Chapter 545 - 257: A Destined Freedom
The Philadelphia District Attorney’s Office.
Eric Hart sat behind his desk, the ashtray on it overflowing with cigarette butts.
Rain was falling over Philadelphia, pattering against the windowpane with a dull thud.
Hart stared at the copy of the trial transcript that had just been delivered to his desk.
The phone rang again.
Hart glanced at the screen. It displayed a number from Washington D.C.
He didn’t answer.
He let the ringing echo through the office until the caller hung up.
He knew who was calling, and he knew what they wanted to say.
Legal counsel from the Democratic National Committee, lobbyists from the insurance conglomerates, even high-ranking officials from the Department of Justice.
Their message was singular: he had to secure a conviction.
They needed Luigi Randall nailed to a Cross, to make an example of him with the harshest possible sentence. It was to deter any would-be copycats and uphold the dignity of a healthcare system worth trillions of US Dollars.
"A bunch of idiots."
Hart cursed under his breath.
He stood up and walked over to the whiteboard.
The photos of the twelve jurors were posted on it.
"So this is the so-called ’perfect jury.’"
Hart had underestimated the situation.
He had underestimated the devastating impact of the Wailing Wall outside the courthouse, underestimated the ability of that madman Elias Wayne to stir up emotions in court, and, even more so, underestimated Leo Wallace’s methods for manipulating public opinion from behind the scenes.
The situation had now changed completely.
A few months ago, this would have been a simple murder case.
But now, it was a class war.
Luigi Randall had become a symbol, a totem of resistance against tyranny.
In this climate of public opinion, under the gaze of a Wailing Wall covered in the photos of the deceased, to find twelve people in Pennsylvania—or anywhere in this country—who were completely unaffected and willing to sentence Luigi to death without any psychological burden...
The probability was zero.
If just one juror had a change of heart at the last minute, if just one person wavered out of sympathy for those dead patients...
There could only be one outcome: a mistrial.
Another trial, and the result would be the same.
Hart would be trapped in an endless cycle of retrials until his career was exhausted, until he became the laughingstock of the legal world.
A knock came at his office door.
Hart’s chief assistant pushed the door open, holding two cups of coffee.
"Sir, Washington’s pushing again," the assistant said cautiously. "They want to know when we’re starting the retrial process. They’re demanding we request a change of judge and move the trial to a more conservative county."
"It’s useless."
Hart took the coffee and had a sip.
"This case is now in the national spotlight. No matter where we move it, the media will follow. That Mayor, Leo, has a long reach."
Hart walked back behind his desk.
"We’re fighting a losing battle."
"The conviction threshold for first-degree murder is too high."
He looked at his assistant.
"To convict on first-degree murder, we have to prove two things to the jury: first, premeditation; second, malice."
"On the point of premeditation, although we have surveillance footage and gun purchase records, the defense has been hammering on the defendant’s mental state and duress. That leaves room for reasonable doubt in the jurors’ minds."
"The hardest part is malice."
Hart’s fingers tapped on the desk.
"Legally, malice means the act lacks justification or excuse. But morally, that Lawyer Wayne has successfully packaged Luigi’s actions as a necessary evil, even as killing to save lives."
"The jurors are only human."
"When they see those insurance claim denials, when they see those dead patients, they subconsciously feel that even though Luigi killed someone, he did it without malice."
"That he was serving a higher justice."
"The moment that thought crosses a juror’s mind, even for a second, the first-degree murder charge becomes impossible to prove."
The assistant was stunned for a moment.
"Then... what do we do? Drop the charges?"
"Drop the charges? We’d be sweeping streets tomorrow."
Hart let out a cold laugh.
"We can’t drop the charges, but we can change the game."
"We don’t need a life sentence."
Hart’s voice turned calm.
"Those old men in Washington want a life sentence because they want to intimidate people. But I’m the prosecutor. I want to win."
"And what’s the definition of winning?"
"It’s putting the defendant in prison."
"Even if it’s for twenty years, or thirty."
"As long as he’s behind bars, as long as he’s lost his freedom, as long as his face is off the front page."
"That is a win."
Hart pulled a new draft indictment from a stack of files.
He picked up a pen and crossed out "First-degree murder."
Then, next to it, he wrote two other words.
"Third-degree murder."
The assistant’s eyes widened.
"Sir, you’re downgrading the charge? That... that’s tantamount to compromising with the defendant!"
"Then let’s compromise."
Hart’s tone was firm.
"If we go for first-degree murder, we face an extremely high burden of proof and immense moral resistance from the jury. The conviction rate is maybe 10%."
"But if we change the charge to third-degree murder..."
Hart explained.
"This means we’re no longer seeking a life sentence."
"We only need to prove that he committed the act of killing, and that this act resulted in the victim’s death."
"We’re giving the jury a middle ground."
Hart’s finger drew a line on his desk.
"Think about it. Why did the jury hang?"
"Because they didn’t want to sentence him to life. They felt it was too cruel, that Luigi’s actions were justifiable under the circumstances."