Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  Calley nodded. “I do.”

  “What were your instructions?”

  “I was told to proceed to a residence on Terwilliger not far from Philbrook Museum.”

  “And did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose residence was it?”

  “Well, as I saw upon arrival, it was the home of the defendant. The mayor.” He nodded toward the defense table. “Mr. Barrett.”

  “What was the nature of the call?”

  “I was told that an anonymous caller had reported a domestic disturbance.”

  “Domestic disturbance being a euphemism for what?”

  “Violence. Wife beating, usually.”

  “I see.” Bullock folded his hands on his notebook. “Tell us what happened next.”

  “When I arrived at the Barrett home, I exited my vehicle and approached the front door.”

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

  “Well, what was unusual was that I didn’t hear anything. Usually, on these domestic abuse calls, you can hear the couples going at it a mile away. I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Did that concern you?”

  “Yes, it did. It was possible that the parties involved had simply cooled down on their own, but that would be quite unusual. Therefore, I became concerned that the incident may have escalated into something more serious.”

  Ben knew perfectly well why Bullock was dragging the officer through all this testimony about his concerns. Ben had made a pretrial motion to exclude evidence based on Calley’s unwarranted entry and search of the home. Bullock was trying to show that Calley had ample justification for entering the premises.

  “What did you do?”

  “I rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. I knocked on the door, but again there was no answer. While I was knocking, however, the door swung partly open.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Well, since whoever left the door open obviously wasn’t too concerned about privacy”—a quick glance at the judge—“and since I was concerned that some violent activity might be occurring inside, possibly involving children, I decided to enter the premises.”

  Ben saw Bullock check him quickly out the corner of his eye to see if he was going to object. Forget it. Ben knew this was a loser.

  “What did you see inside?” Bullock continued.

  “At first, nothing. Then I passed through the entryway into the dining room.”

  “And what did you see there?”

  Calley frowned. His respiration seemed to quicken.

  “Officer Calley,” Bullock said sympathetically, “I know this is probably difficult for you. These are unpleasant details, to be sure. But I must ask you to describe for the jury what you saw.”

  Calley spoke in measured, even tones. “In the living room, draped across a dining room chair, I found the body of Caroline Barrett. She was dead.”

  “Could you tell how she had been killed?”

  “Not specifically, but she was covered with blood. Some of it was already dried and caked. It covered her face and her hands and her clothes and—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Everywhere.”

  Bullock strolled over to the podium and reversed the first enlarged photo. It was every bit as hideous as every juror had imagined it might be. Red was the dominant color—bright, vivid, sickly red. It covered almost every inch of her face and hands, every inch of her clothing.

  “Officer, can you identify this photograph?”

  “Yes,” he said, only looking at it for the briefest of moments. “That’s Mrs. Barrett. That’s how she looked when I found her.”

  Bullock asked a few more procedural questions to fulfill the authentication requirements. “Your honor, I move that this photograph be admitted into evidence.” Ben did not object. The photo was admitted. Bullock returned to his podium, leaving the photo exposed and facing the jury. “What did you do next?”

  “After I confirmed that she was dead, I began searching the rest of the house. Obviously, at this point, I felt it was urgent that I determine whether there were any more victims in the house, anyone who might require emergency medical assistance. I toured the rest of the downstairs, but I didn’t find anyone. I then proceeded upstairs.”

  “Did you find anything unusual there?”

  “Yes.” His voice cracked. Ben looked up and saw, to his surprise, a tear creeping out the corner of Calley’s eye. Police officers were usually coached to remain stoic and nothing-but-the-facts when testifying. Ben had never seen anything like this before.

  Bullock cleared his throat. “And … what did you find?”

  “In one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one on the far left, I found the Barretts’ younger daughter. She was lying on her bed, her arms folded across her chest—” Calley choked—literally choked. He could not complete the sentence.

  Bullock didn’t press him. “Was she alive?”

  Calley shook his head. “No. I could tell at a glance, although I confirmed it by searching unsuccessfully for a pulse. Her face and body were an almost … unnatural white, a ghostly pale. I guess.” Once again, Calley did not manage to finish his sentence.

  Bullock flipped over the next enlarged photo. If anything, this one was even worse than the one before. It had an unholy calm about it; it at first suggested that she was simply resting on her bed, a suggestion soon shattered upon closer inspection by the realization that she had been murdered.

  “Officer Calley, is this the scene you witnessed in Annabelle Barrett’s bedroom?”

  “Yes. That’s it.”

  Bullock moved that the photo be admitted into evidence, and it was.

  “Officer Calley, where did you go next?”

  Calley seemed flushed and embarrassed, both sickened by the memory and upset that he wasn’t handling himself in a more professional manner. As if anyone could. “To tell you the truth, sir, I … uh … wasn’t feeling very good at that point. I had noticed that there was a bathroom near the bedroom so I ran in there thinking that, um …” He swept his hand across his face. “Well, I thought I was going to be sick.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I ran to the bathroom, pushed wide the door, and was instantly confronted with … the other daughter.”

  Bullock paused to give Calley a few moments to gather himself. “Could you tell the jury precisely what you saw?”

  “The older Barrett girl—Alysha—was lying in the bathtub. There was no water in it, and she was still in her clothes.”

  “Was she dead?”

  “Yes, of course she was dead.” Calley pressed his hand against his forehead. “She was very dead.”

  Bullock flipped over the third of the grisly enlarged photos, revealing a bathtub streaked with blood and the lifeless body inside, one arm draped over the edge, like a pathetic parody of the famous painting of Marat. “Does this photo accurately represent what you saw?”

  “Yes.”

  Bullock had the third photo admitted into evidence. He allowed another respectful silence, then continued. “Did you do anything else in the Barrett home?”

  “No,” Calley whispered. “I left the house. I called for an ambulance, although I knew they were all dead. And I called homicide.”

  “Thank you, Officer Calley. I have nothing more.”

  Chapter 46

  BEN GLANCED OVER AT his client. He was not in good shape. The pain in his face was evident. Ben had to remind himself that Barrett had come home and seen these horrible images, too. His experience was much like Calley’s, only earlier. Reliving it in this manner, being reminded of the hideous demise of his entire family, had to be awful for him, and the strain was showing in his face.

  With all the enthusiasm of a corpse, Ben strode to the podium. He decided to keep the cross short and sweet. After all, the man had simply testified to what he saw at the crime scene, and none of it was in dispute. The main point of his testimony had been to shock and horrify the jury, which he had certainly done. T
he sooner they moved on to someone else the better.

  “Officer Calley, at the time of this incident, March 11, you were rather new on the force, weren’t you?”

  “Uh … yes.” Ben noticed that as soon as the testimony shifted to cross-examination, he adopted the flat, unembroidered voice police officers are trained to use in court.

  “How new?”

  Calley thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I remember exactly.”

  “Isn’t it true that this incident occurred on the Friday of your first week?”

  “Uh … yes, I believe that’s correct.”

  A few eyebrows in the jury box raised.

  “Obviously, then, you hadn’t had much experience with domestic disturbances.”

  “No. Only discussions while I was at the academy.”

  “And you probably hadn’t had any experience with homicides.”

  “No.”

  “Well, I appreciate your honesty. This may help explain some of the … irregularities at the crime scene.”

  Ben could see Calley’s eyes narrow. He was on his guard now.

  “For instance,” Ben continued, “it isn’t really standard police procedure to enter a home uninvited just because they don’t answer the doorbell, is it?”

  “I felt that there was a great potential—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m familiar with your justifications. But that isn’t exactly what they taught you back at the academy, is it?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And I’m curious—when you found the first body, why didn’t you immediately call for medical assistance?”

  “Well, she was dead.”

  “Officer Calley, are you a doctor?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “Have you taken classes in emergency medicine?”

  “No. Just the fundamentals at the academy.”

  “You know, sometimes experienced doctors are fooled about whether a patient is dead when they have to make a field diagnosis without instruments. Is it possible you made a mistake?”

  “She was dead. It was later confirmed—”

  “Later, yes, but at the time you were there, is it possible she was alive?”

  “I don’t think so …”

  “Officer, my question was—is it possible?”

  He sighed heavily. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  “And if an officer finds an injured person and there is a possibility that the victim is still alive, the proper police procedure is to immediately summon medical aid, correct?”

  “That’s correct,” Calley said resignedly.

  “Your honor, I object,” Bullock said. “What’s the point of this? Officer Calley is not on trial.”

  “I’m testing the credibility of his testimony,” Ben told the judge. “That’s the main point of cross-ex.”

  Judge Hart nodded wearily. “I’m going to allow a little more of this. I would appreciate it, however, counsel, if you could bring the discussion a little closer to the matters at issue.”

  “Very well, your honor.” He turned his attention back to the witness. “My point is, this was not a perfect, by-the-book initial investigation, was it?”

  “There were many variables—”

  “Sir, please answer the question.”

  “No, it was not.”

  “Please understand, I’m not trying to blame or incriminate you. But the jury needs to know the facts. And the facts are—you were a brand-new officer on your own and you made mistakes, right?”

  “That’s true.” His shoulders sagged. “I made mistakes.”

  “Did you ever see my client during your initial tour of the house?”

  “No, he had already—”

  “Did… you … see… him … there?”

  Calley swallowed his words. “No.”

  “Did you see anything that indicated who had committed these crimes?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “Not specifically or generally, right?”

  Calley almost smiled. “Right.”

  “There is one other matter I’d like to ask you about. You’ve admitted this initial investigation was flawed and that you made mistakes. You also said that after you found the third victim, you left the premises. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “At what speed did you depart?”

  “Speed? I don’t follow.”

  “Well, did you saunter? Stroll? Walk briskly?”

  Calley seemed to struggle for the correct word. “I … believe I moved downstairs and out with all deliberate speed.”

  “Meaning fast, right?”

  He shrugged. “I guess you could say that.”

  “Were you running?”

  “I don’t know if I was running …”

  “But you were moving very rapidly.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And on your way out, you had to pass through the living room. Right?”

  “Uh, yes. That’s right.”

  “Officer, in his opening statement, the prosecutor made much of a photograph that was found on the floor in the living room. Did you see that photo?”

  “As I recall, there were many photographs in the home.”

  “Ah, but this one was on the floor. Surely you would have noticed. If it was there.”

  “I … There was a lot going on … I had a lot on my mind …”

  “Officer Calley, did you see a smashed photograph of Caroline Barrett on the floor?”

  “I … don’t recall it, but as I say, I was moving quickly. It was probably there and I didn’t notice.”

  “Officer Calley, in your haste to leave the Barrett home, is it possible that you knocked over the photo?”

  Calley appeared momentarily stunned. “I—what?”

  “You heard me. Did you?”

  “Did I—no, I most certainly did not.”

  “It would have been an easy thing to do. No one would blame you. But we need to know the truth. Did you knock over that photograph?”

  “No!”

  “You were running—or moving very rapidly—through the living room. Very upset. You would have had to run right by the coffee table where the photo normally rested. Tell us the truth, sir. You knocked it over, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “And that’s how the frame glass was broken.”

  “No! Absolutely not!”

  “I’m sure it was an accident. But you did it, didn’t you?”

  “I—” His head began to tremble. “No! I did not knock over the picture!”

  “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.”

  “I did not knock the damn thing over!”

  “Your honor,” Bullock shouted, “we apologize for that outburst, but this question has been asked and answered. Several times now.”

  Judge Hart did not look happy. “I will excuse the outburst—just this once. The question has been asked and answered. If you have nothing more, Mr. Kincaid, sit down.”

  “Nothing more,” Ben said. There was no point in pushing any longer. If Calley was responsible for breaking that picture, he sure wasn’t going to admit it now.

  “Very well. Court is recessed for the day.” Judge Hart gave the jury the usual end-of-the-day instructions, particularly complicated in this instance since the jury had been sequestered. “We’ll resume tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp.” She banged her gavel, and the courtroom exploded.

  Ben could see the reporters surging up the aisle. As soon as the jury was escorted out, he pointed Barrett toward a door at the back of the courtroom.

  “Wait a minute,” Barrett said. “I want to make a statement.”

  “That’s an incredibly stupid idea.”

  “I don’t care. People have been lying about me all day. Why should I sit there and take that silently?”

  “Well, at least let’s talk—”

  “There’s no time. The marshals will come for me any moment.” Barrett pushed forward to meet the reporters. In a matter of
moments, a multitude of cameras and lights and microphones were working.

  Ben listened as Barrett did his best to put a positive spin on the day’s testimony, which was nearly impossible, since almost all of it had gone against them. For the most part, Barrett avoided the specifics of the evidence and statements, and simply reiterated his innocence in strong and impassioned tones.

  Which was well and good for the six o’clock news, Ben thought, but the jury would require something more. If he was going to turn them around, he would have to give them something concrete, something that seemed at least as plausible as the evidence the prosecution had put on, and would continue to put on tomorrow.

  This was one election Wallace Barrett couldn’t win with a press conference. Barrett might win over thousands of viewers, but the only twelve votes that counted would not be watching. They were the ones who would determine his fate. And they were the ones, Ben knew, who at that point had been given no reason to doubt that Wallace Barrett was guilty.

  Chapter 47

  BEN AND CHRISTINA HEADED back from the courthouse to the Adam’s Mark in silence. Ben knew he was being sullen and uncompanionable, but he couldn’t help himself. It all seemed too grim and hopeless.

  Finally, Christina broke the silence. “Ben, I know things look gloomy at the moment, but I think you’re doing a great job in there. Sans pareil.”

  “Thanks for the kind words, but we’re losing, and you know it.”

  “You’ve been losing from the second you accepted this loser case. Any little thing you can do to improve the situation—and you’ve done several already—is pure gravy. And a testament to what a fine trial attorney you’re becoming. You shouldn’t get so upset about every single unfavorable ruling. You know how trials go. Comme çi comme ça.” She poked him in the side. “Look, when this is all over, let’s go camping again, okay? You and me, backpacking in Heavener State Park. I’ll show you the runestone left by the Nordic discoverers of this continent.”

  Ben smiled faintly. “Deal.”

  Despite the late hour, Ben found both Jones and Loving working at their desks at the hotel room. They took no particular notice when he walked in.

  “I’m back,” Ben said.

  Jones glanced up quickly. “Hi, Boss.”