“And you don’t really have red eyes, do you?”
The question is improperly leading. I chance that Millwood won’t object, but figure even if he does, he looks the worse for it. He is the one that tried to sucker-punch the witness with an unfair photograph. I suppose he makes the same calculation. He just sits there.
Brice answers, “No.”
“No further questions.”
I sit down, the renewed laughter of the jurors music to my ears.
40
Evening comes. Scott is off somewhere doing his day job. Tomorrow portends to be a successful climax for the prosecution. I anticipate slaughtering Monica Haywood for signing a false affidavit that Barton was with her during the time of the murder. After that, Ella closes our evidence with Lara—the star witness given the anchor leg to bring our story home.
Sitting across the table again from Ella, working deep into the night, the security of the familiar provides comfort. She no longer surveils me with that wary look of estrangement. For this moment at least, we are how we used to be—comfortable with one another, reading each other’s thoughts, joined together in unity of mind and purpose. I stare at her stupidly, slightly smiling in appreciation of the growing progress toward a renewed friendship. Ella catches my stare and puzzles at its meaning.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just daydreaming.”
“Well, get back to work.”
I do as commanded. She eyes me to ensure compliance. Then both of our heads are back down, busy preparing for what’s ahead. I grin at her again before imagining Monica Haywood in my crosshairs.
***
In a pre-trial order, Judge Woodcomb granted our motion to treat Monica Haywood as a hostile witness. Because Haywood is no friend of the prosecution, I’m allowed to cross-examine her as the other side’s witness, giving me the leverage of using leading questions to shape her testimony any way I like. After Haywood takes the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I launch right into her.
“Miss Haywood, you’re a lawyer with the firm of Marsh & McCabe?”
“Yes.”
“The Defendant, Bernard Barton, is your boss there?”
“Yes.”
“You began an affair with him?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you knew he was married to Sara Barton?”
“Yes.”
“And now you’re the defendant’s fiancée?”
“Yes.”
I pause and assess. Haywood’s demeanor is cold, punctuated by the same lack of remorse I witnessed in the police station when Scott interviewed her. The hunch is that Millwood realized that softening her up wouldn’t play. Juries can smell a fake a few time zones away.
“You love the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve sworn to tell this jury the truth here today?”
“Yes.”
“Even if the truth harms the defendant?”
“Yes.”
She waits a touch too long before agreeing, even darting her eyes to the defense table for a quick, unsuccessful consult. But the delay is the answer. She just told the jury she’s willing to lie to them to help Barton. By the looks of the jurors, they received the message.
“The defendant arrived at your condo around 4 a.m. the morning after his wife’s murder?”
“Something like that.”
“Did he tell you that Sara was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“What was your reaction?”
She gives that one a good think, too. It’s an open-ended question, but I can’t conceive of any answer that could hurt me. Having to come up with a response other than “yes” apparently throws her. She sits there in silence for a good thirty seconds.
“I don’t know.”
I don’t push her on that answer. The impression that she is evasive helps me out more than nailing down a response to an immaterial question.
“The police came to your condo later that morning?”
“Yes.”
“They were looking for the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“They asked you if he was there?”
“Yes.”
“You told the police no?”
“Yes.”
“That was a lie?”
“Yes.”
I allow her admission that she lied to loiter in the room a bit. Haywood’s entire body language radiates a growing discomfort. She presents as tough but possesses little tolerance for taking a punch.
“Despite what you told the police, the defendant was hiding out in your bedroom?”
“His wife had just died. He needed some time for himself.”
“Despite what you told the police, the defendant was hiding out in your bedroom?”
“Yes.”
“You lied with the defendant in the next room?”
“It was the right thing to do.”
She should stick to one-word answers. Couching her actions in moral terms is a dog that won’t hunt. If she adopts a posture of self-righteousness, today will go even worse for her than I expect.
“A few days later, you went to the police station to give a statement?”
“Yes.”
“You understood as a lawyer that you had no obligation to talk to the police?”
“Yes.”
“But you decided to talk to the police anyway?”
“Yes.”
“And you discussed that decision with the defendant before going to the police station?”
I have no proof of such a conversation, but her answers thus far foreclose the possibility that she waltzed into the police station to talk about Barton without consulting with him first. No one will believe a denial even if she gives one. She again considers the question for too long before agreeing that she and Barton talked.
“And the defendant wanted you to talk to the police?”
“He wasn’t opposed to it.”
“He wasn’t opposed to it?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t opposed to whatever you had to say to the police?”
“Yes.”
“And you told the police that the defendant was with you at your condo when Sara Barton was murdered?”
“Yes.”
“You signed an affidavit under oath to that effect?”
“Yes.”
“Giving the defendant an alibi that, if believed, would exonerate him from murder?”
“Yes.”
“And that alibi was a lie?”
“No. It’s the truth. Bernard was with me the entire evening.”
While I receive the lie with clinical detachment, the little mice in my brain furiously spin their wheels to figure out what’s going on. Millwood knows that the alibi is trash. He also knows that I know the alibi is trash. Yet Monica Haywood just perjured herself on the heap of that trash. I cannot fathom why. Whatever the weird motivations at work, duty now obliges me to call her on it.
The cross-examination slows to a crawl. The logistics of exposing Haywood’s deceit requires maneuvering a video screen in place, playing the surveillance footage capturing the hallway of her condo, forcing her to acknowledge the digital time and date of the footage, and then playing the clipped footage that shows Barton’s exit at 7:38 p.m. and his return at 3:59 a.m. the next morning. This slog eventually reaches its inevitable destination—Monica Haywood confesses that she lied about being with Barton at the time of the murder.
She remains unhumbled by the admission—not quite defiant, but decidedly unaffected by her public unmasking as a perjurer. Maybe she is just bored, which would match the rising mood in the room. Having finally proved the alibi false through the magic of video, I pick up the pace.
“You lied about the alibi in your police interview?”
“Yes.”
“Signed a false affidavit about the alibi as part of that interview?”
“Yes.”
“And the defendant wasn’t
opposed to you talking to the police?”
“Yes.”
“The two and you discussed it beforehand?”
“Yes.”
The conclusion draws itself. Other lawyers would no doubt try to get Haywood to concede that Barton instructed her to lie. But that’s tilting at windmills. She’ll deny it, then what? You’re reduced to arguing with a witness. If you can’t prove it, don’t ask it.
“And you repeated the lie this morning before these jurors?”
“Yes.”
“After you took an oath to tell the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Lied anyway?”
“Yes.”
“As a lawyer, you understand the seriousness of perjury?”
“Yes.”
“Lied anyway?”
“Yes.”
“You currently live with the defendant?”
“Yes.”
“The two of you are engaged to be married?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t get married if he goes to prison, will you?”
Haywood thinks about that one. The sudden silence in the room leads to a re-focusing of unwanted attention on the witness, much to the witness’ distaste. She takes a drink of water with hundreds of eyeballs on her movements.
“We can still get married.”
“You would marry him even if he went to prison for murder?”
“Yes.”
“Are you worried about going to jail for perjury?”
“I haven’t thought about it.”
“Is the defendant going to marry you if you’re the one in jail?”
That leaves a mark. I half-expect Millwood to object, but he sits there with an air of disinterest. He hasn’t objected once this morning, seemingly ignoring the entirety of Haywood’s testimony. The witness looks at Barton before answering, “He loves me.” If she believes that, she’s the only one in the vicinity who does. After a few more questions, I sit down, and the judge dismisses everyone for the morning break.
***
Millwood stands to begin his examination. We wondered over the recess whether he would even ask anything of Haywood. Sometimes the best cross is “No questions, Your Honor.” The damage she caused is done, compounded by her reckless insistence on repeating a lie easily exposed. Millwood figures only to make things worse if he engages Haywood too long. As a reclamation project, she’s a poor investment.
He begins, “You love the defendant, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“You want to be his wife?”
“Yes.”
“And you wanted to be his wife even before Sara Barton was murdered, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And now you’re free to marry Bernard?”
“I am.”
Weird. Millwood is making my case for me by reinforcing that Haywood would willfully lie for Barton to help him cover up a murder. But Millwood is not stupid. Some ulterior motive lurks. I can’t figure it out, and that scares me.
“And you lied this morning when you testified that you and Bernard were together at the time of the murder?”
“I did.”
“You two weren’t together?”
“No.”
“Bernard left your apartment at around seven-thirty that night?”
“He did.”
“What did you do after he left?”
That’s the first non-leading question, and my insides groan. Monica Haywood’s movements on the night of the murder are a mystery to me—a black hole that mocks me as incompetent. As I process the implications of this mistake, the witness wears the appearance of a frightened turtle wanting to retreat back into the safety of her shell. When Millwood asks her if she would like him to repeat the question, she meekly nods.
“What did you do after Bernard left your apartment the night of the murder?”
“I … I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“Did you leave your apartment that night?”
“I don’t remember.”
Millwood emits disbelief. I wonder how many times he and Haywood rehearsed this entire routine. When Millwood deploys the same video screen I used earlier in the morning, the thought of an unchecked box early in the investigation slaps me across the face. I turn to Scott.
“Did your guy ever check the video to see if Monica left after Bernard that night?”
“I don’t think so,” he says ruefully.
We all dropped the ball. Scott should’ve followed up with his guy. I should’ve followed up with Scott. Someone on our side should have at some point in the last few months thought to nail down Haywood’s movements for the time in question. It will be a busy lunch.
Millwood’s uncharacteristic behavior the entire morning clarifies into something else entirely: rope-a-dope—with me as the dope. My instinct told me things were not as they seemed, but I ignored the danger signs in a sea of overconfidence. The direction Millwood wants to travel now is clear. The ultimate destination is not. How far is Monica Haywood going to take this charade?
Millwood plays the same surveillance footage I peacocked before the jurors a little while ago. Except now the date and timestamp on the video herald a later time in the evening—8:26 p.m. Sure enough, Monica Haywood exits the condo hallway at that moment to go forth into the night. Millwood stops the recording and faces the witness again. Unmoved, Haywood sits there with practiced nonchalance.
“Ms. Haywood, would you agree that the video we just watched shows you leaving your condo at eight twenty-six on the night of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt the accuracy of this footage?”
“No.”
“Does the video refresh your recollection as to your whereabouts at the time of the murder?”
“I wasn’t at home.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t know.”
Haywood shifts her eyes down and away from the jury, using body language to evoke evasiveness. No one in the room credits her professed ignorance. I know she’s lying to protect Barton, but maybe the jurors believe she’s lying to protect herself. I study their reaction to the farce on display and don’t like what I see. Too many of them appear interested in what Millwood is peddling.
“You don’t know where you went?”
“No.”
“Any idea?”
“No.”
“You know the location of the Barton residence?”
“Of course.”
“Been there many times?”
“Yes.”
“Your condo was close to the murder scene?”
“Four and a half minutes away.”
The answer is devastating in its ingenuity. Five minutes is a generalized rule of thumb—the kind of estimation each of us calculates daily. “Four and a half minutes” is something else entirely. Its specificness suggests studied deliberation—the kind of detail one would only know by being up to no good.
“Four and a half minutes?”
“Yes.”
Her certainty about the time it takes to get to Barton’s house contrasts sharply with her proclaimed ignorance as to her whereabouts at the time of the murder. A hallmark of lying is remembering small, precise details while forgetting the big, important things. That concept, though, is a hard one to explain to a jury in a digestible soundbite. Millwood knows what he is doing.
“And did you drive to the Barton house the night of the murder?”
“I don’t remember.”
The courtroom is deathly still. The answer is literally unbelievable. She either drove to the house that night or she didn’t, but she damn well knows which one it is. Haywood’s sacrificial offering of herself takes lovesick to a pathological level. But her mendacity precludes feeling any sympathy for her. She’s aiding and abetting at this point.
“You don’t remember if you drove to the house?”
�
��No.”
“You might have gone over there?”
“Maybe.”
“You can’t rule it out?”
“I cannot.”
“What time did you get home that evening?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Any idea?”
“No.”
Back to the video monitor. Millwood plays more footage from the now well-familiar hallway. The timestamp reads 10:13 p.m., and the audience sees Haywood returning to the building. Millwood, wearing the look of a disappointed school teacher, refocuses on the witness.
“Does this video refresh your recollection as to when you returned to your home on the night Sara Barton was murdered?”
“Based on the video, shortly after ten that night.”
“Does knowing that you returned home after ten help you remember what you were doing earlier in the evening?”
“No. I still don’t remember.”
“So to summarize—you left your condo around eight-thirty that evening, don’t know where you went, you might have gone to the Barton residence, only four and a half minutes away, and you returned shortly after ten o’clock?”
“Correct.”
The spectacle amazes. Millwood’s assault is not a sneak attack on an unsuspecting witness. Rather, Monica Haywood is a willing victim. I can hear the drumbeat of Millwood’s closing argument already in my head—maybe the girlfriend did it. Reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt. Reasonable doubt. My eyes meet Barton’s and catch the hint of a smirk.
“No further questions.”
The lunch hour strikes. Millwood’s timing is predictably impeccable. The jurors will have plenty of time over the break to digest the possibility that Haywood killed her lover’s wife, maximizing the lasting impression of the morning’s testimony. Many of the jurors watch Haywood carefully as she leaves the witness box, their doubt in my case growing with each step.
Piercing the illusion of Millwood’s impressive magic trick will prove daunting. Monica Haywood will not be an easy person to cross-examine the second time around. Handling a witness who lies out of self-preservation is standard trial fare. The obvious self-interest casts an incredulous light onto everything that person says. But the witness who lies herself into legal jeopardy represents something else entirely. The lie gains credence merely from the assumption that no one would willingly expose herself to such a big risk. Humans tend to believe the bad stuff people tell about themselves.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 25
