Naked Justice (35 page)

“What was the first … manifestation of this tension you’re describing?”

“It was the strangest thing. Those two little girls of his had their noses pressed up against the glass counter—you know, picking out their flavors. Mayor Barrett asked them what they wanted, and told them they could have any kind they wanted. And—”

Bullock leaned forward. “Yes?”

“And …” Prentiss seemed to be struggling for words. “And … the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. So thick I thought it was going to strangle them. Or her, anyway.”

“Her being?”

“Mrs. Barrett. Caroline. She told the girls they couldn’t have chocolate. The mayor apparently disapproved of this limitation. They started to argue.”

“Did the defendant become … angry? Agitated?”

“Actually, I thought he showed a remarkable amount of self-control. She was coming on pretty strong, but he kept calm. He told her she was creating a scene, and he was right, she was. Everyone in the store was watching them.”

“Did the defendant’s attitude ever change?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t know what triggered it. I don’t think it was anything she said. It was just as if something inside of him snapped, as if he decided he’d had enough—”

“Objection.” Ben decided to interject. This account was becoming a bit too colorful. “The witness has gone beyond recounting what he saw and heard and is … interpreting.”

Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. I’ll caution the witness to stick to what he saw and heard.”

Bullock stepped in to retake control. “You were telling the jury when the defendant’s attitude changed.”

Prentiss nodded. “Right, right. All of a sudden, his face got real solid and serious, and his eyes shrunk down to two tiny little slits. And he told her to shut up.”

“How did he say it?”

“The first time, he whispered it. Unfortunately, she kept right on talking. That’s when he went into a rage.”

“What did he do?”

Prentiss looked directly into the jurors’ eyes. “This time he shouted it: ‘Shut up!’ After that, the whole place got real quiet. I think we were all holding our breath, afraid of what might happen next. He snapped his arm back like this”—Prentiss demonstrated—“like he was getting ready to throw a forward pass. Then, like a rocket, he brought his clenched first forward. Toward his wife’s face.”

There was an audible gasp from the courtroom gallery. The cynic in Ben wanted to imagine that Bullock had planted someone to do it, but he knew that even Bullock was probably not that shabby. The truth was, Prentiss was doing a good job of recreating a horrific incident.

“And did Mr. Barrett strike his wife?”

“No,” Prentiss said. “Well, not then, anyway. His fist stopped maybe half an inch from her face. I was amazed he could stop in time.”

“And what was Mrs. Barrett’s reaction?”

“Well, she was horrified, of course. Her eyes were wide as moons. And the funny thing was, she hadn’t had that much time to react. It was as if she instantly realized what was about to happen.” He paused. “I had the distinct impression that this had happened before.”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Ben sat back down, unable to savor this Pyrrhic victory. It was a petty objection in the face of devastating testimony, and he knew it. He wanted to turn to Barrett and shake him by the shoulders, to say What the hell did you think you were doing? But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t even risk turning to look at his client. The slightest glance might be misinterpreted by a juror as concern over the testimony or, worse, an admission of its truth.

“Did the Barretts get their ice cream?” Bullock asked, breaking the silence.

“No. He told the girls they were leaving.”

“Did they comply?”

“The little one, Annabelle, the four-year-old, whined. She wanted her ice cream.”

“So what did the defendant do?”

“He … swatted her. On the backside.”

Bullock blinked twice. “Do I understand you correctly? He hit his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Hard?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Hard enough that she didn’t give him any more trouble.”

Ben simply closed his eyes. It was just too much. All through Cynthia’s testimony, in fact, all through the case, he’d told himself, Yeah, but there’s no proof that he would ever harm his daughters. If nothing else, I can convince the jury that he would never harm them. Except now that was all ruined. Shattered. An eyewitness who had no reason to lie told the jury that Barrett hit his daughter. And Ben knew they would believe him.

He knew they would because he knew he did.

“Did anything else unusual occur?”

“No. Barrett gathered together his family and they left hurriedly. Believe me, I was relieved.”

“Did he say anything else before he left?”

“Yes.” Prentiss’s voice lowered. “Just after he almost hit her. He dropped his hands, but his eyes were still glaring at her, still drilling her so hard I thought they’d leave a mark. He looked at her like that and he said, in a low, growling voice, ‘You’ll regret this.’ ”

Bullock paused to let the import of that statement sink in. “And this was on the afternoon of March 11? About two-thirty in the afternoon?”

“Right.”

Bullock nodded. “Four hours later, all three of them would be dead.”

There was a great and heavy sense of weight in the courtroom. Heads turned and nodded, eyes widened. And for good reason. Now the prosecution had established not only a motive, but an expression of intent. And all of that before the first lunch break.

Bullock glanced up at the judge. “No more questions.”

O
RDINARILY, BEN WOULD’VE PREFERRED
to start with the easy stuff and build to the hard, but in this instance, he knew he had to go straight to the heart of the matter, to undermine the impact of that last bit of testimony before it had a chance to make a permanent impression on the jurors’ perceptions.

“Let’s talk about Wallace’s last statement, Mr. Prentiss. He said, ‘You’ll regret this.’ Did he explain what he meant?”

“Well, no, but I had the definite impression—”

Ben stopped him cold. “Mr. Prentiss, I didn’t ask for your impressions. The judge has instructed you to stick to the facts. Please do so.”

Prentiss took in a deep breath. “All right. No, he didn’t explain what he meant.”

“So, he could’ve meant, say, ‘You’ll be sorry you didn’t get the girls ice cream, ’cause now they’ll be whiny all afternoon.’ ”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“Or he could’ve meant, ‘You’ll be sorry you raised your voice in public, because now your approval rating will go down in the polls.’ ”

“If you say so.”

“The truth is, sir, you don’t know what he meant.”

Prentiss chose his words carefully. “Based upon everything I witnessed, I had the definite impression that he was threatening her.”

“Threatening what?”

“Threatening bodily harm.”

“That’s your guess, and I emphasize the word
guess
, based on what you know or think you know happened later. But in fact, as you testified, he had a chance to hit her—and he didn’t.”

“Well … not in public, no.”

“You don’t know for a fact whether he ever hit her at all, do you?”

“I heard the—”

“Once again, sir, I must ask you to stick to the things you have actually seen or heard. Did you ever see Wallace Barrett strike his wife?”

“No.”

“ ‘You’ll regret this.’ Did your
guess
about what this remark meant occur at the time, or only after you’d read in the papers that Barrett’s family had been killed?”

“Well, after I read what happened it seemed clear—”

“After you read the incredibly biased reportage suggesting that Wallace Barrett was guilty, which came before any evidence had been gathered or presented, you decided to jump on the bandwagon and reinterpret what you saw to cast him as a killer making a threat.”

“That’s not true. I saw what I saw.”

“The truth is, sir, you saw next to nothing. But to listen to you testify, you’d think you’d witnessed the murders themselves.”

“Objection!” Bullock shouted.

“Sustained. Mr. Kincaid, please control yourself.”

“Sorry, your honor.” Ben flipped to the next page of his notes. He was getting carried away, and he knew that always led to sloppy lawyering. It was just so frustrating. Barrett was being hung on a circumstantial mass of innuendo, supposition, and media bias. “Let’s talk about the incident you described involving Wallace’s daughter Annabelle.”

“All right.”

“Despite your best efforts to turn it into some hideous public child abuse, basically, what you witnessed was a mild spanking, right?”

“I wouldn’t use those words.”

“Well, was the contact intended as a punishment?”

Prentiss tossed his head to one side. “I suppose it was.”

“And where did he touch her?”

“On her little bottom.”

“Sounds like a spanking to me.”

Prentiss straightened in his chair. “Look, I don’t think you can write something like this off by calling it a spanking. When you hit a kid, it’s abuse, whatever your supposed motivation.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“Damn straight.”

“You don’t believe in corporal punishment.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you must realize that many people, particularly people older than you, do. They believe it’s necessary to discipline a child.”

“Discipline.” He snorted. “That’s what parents always say to justify hitting their kids. Most of the time it’s just plain uncontrolled anger. Venting their temper on their children.”

“Still, there are times—”

“Look, mister, I’ve got two kids of my own, and I’ve been able to discipline them just fine, but I’ve never hit them. Never once.”

Ben swallowed hard. What a position he’d gotten himself into. He’d sooner die than strike Joey. But here he was coming off as the defender of corporal punishment. He could see the headlines:
BARRETT ATTY FAVORS CHILD BEATING.
“Mr. Prentiss, this is a murder trial, not a referendum on the propriety of spankings. I realize there are television cameras in the room and that creates a temptation to pontificate on important issues, but I’ll have to ask you to stop trying to promote causes and to limit yourself to answering my questions.”

“Fine.”

“When Wallace administered this disciplinary blow to his daughter’s bottom, did he appear to be acting out of anger?”

“Well, no, not particularly.”

“Did he appear to do any serious harm to her?”

“No, no.”

“After the spanking, did he continue to show hostility to her?”

“No. In fact, he picked her up and carried her to the car.”

“So your portrait of a man abusing his family really comes down to a man raising his voice and giving his daughter a mild swat on the backside.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Thank you, sir. No more questions.”

Ben sat down quickly, hoping they could move to the next witness. To his dismay, the instant he sat, he saw Bullock rise to redirect.

“May I approach the witness?” The judge nodded, and Bullock handed what appeared to be a videotape to Prentiss. “Have you seen this before?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a tape made in the ice cream parlor on March 11. We have a security camera behind the counter that tapes everything that goes on in the store. This particular tape displays the encounter with the defendant and his family that I just described.”

“Your honor, I move that this tape be admitted—”

Ben shot to his feet. “Objection, your honor! This is redirect. He can’t bring in new evidence.”

“This is in the nature of rebuttal,” Bullock explained. “I had hoped to avoid showing this to the jury”—I’ll just bet, Ben thought—“but now Mr. Kincaid has called into question Mr. Prentiss’s testimony. Was it a threat or a joke? Was it a spanking or a beating? The best way for the jury to determine the answers to these questions is to let them see what happened for themselves.”

“But your honor,” Ben protested, “this is duplicative. Prentiss has already testified to all this.”

“And the defense has disputed it,” Bullock answered calmly. “We now wish the opportunity to demonstrate that everything Mr. Prentiss has said is true and is in no way exaggerated.”

The judge nodded. “It’s a bit irregular, but given the circumstances, I’ll allow it. Have you got the proper equipment ready?”

Bullock nodded, and began setting up his VCR and television monitor in front of the jury box.

Ben collapsed into his seat. Damn! He’d been totally set up. Bullock had held back the tape, hoping to have a second shot, and Ben had given him his opportunity on a silver platter. Even if the tape showed nothing more than what Prentiss had already said, the jury would now hear it twice, instead of just once. It would be indelibly imprinted on their brains.

Ben sat down glumly as the lights dimmed and watched the grainy security video that was now being presented to the jury. He tried to focus, but one grim truth kept reasserting itself in his brain.

The first morning of trial had been a disaster for the defense. Or more to the point, for Wallace Barrett.

A
S IT TURNED OUT,
the videotape didn’t impart any more information than Prentiss had already done. In fact, in many ways, the tape was an inferior means of conveying the information, which explained why Bullock had decided to lead with his live witness and to save the tape for redirect. The graininess of the tape, coupled with the poor audio, undermined the impact of some of the events, plus the shots of the spanking made it clear that it was a spanking, and a rather lighthearted one at that.

After the tape, Judge Hart called for a late lunch break. Ben ate with Barrett in his holding cell, but neither had much to say. What could he ask the man? Why the hell did you hit your kid in public? Why did you throw your wife out on the front porch half naked? All these questions would have to be asked before Barrett took the stand, but somehow, Ben just couldn’t bring himself to ask them now.

After lunch, Judge Hart reconvened the trial and instructed the prosecution to call its next witness. Ben tried to cheer himself. After all, the worst was surely over now. Who could they possibly call who could make Barrett look worse than he already did?