained that, no matter how many times she spoke words to the contrary, this was no ordinary case.
The trial process might seem convoluted to the casual observer, but Brennan knew that, at its heart, it was actually quite straightforward. Both sides present facts of the case, and the jury determines if those facts are compelling enough to convict the accused. They weigh which interpretation of the facts is the most plausible.
What the jury needed was an alternate interpretation of the facts. Not a lie. An equally believable hypothosis. Enough to create doubt.
It boiled down to three factors: Means, motive, and opportunity.
Max Keenan had killed Deputy Director Kirby in Brennan’s apartment using a sharp, unedged medieval copper dagger that she kept in a stand in her bookcase. The blade had entered Kirby’s head behind the ear, punctung the sternocleidomastiod and cutting the carotid artery.
It would have been just as easy for Brennan—easier, in fact—for her to have committed the murder in her own home using one of her own belongings. She certainly had the physical strenght necessary to carry out the act.
She had the means.
Motive? That was easy. Kirby had threatened her family. That was why Max had killed him.
That was why Brennan could have conceivably killed him.
She had the motive.
By luck, on the day of the murder, Booth had had to pick his son up from school—an errand that took between forty-five minutes to an hour. Plenty of time for her to have killed Kirby and stashed his body for disposal later.
She had the opportunity.
And because she had covered the same ground as her father, particulate evidence would even be a match.
It was a solid hypothesis. A compelling alternate story.
Brennan looked up at Mr. Barron. “If I knew the Bogeyman, how much warning would you need to make it work?”
Mr. Barron looked slight surprised. But he sounded utterly confident. “A good story? About five minutes.”
Booth would fight her on it. Brennan knew that. But she also knew that she could make him see the logic of her position.
If it meant saving her father’s life, she could be the Bogeyman.
David Barron, Max’s attorney, sedately paced the length of the prison visiting room, while Brennan, her brother, Max, and Clark Edison sat around the table picking at the cartons of Chinese take-out. No one was in an especially good mood. In spite of their best efforts, the outcome of the trial was not looking good for Max Keenan. Tomorrow they were remounting the defense.
But the defense was officially out of admissible ammunition.
“Jurors like to think they know what happened,” David said, off the questioning looks he was getting. “We did a good job in showing that maybe Max didn’t commit this murder, but we didn’t give the jury a satisfying alternative. One they can go home to their families and say, ‘Here’s what really happened.’”
“They need a Bogeyman,” Russ said hopelessly, dropping his fork and pushing aside his plate of untouched food. “And it’s Dad.”
Brennan frowned as her mind quickly and efficiently turned over her brother’s words and Mr. Barron’s proposed strategy.
There was no such thing as a literal Bogeyman, of course. Monsters of that sort didn’t actually exist. It was purely a product of folklore. An amorphous embodiment of terror. In this story, her father was the only Bogeyman who fits the presented evidence. And while Brennan was generally opposed to the notion that cases were won or lost based on a laywer’s storytelling ability rather than the clinical facts, the fact remained that, no matter how many times she spoke words to the contrary, this was no ordinary case.
The trial process might seem convoluted to the casual observer, but Brennan knew that, at its heart, it was actually quite straightforward. Both sides present facts of the case, and the jury determines if those facts are compelling enough to convict the accused. They weigh which interpretation of the facts is the most plausible.
What the jury needed was an alternate interpretation of the facts. Not a lie. An equally believable hypothosis. Enough to create doubt.
It boiled down to three factors: Means, motive, and opportunity.
Max Keenan had killed Deputy Director Kirby in Brennan’s apartment using a sharp, unedged medieval copper dagger that she kept in a stand in her bookcase. The blade had entered Kirby’s head behind the ear, punctung the sternocleidomastiod and cutting the carotid artery.
It would have been just as easy for Brennan—easier, in fact—for her to have committed the murder in her own home using one of her own belongings. She certainly had the physical strenght necessary to carry out the act.
She had the means.
Motive? That was easy. Kirby had threatened her family. That was why Max had killed him.
That was why Brennan could have conceivably killed him.
She had the motive.
By luck, on the day of the murder, Booth had had to pick his son up from school—an errand that took between forty-five minutes to an hour. Plenty of time for her to have killed Kirby and stashed his body for disposal later.
She had the opportunity.
And because she had covered the same ground as her father, particulate evidence would even be a match.
It was a solid hypothesis. A compelling alternate story.
Brennan looked up at Mr. Barron. “If I knew the Bogeyman, how much warning would you need to make it work?”
Mr. Barron looked slight surprised. But he sounded utterly confident. “A good story? About five minutes.”
Booth would fight her on it. Brennan knew that. But she also knew that she could make him see the logic of her position.
If it meant saving her father’s life, she could be the Bogeyman.
