Naked Justice (33 page)

“Would you say you were close to your sister, the late Caroline Taylor Barrett?”

“We were best friends. It was always that way. We’re only two years apart in age. We grew up together. We wore the same clothes, had the same friends. We took vacations together. We told each other everything.” She smiled bitterly. “She was the best friend I ever had.”

“Did you spend a lot of time together?”

“Oh, yes. As much as we possibly could. We loved to talk. We would stay up all night sometimes, just sitting around the kitchen table talking to one another, sharing secrets and favorite things. She was a lot smarter than I was. I remember, the last time we vacationed together, she was reading some Greek tragedy.
Medea
, I think. I was reading Michael Crichton. But she never lorded it over me. She never made me feel stupid.”

“Have you always lived in Tulsa?” Bullock asked.

“No. We grew up in Crescent, a much smaller town north of Oklahoma City. We both went to nursing school here in Tulsa. Then I moved away about two and a half years ago.”

“Why?”

“Well, I married, and my husband took a job in Chicago. Unfortunately, the marriage broke up about seven months ago. After the divorce was final, I returned to Tulsa.”

“Did you see your sister when you returned?”

“Of course I did. In fact, she met me at the airport. She knew I’d been through a … difficult time, and she wanted to be there for me.” She paused, and her eyes lowered. “She was always there for me.”

Bullock also paused, allowing silence to heighten the drama of the moment. “Was she alone when she met you?”

“Oh no. She had—had—” Cynthia’s head suddenly dropped, and her hand rushed up to meet it. Her face twisted in the picture of sadness. “She brought her two girls,” she said, first whispering, then crying. “My nieces.” Tears began to flow from her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Bullock said solemnly. “I know how hard this must be for you. Your honor, may I approach?”

The judge nodded, and Bullock stepped forward and handed her a tissue which he just happened to have in his coat pocket. She dabbed her eyes, but the tears continued to trickle forth.

“It’s all right,” she said, whispering again. “They were just so … so young and pretty and …” She turned abruptly and looked up at the judge. “I’m sorry, your honor. I can go on.” She dabbed her eyes again and tried to compose herself.

Bullock gave her plenty of time. He seemed to be in no hurry, or perhaps more accurately, recognized that this emotional display would have more impact on the jury than any number of questions.

“What did you do that day? After she met you.”

“Oh … I hardly remember.” She forced a smile and tried to bravely carry on. “Nothing unusual. Shopping, eating. Just girl stuff. You know.”

“Do you recall anything unusual that occurred that day?”

“Oh, yes. It was—” She stopped. “I hardly know what to say. She was wearing sunglasses.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Well, yes. I had never seen her wear sunglasses before, and the sun wasn’t that bright. And then when we got back to her house, she still wore the glasses.”

“Inside?”

“Right. I pointed this out to her, but she just laughed and shrugged it off.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, I became very suspicious. At that time, I’d been associated with DVIS for several years, and I knew that when a woman starts wearing sunglasses she doesn’t need to shield her eyes from the sun, it can mean trouble.”

“So what did you do?”

“Well, I couldn’t get any sort of straight answer out of her, so finally I just reached up and yanked the glasses off her face.”

“And what did you see?”

Cynthia hesitated, then turned her head to face the jurors. “Her left eye had a huge black bruise around it. Black and blue and red. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the ugliest black eye I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some doozies. It was horrifying.”

“What did you say?”

“Well, of course I asked her how this happened. Who did this to you?”

“And what did she say?”

“Objection.” Ben jumped to his feet. “Hearsay.” Ben knew he would win few points with the jury by preventing them from getting an answer they were dying to hear, but given the circumstances, he had to try.

Bullock barely batted his eyelids. “Of course I think an argument can fairly be made that the declarant is unavailable. Since she’s been murdered.”

Judge Hart nodded. “And moreover, I find that the circumstances surrounding this testimony suggest unusual trustworthiness. I’m going to allow the testimony.”

Ben retook his seat. That was two for Bullock, zip for him.

“Please answer my question,” Bullock said, nudging her along. “What did your sister say?”

“Well, at first she told me some cockamamie story about falling down the stairs, but I let her know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t having any of it. So then she told me the truth.”

“Which was?”

“He hit her.”

“Who?”

“Him.” She pointed across the courtroom. “The defendant. Wallace Barrett.” She paused. “Her husband.”

The courtroom acquired an audible buzz, whispers and scribbling pencils. It was the first nail in the prosecution’s case, the first nail in Wallace Barrett’s coffin.

Cynthia continued. “Apparently they’d been to some party, some mayoral function. She didn’t even want to go, but he forced her, and then complained that she had had the audacity to actually speak to another man while she was there. He’s a very jealous man. Crazy jealous. Irrational. Mean.”

“Was this the first time he’d struck her?”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

Judge Hart nodded. The objection was proper, although given that she had already permitted the hearsay testimony, it was largely a question of semantics. “Counsel, rephrase.”

“Certainly,” Bullock said. “Anything to please defense counsel. Cynthia, did your sister tell you anything else?”

“Yes. She said this was not the first time her husband had hit her. In fact she told me that on two occasions she’d had to call the police. She hadn’t wanted to, she said, but he was out of control. She was afraid—well, she was afraid he might hurt the girls. Or even kill them.”

The buzz following that tidbit was even louder. Ben could already hear the sound bite replaying on the six o’clock news.

Bullock continued as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Do you know what caused these incidents?”

“What caused them is Wallace Barrett’s insane jealousy and uncontrolled temper.”

“Objection!”

Bullock held up his hands. “We’ll withdraw that, your honor. I believe the witness misunderstood my question. Cynthia, what I meant was, do you know what provoked the incidents that led to the violence and the police being called?”

“I know about one of them. It was another typical Wallace Barrett fight. Apparently he was laying his clothes out for the next day and he couldn’t find the tie he wanted. I mean, can you imagine? Just a stupid tie, that was all. He blew his top because he couldn’t find a tie. And of course he blamed her.”

“What did your sister say that he did?”

“He beat the hell out of her, that’s what he did. And I’ve seen the pictures, so I know it’s true. She had bruises on her face, arms, legs, breasts … everywhere.” She inhaled and her voice lowered. “That son of a bitch hit her everywhere there was to hit.”

“And then?”

“And then he threw her out of the house. I mean he picked her up and bodily threw her out of the house. She wasn’t even dressed; she didn’t have anything on but her bra and panties. So here she is, practically naked, banging on the front door of her own home, begging him to let her in. But does he? No, he’s upstairs watching television or something while she’s outside being humiliated. Such a cruel man. Heartless.”

“Your honor, I have to object.” Ben knew this was probably hopeless, but if nothing else, he could remind the jury that this was grade-A hearsay they were listening to, not an eyewitness account. “The witness is describing this incident as if she was there. She was not. She is simply recounting what she was told in a conversation.”

Judge Hart tapped her pencil on her desk. “I understand your concerns, counsel. But the jury has been informed of the circumstances surrounding this testimony. I believe they are in a position to evaluate its credibility for themselves. Overruled.”

Something about the judge’s even, flat tone bothered Ben. She made every response sound as if she was being scrupulously fair. But the result was always the same. Ben was overruled; Bullock got whatever he wanted.

“What did your sister do?”

“Eventually she went next door and asked a neighbor to take her in. He gave her some clothes and let her stay there till Wallace calmed down. I think his name was Harvey. He’s an actor.”

Bullock turned to address the court. “The prosecution will be calling Harvey Sanders later to testify about these and other relevant matters.” Back to the witness. “Did you ever try to … counsel your sister with regard to this repeated violence from her husband?”

“Of course. This was what I did, after all. Working with battered women was second nature to me. What a crushing blow that I couldn’t help my own sister. I tried to talk to her, or I offered to have someone else from the shelter come talk to her. She would never agree.”

“Why? What explanation did she give?”

“Oh, different things. She said she was taking care of it, or that she could handle it. She said she had to think of her girls first.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she wouldn’t get a divorce and destroy the family. She’d just go on being his personal punching bag.” Her hand darted back to her face. “I pleaded with her. Pleaded with her to leave that man. But she wouldn’t do it.”

“Did that ever change?”

Ben’s ears pricked up. He knew Bullock wouldn’t ask the question if he didn’t know—and like—the answer.

“Yes. She called me on the phone. She said that something had happened—she didn’t say what—and she realized she couldn’t go on living with this man any longer. She was ready to leave him.”

“What did you do?”

“I offered to drive over that very second and pick up her and the girls.”

“Did she agree?”

“No. She said she had to tell Wallace first. I tried to talk her out of it. He would only become mad, I told her. Probably violent. He’d try to stop her from leaving. I told her to just go and send a letter later. But she wouldn’t. She said fair was fair, or something like that. She was going to confront him.”

Bullock took a deep and slow breath. “Cynthia, when was this telephone conversation with your sister? When she said she was going to leave her husband.”

“That was the morning of March eleventh. The day she was killed.”

Bullock rushed right into the next question. “Cynthia, do you think telling Barrett she was leaving him could have provoked the violence that led to her death and the death of her children?”

“Objection!” Ben shouted, drowning out the answer, but he knew the damage had already been done. The point of Bullock’s question was not to elicit an answer. The point was to suggest a rationale, an explanation for this horrible crime. At long last the prosecution had a motive.

“Sustained,” Judge Hart said. “Anything more from this witness?”

“Just one more question. Did your sister tell you anything else during that … final phone call?”

Cynthia’s eyes seemed to blur. “Only about her plans. Our plans. Once she was free from him, we were going to take a trip together, just us and the girls, taking it easy, really getting to know each other. I can’t tell you what that meant to me, how much I looked forward to it. Now, it will never …” Her hand covered her face. Tears streamed through her fingers. “Now it will never … never happen.”

Bullock lowered his head sadly and turned away. “Nothing more, your honor.”

“W
ILL THERE BE ANY CROSS?”
the judge asked.

Ben tried to imagine whether there was anything he would like to do less than cross-examining this tear-stained, grief-stricken witness. Nothing came to mind.

Jeez. No wonder people hated lawyers.

“Yes, your honor.” Ben grabbed his notes and strode dutifully to the podium, contemplating his approach. Obviously, trying to come on like the tough guy would be a mistake. He wouldn’t get anything out of the witness and the jury would despise him.

He gave her a few more moments to collect herself before he started. “Ms. Taylor, my name is Ben Kincaid, and I’m counsel for the defendant, Wallace Barrett.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I remember.”

“Ms. Taylor, I have a few questions to ask you. Not all that many. I feel I already know most of what you have to say. You see … I read your book.”

Her head lifted. “What?”

“Your book.
The Whole Truth, and Nothing But.
That is your book, isn’t it? It has your name on it.”

Cynthia smiled but did not speak.

Ben held up the copy of the book that Mike had given him, with its lurid cover and unflattering photograph. “That’s your name on the cover, isn’t it?”

She licked her lips. “Yes. That’s my name.”

“So you wrote this.”

“I—uh—well, no.”

“No?”

“I told my story to someone else. A professional writer. He wrote it.”

“Is there some reason why you used an uncredited ghostwriter?”

She crossed and recrossed her legs. “My publisher felt that … time was of the essence.”

“Meaning they wanted to get the book on the street fast, while the story was hot, before the trial was over.”

“I suppose that’s correct.”

“You’ve been very busy since this book came out, right? Even been on some of the national talk shows, I understand.”

“That’s … true.”

“Sales good?”

“I … don’t know any actual figures, but … I understand sales are healthy.”

Bullock rose wearily to his feet. “Your honor, I fail to see the relevance of this testimony, unless perhaps Mr. Kincaid is hoping to write a book himself. If so, I can give him the name of Ms. Taylor’s literary agent and save the court a great deal of time.”