Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (24 page)

Myriam Wolcott’s trial was about to begin.

Chapter Twenty-four

M
ost trials in Cabot Cove are fairly mundane; there’s not a lot of drama in run-of-the-mill DUI and DWI cases, petty theft, traffic violations, or the occasional assault case. It had been years since a murder trial had taken place, and the notoriety of the Wolcott murder had ensured that the courtroom would be packed to capacity.
The Hour
’s broadcast had obviously helped pique interest, as did a series of articles in the
Gazette
leading up to the day of the trial.

The district attorney had filed a pretrial motion to bar all witnesses from attending the trial until after they’d testified. But Judge Mackin ruled against her, allowing Edwina and me to join Tim Purdy and Richard Koser in seats in the middle of the courtroom. Edwina and I wore small purple ribbons to indicate solidarity in supporting the women’s shelter, and I was pleased to see many other women in the room wearing them, too.

Richard Mauser was also there. He sat at the other end of the row from us, his full, ruddy face set in a menacing scowl.

Judge Ralph Mackin, who’d been on the bench for many years, was an interesting study in contrasts. In person he was easygoing and extremely amiable, laughing easily and fond of puns and limericks. But once he donned his black robe and came to the bench, he was all business, and heaven help the attorney who crossed him. Still, despite ruling the courtroom with an iron fist, he was unfailingly fair, the picture of what a good judge should be.

Mackin and I had become good friends over the years. His wife, Lorraine, and I were involved together in a number of civic endeavors, and I belonged to a book group she’d started many years earlier and that flourished to this day. I often turned to the judge when researching courtroom procedure for my crime novels, and he’d become a valuable resource for me. Once, a few years ago, I’d come across information that shed a new and different light on an arson case he was hearing, my additional insight causing him to declare a mistrial. He often joked with me that if Mort Metzger were ever to resign as sheriff, he would put my name up for consideration.

We all stood as the judge entered the courtroom and took his seat behind the bench. After some preliminary legal matters were dispensed with, he instructed the bailiff to bring in the jury. I recognized a few of the twelve men and women, although the majority were unfamiliar to me. In order to expand the potential jury pool, the call had gone out to registered voters in the county in which Cabot Cove is located. The panel was equally divided, six men and six women.

Judge Mackin directed that the defendant be brought in. Two female officers escorted Myriam Wolcott to the room and led her to the defense table, where Cy O’Connor sat with Sharon Bacon. Seated in the first row directly behind them were Myriam’s brother, Robert, Myriam’s two children, Mark and Ruth, and her mother, Mrs. Caldwell. There had been a debate about whether attending their mother’s trial would be too traumatic an experience for the children, but Cy O’Connor had insisted that they be present, undoubtedly to garner sympathy from the jurors. I’d heard that Myriam had pleaded that they be spared the experience, but her mother overruled her, which came as no surprise.

If the months of house arrest had taken a toll on Myriam, it didn’t show in her physical appearance or how she carried herself. She was dressed fashionably in a simple pale blue dress; around her neck she’d tied a thin purple scarf. Whether she chose the color to show solidarity with those wearing purple ribbons was conjecture, but I liked to think that she had.

Judge Mackin asked whether Diane Cirilli was prepared to begin the prosecution’s case. She said that she was and addressed her opening remarks to the jury.

I was impressed with Ms. Cirilli’s demeanor and oratorical skills as she summed up the case she intended to present against Myriam. She cited the evidence that she would offer and told the jurors that she trusted their fairness and impartiality. “The defense will have you believe that the defendant, Myriam Wolcott, shot her husband because she feared for her life and for the lives of her children. She will portray her husband as a monster who routinely abused her and their children to the point that she had to kill him to protect herself. You will hear from expert witnesses for the defense who will claim that battered women become shell-shocked—the so-called Stockholm syndrome—and are unable to do what any rational person would do under the circumstances, call the police or file for divorce. The truth is that of nearly four million women abused each year, only five or six hundred of them resort to murdering their abusers.”

“
Only
five or six hundred?” Edwina whispered to me.

Ms. Cirilli continued. “Under our laws, a self-defense plea is only valid when the defendant is in danger of suffering
imminent
bodily harm and must use deadly force to protect herself. You will see through the testimony of law enforcement officials who responded to the scene that this was not the situation on the night Josh Wolcott was brutally gunned down. The state will also introduce evidence, including photographic evidence, that the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Wolcott was not as grim as she would like you to believe, photos of them as a very happy couple over the course of their marriage. You will also learn that the victim in this case, Joshua Wolcott, died leaving a life insurance policy with his wife as the beneficiary. While the sum left to her isn’t large, it further provides a motive for her to have killed him.

“Your job is to weigh the facts and the evidence and come to a just and unanimous decision. I know that you will live up to this awesome responsibility. Thank you.”

It was time for Cy O’Connor to make his opening remarks. He made a splendid appearance as he positioned himself in front of the jury box; he looked like a model for a high-end clothing store in his custom-tailored striped gray suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He smiled, welcomed them, and echoed what the DA had said about trusting them to do the right thing. “And the right thing,” he said slowly, “is to find Myriam Wolcott not guilty because she acted in self-defense. As the trial progresses you’ll undoubtedly hear a great deal of debate about what constitutes an ‘imminent threat.’ The prosecution would have you believe that it demands that a weapon of some sort be held to the defendant’s head at the moment that she defended herself. But that flies in the face of reason. The defendant, Myriam Wolcott, was the victim of constant, unrelenting physical and psychological abuse by her husband, Josh Wolcott. You’ll hear testimony from leading citizens of Cabot Cove who will corroborate this. The defendant’s husband possessed a collection of firearms, and in days before the event had made a point of leaving them around the house as an implicit threat to his wife—and by extension her two children, Mark, who is sixteen, and Ruth, age twelve. The situation in the Wolcott household had deteriorated to the point that . . .”

O’Connor spoke for another fifteen minutes, addressing various points made by the prosecutor before thanking the jurors for their service and rejoining Myriam at the defense table.

Ms. Cirilli slowly and methodically began presenting her case, starting with the introduction of various reports from the police and forensics experts. Her first witness was one of the deputies who’d first responded to Myriam’s 911 call. His written report was entered into the record, and she questioned him at length about every detail he’d seen and heard the night of the shooting. “Please tell the jury the position of the body when you responded that night.”

“He was lying by the side of a car in the driveway.”

She asked him to describe the car, which he did. She then introduced photographs taken of the scene, using an overhead projector. I looked to where the Wolcott children sat and saw that they’d lowered their heads to avoid having to witness the grim scene.

“What was the position of the car?” the DA asked.

“It was—what do you mean ‘the position’?”

“What direction was it facing?”

“Out. I mean it was backed into the driveway.

“What about the doors? Were they open or closed?”

“Closed. I mean except for the driver’s door. That one was open.”

“And you’ve testified that the body of the victim was right beside that open door.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you surmise that he was about to get in the car when he was shot?”

“Objection!” O’Connor called out. “That calls for speculation on the witness’s part.”

“Sustained.” Judge Mackin said to the deputy on the stand, “Only testify to what you know, Officer, not what you think might have happened.”

“Yes, sir.”

Cirilli had called three other witnesses to the stand by the time the judge granted a lunch recess, admonishing the jury not to discuss the case with anyone, or among themselves, or to read anything or watch coverage on TV. Court was adjourned until one thirty.

I was back inside the courtroom on time for the afternoon session. As it turned out, the judge declared a recess after less than an hour’s worth of testimony, something having to do with motions that had been filed by the attorneys during the lunch break.

“We’ll convene tomorrow morning at nine thirty sharp,” Mackin said, again instructing the jurors on what they were prohibited from doing.

I called Seth when court let out. He had just finished seeing his last patient for the day.

“I’ve been sitting so long, I can use a good walk,” I told him.

“Capital idea. Mind if I join you?”

“It would be my pleasure. I’m going to stroll over to browse the window at Charles Department Store. Why don’t you meet me there?”

“Sounds like Mrs. Wolcott’s self-defense plea might not work,” Seth said after I filled him in on the proceedings while we’d made our way down to the docks after getting together on Main Street. “If her husband was about to get in his car and drive away, that sure doesn’t constitute an imminent threat to her.”

“My reaction, too,” I said.

“How did Mrs. Wolcott look?” he asked.

“Very calm and composed. She took notes and whispered something into her attorney’s ear now and then.”

“And what about the children?”

“They sat and listened calmly, too, except when pictures of their father in a pool of blood were shown. They avoided looking at them.”

“Glad that they did. Sitting through their mother’s trial is bad enough. You and Ms. Wilkerson are testifying tomorrow?”

“It depends on when the district attorney finishes presenting her case. We’re witnesses for the defense. We come second.”

“Nervous?”

“No. Cy O’Connor will ask me questions about the night Myriam visited the shelter office, and I’ll answer them truthfully. By the way, Ms. Cirilli petitioned the judge not to allow Edwina and me to be in the courtroom while the other is testifying. He agreed. I think Cy will call her first since she’s the shelter’s director.”

“Well,” said Seth through a yawn, “from what I’ve heard and know, the outcome is pretty much preordained. I don’t see much chance of Mrs. Wolcott getting off.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” I said. “I still don’t believe she killed him.”

Later that night, after Seth had driven me home, I kept seeing Myriam and her children in the courtroom, her fate—and certainly theirs—on the line. On reflection, I was sure that Seth was right, that the outcome would not be favorable. Getting over the legal definition of “imminent threat” was too high a hurdle.

The start of the trial had inspired much discussion in Cabot Cove in the usual places around town and online. When I opened my computer to check e-mail, there were a bunch of messages about the first day in court. There was also a message from Harry McGraw. I opened it first.

“Business is slow,” his e-mail said. “Thought I might take a ride up to Cabot Cove and see what’s happening in our favorite murder case. See you tomorrow.”

Chapter Twenty-five

E
dwina picked me up the next morning, and we arrived at the courthouse at nine. We hoped that the district attorney would conclude her case before the day was out and that we would be called to testify. But it wasn’t to be. Ms. Cirilli had received permission the previous day from Judge Mackin to bring in two expert witnesses on domestic abuse and spent considerable time that morning establishing the credentials of one of them for the court and the jury. The first testified at length, basically debunking the theory that an abused spouse should be excused for killing the abuser, days, even hours after an incident in which abuse took place, in effect supporting the “imminent danger” theory of the prosecution. His testimony upset Edwina, but she had the good sense not to violate courtroom decorum by verbalizing her objection. Cy O’Connor did object a few times when he thought the witness had exceeded his area of expertise, and Judge Mackin upheld his objections. O’Connor also asked during his cross-examination whether the witness was being paid by the prosecution, and how much. He acknowledged that he was a paid expert witness and also confirmed that he made a substantial proportion of his income testifying around the country, in almost all cases paid by the prosecution. Whether that resonated with the jury in Myriam’s favor was pure conjecture.

The lunch break was from noon until one thirty. The second expert witness would testify when court reconvened.

As Edwina and I left the courtroom to head for a local deli, the two Wolcott children appeared in the hallway. I was surprised to see them without an adult at their side and debated greeting them. I decided to.

“Hi,” I said.” I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’m a friend of your mother.”

Ruth, the twelve-year-old, cast her eyes to the marble floor, but her teenage brother, Mark, said, “Hello. I kind of remember your name.”

“Is your friend Paul Hanley here with you?” I asked, looking around as though I might recognize him.

My question seemed to startle him.

“Your mom mentioned how close you two are and that you spend so much time together. It must be tough when you both want to use the computer to do homework. Who gets to go first?”