MARCH 1, 2023 – (Cont.) I know I’ve watched too much of the Alex Murdaugh trial, because my exposure to it has produced a dichotomy: at the same time I wish I’d observed none of it, I wish I’d observed all of it. To judge a case reliably, you must consider all the admitted evidence. I’ve listened to less than 10% of the witness testimony and viewed fewer than a handful of the hundreds of trial exhibits.
Given the totality of the fraction of evidence I have reviewed, I’ve concluded that from a non-juror’s perspective, the verdict is of secondary importance. Unfolding in the courtroom is the combination of a Greek tragedy, a Faulkner novel and a Shakespeare play. What makes great literature great is not the denouement, but character development shaped by arcs of tension that lead eventually to resolution. So it is with the Murdaugh story culminating with a verdict in a double-murder trial.
What makes the case so fascinating is that it’s built entirely on circumstantial evidence. The prosecution couldn’t produce the murder weapons (a rifle and a shotgun) or an eyewitness. The victims can’t talk and the killer won’t—at least in the manner of a confession, if the accused was the murderer. The irony is that if Alex Murdaugh was the sole murderer and he tossed the murder weapons “where the Southern sun don’t shine,” he forced the prosecution into a tougher case, a trial comprising circumstantial evidence exclusively; ultimate manipulation by the master manipulator.
Whether as a juror, exposed to all admissible evidence, or a casual observer who sees and hears bits and pieces, anyone following the Murdaugh trial confronts a web of pride, greed, hubris and opioids. The setting—rural, small town and Southern—provides special color. The case wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if staged in urban Michigan and none of the actors spoke with a drawl, had a nickname like “Paw-paw,” owned a “huntin’ dog called “Bubba,” called the lord of the manor “Mr. Alex” or referred to his elderly mother as, “Miss Libby.”
Against the colorful backdrop of the Murdaugh case is the hugely flawed main actor—the once wealthy and powerful defendant, “Mr. Alex,” scion of a family of generational influence. His colossal sociopathy plays havoc with the central precept of American criminal jurisprudence: the presumption of innocence with regard to the charge to which the presumption is applied. Given the Murdaugh’s admissions on the witness stand—to embezzlement, abuse of authority, opioid addiction and lying to investigators—he’s no innocent. Moreover, he’s a world-class liar and a gold medalist at lying about why he lied. And yet . . . with respect to the murder case, the law presumes he’s innocent until proven guilty . . . “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
That’s the theory, at least, which the defense will emphasize in closing argument. But the jurors can’t ignore a mountain of awfulness involving Murdaugh. The “awfulness” relates both to Murdaugh’s character and motive—that he was caught in a perpetual motion machine of addiction and financial stress, which was about to blow sky high, destroying his prestige; that he killed his wife and son to divert attention from his financial wrong-doing by creating a groundswell of sympathy.
For a time the plan worked. In the outpouring of condolences, Murdaugh bought time or at least a few free turns of the hamster wheel he’d been running on for a decade.
A made-for-TV moment in the trial featured the defendant’s emotional breakdown while testifying about his “discovery” of his slain wife and son.
The question is whether Murdaugh’s breakdown revealed (a) remorse over the loss of his prestige; (b) remorse for having killed his wife and son; or, most interesting, (c) sorrow over the loss of his wife and son by a double-murder that he’s still convinced was justified, because it was the only way to save his own skin.
Tomorrow, closing arguments will conclude. After the judge instructs the jury, deliberations will begin, and we’ll await the verdict . . . post-trial motions, sentencing, and appeal(s). If the Constitution guarantees every criminal defendant a quick and speedy trial, the actual wheels of American justice turn slowly. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
