Naked Justice (36 page)

“The State calls Karen Gleason.” There was a mild stir, and then, from the back of the courtroom, a tiny eight-year-old girl slid off the bench and started timidly toward the front escorted by the sergeant at arms.

Ben’s head fell to the table. Just when you think it can’t get any worse …

Bullock boosted the child into the large chair in the witness box, putting a thick pillow beneath her so she could be seen over the rail. She had a small face with large brown eyes, pretty in an innocent, prepubescent way. Her black hair was braided back in matched pigtails on either side of her head.

Judge Hart swore in the witness, being particularly careful to speak clearly and to keep a pleasant expression on her face. Whatever it took to make this experience less of a nightmare for her than it would likely be anyway. Studies had shown that testifying in court was one of the most traumatic experiences a small child could undergo. It was worst, of course, when the case centered around child abuse or charges against the child’s parents. Nonetheless, the murder of your best friend was not a piece of cake.

“Karen, there are a few questions I need to ask you before you answer the lawyers’ questions. You understand that the lawyers are going to ask you some questions, don’t you?”

Karen’s small oval face turned up at the cheekbones. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And you understand that you’ve promised to tell the truth, don’t you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You need to say yes or no, Karen. So the court reporter can take it down.”

“Oh. Sorry.” A flush of embarrassment colored her face. “Yes, I promised.”

“And you’re how old?”

“I’m eight, ma’am.”

“Eight. So you’re old enough to know the difference between the truth and a lie, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. My mama has been real strict on that.”

Judge Hart beamed a smile that was one part judicial and two parts maternal. “Good. Then just answer these questions truthfully and we shouldn’t have any problems. If you don’t understand their questions, you just tell them so.” She glanced up. “And I can assure you the lawyers will make themselves clear and won’t try to be tricky or to upset you in any way whatsoever.”

Message received and understood, Ben thought.

“Counsel, you may proceed.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Bullock squared himself behind the podium and borrowed the friendly smile the judge had been using. “Karen, you know why you’re here today, don’t you?”

Karen’s head bobbed gravely. “ ’Cause Alysha got killed. With her mama and sister.”

“That’s right, honey.” Ben felt a catch in his throat, and he knew the other jurors were feeling it as well. Not as if they didn’t all know what the crime was. But somehow, hearing it come from the lips of an eight-year-old girl made it all the more heartbreaking. “You knew Alysha, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “We went to school together. At Forestview.”

“What grade are you in?”

“Third. We’re both in Ms. Holman’s class.” Her head drooped. “Were.”

“I see. Was Alysha your friend?”

“Yes. We were best friends.”

“Did you play together?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you ever go over to her house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you know her sister Annabelle and her mother?”

Her voice became quiet. “Yeah. I liked them.”

Some time passed before Bullock asked his next question. Just this once, Ben thought that perhaps his hesitation was genuine. “Karen, I know this will be uncomfortable for you, but I’m afraid I have to ask you to tell us what you know. Do you recall any time when Alysha appeared to have been … hurt?”

Ben considered objecting on grounds of vagueness, but decided not to. What would it accomplish? Everyone knew where this was headed.

“Yeah,” Karen said quietly. “I do.”

“What do you know?”

“She had … bruises on her.”

“Bruises? Where?”

“All up and down her legs. On her arms, too.”

“When was this?”

“Last December. We went swimming together. Janie Pearson invited us. She has an indoor swimming pool,” she added. Obviously, Janie’s indoor pool had made a great impression on her. “Normally, like when she had her clothes on, you wouldn’t see the bruises. But when she changed into her swimsuit … they were all over her.”

“How many bruises did she have?”

Karen shook her head. “Lots. Higher than I can count.”

Ben knew he shouldn’t, but found himself unable to resist. He leaned over into Barrett’s ear and whispered, “Is she telling the truth?”

Barely perceptibly, Barrett nodded his head in the affirmative. Yes.

“Did you ask Alysha about the bruises?”

“Oh, yeah. I said, like, wow, Alysha. What happened to you?”

“And what did she say?”

Karen frowned. “She said she had an accident.”

“Really.” Bullock looked down at his papers. “Perhaps she fell down the stairs also. Did she say anything more?”

“No. She started getting real embarrassed about it. I guess she thought, like, maybe no one would notice or something. But once I did, she got upset and started trying to cover them up.”

“Did she go swimming with you?”

“No. Like I said, she acted real embarrassed. She put her clothes back on and wouldn’t swim. Called her mom to come pick her up.”

“I see. And this was about three months before the … the … end?”

“Right. Around Christmas.”

Bullock turned a page in his notebook. “Karen, when was the last time you talked to your friend Alysha?”

“On the day … the …” Her voice dropped. “The last day.”

“You talked to her on the day she was killed?”

Ben sensed everyone in the courtroom inching forward with interest. Another detail that had not been reported in the press.

Karen nodded her head. “Sure. We talked almost every day. We were best friends.”

“What time of day was it?”

“About five in the afternoon. I remember ’cause I had just finished watching Power Rangers.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, nothing special. Just the usual stuff. School. Homework.” Her face flushed again. “Boys.”

“Did Alysha seem … upset?”

“No. Well, not at first.”

“Not at first? What happened later?”

“Well, there was like some … screaming in the background. I couldn’t hear the words. I asked Alysha, but she just said, ‘It’s them again,’ and tried to ignore it like.”

“Was she able to ignore it?”

“No. About a minute or so later, someone shouted out her name. I wasn’t sure who it was, but it was a real loud voice. Yelling at her.”

“And then what happened?”

“Alysha screamed. I mean, like, real loud screamed. It was scary. Then I heard this loud thunking in my ear, like she’d dropped the phone.”

“Did you hear anything else after she dropped the phone?”

“Yes. Her voice was fainter, like she’d moved away, but I could still hear what she was saying.”

Bullock took a deep breath. “Karen, would you please tell the jury what were those last words you heard Alysha saying.”

She looked down at her hands. “Yes, sir. She was crying and shouting and she was saying, ‘Daddy! Daddy!’ ”

Bullock paused, obviously moved. “Did you hear anything else?”

“No. That was all. The line buzzed and the operator came on.”

Bullock nodded. “Judging by the time, those were probably her last words.” He lowered his head and quietly closed his notebook. “Thank you, Karen. I have no more questions.”

Ben saw Judge Hart check her watch. Apparently she was deciding whether to proceed or to take a break. He was hoping for the latter; after that, he thought everyone needed a breather. But unfortunately, she opted for the former. “Mr. Kincaid? Have you any cross for this witness?”

Ben nodded and slowly walked to the podium. This was a true no-win scenario. If he did nothing on cross, the jury would be left with a nightmarish mental image—Wallace Barrett dragging Alysha from the phone to her death. On the other hand, if he did cross and tried to challenge or impeach her or otherwise give her a bad time, the jury would hate him, the judge would hate him, and he’d probably be lynched on his way out of the courtroom.

Well, he had to cross. He would just give her the kid-gloves treatment. “Karen, my name is Ben Kincaid. I represent the defendant. Do you know what that means?”

She nodded. “You’re helping the bad man.”

Ben drew in his breath. It’s a wonderful life. “No, Karen. I’m helping your friend’s father. Did he ever do anything bad to you?”

“Well … no.”

“Then why do you call him a bad man?”

“My momma said—”

“Karen, I’m going to have to ask you to put aside anything you were told by other people. Even your mother. All we want to hear about is what you actually saw or heard. Okay?”

Karen frowned, obviously displeased to have her mother’s opinions so ruthlessly cast aside. “All right.”

“Now then.” He pointed to his client. “Did Alysha’s daddy—Mr. Barrett—ever do anything bad to you?”

She shrugged. “No.”

“Did you ever see him do anything bad to Alysha?”

“Mmm, no.”

“Did she ever tell you that her father had done anything bad to her?”

Karen thought for a moment. “Alysha told me he wouldn’t buy her the new Nintendo GamePro even though she really wanted it and all the other kids had them.”

Ben tried not to smile. “Anything else?”

Karen shook her head. “No, sir.”

“And you don’t know how she got those bruises, do you?”

“Well … no …”

“And you don’t know who killed your friend or her sister or her mother, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Karen. That’s all I have.”

It wasn’t much, but there wasn’t much you could do with a witness like this. At least he’d managed to remind the jury that, as bad as it was looking, all of this evidence was still purely circumstantial. Karen Gleason didn’t know who committed the murder any more than the man at the ice-cream store.

Ben took his place beside his client. Barrett was still in his chair, still staring straight ahead, but his attitude, his demeanor had changed in some barely perceptible way Ben couldn’t quite identify. It must be hard, he realized, hearing those horrid things said about you, realizing that almost everyone probably believed them. That would be a difficult burden to bear. And then, just to top it all off, you learn that your deceased little girl’s eight-year-old friend thinks you’re guilty, too. That you’re a bad man.

Ben looked deeply into Barrett’s eyes. He had hoped, although the odds were looking slimmer by the minute, that he would be able to prevent Barrett from being convicted. But even if he did, how could he prevent Barrett from being convicted in the court of public opinion? What could he ever do to prevent the world from thinking of him as … a bad man?

He knew the answer before he had finished asking himself the question.

Absolutely nothing.

T
HE NEXT WITNESS WAS
Harvey Sanders, who Ben knew from pretrial discovery and Christina’s briefing notes lived in the house next door to the Barrett family. Ben could only surmise what the nature of his testimony might be. Living in such close conjunction to this house of turmoil, he might be able to say anything—all of it bad.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Sanders?” Bullock asked.

Sanders was a slim, reasonably handsome man who looked like he was somewhere in his thirties or early forties. He was wearing a collarless shirt with a scarf draped artfully around his neck. “I’m an actor. And I’m also an assistant curator at the Gilcrease Museum. Have been for eight years.”

“You’re an actor?”

“Right. Between jobs at the moment. That’s why I’m working at the Gilcrease.”

“I see. An odd combination.”

“I haven’t quite gotten my big break yet, you know? Once that comes, I’ll drop the day job and devote myself to my art. It’s just a matter of time.”

“Of course. Where do you live, sir?”

“Sixteen twenty-two Terwilliger.”

“Do you know the defendant?”

“Of course I do. He’s my next-door neighbor.”

“And how long have you lived next door to the defendant and his family?”

“Gosh, let me think. More than three years now.”

“So you must have known his two children. And his wife.”

“Caroline. Yes, I knew Caroline. And the children.”

Ben listened carefully to Sanders’ words. There was something about the way he said
Caroline
…

“Were the Barretts good neighbors?”

Sanders grinned. He did have a rather charismatic air about him, Ben thought. Maybe he could be a successful actor at that. “Well, they kept the lawn mowed, if that’s what you mean.”

Bullock tried it a different way. “Did you have much opportunity to see the family interact? To see Mr. and Mrs. Barrett together?”

“Oh, yes. Scads. I saw them practically every day. And I frequently went over to their house.”

“Why?”

“Well, sometimes I’d help with some little household chore. Faulty plumbing or what have you. Wally—excuse me, the defendant—was so busy, you know, sometimes he didn’t have the opportunity to keep up with these things. And sometimes I’d go over to show off a new museum acquisition, some piece of pottery or something. Caroline was a great admirer of antiquities.”

There it was again. Caroline. Ben made a few notes on the cross-ex side of his legal pad.

“Based on what you saw and heard,” Bullock carefully asked, “would you say the Barretts had a happy marriage?”

“Objection,” Ben said. “He’s asking the witness to form an opinion.”

Judge Hart drummed her fingers thoughtfully. “I’ll allow it in this instance. So long as the witness bases his testimony on what he has personally observed, I think it’s permissible.”

Sanders didn’t wait for the question to be reasked. “They had their pleasant moments, like anyone else, but no, I wouldn’t call it a happy marriage. In fact, I’d call it a decidedly unhappy marriage.”

“Upon what do you base that opinion?”

Sanders shifted to face the jury. He seemed perfectly relaxed and at ease, more like a man chatting with his friends than a man testifying in court. “Well, a lot of things. They fought constantly. Loud fights, like cats and dogs. I mean, I lived in the house next door, for Pete’s sake, and I could usually follow the combat like I had a ringside seat.”