Spirit of the Law: And the Crime Against the Soul

By Georgia Zaslove

This suspenseful novel is set in Memphis, Tennessee in 1993, at the genesis of the World Wide Web and prior to the invention of the smart phone.

Sy Marcus, a successful, hard-nosed defense attorney uncovers a dark secret within his own family. He quickly finds himself in a struggle to save his marriage and his legal reputation when he crosses the aisle to serve as the special prosecutor against the renowned defense team representing his brother-in-law and his business partner, who is charged as his co-conspirator.

In his attempt to expose the truth he discovers how far a psychopath will go to meticulously plan the perfect murder. Because the prosecution’s case is based solely on circumstantial evidence, all indications point to a possible acquittal. However, this is a game Sy Marcus is determined to keep the psychopath from winning. He sets a new legal precedent with a groundbreaking caper to try to prove the perfect murder is never perfect.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: May 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781489726674

Georgia Zaslove

Georgia Zaslove grew up and was educated in the midwest. She married an attorney from Memphis, Tennessee where she lived for twenty years and worked in his law firm. She now resides in Kansas City, Missouri. Spirit of the Law is her first novel.

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Copyright © 2020 Georgia Zaslove.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

LifeRich Publishing

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www.liferichpublishing.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2665-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2666-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-2667-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020907250

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 07/27/2020

CONTENTS

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Acknowledgement

This book is dedicated to Sy (Seymour) Rosenberg, James Lockard

and Wayne Emmons, three brilliant attorneys from Memphis,

Tennessee, who helped me write the trial in this book.

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Hope’s husband, Sammy, slammed the back door and thumped heavily into the house. He stopped by the kitchen door and barked, When will dinner be ready?

In about fifteen minutes. Go rest. I’ll call you when it’s ready. Hope felt as if the whole house were quaking, rife with the anger that was filling their home. Her body was rigid, but her mind was collapsing under the fear of not knowing what could happen next. Wondering what had upset him this time, she picked up hot pads to remove the meatloaf from the oven and clumsily dropped the pan on the sideboard. She panicked, worried that the noise she made would upset him further. He had always had a temper, but nothing compared to the last few years. Every month it grew more pronounced.

She went into the den, where the TV was barely audible and Sammy was sleeping on the sofa. She hesitated to wake him for dinner; he looked so peaceful. She wanted to hold him and tell him everything would be okay. She sat on the edge of the sofa and reached to touch his face and smooth his hair as she said, Honey, dinner’s ready.

His eyes popped open. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her away from him. His face took on an ugly scowl as she fell to the floor. He snarled, What are you doing? Keep your hands off me! Hope looked up at him in shock as he stepped over her. Don’t ever do that again. You’re lucky I didn’t knock you across the room, you stupid bitch.

For a moment, Hope sat on the floor—stunned, as though someone held her by the throat while she dangled, kicking desperately, trying to feel the ground beneath her feet. She tried to speak but could not. She wanted to get up, but her body rejected her desire to be in control. Instead, she rolled into a ball and covered her face with her hands, shaking as she cried in silence. Sammy hated it when she cried aloud.

She heard Sammy go into the hall bathroom. When he came out, he acted as if nothing had happened and hollered, Let’s eat!

Hope pulled herself together, thinking that after he ate and calmed down she could try to get him to talk to her about what was so upsetting. They sat down to eat without one word from Sammy. Hope stared at her plate and pushed her mashed potatoes into piles while intermittently taking small bites. The ordeal had destroyed her appetite, and the smell was making her nauseated. She picked up the bottle of wine near her and poured a glass for herself and Sammy. She filled his glass to the brim and carefully pushed it to him.

He smiled and said, Thank you, sweetheart. That was his sign that he was sorry. That was all Hope needed to feel better. She waited until he finished his wine, and she poured him a second glass before trying to have a conversation with him.

Honey, you know Diane and Michael’s two-year wedding anniversary is coming up, and I made reservations at Paulette’s to take them out for dinner on Saturday night. I made the reservation for seven. Is that time okay with you?

That’s fine.

We also have the Katz’s bar mitzvah on Saturday morning. Will you be able to go with me?

He frowned as he gulped his wine. I’ll try, but don’t count on me. I’ll be working on the brownstone project. I plan to be there all day. I need to go over all the expenditures with Alfred. We’re way over budget, and I can’t seem to make him understand we have to watch every dime and get the first phase finished and sold so we can finance the second phase.

Is that what you are so upset about today?

That and all the other crap I have to deal with. You have no idea the kind of jerks I deal with every day—customers badgering me for more of a discount, always wanting more for less. You would think I was running a business for charity. You wouldn’t understand, because you’ve never had to deal with stress on a daily basis. And don’t tell me playing the piano for the symphony once in a while is your big contribution. I’m the one who pays for everything around here.

Honey, I know you work hard and have always taken good care of me. I just wanted to help if I could. I don’t know what I can do if you don’t tell me. There must be something I can do.

He hissed. There is—stop hovering over me and asking what’s wrong. I can handle my problems myself. I don’t need your nagging.

Hope recoiled and went silent, knowing one wrong word could incite another brutal response.

The next morning, Hope got out of bed and contemplated calling her sister, Rachel. She wanted to talk to her about Sammy’s latest temper tantrum that, for Hope, had ended in confusion and frustration. What was he hiding? For the life of her, she could not understand how to get him to open up and just say what he was thinking.

She waited until she heard Sammy leave before going to the kitchen to make her coffee. Knowing it was too early to call her sister, she poured a steaming cup of coffee and decided to write her thoughts down in a letter to her husband. She considered that maybe he would not be so defensive when he read it and would think it through before responding. She ascended the entry hall stairs on her way to her room and gazed at the photos artistically arranged on the wall. It was the story of their life together. It started with their wedding picture, followed by milestones from their twenty-eight years of marriage. Her mood began to sink as she looked over them. What have I done so wrong? As she entered her bedroom, she stopped to admire their magnificent four-poster canopy bed with gorgeous gold-and-red silk brocade cascading into a puddle on the Persian rug. She thought about all the things that she had done to make a romantic bedroom for them: choosing rich colors and antique furniture, building a walk-in closet, and designing an elaborate master bath, all to please him. But for what? He seldom came into the room, let alone slept in it. She sat down at her antique secretary and began to write. The more she wrote, the more despondent she became. Tears filled her eyes and dropped onto the page, blurring the words. The phone’s loud ring jolted her out of her melancholy. As she picked up, she heard a familiar voice that always made her feel better—Rachel’s.

Hey, sis. How are you doing?

Hope, always stoic, took a deep breath before answering. Fine. What are you doing up so early?

Rachel laughed. I couldn’t sleep last night. No reason. Just one of those nights. So, I got up and went to work early. What are you up to today?

Not much. I’m going to the gym, trying to build my stamina back up.

She could hear herself talking, but all she could think about was the craziness with Sammy. She was grateful her sister had called. She needed someone to talk to—someone whom she could say anything to without being judged, chastised, or ridiculed. Even though Rachel had heard the same complaints many times, she would always be patient and kind. Hope had wrestled for years with the idea of getting a divorce. However, she had always justified her commitment to stay, reasoning that divorce was not something they did in their family. No one was divorced. Their motto was Murder maybe, divorce never.

She spaced out while listening to Rachel talk about needing to deliver some documents to Syrus’s law offices—things he had left at home in his rush to get to court. Then Hope heard her ask about the bar mitzvah on Saturday and whether they were going.

Hope responded, I was planning on going, but I don’t know about Sammy. He’s tied up with the brownstone project, and it’s making him crazy. Matter of fact, we had another hideous fight last night.

Oh no. Well, don’t feel bad. I doubt Syrus will make it to the bar mitzvah either. He’s the defense attorney for the guy who raped and murdered the twelve-year-old child. Sy will probably be strategizing with his team all weekend, so social events are the least of his concerns. Rachel’s voice became a thorny growl. Because he’s got to protect the murderer from going to jail. Anyway, I called to see if you wanted to go to lunch. There’s a new restaurant in the Cooper-Young district. They make their own bread and grow their own vegetables with no toxic chemicals. Everyone says it’s great, and I’ve wanted to try it. Why don’t I pick you up after I leave Sy’s office?

Sounds great. Just honk when you get here. Bye.

Hope felt better as she slid the letter into a drawer and closed up the desk.

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Syrus Sy Marcus walked through the courthouse with a determined gait, his head held high, his intense eyes taking in everyone and everything around him. He was quick to smile and reach his hand out in friendship to all he knew. Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit and polished shoes, he exuded the strength and precision of one who has served in the military. As Syrus neared the courtroom where his case was being heard, his law clerk rose to greet him.

Syrus whispered to his clerk as they headed into the courtroom, It seems we may not have a verdict. Buoyantly, Sy charged to the defense table and sat next to his client, Buford Hollis. He leaned in to whisper, I think we still have a hung jury. I don’t think the judge will make them go back a third time to deliberate.

The court clerk announced, Will the defendant please rise.

Syrus and Mr. Hollis were quick to stand at attention, both looking straight ahead with resolute expressions.

The judge turned to the jury. Have you reached a verdict?

The foreman of the jury stood and answered, We have not, Your Honor; I’m sorry, but we’re never going to agree.

The judge’s shoulders drooped as he took a deep, labored breath; shook his head; and announced, Well, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial. I am going to continue the conditions of the bail order, pending the prosecution’s decision for a new trial.

Buford Hollis, a short, scrawny man in his mid-thirties, oblivious to the outraged reaction of the courtroom spectators, lowered his head and stared at his worn but polished shoes.

The parents of the raped and murdered twelve-year-old girl began to wail as family and friends rushed to comfort them. The mother of the dead child screamed at the accused, but he did not acknowledge her pain, ignoring the anger being hurled at him.

The accused barely moved as he looked up at Syrus and, in an emotionless monotone, said, You were worth every dime. Now can you help me get out the back way? I ain’t going through that mess of reporters.

Sy motioned to his law clerk. Take Mr. Hollis out the back way and then get back to the office. Tell Dottie I’ll be back after lunch. Sy waited for the courtroom to empty before leaving.

A crowd of reporters and the public were gathered outside the courthouse waiting for the jury to leave. A TV reporter stopped the foreman of the jury as he tried to push his way through the crowd.

A cameraman stood behind the reporter, and another cameraman stood to the side, trying to get as many people in the shot as possible. Don Heller, a wiry, hawkish-looking man who worked for the Memphis Daily News stood behind the reporter, recording every word with his handheld tape recorder.

The TV reporter shoved a microphone in the foreman’s face. "You were the foreman in this trial; was there anything the jury could agree on?"

The foreman, a rugged-looking man in an ill-fitting suit, replied, "Well, ’bout the only thing any of us could agree on was if we was ever in trouble, we’d want that Syrus Marcus for our lawyer."

Sy was walking in the opposite direction of the crowd, trying to get away unnoticed. However, someone did notice him and yelled, There he is! That’s the sorry bastard that got him off! The crowd instantly moved in to confront Syrus as the TV reporter ran, thrusting his microphone forward, leading the crowd gallantly with his saber of choice.

The TV reporter jabbed the microphone into Sy’s face. He jerked back. Mr. Marcus, Mr. Marcus … it took the jury two days to come back with no decision. What do you think kept them from convicting this man?

I have no idea; I am not allowed to confer with the jury, Sy said.

People are outraged when a murderer gets off in a case like this, where the evidence is overwhelming. How do you sleep at night?

Sy kept his cool as he replied, The evidence was circumstantial, so it becomes a matter of opinion—in this case, the jury’s opinion. Obviously, they did not believe the evidence proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he was guilty.

But—

Sorry, no more questions. Sy pushed his way out of the crowd and headed for his car. The crowd continued to hurl ugly accusations at him as he quickened his pace to get away.

He drove to his favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurant, Joe’s Café, a place where he did not run into other lawyers. He didn’t want to talk about the case or be bothered. A wonderful black family owned the restaurant. He had saved their teenage son from going to jail for loitering—a typical bullshit charge. Henceforth, they treated him like a king when there. As he entered the restaurant, he smiled and greeted the owner and then motioned to the bartender, ordering a Stoli on the rocks before being seated at the table of his choice. As always, everyone was happy to see him—a nice change after the assault he had just endured. However, underneath his calm facade, he was livid. He was tired of people blaming the lawyer when it was his job to defend his client. It was not his job to decide whether his client was innocent or guilty; that was the jury’s job. Sy realized part of his anger came from his own belief Buford could have been guilty, but he had been hired to defend him either way. It wasn’t his fault the evidence was iffy at best. The little girl had been raped anally, making it impossible to get reliable DNA. When she was discovered, her clothes were missing, and she had on only shoes and socks, which turned up no DNA evidence. No one had seen Buford at the scene, and he had a solid alibi. Even though his client had a past accusation of rape on record, it was not admissible in court. He had been accused, not convicted, so it did not make him guilty and there wasn’t any proof that he was involved. A lot of innocent men were in jail for lesser reasons, and Sy never wanted to be responsible for letting an innocent man go to prison. These days however, more outrage was directed at the lawyers than the alleged criminals, and he was sick of it. To top it off, his wife was talking divorce—the last thing he wanted. In his mind, they had always had a good marriage. Yes, he worked long hours, and he was taking those damn pills for high blood pressure that interfered with his ability to perform in bed. But Rachel had assured him repeatedly that she understood and that they would work through it together.

He finished his lunch and returned to his office, a stately antebellum mansion on Adams Avenue, in an area of Memphis known as the Victorian Village. Most of the houses on the street were on the historical registry. This house was one of the oldest, with huge magnolia trees on the front lawn that were as old as the house itself. The main thing that distinguished it from the other antebellum homes was the large sign on the corner that read, Law Offices of Marcus, Rosenberg, and Katz, LLC.

Sy entered through the back door, heading for the reception desk. The sweet, moon-faced receptionist, Annie, turned to see him coming and got up to hand him his messages. He snatched them from her outstretched hand as he headed toward the back stairs up to his office. He hated the old, narrow maid’s staircase. He was exhausted, and the arthritis in his knees, with its gripping stiffness, was worse than usual today. Because the stairs were so steep, every step was agonizing, stretching his knees to their limit. God, I’m getting old. I can’t walk without pain. I can’t read without glasses. He stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. His colleagues offered congratulations, which he tersely acknowledged. His secretary of twenty years, Dottie, in full makeup with rich red lips and every hair in place, handed him his mail and more messages. He took the papers from her, glancing through them as he spoke.

Has my wife called?

Dottie frowned, cocked her head back, and said dryly, Yes, and we’re just thrilled you got that low-life off.

By now, Sy was worn out with everyone’s ire and disgust. He blurted out, So, were you there? Did you see him do it?

Snickering, Dottie said, No, but could you not do such a good defense on every case?

Sy snapped, Maybe you should work for the prosecutor’s office. You looking for a cut in pay?

Dottie shrunk back, though she kept a smile on her face as she said, Now, sugar, you know I would never leave you for another man.

You’d better not. Anything else I need to know about?

Yes, Rachel said to remind you of your appointment with her today at five.

Sy flinched. Yes, I know we have an appointment with the marriage counselor today.

Now that the trial is over, you need to meet with your new law clerk, Marty. He’s been here for over a month.

Heading to his office, he said, All right, give me about fifteen minutes, and then send him in.

As Sy entered, he stopped for a moment to peruse his newly decorated office. Rachel had recently updated the decor, and he was pleased as he appraised his more stately and inviting office. A splendid oriental rug, in deep burgundy and gold, centered his imposing antique mahogany desk accompanied by two tufted wingback side chairs. The original ornate black marble fireplace was flanked on either side by tall windows covered in lush brocatelle draperies with heavy fringe and large braided tiebacks; the windows so tall that the drapery reached the deeply carved crown molding of the twelve-foot ceilings. The wall behind Sy’s desk was painted a deep burgundy and covered with degrees, honors, awards, and pictures. Everything about the room was dramatic and bold, exuding an aura of power. Sy was filled with pride when he heard his wife telling people it was to pay homage to her dynamic and brilliant husband. This was one of the reasons Sy did not understand her change of heart. He had always been proud of his wife, Rachel, who was a fashion designer, but her artistic talent knew no bounds. As Sy looked around the room, his jaw tightened as he clenched his teeth with anger welling up inside again. How could she be talking divorce? It had come from out of nowhere, and then she had demanded they go to a marriage therapist. He hated the idea of discussing their problems with anyone. He had tried to talk to her about what was wrong, but everything he said infuriated her. He’d agreed to go to the therapist in hopes he could understand what to do to get her back to her old self—the one he fell madly in love with.

Rubbing his forehead, Sy closed his eyes and paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before putting on his glasses and returning phone calls. While making the calls, he would get straight to the point and hang up as fast as possible, all the while making notations on the file. Patience was not one of his virtues. Minutes later, there was a knock at his door. He looked up to see his new clerk, a clean-cut young man, who entered and waited for his orders.

Dottie said you wanted to see me.

Sy pointed to a chair. Sit down, son. How’s your father doing?

Thanks, he’s doing great, Marty said. "He really appreciates you giving me this opportunity,