Naked Justice (34 page)

Judge Hart tried not to smile. “I think we’ll give Mr. Kincaid some leeway here, counsel. This may turn out to have some bearing on the matters at issue.”

Ben continued. “Ms. Taylor, did you receive an advance from your publisher?”

“Uh, yes. That’s standard procedure, I believe.”

“How much did you get?”

Bullock was on his feet again. “Objection! Your honor, this is not relevant. He’s just trying to embarrass her.”

Judge Hart shook her head. “The witness will answer the question.”

Cynthia licked her lips again. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Ben’s eyes widened. “A quarter of a million bucks?” It was more than even he had imagined. “That’s a pretty unstandard advance.”

Cynthia shrugged. “I guess they had a lot of confidence in the book.”

“I guess so. I would have to imagine, though—for that kind of money, they’re going to expect a very good book.”

“I’d imagine.”

“They’re going to want you to tell some juicy stories. Something that will sell that three-hundred-thousand-copy initial print run.”

Cynthia’s eyes lowered. “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, ma’am, did you ever tell anyone about this alleged abuse to your sister prior to her death?”

“Not that I recall.”

“You didn’t call the police?”

“I didn’t feel it was my place.”

“And you didn’t report it to any social services agencies. Including the one for which you are president.”

“I tried to get Caroline to do that.”

“So the whole time your sister was alive, you didn’t say a word, but as soon as she’s dead, and there are book publishers offering you a quarter of a million bucks, then suddenly you’ve got a story to tell.”

“That’s all wrong.”

“What did I say that was wrong?”

“It wasn’t what you said. It was … the way you made it sound. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“It wasn’t?”

“Besides, I’m giving the money to DVIS and several battered women’s shelters.”

“All of it?”

“Well … no, not all of it. I have to live.”

Ben nodded. “I’m sure. And I bet you’re living a lot better now than you were before this book deal, huh?”

“Objection! Argumentative.”

“Sustained.” Judge Hart gave Ben a stern look. “Counsel, you know what is and isn’t permissible. Don’t cross the line again.”

“Yes, your honor.” Ben glanced down at his notes. Personally, he hated this, but Cynthia and others like her had turned this into a showbiz trial, not him. The jury had to realize the extent to which showbiz was coloring what they saw and heard. “Let me put it this way. If you hadn’t had anything interesting to say, the publisher probably wouldn’t have paid you all that money for your book, would they?”

“Obviously not.”

“Thank you.” He’d made his point as clearly as he could. It was time to move on. “Now, Ms. Taylor, you’re not exactly an unbiased witness, are you?”

Tiny tendrils of irritation were beginning to crease her eyes and lips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Well, you yourself said you were very close to your sister, right?”

“Right. Absolutely.”

“You want to see her murder avenged, right?”

“That’s … right.”

“And you’ve never liked Wallace Barrett, have you? Not from the start.”

Her head bobbed slightly as she considered her response. “No, I’ve never liked him.”

“And your testimony today hasn’t done him much good, has it?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Basically, you’ve come in and trashed a man you admit you don’t like, even though you in fact never witnessed any of the incidents to which you testified, correct?”

“That’s not correct.”

“Did you ever
see
Wallace Barrett strike your sister?”

“Well—no.”

“Did you ever see him strike either of the children?”

“No, I—”

“Did you ever see him hug, or kiss, or show affection to his wife or children?”

“Well, yes, of course, but—”

“Nonetheless, you’ve sat before this jury and painted him as a cold, uncaring monster, based on incidents you never saw, and totally ignoring the many loving moments that you did see.”

“He’s a mean, cruel bastard!” Her sudden cry echoed through the courtroom. “She knew it and so did I. She was going to leave him.”

“But we have only your testimony to that, right?”

“Perhaps so. But it’s true. She told me she was going to leave him.”

“But she didn’t, did she?”

“No. He never gave her a chance.”

Ben bit his tongue. Left himself wide open for that one. Best to just ignore it and move on. “Did you perhaps … encourage her to leave her husband?”

“I told you I tried to get her to leave. I wanted her out of there before he killed her.”

“Your own marriage had broken up.” So?

“What was the cause of your divorce?”

Bullock was back on his feet. “Your honor, I protest. This is—”

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said, cutting him off. “Proceed.”

“What caused your divorce, ma’am?”

Her head lowered until nothing was visible but a shadow. “My husband … drank. Not too much. But when he did … well, he changed. One day he came home and … hit me. That’s when I left.”

Ben nodded soberly. He had suspected as much. “You were a victim of spousal abuse yourself.”

“Yes. I’ve never told anyone, but—yes.”

Ben paused, asking the next question as gently as he could. “Ms. Taylor, is it possible that you, having had this horrible experience, assumed that your sister was having the same problem?”

“No.”

“It’s quite a coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence. Wife beating is an epidemic.”

“Still, after the murders, when you were looking for answers, perhaps you invented one that seemed … appropriate.”

“That’s not true. I had proof. I saw her black eye.”

“You had facts which you interpreted to prove what you wanted to prove.”

“My sister told me!” Cynthia leaned forward, almost tipping out of the box. “I know what I heard. Don’t try to”—her voice had a catch in it—“don’t try to make her life a lie.”

“Ma’am, I’m just trying to determine what happened.”

“I told you what happened!”

“After you made your two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar book deal.”

“That had nothing to do with it.”

“Perhaps you wanted a dramatic story to dramatize the cause of battered women. After all, it’s not as if it could do Caroline any harm now if you … exaggerated a few details.”

“I’m telling the truth!” Her voice screeched out and filled the courtroom. “The man beat her! He’s a maniac! She was going to leave him!”

“And if she did,” Ben said, “then she’d be free to spend more time with you, right?”

“What?”

“You wanted her to spend more time with you, didn’t you?”

“Well … yes.”

“You encouraged her to leave her husband.”

“Damn right I did.”

“Where were you all going? Hawaii? I suppose Caroline would have paid your way.”

“So? That was her decision.”

“Was it?” Ben turned just enough to check the jury. “First you encouraged her to tell you a grossly exaggerated story of spousal abuse that you wanted to hear; then you talked her into leaving her husband, which freed her up to take you to Hawaii.”

“That’s not true!”

“Your honor, I object.” Bullock had positioned himself so that he could make eye contact with both the judge and the television cameras. “This is the most outrageous, cruel abuse of cross-examination I have seen in my entire career. He’s not uncovering any new information. He’s just torturing a woman who has lost her sister. This is inhuman!”

Judge Hart seemed to think carefully before responding. “Mr. Kincaid, I do have the sense that we have explored this area about long enough. Can we move on?”

“Certainly, your honor.” Ben hadn’t enjoyed this any more than anyone else. He was more than happy to skip to the next subject. “I just have a few more questions. Ms. Taylor, you spent a great deal of time with your sister, both before and after you were in Chicago, right?”

Cynthia’s jaw was tight and grim. “That’s right,” she said curtly.

“As a result, you must have spent a great deal of time in the company of her husband, Wallace Barrett.”

“That’s true.”

“Ms. Taylor, in the entire twelve-year history of their marriage, did you ever hear Wallace Barrett threaten his wife?”

“She told me—”

“That wasn’t my question, ma’am. Please listen carefully and answer the question put to you. Did you ever hear Wallace Barrett threaten his wife?”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Never even once?”

“No.”

“Did you ever hear him threaten his children?”

“No.”

“In fact, he was very loving toward his children, wasn’t he?”

“He …” She exhaled heavily. “Yes. He treated his girls very well.”

“Did you yourself ever see Wallace Barrett strike his wife or children?”

“No, I did not.”

“And you certainly never heard him say he was going to kill them.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “No, I did not.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” Ben started away, then, as if in afterthought, turned back to the podium. He knew he’d already gotten everything useful out of this witness he was ever likely to get. But there was one more matter he wanted to inquire about, for his own curiosity’s sake, if nothing else. “I just have one more question, Ms. Taylor. Why did you call the city office building?”

The question obviously took her by surprise. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You remember when I came to interview you at your place of work?”

“I remember you were a fairly sad excuse for an aerobicizer.”

Ben smiled. “After I left your office, you called the city office building. Where the city council meets and most of the members have offices. Why?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you know who I called?”

“Please answer the question.”

“But—”

Judge Hart intervened. “The witness will answer the question.”

For the first time, Cynthia seemed flustered. “Well, I don’t—I mean—I can’t imagine. I don’t think … oh yes. It must have been DVIS business. That’s right. I was working with the city council to toughen the laws on mandatory police investigation of domestic abuse calls. That must have been it.”

“I see. So you did call the city council offices, after all.”

“Yes, I guess I must have.”

“Did you talk to any particular city council member?”

“No, no one in particular.”

“Who in general?”

“Well, Loretta Walker was the one who sponsored the ordinance. Brian Erickson has been very supportive.”

“Bailey Whitman?”

She looked up at him quickly. “Yes, of course. He’s the head of the council.”

“Have you had many occasions to talk to Mr. Whitman?”

“Well, I don’t— Many? A few. I wouldn’t say many.”

“But you were in communication with him during the time of the murder and the subsequent investigation.”

“Uh, yes. I suppose I was.”

“Thank you. No more questions.”

Bullock waived redirect, and Cynthia, obviously shaken, stepped down. Ben avoided her eyes as she passed by his table. He felt certain that whatever small affection or respect he had earned by rescuing her from the reporters was now totally eradicated. It was a shame, but unavoidable.

“Very well,” Judge Hart said. “We’ve still got some time before lunch. Mr. Bullock, please call your next witness.”

“T
HE STATE CALLS MR.
Arthur Prentiss to the stand.”

As Mr. Prentiss strode forward and was sworn in and introduced, Ben made a silent prayer of thanks to the great gods of the judiciary for pretrial discovery and
Grady v. Wisconsin.
If the prosecution hadn’t been required to identify their witnesses in advance of trial, he wouldn’t’ve had a clue who this witness was or what he was about to say.

“Mr. Prentiss,” Bullock asked, after the witness was settled, “where do you work?”

Prentiss was a tall thin man with a scraggly black mustache and beard. He was in his mid-thirties, although he looked younger. Despite the beard, he had a clean, fresh-faced look. Basically, he looked like an honest man, which worried Ben no end.

“I work at the Baskin-Robbins over on Fifty-first, near Harvard. You know, next to Novel Idea.”

“What do you do there?”

“Well, I scoop ice cream, for the most part.” He grinned. “I’m the assistant manager, but we have a very small staff. There’s never more than two of us on-site at once. So I usually end up doing a little of everything. Stocking, scooping. Ringing up the cash register.”

“I see.” Bullock turned a page in his trial notebook, usually his subconscious signal to the jury that he was about to get to the good parts. “Let me ask you, Mr. Prentiss, if you’ve ever had occasion to know the defendant, Wallace Barrett.”

“Sure. Of course.” He shrugged. “He’s the mayor. I’ve seen him in the papers, on TV. And he used to come into the store.”

“Really. That’s interesting. I’d like to talk about that.” Ben knew better than to trust Bullock’s feigned surprise. Something was in the offing. “Did he by any chance come into the store on the afternoon of March 11?”

As if you didn’t know. “Yes, he did.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, he was with his wife and kids.” He glanced awkwardly at Barrett. “Er … late wife and kids.”

“Would you please describe that encounter for the jury in your own words?”

Prentiss shifted his angle slightly so that he faced the jury and could speak directly to them. “Well, at first it was no different from any other visit. Mayor Barrett greeted me by name, asked about my kids. He was that kind of guy, you know—always remembered your wife’s and children’s names and always remembered to ask after them. A good politician, I guess. We shot the breeze a little bit, like we always did. They’d just come from that press conference he gave. Where he announced he was running for reelection.”

Bullock nodded. “What was different about their visit on this particular occasion?”

“Well, it’s hard to describe. There was some kind of tension in the air, particularly between Wallace and his wife. Something was going on between them, but I wasn’t sure what.”