The Furthest City Light (13 page)

The bailiff, a slight, nervous man who always wore a bow tie and matching suspenders, unlocked the courtroom at eight thirty and we marched inside. After arranging my files the way I wanted, we sat at the defense table waiting for Dr. Midman who promised to arrive early. She would be our first witness. The room was beginning to fill, but the trial wouldn’t start until nine. True to her word, my expert showed up a few minutes later carrying a briefcase in one hand and a green leather overnight bag in the other. She looked a little out of breath, but otherwise calm and composed.

“I’ve been subpoenaed to testify tomorrow in another murder case in Massachusetts,” she told us. “If I’m done by one thirty, I could catch a plane at three. If not,” she made a face, “there’s another one at midnight.”

“Another battered woman case?” I asked.

She nodded. “And compared to that one, yours is a piece of cake.”

“Why is that one so much worse?” Donald asked.

Dr. Midman shrugged. “The woman handcuffed her husband to the bed while he was sleeping and then set him on fire.”

“Any insurance policy on the husband’s life?” Donald asked.

“No.” Dr. Midman laughed. “No insurance policy.” She looked around the courtroom. “Where do you want me to sit?”

Donald pointed to the front row right behind us. “You can sit there. Give us something nice to look at.”

“Well thank you,” Dr. Midman said, placing her bags on the seat beside her.

“You’re welcome,” Donald said.

“Donald,” I murmured, “you old dog.”

He blushed. “Did that sound as dumb as I think it did?”

“Not at all,” I said, “very Sam Spade.”

“Yeah, right.”

Since the first day of trial, my investigator’s appearance had steadily improved. The huge boil on his neck had finally burst and he was looking almost presentable in a seedy, used-car salesman kind of way. He’d washed his hair and slicked it straight back, had splashed some water on his wrinkled button-down shirt, and had made an effort not to spill any additional food on his tie and pants.

Besides handling witnesses and keeping me company at trial, Donald had made himself invaluable in other ways as well. The night before, he’d offered to pick up Alice Timmerman at the airport and drive her to my office, which gave me enough time to run home, take a shower and scarf down some yogurt before meeting her there.

Although Alice was clearly tired from the trip, she had a million questions and was anxious to help in any way she could. Within minutes, I understood why Emily liked her so much. Originally from Israel, she was a smart, straightforward woman with a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor. After we finished preparing her testimony, I found some Brie and crackers in the kitchen (if you’re in trial, there’s an unspoken rule you can steal anyone’s provisions) and made us a late night snack. Later, I drove her to the Boulderado Hotel on Thirteenth Street where I’d reserved a room for her.

At a quarter to nine, Donald and I finished discussing logistics and were waiting for the guards to bring Emily into the courtroom. Usually they brought her at least ten minutes beforehand so that we could have a little time with her. While we were waiting, Alice arrived looking very chic in a maroon silk dress. She was a tall, heavyset woman with thick curly hair and a ruddy complexion. The night before, I’d learned she was the executive director of a national children’s cancer association based in New York City. We introduced her to Dr. Midman, who admired her dress and asked where in the city she’d bought it. Alice named the boutique and Dr. Midman recognized the name. They laughed and then Alice mentioned a different store and Dr. Midman knew that one too.

Donald and I looked at each other and shrugged. It was a sad day in Hicksville when I identified more with Donald than two fashionable women from the big city. I glanced down at myself and wondered if my navy pinstripe suit was a little too subdued, maybe even drab. When the trial was over, I would make Vickie go shopping with me. Or better yet, I’d call Karen Midman and ask her to take me.

At five minutes to nine, the bailiff stepped into the courtroom to check whether everyone was present. There were about twenty spectators in the audience, at least three of them reporters from the
Boulder Daily Camera
and the
Rocky Mountain News
. Louise Watkins was there, of course, flanked by a couple of well-dressed elderly women. I’d hoped that Hal’s ex-colleagues from the Weld County Sheriff’s Department would get tired of showing up, but they didn’t; today, five beefy representatives, who looked like an advertisement for Budweiser Light, were sitting behind Louise. Jeff Taylor and Detective Moorehouse were bent over the prosecution table, thumbing through one of the many thick black notebooks scattered in front of them. I caught the bailiff’s eye, and then looked pointedly at the empty seat beside me to indicate I was still waiting for my client. The bailiff nodded and slipped back out again.

A few minutes later, I saw Janet Ellers walking up the aisle and waved her over.

“You came,” I said, smiling at her. I’d guessed she would. I’d called her a couple of weeks ago and told her that Emily was fine about her coming to support us.

Janet was wearing a pale yellow sundress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the way Emily often wore hers. It was still hard to look at Janet without a slight pang: the one who got away. She carried an open cloth handbag with a ball of yarn and a pair of plastic knitting needles inside.

“It took a few days to arrange the time off,” she explained, “but I can be here until the trial is over. If there’s anything I can do, please ask.”

“Thank you,” I said and introduced her to Alice and Dr. Midman. Alice immediately made room for her to sit down. If they were surprised at Janet’s resemblance to my client, they kept it to themselves. I glanced at the three of them. Until today, the rows behind the defense table were always empty, a dead giveaway Emily lacked supporters. At last, she had a decent cheering squad.

By nine twenty, I was beginning to feel queasy. Why hadn’t they brought Emily over yet? Had something happened during the night? What if she’d checked out for good? I didn’t really think so, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility. Should we have taken the deal? If I’d seriously pushed, Jeff might have come down to twenty-six, maybe even twenty-five. Stop it, I told myself. Finally one of the side doors to the courtroom opened and I saw a redheaded guard named Sunny who often accompanied Emily to court. Thank God. But then I saw he was alone. Sunny hesitated in the doorway, and then hurried over to where I was sitting.

“Oh-oh,” Donald said.

“Bad news,” Sunny whispered. “She wouldn’t come. We all tried talking to her, but she wouldn’t come. She told me to give you this.” He handed me a folded sheet of paper. “I’m sorry. We really tried.”

For a moment, I had the strongest urge to lay my head down on the table and go to sleep. Just for a few minutes, an hour at the most. But of course I didn’t.

“What does it say?” Donald asked.

I spread the paper flat on the table so that we could both read it.

Dear Rachel,

Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry, but I just can’t go through with it. I’ve been up most of the night debating with myself, but my courage simply fails me. I know this is something you can’t understand because you’re always so strong and steadfast, so certain of the right course of action. The thought of your disappointment and disapproval pains me, but taking the stand and justifying my life with Hal to twelve incredulous strangers and then being cross-examined by Mr. Taylor is beyond my present capabilities. You’ll have to go on without me.

Good luck,

Emily

I blew out a long breath. Shit. Suddenly my mouth felt dry and I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it. Then, I poured myself another.

“What are you going to do?” Donald asked after I drank the second one.

I sat still for a couple of seconds, then folded the paper and stuck it in my briefcase. “Waive her presence, put on Dr. Midman, go to the jail during lunch, and convince my client to come back and take the stand.”

Donald looked at me and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It’s a plan.”

We turned around to the women sitting behind us and explained what was going on. They were worried, of course, but heeded my advice not to show it. As far as the defense was concerned, everything was hunky-dory. I informed the bailiff I was ready and that I would be waiving my client’s presence for the morning only. As soon as the judge took the bench and the jury was seated, I stood up and announced that my client had decided to absent herself during Dr. Midman’s testimony because she felt it would be too painful to hear. Jeff looked surprised, but didn’t object.

My direct examination of Dr. Midman took about two and a half hours and went even better than I’d hoped. She was a true professional and as Emily had predicted, an excellent witness. Through her careful answers, she managed to convey both her competence and experience without ever sounding like an arrogant know-it-all. Because I wanted the jury to trust her judgment, I spent a considerable amount of time discussing the literature on battered women and attempting to portray my expert as a mainstream psychologist with views generally accepted by the vast majority of the profession. I watched a number of the female jurors warming up to her, and a few of the male jurors admiring the way she looked. Hey, whatever worked.

When I returned to the defense table, Donald looked much more optimistic.

“It was good,” he said, “real good. Even I understood what she was talking about.”

After a short recess, Jeff began his cross-examination. In order to accommodate my expert’s schedule, we’d all agreed to go straight through until he finished and then break for lunch. As I’d expected, Jeff spent very little time attempting to discredit my expert’s credentials or the literature she relied on. Instead, he focused like a laser beam on the obvious problems in my case: no one had ever witnessed any serious violence between Hal and Emily; Emily hadn’t claimed self-defense to the detectives who arrested her; people often lie about their motives for killing others, especially if they’re facing imprisonment; if Emily had experienced only a minimal amount of violence in her relationship, then her fear of being hurt wouldn’t be legally “reasonable” and she wouldn’t be entitled to claim self-defense; and no one but Hal and Emily were present on the night of the killing, and now no one but Emily was available to testify about what really happened. At exactly one thirty, he asked his last question. His blood sugar must have been very low.

“And so, Dr. Midman, if Emily Watkins wasn’t really a battered woman and her real motive that night was to collect on her husband’s insurance policy, then all of your testimony concerning the battered woman syndrome would be irrelevant, wouldn’t it?” It was argumentative and stupid, but I didn’t object. I knew my expert could take care of herself.

Dr. Midman turned and looked directly at the jury as she answered. “You’re right, Mr. Taylor. If Emily wasn’t a battered woman, my testimony would be irrelevant. But I’d stake my reputation on my opinion that she was, and that she was acting in self-defense when she stabbed her husband. Her motive that night wasn’t greed. It was far more basic, to protect herself.”

Jeff stood still for a moment looking pale and frustrated. And then he sat down. He needed food.

I stood up. “No redirect Your Honor.”

Judge Thomas checked the clock, then told everyone to be back at three. Which gave me an hour and a half. As soon as the jurors were gone, I grabbed my briefcase and hurried over to thank my expert. She was stuffing her blazer into her overnight bag.

“You were great,” I said. “Now, if I can just get my client to testify, we might even win.”

She zipped up the bag. “These are tough cases, Rachel, even when everything goes right. Call me when you get a verdict.”

“I will. I hope you make your plane.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Good luck.”

I checked my watch and then began trotting toward the exit. If traffic was light, I could make it to the jail in fifteen minutes. Alice caught up to me outside the courthouse.

“Let me come with you,” she said. “Emily might listen to me.”

“All right,” I said, then noticed her chest was heaving and her face was even redder than usual. “I’ll get my car and pick you up right here.”

She nodded, too out of breath to say anything else.

We had to wait at least ten minutes before the jail receptionist could find someone to escort us back to the women’s module. When we got there, a black deputy named Penny, who loved Emily almost as much as I did, promised to pull her out for us, even if she didn’t want to come. We waited in the dayroom, staring at the battered piano, the AA slogans scribbled on a portable blackboard, the Bibles and religious pamphlets strewn across the table. There was a stack of unwashed food trays on the floor that smelled like congealed meatloaf.

Alice took it all in, but didn’t say a word.

I pointed to a red plastic pitcher on the table. “Do you want any Kool-Aid?”

She managed a tiny smile. “No thank you.”

I hesitated. “It’s tough,” I said. “Especially if you’ve never been here before.”

“Yes,” she said, “it is.”

When my client finally walked in, her shoulders slumped at the sight of us. She was wearing her usual navy blue uniform.

“Emily,” Alice said, her voice breaking a little.

“Hello, Alice. It’s wonderful to see you. I wish it were under better circumstances. This must be very upsetting for you.”

Alice shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said firmly. “There isn’t much time. Your lawyer and I have come to discuss your decision not to testify.”

Emily turned to me. “I knew you’d come, but it won’t make any difference. I can’t do it, Rachel. I just can’t.”

Alice moved her hand, motioning me to step back a little. “How long have we been friends, Emily?” she asked.

Emily looked surprised. “Almost thirteen years, I think.”

“Thirteen years,” Alice repeated. “Yes, that’s right. And in those thirteen years, I’ve never asked you to do anything just for me. Especially something you didn’t want to do.”