by Nancy Allen
Larry Paul turned to Nixon and whispered, just loud enough for Elsie to overhear. “I want to see them pictures.”
“We don’t need to. Lower your voice,” Nixon said.
Larry Paul dropped the register of his voice, but Elsie could still make out his words when he said, “I want to get a look at the baby. My boy.” He shook his head and his eyes welled up. “I never got to see what my boy looked like.”
You motherfucker, Elsie thought, a tide of color washing over her face. You ought to be dead.
But just as the thought took shape in her head, Elsie’s heart began to race. She began her breathing trick again. Inhale, exhale. Slowly.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At noon on Wednesday, they sat around the desk in Madeleine’s office, making strained conversation and keeping an eye on the clock. Due to the defense strategy of silent surrender, the State had rested their case that morning. The defense called no witnesses, and the lawyers went straight to argument. As Elsie sat with Madeleine and Sam Parsons, the jury was deliberating on the question of Larry Paul’s guilt or innocence.
The Greene County jury didn’t make them wait long. Sam Parsons had just finished his cheeseburger, delivered with bad grace by Stacie, when the knock came on Madeleine’s door.
Judge Callaway’s bailiff Emil Elmquist didn’t wait for an invitation. He opened the door and announced, “We’ve got a verdict.”
Elsie took a final swallow from her can of Diet Coke. It was lukewarm; she’d been nursing it for the past hour. Parsons wiped his hands on a napkin. “Let’s roll,” he said.
Elsie was beginning to despise that expression.
Madeleine pulled out a lipstick and opened her silver compact. Her hands were shaking; the touch-up took a minute. “What do you think, Sam?”
“If we didn’t get a guilty verdict, I think I’ll retire and go to work for your hubby, selling tractors. Come on, ladies; this one was a walk in the park.”
Privately, Elsie agreed; but the ease with which it had gone down nagged at her. Something wasn’t right.
The television cameras focused on them as they made their way to the courtroom. With a shade of petulance, she assumed she’d barely be visible on the evening news, blocked as she was by the figures of Madeleine and Parsons, marching ahead of her. Maybe she wouldn’t even watch tonight.
She probably would.
They sat at the counsel table. Claire O’Hara and Josh Nixon were already in place, awaiting the arrival of their client. When Elsie walked in, she saw Claire cross her legs. Her skirt was short; she looked like she was heading to a nightclub, rather than a funeral. She wore the candy-apple-red shoes. They were a lone pop of color in the somber courtroom.
Claire winked at them. “You all nervous?”
Parsons made a reply, but Elsie didn’t take note of it; she was looking at Josh Nixon, who sat in silence at the defense table, toying with a pen. His face was pale, covered with a sheen of sweat. She felt a moment’s sympathy. He was gambling with his client’s demise.
But she thought of Jessie Dent, and the photos in her file. Fuck Larry Paul. She sat down.
Madeleine and Parsons were huddled in a whispered conference. Elsie leaned in to listen.
“When we present our evidence for the punishment phase, we lead off with the kid,” Parsons was saying.
Elsie frowned. “No,” she said in a loud whisper. “Save her for last.”
Madeleine turned to her. “Please. Your breath.”
Elsie pulled back, mortified. Madeleine was probably right. She hadn’t consumed anything but coffee and Diet Coke all day; her nerves were strung too tight to contemplate food. She reached into her briefcase; she should have a container of Tic Tacs. She found it in a corner, beneath a handful of pens. She pulled out the plastic box. Empty.
Emil Elmquist held the door to the courtroom open as four deputies ushered the defendant into court. The four uniformed officers represented a substantial portion of McCown County’s manpower. Elsie hoped that the 911 line wasn’t lighting up with calls for assistance outside the city limits. She wasn’t sure anyone would be available to come to the rescue.
Larry Paul had been shackled like an animal. He was trussed so tightly that he was forced to shuffle along with baby steps. I won’t look at him, Elise thought; but when he passed in front of the prosecution table, her eyes focused on his face, in spite of her intentions.
He was terrified.
The blank passivity he’d exhibited in trial was gone, replaced by a slack-jawed expression of fear, his face clearly reflecting an acute awareness of his situation.
She looked down. Reflexively, she reached for the folder with Jessie Dent’s photo, to provide yet again the justification for Larry Paul’s death, but made herself pause. Elsie folded her hands on the table in front of her.
This is my job. This is how it’s supposed to be.
The door to Judge Callaway’s chambers opened. “All rise,” Emil said, and Elsie stood. A murmur sounded from the collective group of onlookers in the public gallery.
“Be seated.” The judge turned to Emil. “Bring the jury in.”
Though the pronouncement of guilt was highly predictable, given the conduct of the trial, Elsie’s pulse quickened. Jury verdicts could be capricious.
As the jury filed into the jury box, she peered over to see who led the way. The middle-aged juror with an iron gray helmet of hair held the verdict forms in her hands. In Elsie’s experience, it was an unusual sight; McCown County juries generally selected a man to be their foreman.
Elsie focused on the gray-haired juror’s face: it was grim. We’re okay, she thought.
“Have you reached a verdict, Ms. Foreman?”
“We have, your honor,” the woman said.
Judge Callaway gave his bailiff a nod. Emil took the papers from the foreman and handed them to the judge. He adjusted his reading glasses and read silently, then said, “As to Count One, we the jury, find Larry David Paul guilty of murder in the first degree, as submitted in instruction number thirteen.”
He shifted to the second page and read, “As to Count Two, we, the jury, find Larry David Paul guilty of murder in the first degree, as submitted in instruction number fourteen.”
Elsie became aware of a wheezing noise beside her. She glanced over; Madeleine was hyperventilating. Elsie studied her face with anxiety; was she going to pass out, she wondered.
She gripped Madeleine’s hand. “Chill,” she whispered. “We won.”
Madeleine nodded without looking at her. She didn’t repeat her complaint about Elsie’s halitosis.
As the judge instructed the jury about the next phase of the trial, determining punishment, Elsie tuned him out. Her thoughts were fast and frantic.
Ivy, she thought. Got to get Ivy through this in one piece. Ivy was the key to the punishment phase. She could bring the crime to life, demonstrate the violence from a child’s perspective, show the jury the effect the killing had on the victim’s survivor.
If Elsie could walk her through it. Ivy was the key to success or to failure. The girl might fall apart.
Elsie was so busy thinking about the potential pitfalls of Ivy on the witness stand, she didn’t even give a thought to Ashlock’s testimony.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Later that day, Ashlock sat erect on the wooden chair in the witness stand. He wore his good navy suit and the paisley tie Elsie picked out for him at Dillard’s in Springfield. She’d made a special trip out of town for the purchase, as the only local clothier in Barton, Missouri, was Walmart. She eyed him with satisfaction, thinking he cut a dashing figure.
Madeleine stood at the podium by the jury box. “State your name, please.”
Her voice wavered. Oh, Lord, she’s nervous, Elsie thought, as her boss coughed delicately into her fist to disguise her discomfitu
re.
“Robert Ashlock.”
“And your occupation?”
“Chief of Detectives, City of Barton Police Department.”
“Detective Ashlock, you have testified that you responded to the scene of the Jessie Dent homicide on September sixth of this year.”
“That’s correct.”
“And you made an arrest for the homicide, based on the evidence at the scene.” Her voice was growing stronger. Come on, Madeleine, Elsie urged, trying to send supportive vibes.
“I did. I arrested Larry Paul,” he said, and pointed at the defense table, “the criminal defendant in this case.”
“In the course of your investigation, did you review the defendant’s criminal history?”
“I did. I read his rap sheet. Also, I was familiar with Larry Paul, as a police officer in Barton for eighteen years.”
“Does he have a criminal history?”
“He does. Misdemeanor assault, property destruction, minor drug offenses.”
Check. Elsie had the Missouri statute in front of her, that listed mitigating factors a jury might consider to spare a defendant from the death penalty for the crime of murder in the first degree. She drew a line through subsection (2) (1): No criminal history.
Madeleine continued, “To the best of your knowledge, does the defendant have a history of emotional or mental disturbance?”
Claire O’Hara jumped up. “Objection. The witness has not been qualified to make that determination.”
Judge Callaway appeared to consider the point. After a moment, he nodded. “Sustained.”
Madeleine turned to the prosecution table with a deer-in-the-headlights face. Elsie waved her over. In Madeleine’s ear, “Did Larry Paul exhibit any behavior consistent with—”
Madeleine picked up the ball. “Detective, did the defendant exhibit any behavior that suggested emotional or mental disturbance?”
Ashlock paused before answering, wiping a hand over his face. “He appeared to be under the influences of inebriating substances. Other than that, no. No, he did not.”
Madeleine looked at her notes, then focused on Ashlock. “From what you observed at the scene of the crime, was there any indication that Jessie Dent consented to her murder?”
A grimace crossed Ashlock’s face. “No one who saw the scene, or the condition of the body, could reach that conclusion.” He looked at the jury. “And the baby. The baby was a victim. He could not consent.”
“In Larry Paul’s statements during interrogation, did he indicate that he was acting under the domination of another person?”
“No.”
“Did he, or another, claim that Larry Paul couldn’t appreciate that what he did was a crime?”
“No. On the contrary—he stated that he knew it was wrong.”
“Did he claim he was unable to conform his conduct to law?”
“No. He said he did it because he felt like it. She was trapping him with the baby. He wanted out before the child was born. And he was high. And once he started he didn’t stop.” He paused, and when Madeleine didn’t speak, he added. “With the bat. He didn’t stop beating her with the bat.”
“And he was aware that he was hurting the baby?”
“He didn’t want the baby to be born. He’d been thinking about it for a long time.” He turned to the jury again. “He didn’t want the child support liability.”
Elsie watched the jury to see their response to the statement. The woman who was the foreman, generally stone-faced, shook her head. It was an excellent sign for the prosecution.
Madeleine said, “Detective Ashlock, was the murder of Jessie Dent and her unborn son wantonly vile, involving depravity of mind?”
Claire O’Hara shot out of her seat. “Objection. That’s the province of the jury.”
“Sustained.”
Elsie thought that Claire was probably right on that score. It was up to the jury to decide whether the actions of Larry Paul were so horrible that he deserved the death penalty. But it was worth a try. Good to plant the “aggravating circumstances” statutory language in the minds of the jurors.
Madeleine was returning to her seat. As she lowered into her chair, Elsie took her hand.
“Good job,” she whispered.
Madeleine squeezed Elsie’s hand in response, and gave her a grateful look. Her lipstick was uneven, as if she’d been chewing at her lips.
Elsie half expected the defense to let Ashlock go without cross-examination; but Claire O’Hara stood and stalked him, proceeding slowly toward the witness stand.
“Detective,” she said, “During your investigation, I would bet you checked out the history of domestic dispute calls to the home of Jessie Dent and Larry Paul.”
Ashlock’s eyes widened slightly; the question took him by surprise. It mystified Elsie, too; Claire was opening the door on Larry Paul’s past abusive behavior, matters that the prosecution couldn’t get into evidence. She studied the back of Claire’s strawberry red head, wondering what angle the defense was playing. Maybe they were trying to establish that Jessie had threatened Larry in the past.
But that wouldn’t fly. It would not save him from the death penalty for the murder of the unborn child.
Claire continued, “Jessie Dent and Larry Paul lived together in that trailer in McCown County for almost two years. Isn’t that right?”
Slowly, Ashlock nodded. His guard was up. “Sounds about right.”
“And in that period of time, there were eight calls to 911 for domestic assault, eight separate occasions when the Barton Police Department responded and came out to the home of Jessie Dent and my client. Is that correct?”
“I don’t have the paperwork in front of me, so I can’t say exactly how many—” he said, but Claire cut him off.
As she swung back to the defense counsel table, Josh Nixon handed her a sheet of paper; with a flourish, she held it up. “I’d like to have this marked as Defendant’s Exhibit #1.” She presented it to the court reporter, who marked it with haste.
“Detective Ashlock, I’d like for you to examine Defendant’s Exhibit #1. Can you tell the jury what it is?”
Ashlock’s face was unreadable. “It’s a record of domestic dispute calls to Farm Road 125, the address where the defendant lived with the deceased.”
“How many times was the Barton Police Department called to that address to respond to domestic assault complaints?”
“Eight times.” He rested the document on his lap.
Claire leaned her rear end against the front of the defense table, assuming a relaxed pose. “How many arrests resulted from those calls?”
Ashlock didn’t glance down. “None.”
“None? Not one? Tell me, Detective, how many times did the Detective Division investigate the domestic abuse that was going on at the homicide victim’s home?”
“The record shows that the victim was uncooperative,” he said, but Claire cut him off.
“Objection! Your honor. The witness is not responsive.”
She pushed away from the counsel table, walking toward the bench. “Your honor, please instruct the witness to answer the questions.”
The judge nodded. “Answer the question, Detective.”
Ashlock didn’t flinch. “The Detective Division did not investigate the abuse allegations.”
A sweat was breaking out on the back of Elsie’s scalp. She finally saw where the inquiry was headed.
Claire strolled toward the jury box and leaned against it, her bejeweled hand and wrist splayed out on the railing. Making contact with them, Elsie thought. She often used the same technique.
“Detective, are you familiar with the Lethality Assessment Program?”
Elsie saw the twitch in Ashlock’s jaw. “I’ve heard of it.”
Turning to the jury, Claire s
aid, “Maybe you’ve heard that it’s based on the Maryland model, which was designed by Maryland Network Against Domestic Violence. Are you aware of that?”
“It sounds familiar.”
“So what do you understand that the Lethality Assessment involves?”
Ashlock shifted in his seat, as if the chair had become uncomfortable to sit upon. “Police reporting to a domestic assault ask the victim certain questions. To assess the degree of danger.”
Claire smiled at Ashlock, baring bleached teeth. “What is the purpose of those ‘certain’ questions? Do you know?”
His expression hadn’t altered, but Elsie noticed that his respiration had quickened. He was breathing hard. “To assess whether the victim is at risk of being killed by the partner or spouse.”
Claire dropped the smile. She gripped the railing of the jury box with her right hand. “Did your officers ask those questions, to the best of your knowledge?”
He didn’t hesitate. “They did not.”
Claire shook her head, somber. “No further questions.”
Madeleine turned to Parsons. “What do I do?”
In a harsh whisper, he answered, “Get him out of here.”
Elsie’s eyes pricked; her heart went out to Ashlock as he was dismissed from the witness stand and walked out of the courtroom, his bearing erect.
Her head swung back to her cocounsel. Madeleine and Sam Parsons were staring at her. “What the hell?” she whispered.
Madeleine’s face was pasty; she looked like she’d used clown white as her foundation when she applied her makeup that day.
“They are implicating the Barton Police Department.”
Clearly, Madeleine was right. And a small kernel of Elsie’s brain applauded the move; it was brilliant. And totally unexpected.
