Naked Justice bk-6

by William Bernhardt

  Fisher took the stand. He was a tall man about Barrett’s age. Obviously a professional. He was handsome—so handsome, in fact, that it dominated all first impressions and obscured any lesser facts that might otherwise have been gathered. As Joni would say, he was a hunk.

  Ben almost immediately noticed the difference in his client when Fisher took the stand. He became stiff and cold; his eyes burned across the courtroom to the witness stand. It was clear to Ben that there was no love lost between these two men.

  Despite the lateness of the day, Bullock spent a fair amount of time delving into the witness’s educational background, his medical practice, his home in South Tulsa near Southern Hills. Almost half an hour passed before he asked, “Doctor, did you ever have occasion to meet a woman named Caroline Barrett?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when did you meet her?”

  “Six or seven months ago.”

  “Can you please describe the circumstances?”

  Dr. Fisher folded his hands and nodded. “At that time, I was a general practice physician at Springer Clinic. Caroline was referred to me one day when her usual physician was unavailable.”

  “Why did she need a doctor?”

  “She had a bruised eye, as well as some damage to her nose.”

  “Do you know what caused the injuries?”

  Dr. Fisher paused, looked at the jury. “She told me she fell. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that she was lying.”

  “Lying? Why would she lie?”

  Fisher frowned. “It was obvious to me that she had been punched. Probably several times, given the extent of the injuries.”

  “And do you know who struck her?”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Lack of personal knowledge. He wasn’t there.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “Very well,” Bullock said, “did she tell you who struck her?”

  “I still object,” Ben said. “That’s hearsay.”

  “But your honor,” Bullock said, “the declarant is dead. She’s obviously unavailable.”

  Judge Hart nodded. “I don’t like this sort of evidence, Mr. Bullock. I don’t think it’s the most reliable evidence to give the jury. But given the circumstances, I’m going to allow it once again. Just don’t take it too far.”

  Bullock nodded. “Of course not.” He returned his attention to the witness. “Did she tell you who struck her?”

  “Yes. Not that first day, but later, as we got to know each other better.” He turned his head to stare directly at Wallace Barrett. “She told me her husband beat her up.”

  The murmur from the courtroom was somber and low. Ben immediately saw the plan behind Bullock’s seemingly erratic ordering of his witnesses. Now that he had nailed down the DNA identification, assuring everyone at the very least that Barrett was at the scene of the crime, he reconjured the specters of wife beating and domestic abuse. It was all the jury needed to understand the how and the why of the murder.

  It was all they needed to convict.

  “Did you believe her?” Bullock asked.

  “Of course I did. The truth had been evident to me all along.”

  Bullock pivoted around his podium. “You’ve said that you later got to know Caroline Barrett better. How did that occur?”

  Fisher waved a hand casually. “Oh, in the same manner that all friendships do, I suppose. I saw her a few more times after that initial consultation. We met at a party. We had lunch together. We came to be close friends.”

  “Did you continue to act as her physician?”

  “No. After it became apparent that we were going to be close personal friends, I thought it was inappropriate for me to act as her doctor, so I referred her to someone else, although of course, just by seeing her as often as I did, I was aware of her continual injuries on an informal basis.”

  Bullock pulled himself erect. “Let me apologize in advance, Doctor, but I’m afraid I have to ask you a personal question. Were you and Caroline Barrett intimate?”

  “Intimate? What do you mean?”

  “Was it a romantic relationship?”

  “Certainly not.” Fisher spoke as if the very notion was absurd. “She was still married to the defendant, even though he made her life miserable. No, it was purely friendship. Nothing more.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Did you see Caroline Barrett during the month before she was so brutally killed?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “How would you describe her state of mind at that time?”

  “Not good.” Fisher frowned. “During that last month, I probably saw her almost every day. Certainly never more than a day or two passed that I didn’t see her. And she was miserable. Unhappy, depressed, despondent.”

  “Why was she unhappy?”

  “In a nutshell? Because she was afraid of her husband.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had beat her up so many times before, and there was no telling when he would hit her next. She lived in fear—I mean, absolute fear— on a daily basis. The most innocent remark might set him off. There was just no way of knowing. And when those rages came over him, he was uncontrollable. Mean, violent, and uncontrollable.” He paused again, then made eye contact with the jurors. “She was afraid he’d kill her.”

  Ben watched the jurors’ faces grow still and grim. Many of them looked over at Wallace Barrett, who was looking away, avoiding eye contact.

  The testimony was having its intended impact. Slowly but surely the jury was seeing Barrett less as the sports hero/mayor and more as the abusive, wife-beating maniac.

  “Why would she be afraid he would kill her?”

  “He’d come close several times already. Beating her into unconsciousness, till she had to go to the hospital for emergency treatment. Or humiliating her in public, like the time he locked her out of the house in her underwear. Things that made her want to die. He was destroying her. Bit by bit he was draining everything away from her, including her will to live.”

  “Did you report any of these incidents to the police?”

  “No. I wish to God I had. But she begged me not to, for the sake of the children, she said, and I didn’t. I was a fool. I might’ve … might’ve …”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Doctor. We all understand the circumstances. Tell me, given the enormous abuse Caroline Barrett was suffering, why didn’t she leave him?”

  Fisher grimaced. “It’s the classic battered-woman syndrome. She hated the man but she couldn’t separate herself. Plus there were the children to think about. How would she care for them without him? How would she live? Certainly not in the manner to which she had become accustomed. She’d signed a prenuptial agreement before marrying Barrett. In the event of divorce or separation, she got nothing.” He shook his head gravely. “She often said the children were all she had, the only weapon she could use against him. If it hadn’t been for them, she was sure she would’ve been dead already.”

  Bullock moved through his questions slow and easily, letting these devastating words hang heavy in the hearts of the jurors. “What would trigger these irrational bursts of fury?”

  Fisher shrugged. “It varied. Sometimes it was his chauvinistic, piggish attitudes about what a wife should do. Sometimes it was his irrational jealousy. She couldn’t breathe on another man without him going ballistic.”

  “How did this affect her?”

  “I’m sure you can imagine. What would be the effect of living in constant fear for yourself and your children? Of being constantly battered and abused, verbally and physically? She was on the edge, if she hadn’t gone over already. I have to say, I was afraid for her mental health. I tried to get her to seek professional help, or better yet, to get away from him. But she never did. I mean, when she told me about her pregnancy, she was practically in hysterics.”

  Ben sensed Barrett straightening beside him. “That son of a bitch knew,” Barrett muttered under his breath. “I didn’t know, but he did.”
/>   Bullock raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Fisher, you knew about her pregnancy?”

  “Of course. As I’ve said, we saw each other frequently.”

  “Do you know if she told her husband she was pregnant?”

  “I know that she did not, unless perhaps she did it on the day she died, which might in fact explain what happened.”

  The hubbub in the courtroom swelled. “What do you mean?” Bullock asked.

  “Your honor,” Ben said, “I’m going to object to any speculation by the witness.”

  Judge Hart nodded. “Dr. Fisher, you may tell the jury what you know, but please refrain from speculating about what you do not know but think might have happened.”

  Dr. Fisher nodded his understanding. “Caroline told me on several occasions that her husband hated her when she was pregnant. He belittled her and made fun of her, told her she was an ugly pig—charming statements like that. He flew off the handle once and hit her. Can you imagine? Punching a pregnant woman? Your own wife? She’d been pregnant three times—for their two children and one miscarriage, which may have been induced by violence from her husband—and he had made her life a misery each time. She knew as soon as she told him she was pregnant again, the abuse would escalate. That’s why she refrained from telling him.”

  “But she had to tell him sometime.”

  “Yes,” Fisher agreed, “she did. Which makes me wonder if she didn’t tell him the night he killed—I mean, the night she was killed.”

  “I would’ve thought she might’ve thought the pregnancy was a blessing. Surely the man wouldn’t intentionally kill his own child. So long as she carried the child, she would be safe.”

  Fisher shook his head grimly. “Nothing could make her think she was safe from him. Not after the incident with the baseball bat.”

  A deadly hush fell over the courtroom. No one twitched; no lips moved.

  “The incident with the baseball bat?” Bullock asked finally.

  “You heard right.” Fisher shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “When was this?”

  “Two days before she was killed. Another one of his jealous fits. He ran into the house, screaming at the top of his lungs, calling her a bitch, a whore. Accusing her of things”—he shook his head—“horrible things. Unmentionable. Of course, both children were at home the whole time this was going on. She tried to protect them, but—”

  He brushed his hand across his face, then continued. “The worst of it, she told me the next day, was that she realized how powerless she was against him. Powerless to help herself or her children.”

  “You mentioned … a baseball bat?”

  “That’s right. According to Caroline, he was swinging a baseball bat, one of those modern aluminum jobs. And he had a mean swing, too. He kept swishing that thing through the air at deadly speeds, shouting at the top of his lungs, ‘I’m gonna kill you, you fucking bitch! I’m gonna kill you, you filthy whore!’ Over and over again. ‘I’m gonna kill you!’ ”

  Bullock spoke softly but audibly. “And two days later …”

  Fisher nodded. “Two days later, she was dead. Killed. In a horrible, violent, brutal way.”

  Bullock closed his notebook and turned slowly to face the bench. “No more questions, your honor.”

  Judge Hart turned toward Ben. “Cross-examination?”

  Ben nodded, then leaned into his client’s ear. “Wallace, tell me about this guy. ”

  “Tell you about what?”

  “About what he said! All those stories about you beating and mistreating your wife! Tell me how to prove he’s lying.”

  Barrett’s voice seemed broken and emotionless. “I … can’t.”

  “Mr. Kincaid, do you intend to cross-examine?”

  Ben’s brain kicked into warp drive. He hated to leave the jury with this image of Wallace Barrett swinging a baseball bat through the air like a crazed maniac. But there wasn’t much to cross-examine Fisher about. None of his testimony actually went toward proving Barrett was the murderer. But the overall effect left by this testimony, on top of all that went before, was devastating.

  “No questions, your honor.”

  She did not look surprised. Apparently she saw the difficulties as clearly as Ben did.

  “The prosecution rests,” Bullock said, wearing his usual graveside countenance. He must be relishing it—going out on a bang, letting the jurors return to their rooms with the image of Mayor Wallace Barrett and his baseball bat, swinging at his pregnant wife, to haunt their sleep.

  Judge Hart pounded her gavel, gave the jury the usual instructions, and recessed the court for the day.

  Ben made his way toward the judge’s chambers. He had to make the usual motions that came at the conclusion of the prosecution’s case—motions to dismiss, motions for mistrial, reurging motions in limine. But he knew it was futile. The prosecution had done its job. They had made the jury believe that this respected, educated, prosperous member of the community could be the coldhearted murderer of his own family. He knew it, and he could see it— could see it in the expression of each and every juror as they filed out of the courtroom.

  The prosecution had done its job, all right. And unless he did his, unless he did something extraordinary when the defense put on its case, Wallace Barrett was going to get the death sentence.

  Chapter 55

  BACK AT THEIR HOTEL-ROOM headquarters, Jones and Loving were waiting for Ben and Christina. To Ben’s surprise, his friend, former brother-in-law, and recent prosecution witness Mike Morelli was there as well.

  As Ben came through the door, Mike spread open his hands and smiled. “No hard feelings?”

  Ben returned the smile. “None. Personally, I think you did more good for our side than you did for the prosecution.”

  “So does Bullock. And boy, is he pissed. He’s been stomping all over the station, griping to Chief Blackwell, threatening to yank my badge. All the usual DA histrionics.”

  Ben threw down his briefcase and grabbed a chair. “When did you find out you were going to testify?”

  “Just found out for sure this morning. Called me in on my day off, no less. Which is a good sign for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? How so?”

  Mike’s head cocked to one side. “Ben, Bullock knows you and I are friends. He wouldn’t have called me in a million years unless he was worried.”

  Ben shook his head grimly. “Maybe he had some doubts yesterday, but not today. He hurt us today.”

  Jones chimed in with his color commentary. “I thought you did a great job of taking apart those high-priced so-called experts, Boss.”

  “Ditto,” Christina offered.

  Ben shrugged. “But when all is said and done, juries don’t make up their minds based on what experts say. They might use the testimony of experts to reinforce their impressions, but their minds are made up by the fact witnesses. Hearing what people have seen and heard. And what that last witness had seen and heard was devastating. Can you imagine? The mayor of the city swinging a baseball bat through the air and threatening to smash his wife’s head? How is the jury ever going to get that picture out of their heads long enough to even consider another suspect?”

  “Don’t look to me for help,” Mike said. “I told you this was a loser when you took it. Is there any way you can dispute Dr. Fisher’s testimony?”

  Ben shook his head. “No one was there except Caroline and the children. And they’re all dead.”

  “Except,” Loving added, “for Wallace Barrett.”

  Ben nodded. “He’s going to take the stand. I know there are risks. Bullock will get a chance to cross. But Barrett’s used to handling himself in public, facing tough questioning.”

  “Ben,” Mike said, “I’m not revealing any secrets by telling you that this is exactly what Bullock is hoping for. A chance to take Barrett apart on national television.”

  “I know. But no one else can dispute that baseball bat testimony, not to mention the alleged incidents of abuse Cynth
ia Taylor testified about. He’s the only one who can do it.” Ben kept his own private doubts to himself. Yes, Barrett was the only one who could do it, but given his behavior in the courtroom—would he do it? “The jury won’t believe he isn’t an irrational maniac until they hear it from his mouth.”

  “And maybe not then,” Mike added.

  Ben nodded. “Christina and I are going to his cell tonight to prep him. And speaking of which, Loving—”

  Loving’s head snapped up. “Yes, Skipper?”

  “Any luck tracking down the man you saw at O’Brien Park?”

  “Sorry, Skipper. This is the most frustratin’ investigation I’ve handled in my entire life. I come smack up against a stone wall every step I take. I just can’t find the creep.”

  “Well, that settles it, then. We’re putting you on the stand.”

  Loving looked horrified. “Me? On the—”

  “You got it. I don’t like it much either. The jury will know you work for me and will weigh your testimony with that in mind. But we don’t have any other choice. You’re the only link we have between Whitman and the hit man.”

  Loving swallowed. “When do you think I’ll go on?”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s impossible to predict these things with certainty. Maybe tomorrow, although Judge Hart isn’t resuming the trial till afternoon. So probably the day after.”

  Loving looked as if he might be sick. “Tomorrow? Or the day after?”

  Ben tried to be reassuring. “Relax, Loving. Christina and I will prepare you. By the time you’re on the stand, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep.”

  “You know,” Loving said, “I was supposed to testify once before. I … kinda sorta didn’t show up.”

  Loving was supposed to testify? Of course, Ben remembered. During his divorce. Ben had represented his ex-wife and Loving didn’t show up for the trial. And now he knew why. Loving wasn’t the first person who’d tanked a lawsuit because he couldn’t cope with cross-ex. “There’s no need to worry, Loving. I know everything Bullock will ask, and we’ll think out all your responses in advance. Christina will help. She’s the best witness preparer I’ve ever known. She thinks of everything. Seriously. You have nothing to worry about.”