Chapter 37
BEN WAS AMAZED AT the speed at which the trial cruised into first gear the next morning. Given the intense scrutiny given every word, every minor action or ruling, the trial made astounding progress. Or perhaps it only seemed that way because he was dreading every minute of it.
All the preliminary matters were dispensed with in less than half an hour. By nine-thirty, Judge Hart called for opening statements. Jack Bullock was standing before the jury again, assuring them in his calm, trustworthy manner that everything he said was correct.
“I’m not here to put on a show,” he told the jury, one hand in his pocket and one hand on the railing. “I won’t patronize you. I won’t humor you. I won’t try to win you over with courtroom tricks or flashy flourishes. I will let the facts speak for themselves. And believe me, they speak volumes.”
He paused, then walked thoughtfully to the opposite side of the jury box. “You already know what happened. I won’t melodramatize it.” He stopped again, and his face screwed up slightly. “The facts are horrible enough as they are.”
He walked to an easel, where several enlarged photos rested face down. “These are the photos taken at the crime scene. I won’t show them to you now. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t be that … cruel.”
Ben suppressed a smile. In fact, Bullock had wanted to use the photos in his opening, but the judge wouldn’t permit it.
“You will, unfortunately, have to look at them later in this trial. This is what you will see.” He held his hands up chest-high, as if creating an imaginary television screen for them. “The defendant’s wife and the mother of his children—lifeless, draped backward over a dining room chair, almost every inch of her skin and clothes soaked and smeared with coagulated blood. Knife punctures in over twenty different places. She died, although the coroner’s testimony will reveal that she died neither quickly nor painlessly.”
Bullock removed the second of the still facedown photos. “In the upstairs bedroom, the defendant’s four-year-old daughter lying on her bed, a fatal puncture wound through her heart. Her hands folded across her chest in a grotesque parody of sleep.”
Bullock withdrew the third photo in the stack. Ben could only admire Bullock’s brilliant presentation. He was using the photos without showing them. In fact, this was better. He was creating an enormous sense of anticipation, causing the jury to hang on his every word and to wait breathlessly for the evidence he had to share with them.
“And finally,” Bullock continued, “in the bathroom, the defendant’s eight-year-old daughter. Dead—stabbed. Many times. And once again—blood everywhere.”
Bullock stepped away from the exhibits and rubbed his hands, as if washing away the blood and horror. “The crime scene alone tells us much about the person who committed these horrors. Obviously it was someone strong, someone … physical. Someone with access to the Barretts’ home. Someone consumed with hate. Not just a random grudge but a personal and specific enmity.”
Slowly and deliberately, Bullock moved back toward the prosecution table. “There has never been much doubt in the minds of the law enforcement community who committed this crime. The Barretts’ next-door neighbor saw Wallace Barrett flee from his home at the approximate time of the murders. Barrett then led several police officers on a high-speed chase down the Indian Nation Turnpike, a chase many of you watched on television. Was there any doubt in the minds of those who watched that chase why Wallace Barrett was running? I don’t think so. Common sense will answer that question for you. And if common sense isn’t enough, the witnesses we call to the stand, experts in their field, will give you rock-solid scientific evidence that will establish his guilt beyond question. Fingerprints. Blood analysis. DNA evidence. All pointing to the same culprit.” He turned and pointed. “Wallace Barrett.”
“The defense will undoubtedly expend all their energy trying to convince you that what is obvious is not true. I don’t know what their story will be. You see, in our criminal justice system, the prosecution has to give the defendant everything they’ve got, but the defendant doesn’t have to give the prosecution anything. So I can only guess. Maybe they’ll tell you it was all a mistake. Maybe they’ll tell you it was an accident. Maybe they’ll tell you it was drug dealers or Middle Eastern terrorists or some supernatural refugee from a Stephen King novel. Who knows? With some lawyers, the bigger the lie, the more convincing it seems. I can only ask that you disregard the theatrics, that you not be swayed by fancy footwork. Remember the evidence. Remember the facts. Listen to what common sense tells you. Listen to your heart. And do the right thing.”
Bullock paused. For a moment, Ben thought he might be finished. Then he raised a finger. “As you weigh the gamut of what ifs the defense offers to you, you may wish to keep one telling fact in your mind. When the police arrived after the fact in the living room of the Barrett home, they found a framed photo of Caroline Barrett that had been thrown against the wall and smashed. Ask yourself this question: Would a burglar stop to destroy Mrs. Barrett’s photo? Would a terrorist? Would a hit man? I will suggest to you that no one would smash that photo—except someone who knew her personally … and hated her. Someone who had decided that he couldn’t live with her any longer. That he wouldn’t live with her any longer.”
Bullock laid his hands gently on the rail. “By the time this trial is completed, I believe you will know not only who committed this crime, but why. At that time, I will ask you to do what must be done, even though some of you may find it personally unpleasant, even painful. Perhaps some of you recall the defendant from his football days or his press conferences and think of him as an amiable, good-natured fellow. Well, the Wallace Barrett you will meet in this courtroom—the real Wallace Barrett—is an entirely different person. A harder, more evil, more … malevolent man. A man who beat and tortured his wife. A man who terrorized his children. A man who used brute force to achieve his every petty desire. A man with a temper, a temper that, when it exploded, made him capable of anything. Absolutely anything.” He gestured toward the downturned photographs. “Even this.”
He turned back and looked each of them in the eyes. “Once you have met that man, I believe you will be able, will perhaps even be anxious, to do what must be done. To do the right thing.”
He glanced up at the bench. “Thank you, your honor.”
Judge Hart leaned forward. “Thank you, counsel. Mr. Kincaid, do you wish to make your opening remarks at this time?”
“I do.” Ben gathered his notes and moved toward the jury box. He had not expected to be called so soon. In your average big murder case, opening statements often went on for hours. But, Ben realized, Jack Bullock was not your average prosecutor. He was much smarter. He knew he didn’t need to give the jury every little detail about this case. They already knew what it was about. He just needed to tell them enough to get them to trust him, to believe him, and to make them eager to hear what he would have to say next. And at that he had succeeded.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” Ben cleared his throat awkwardly. He wished again, for about the millionth time, that he had some of the finesse that Bullock brought so masterfully to the courtroom. “Ladies and gentlemen, Wallace Barrett did not commit this crime. Let me say it again.” Ben paused to give each word its own punch. “Wallace Barrett did not commit this crime. Now I know you will hear people say that he did; you have already heard people say that he did. But he didn’t. I know that. And by the end of this trial, you will know it, too.”
“I am about to offer you two words, the two most important words you will hear during the entire course of this trial. Reasonable doubt.” He smiled, hoping perhaps just one of the jurors would smile back. They didn’t. “As the judge will instruct you later, you cannot convict this man of this crime if you have a reasonable doubt about whether he committed it. That’s the standard. Not more likely than not. Not a seventy-five percent chance or better. No reasonable doubt. Doesn’t even have to be a great big doubt. If you
have a reasonable doubt, you must bring back a verdict of not guilty. That’s the law.”
Ben dropped his notes and legal pads on the table and returned to the jury box. He didn’t need them; they were just a crutch. Bullock didn’t use notes, and he knew that the jury was subtly comparing the two of them, trying to decide whether Ben measured up. He needed to seem as if he was speaking from the heart, not from a prepared text.
“I’m sure you remember everything the prosecution has told you about their evidence. Let’s talk about everything they didn’t tell you. Let’s talk about everything they don’t have or won’t show you. They’ll tell you they are certain that Wallace Barrett committed this crime, but did anyone see him commit this crime? No. Did anyone hear the crime being committed? No. There are no eyewitnesses, no earwitnesses. The closest they come is one neighbor who saw Barrett at his home at the approximate time of the murder. But why shouldn’t he have been there? He lived there! That proves nothing.
“The evidence will show that when Barrett left his home that day, his children and wife were alive and well, and that no one was more shocked than he to later find they had been killed. He was shocked and devastated. Emotionally confused. He didn’t know what to do. So he got in the car and drove. Didn’t even know where he was going. He just knew he had to get away from there. The prosecution would have you believe that this was some high-speed flight from justice. It was nothing of the sort. As the evidence will show, Barrett didn’t even see any policemen chasing him until just shortly before he crashed into the tollbooth.
“This need to run, to get away, may seem strange, even irrational, to you, but ask yourself this question: if you came home and found your entire family had been slaughtered, mightn’t you be just a bit irrational? Mightn’t you make a mistake or two?”
“Your honor.” Bullock had risen to his feet. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have to interpose an objection. This is becoming quite argumentative.”
“I’ll sustain that objection,” Judge Hart said. “Counsel, please stick to the preview of the evidence that will be presented. Save the argument for later.”
“Yes, your honor.” Ben had known full well that this portion of his remarks might draw an objection. But the specter of this high-speed chase that had been witnessed by virtually everyone was so damning he knew he had to try to dismantle it as soon as possible, whether it drew an objection or not. And it was rather difficult for him to stick strictly to a preview of the evidence he would put on, since he was still uncertain what in the world he would be putting on. In fact, there was only one witness he could count on for certain.
“Some of you may be wondering—will Wallace Barrett take the stand? This is often a point of great curiosity and suspense throughout a trial. Well, let me see if I can alleviate some of the suspense. Wallace Barrett will take the stand. Does he have to? Of course not. The Fifth Amendment provides that he doesn’t have to say a word. Frankly, I usually advise my clients not to. But Wallace Barrett wants to take the stand. He wants to talk to you, he wants to tell you his story. Because he’s an innocent man. And he wants you to know it.”
Ben racked his brain for another subject that should be broached on opening. Nothing leaped to mind. He thought he’d covered most of the high points. He decided to move to the wrap-up.
“Before I sit down, I would like to leave you with one question. This is a question I would like you to keep inside your head, to ask yourself throughout the course of the prosecution’s case. Mr. Bullock has told you that the police pursued Wallace Barrett as their suspect from the very beginning, and that’s true. They never considered any other suspect. They never investigated any other suspect. Never even questioned another suspect. So as you listen to the testimony, ask yourself this: Are they going after Wallace Barrett because he is the only possibility—or because he was the easiest possibility?”
Ben glanced up at the judge. “That’s all I have, your honor.”
Judge Hart swiveled to face the courtroom. “Very well, opening statements being completed, and since there is still ample time before lunch, the prosecution may call its first witness.”
Ben nodded at his client, clapped him on the shoulder, sat down, and gripped the edges of his table.
It had begun.
Chapter 38
THE PRESS HAD BEEN speculating for days as to who would be the first witness the prosecution called to the stand. Would they try to hit a home run first time at the plate, or would they build slow and easy, starting with the dullish forensic evidence and saving the high drama for later? When the announcement was finally made, it was almost anticlimactic.
“The State calls Cynthia Taylor, your honor.”
Well, Ben mused, she was a natural choice. Everyone knew the victim’s sister; she had, after all, been on magazine covers and television talk shows throughout the preceding month. She was an appealing witness, personally attractive, well-spoken. She was someone the jury would take seriously, would be sure to listen to carefully. She was in a position to comment and reflect on almost every aspect of the case. And she could be counted on to help the prosecution in any way she possibly could to see Wallace Barrett convicted of her sister’s murder.
She was wearing a black pantsuit, stylish, although it tended to obscure her trim, athletic figure. Probably a smart strategy; they didn’t want the jury writing her off as a self-absorbed pretty face She spoke in a clear yet fragile voice, like thin glass, crystal clear for now, but capable of shattering at the slightest pressure. She introduced herself, explained her relationship to the key players, and told the jury that she taught aerobics part-time at a local gym and was also the president of the local chapter of Domestic Violence Intervention Services.
“Would you say you were close to your sister, the late Caroline Taylor Barrett?”
“We were best friends. It was always that way. We’re only two years apart in age. We grew up together. We wore the same clothes, had the same friends. We took vacations together. We told each other everything.” She smiled bitterly. “She was the best friend I ever had.”
“Did you spend a lot of time together?”
“Oh, yes. As much as we possibly could. We loved to talk. We would stay up all night sometimes, just sitting around the kitchen table talking to one another, sharing secrets and favorite things. She was a lot smarter than I was. I remember, the last time we vacationed together, she was reading some Greek tragedy. Medea, I think. I was reading Michael Crichton. But she never lorded it over me. She never made me feel stupid.”
“Have you always lived in Tulsa?” Bullock asked.
“No. We grew up in Crescent, a much smaller town north of Oklahoma City. We both went to nursing school here in Tulsa. Then I moved away about two and a half years ago.”
“Why?”
“Well, I married, and my husband took a job in Chicago. Unfortunately, the marriage broke up about seven months ago. After the divorce was final, I returned to Tulsa.”
“Did you see your sister when you returned?”
“Of course I did. In fact, she met me at the airport. She knew I’d been through a … difficult time, and she wanted to be there for me.” She paused, and her eyes lowered. “She was always there for me.”
Bullock also paused, allowing silence to heighten the drama of the moment. “Was she alone when she met you?”
“Oh no. She had—had—” Cynthia’s head suddenly dropped, and her hand rushed up to meet it. Her face twisted in the picture of sadness. “She brought her two girls,” she said, first whispering, then crying. “My nieces.” Tears began to flow from her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Bullock said solemnly. “I know how hard this must be for you. Your honor, may I approach?”
The judge nodded, and Bullock stepped forward and handed her a tissue which he just happened to have in his coat pocket. She dabbed her eyes, but the tears continued to trickle forth.
“It’s all right,” she said, whispering again. “They were just so … so y
oung and pretty and …” She turned abruptly and looked up at the judge. “I’m sorry, your honor. I can go on.” She dabbed her eyes again and tried to compose herself.
Bullock gave her plenty of time. He seemed to be in no hurry, or perhaps more accurately, recognized that this emotional display would have more impact on the jury than any number of questions.
“What did you do that day? After she met you.”
“Oh … I hardly remember.” She forced a smile and tried to bravely carry on. “Nothing unusual. Shopping, eating. Just girl stuff. You know.”
“Do you recall anything unusual that occurred that day?”
“Oh, yes. It was—” She stopped. “I hardly know what to say. She was wearing sunglasses.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Well, yes. I had never seen her wear sunglasses before, and the sun wasn’t that bright. And then when we got back to her house, she still wore the glasses.”
“Inside?”
“Right. I pointed this out to her, but she just laughed and shrugged it off.”
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I became very suspicious. At that time, I’d been associated with DVIS for several years, and I knew that when a woman starts wearing sunglasses she doesn’t need to shield her eyes from the sun, it can mean trouble.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well, I couldn’t get any sort of straight answer out of her, so finally I just reached up and yanked the glasses off her face.”
“And what did you see?”
Cynthia hesitated, then turned her head to face the jurors. “Her left eye had a huge black bruise around it. Black and blue and red. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the ugliest black eye I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some doozies. It was horrifying.”
“What did you say?”
“Well, of course I asked her how this happened. Who did this to you?”
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