by Tracy Brown
Teresa faced forward and extended her arm toward the witness. “Was he standing like this?” She turned to the side, her arms hanging limply. “Like this?” She turned forward again and raised both hands in the air. “Like this?”
The witness was unable to answer her definitively. “We can’t determine—”
“You can’t determine if he was standing with his arms in the air, if he was standing with his arms outstretched, or if he was standing with his arms at his side. But you know that he was standing still?” Her tone was skeptical and it was convincing.
“He was definitely standing still,” the witness confirmed.
Teresa frowned a little. “Is it possible that he was standing still but reaching forward for the gun when Misa shot him?”
The witness looked at the prosecutor and at the judge for some assistance but neither spoke up. Teresa looked at the judge. “Please instruct the witness to answer the question.”
The judge ordered Mr. Kaufman to answer the question and, reluctantly, he did so. “We can’t exclude that possibility.”
Teresa smiled. “So it is possible that Steven Bingham was reaching for the gun Misa Atkinson was holding for protection and that she fired in an attempt to prevent him from taking the weapon?”
The witness nodded. Teresa wasn’t satisfied with that.
“Mr. Kaufman?”
“Yes,” he said aloud. “That scenario is possible.”
“Thank you,” Teresa said. “No further questions.” She returned to her seat and watched as the witness climbed down from the stand.
Misa turned to her and whispered, “That was good!” She knew that Steven hadn’t actually lunged at her. In fact, he hadn’t really expected her to use the gun. None of that mattered now that Teresa had cast sufficient doubt on the prosecution’s contention that Steven was standing still when he was shot.
The DA stood to call his next witness. “The state calls Mr. Frank Bingham to the stand.”
Misa turned around for the first time all day and watched Frankie stand up. He looked so clean-cut and so polished as he made his way to the front of the courtroom. All eyes were on him, particularly Camille’s as she watched him being sworn in. She still loved him, regardless of the state of their marriage, and seeing him today looking so good was enough to make her swoon.
Frankie was sworn in and took his seat in the witness box. He looked directly at Misa, watching her every move. She wore a black business suit and her hair was in a sophisticated updo. He had to resist the urge to laugh since he was more accustomed to seeing her in club clothes ready to paint the town red. Misa looked right back at him, their stare down broken only when the prosecutor began his questioning.
“Mr. Bingham, you’re a successful entrepreneur in the community, is that correct?”
Frankie smirked. “Yes, I guess it’s fair to say that.” He leaned forward slightly and spoke into the microphone.
“You own and operate numerous local businesses such as Top Cuts Barbershop, Eight Ball Billiards, Frankie B’s Bar and Grill, and Conga, a popular Manhattan restaurant. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you list for us the people who resided on your property at the time of your brother Steven’s murder?”
Frankie nodded. “Myself, my wife Camille, and my brother lived in the guesthouse.”
“What was the age difference between you and Steven?”
“Four years.”
“Describe for the court what type of person your brother was.”
Frankie thought about Steven and fell silent for a moment. “He was a good brother. Quiet, laid-back. He didn’t bother nobody. He kept to himself, loved sports.”
“What did your brother do for a living?”
Frankie fidgeted with his hands a little. “His last job was as a security guard. But he fell asleep at a job site. They fired him and he got evicted from his apartment. I let him stay with me. He was living in the guesthouse and I looked out for him, made sure he had everything he needed.”
“Would it be fair to say that the two of you were close?”
“Yeah,” Frankie answered. “We were very close.”
The prosecutor nodded. “Describe for the court your relationship with the defendant.”
Frankie looked at Misa and she wished she could crawl underneath the desk. His eyes spilled over with hatred.
“She was always around,” he said. “She spent a lot of time at our house, usually dropping off her son.”
The prosecutor frowned. “Was she working long hours?”
Frankie snickered a little. “No,” he answered. “Usually, she was on her way out to some party and she wanted my wife to babysit her son.”
“Did you ever babysit your nephew?”
“Me, personally?” Frankie shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m not really good with kids.”
Camille shifted in her seat under the weight of her pregnancy.
“So the defendant would drop off her three-year-old son for your wife to babysit on weekends so that she could go out and party with her friends.”
“Something like that,” Frankie said. “It wasn’t just weekends, though.”
Misa watched several women on the jury shake their heads disapprovingly and knew that they were judging her.
“How often would you say that your nephew spent the night at your house?”
Frankie thought about it and answered, “About four nights out of the week.”
Misa watched her attorney take notes and wondered when she was planning to object or something. Frankie was painting a terrible portrait of her.
“And your wife babysat your nephew while the defendant went out with friends?”
Frankie nodded. “That’s right.”
“Would you consider the defendant to be a good mother?”
“Objection!” Teresa said at last. “This witness is not qualified to speak to my client’s competency as a mother.”
“Sustained,” the judge grunted.
“No,” Frankie answered anyway. “She was not a good mother.”
The judge banged his gavel, Teresa stood up and yelled about the previous objection, and the courtroom buzzed with chatter. “Mr. Bingham,” Judge Felder bellowed. “When an objection is sustained, you are not permitted to answer that question. Do you understand? The next time you do that, I will hold you in contempt.”
Frankie apologized, although he wasn’t really sorry. He was glad that the jury had heard him say it, even as the judge directed them to disregard his response and had it stricken from the record.
The prosecutor continued.
“Had your wife ever expressed her displeasure with the defendant’s parenting skills?”
Frankie nodded. “Absolutely. She complained all the time about Misa never taking care of her own kid.”
“She complained to you?”
Frankie nodded. “To me, to her friends, to my mother-in-law, and to Misa directly. Last Thanksgiving they had an argument because Misa wanted to go out and leave her son with us again. My wife said no and told Misa that she was neglecting her kid.”
“And how was that situation resolved on Thanksgiving?”
Frankie smirked. “My mother-in-law volunteered to watch Shane and Misa went out anyway.”
Again, she noticed several jurors shaking their heads. Misa knew that this wasn’t going well for her.
“Were you aware of any conflict between your brother and the defendant?”
Frankie shook his head. “None whatsoever. To my knowledge, the two of them didn’t even speak to each other at all unless it was in passing.”
“Were you aware that your brother had been babysitting the defendant’s young son while she worked?”
Frankie laughed. “She wasn’t working,” he said. “She was at the hospital waiting for her boyfriend to wake up out of a coma.”
The courtroom buzzed with chatter and a court officer shushed the crowed, reminding them that they had to keep o
rder in the court.
“Her boyfriend?” the prosecutor asked, frowning.
“Yeah,” Frankie said. He was tempted to clarify that Baron hadn’t actually been Misa’s boyfriend, that in fact she had been little more than his plaything. But he didn’t want to tell the court too much. “She wanted to be at the hospital, so from what I understand, she had dropped Shane off with my wife.”
“I see,” the DA said. “At some point during this period of time, your brother began to babysit the defendant’s young son. Do you know how that came about?”
Frankie shook his head. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t there and I have no idea how that went down.”
“Very well. Mr. Bingham, had you ever seen or heard anything about your brother harming a child?”
Frankie shook his head again. “Never.”
“Ever notice any questionable behavior when he was in the presence of children?”
“No.”
“Do you have any thoughts on the allegations the defendant has made against your brother?”
The courtroom fell dead silent. Frankie leaned forward and spoke clearly into the mic, wanting everyone to hear his answer. “Steven didn’t touch that little boy.”
“No further questions,” the prosecutor said before sauntering back to his seat.
Teresa referred to her notes as she stood up and addressed the witness.
“Mr. Bingham, by your own admission, you and your brother were very close. It must have been kind of nice to have him living so close by.”
Frankie nodded. “It was.”
“Was your wife happy to have your brother as a houseguest?”
Frankie glanced at Camille and thought back on all the times she’d asked when Steven was getting out. “No,” he answered honestly. “She felt like he was taking advantage and that he was lazy. She didn’t understand why I looked out for him.”
“Why did you look out for him, Mr. Bingham? Your brother was an able-bodied adult with nothing holding him back from getting a job or an education. Why did you feel the need to take care of a grown man?”
Frankie’s jaw clenched. “For the same reason that my wife found it necessary to take care of her sister. We bought her a car, paid her bills, babysat her son, and she was an able-bodied adult.”
Teresa could tell that Frankie was getting irritated so she kept prodding. “Back to your brother,” she said. “Had Steven ever gone out seeking employment during the time that he lived at your house?”
Frankie stared at Misa’s defense attorney. She was cute, but her questioning was detracting from her sex appeal in Frankie’s eyes. “No, not that I know of.”
Teresa smirked. “So your brother was content to stay in your guesthouse and mooch off of you and your wife. Did that cause any problems in your marriage?”
Frankie shook his head. “No.”
“No?” Teresa raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she asked.
“Well, I’m sure she wasn’t thrilled about it,” Frankie clarified. “But she wasn’t raising hell or nothing like that. She understood that he was family and we always looked out for family. Mine and hers.”
Teresa nodded. “Makes sense.” She paced the floor in front of Frankie and then stopped and looked directly at him. “You testified earlier that my client dropped her son off for babysitting an average of four nights a week.”
He nodded.
“How many of those nights were you actually at home?”
Frankie didn’t answer right away. “I’m not sure,” he said at last.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Bingham, that you were rarely home on the occasions when Misa brought her son over?”
He shrugged. “That’s probably true.”
“In fact, each of the times when your brother babysat your nephew, you were not in the home. Is that correct?”
Frankie nodded. “Yes.”
“Where were you, Mr. Bingham? A man like you who owns so many businesses must be tired after a long day at work. Surely, you would want to come home at night to that beautiful house you own, and relax in the comfort of your own bed. So where were you on average four nights out of the week while your wife and brother were babysitting young Shane?”
Frankie glared at Teresa. “I was out taking care of business.”
“In the middle of the night?” Teresa asked, garnering giggles from some of the spectators. “Isn’t it true that you were having an affair?”
A few salacious gasps could be heard in the courtroom and the judge banged his gavel again. Frankie sighed. He had known that it would come to this. “Yes,” he admitted. “That’s true.”
“So you testified earlier that you thought my client was a bad mother. Guess this makes you a bad husband?”
“Objection!” the prosecutor bellowed.
“Withdrawn,” Teresa countered.
“Ms. Rourke, you’re walking on thin ice,” Judge Felder warned.
Teresa apologized and continued. “Have you ever had an argument with my client, Mr. Bingham?”
Frankie thought about it and shook his head. “No. Never.”
“Is it reasonable to suggest that she’s an easy person to get along with?”
Frankie thought this might be a trick question. It seemed as if Teresa was trying to get him to say something positive about Misa. Frankie refused.
“I wasn’t around her enough to have anything to argue with her about.”
Teresa nodded, impressed by how he’d sidestepped the question. “You’ve been married for close to eight years and you’ve never had so much as a spat with your sister-in-law.” She paced some more. “Three years of babysitting and never any allegations of Shane being abused. But when your brother started babysitting the child—”
“Objection!” the prosecution interrupted.
“Overruled.”
Teresa continued. “Once your brother started babysitting Shane, allegations of molestation surfaced. The child was sodomized repeatedly by someone in his care.” Teresa looked at the jury, took in each of their faces, before turning back to Frankie. “Misa—who by all accounts has been relatively easy to get along with—thought your brother did it. And you think it was unreasonable for her to think that way?”
Frankie bit the inside of his cheek and looked at Misa’s attorney. He glanced at his mother and noticed that she was wringing her hands.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think it was ridiculous.”
Misa’s heart sank. This wasn’t going very well, in her opinion.
Frankie sipped from the glass of water in front of him. Teresa referred to her notes, looked at him over the rim of her glasses and took a deep breath. She was about to go in for the kill.
“Mr. Bingham,” she said. “I want to remind you that you’re under oath.”
Frankie nodded.
“How many girlfriends had Steven had in his lifetime?”
Frankie sat stone-faced and glanced at his mother again. Mary pushed her glasses up higher on her nose and smiled weakly at her son for encouragement.
He shook his head. “I never met any of his girlfriends.”
Whispers could be heard throughout the room and Teresa frowned again.
“Your brother was thirty years old and had never had a steady girlfriend? Did you find that odd?”
“No.”
Teresa turned to the jury box, still frowning.
“No job. No home to call his own. No girlfriend.” Teresa scratched her head. “Did Steven have any friends?”
Frankie wiped his mouth with his hand. “No.”
“No job, no home, no lady in his life, no friends,” Teresa repeated for good measure. “Would you describe Steven as a loner?”
Frankie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Teresa nodded. She hadn’t expected him to answer honestly and he didn’t disappoint her. “What was Steven like as a kid growing up?”
“He was quiet, shy.”
“How about you? Were you shy?”
Frankie smiled a little. He had
never been accused of possessing that trait. “No,” he said. “I was the more outspoken one.”
Teresa nodded. “How would you describe your childhood overall?” she asked. “Yours and Steven’s?”
Frankie looked at his mother again. He thought about their conversations and knew that she was already feeling guilty for what she’d witnessed in silence. Here he was now, having to rehash the horrors in open court.
“It was tough,” he answered, shifting slightly in his seat.
“Please elaborate, Mr. Bingham,” Teresa urged. “Tough how?”
Frankie saw Mary cover her mouth with one hand, watched Gillian glance at her to see how she was holding up. He cleared his throat.
“We were broke, didn’t have much, you know what I’m saying?” Frankie hoped that would be enough.
Teresa pressed on. “Aside from the financial hardships, would you describe your childhood as a happy one?”
Frankie shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Teresa frowned. “You’re not sure if you had a happy childhood?”
Frankie wanted to spit in her face. “I wouldn’t describe it as happy,” he said. “Like I said, it was tough.”
Teresa tilted her head to one side. “Well,” she said. “What aspects of your childhood were unhappy?”
“My, um … my father used to … he had a problem with his hands.”
Teresa stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Frankie. She noticed some of the jurors leaning forward in their seats to hear better. Frankie’s voice had gotten substantially lower.
“Your father beat you?”
“Yes.”
There was some chatter throughout the courtroom. Camille was mesmerized by what she was hearing. She had never known of the abuse her husband had endured as a child. Frankie hadn’t shared that with her. She wondered how Teresa had known and what else would be revealed about the man she’d spent most of her adult life with.
Teresa folded her arms across her chest. “Did he beat your brother?”
“Yes.”
“Was your mother abused by your father as well?”
“She was,” he acknowledged. “But he didn’t hit her, really. He just intimidated her, yelled at her, cornered her and punched the wall behind her, screamed at her. He saved his fists for me.”
