by Jeanne Winer
Then it was my turn. I didn’t realize until it was almost too late that Jeff had set me up. As I approached the podium, I decided that if she was old and pleasant, I’d be kind and solicitous.
“Mrs. Watkins,” I said, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a couple of questions as well. I hope they won’t upset you too much.”
“It’s all right.” She clutched her glass. “It’s your job. I understand.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Watkins. First of all, you testified on direct that your son was unhappy with his wife.”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s what he told me.”
“And you think he drank because he was unhappy with his wife?”
“Yes, but he didn’t drink that much.”
This was my chance to discredit her in a kind gentle way. “So you don’t think your son was an alcoholic?”
“Oh, not at all. Just the occasional beer or glass of wine at supper.”
“I see. Didn’t he also drink because of his disability?”
“Oh no, he’d accepted that.”
So far, so good. “Sometimes, though,” I continued, “because he was so unhappy with his wife, he’d lose his temper with her?”
She sat up a little straighter and I could see the real Louise struggling to stay hidden. “Well, anyone can lose their temper. Haven’t you ever lost yours?”
“Mrs. Watkins, I know this must be difficult, but I need you to answer my question. Sometimes, because your son was so unhappy with his wife, he’d lose his temper with her. Is that correct?”
“Oh I suppose so. Once in a while.”
“Thank you. The last Christmas you spent together, Emily had a black eye. Is that correct?”
The witness looked down at her lap for a moment, then up again. “There was one Christmas when she had a black eye, but I’m thinking now that it was three or four years ago. I’m sorry, but my memory isn’t so good anymore.”
Yeah, right. “Has it declined since you spoke with me two months ago?”
“Excuse me?”
“Do you remember speaking with me and my investigator in March?”
“Of course I do.”
“And do you remember telling us that Emily had a black eye the last Christmas you spent together, not three or four years ago?”
“No, I remember you asking me whether Emily had a black eye the last Christmas we spent together, and I said I wasn’t sure. Since then, I’ve thought about it and I think perhaps you were trying to put words in my mouth.”
Well at least I didn’t have to be so kind anymore. “And since then, you’ve also met with the prosecutor, haven’t you?”
“We’ve spoken a few times.”
“And of course you informed him that you’d talked with me and my investigator?”
“I’m not sure. I may have mentioned it.”
“And of course you told him what you’d said to us.”
“I’m not sure if I did or not.”
“That’s a very tricky memory you have, Mrs. Watkins. No further questions.”
I stared at her for a moment as if I hoped she might change her mind and tell the truth, then turned my back to her and walked away.
“You were lucky to get out alive,” Donald whispered when I returned to the defense table. “What a bitch.”
“She lost her son,” Emily murmured.
The last three witnesses’ testimony pertained to the insurance policy. Jeff was enjoying himself now, asking way too many questions, as if he’d never heard this information before and couldn’t quite believe it. On cross, I did the best I could, implying that Emily had been concerned about her husband’s health—he wouldn’t stop drinking—and therefore it made perfect sense to buy an insurance policy on his life, that the timing was unfortunate but meant nothing. I sat down feeling as if I were the only guest left at a party where everyone else had long since gone home and the hosts were snoring in their bedroom.
I closed my eyes and pictured the bay in Zihuatanejo that Vickie and I had visited, one of the most peaceful places in Mexico. At sunset, when the temperature is perfect (about eighty degrees) the townspeople arrive with their families in tow and the adults all sit at the water’s edge in their bathing suits or underwear eating chicken and corn on the cob catching up on each other’s news, the teenage girls in bikinis laugh and toss their hair, the boys square off for a game of soccer, and the little kids run back and forth in the water shouting excitedly, until at some point everyone stops what they’re doing and their collective gaze turns toward the horizon to watch as the orange sun descends into the turquoise colored sea; and then, there’s a moment of silence suffused with the kind of happiness that money can’t buy because there’s nothing at that moment that anyone would wish to be different. I opened my eyes and sighed.
Finally, a few minutes before five, the prosecution rested. The judge glanced at the clock, and then decided to adjourn for the day. As the guard approached to escort Emily back to the jail, she asked if she could speak with me in private. I told Donald I’d catch up to him in the hall. We waited until everyone filed out of the courtroom.
“Okay,” I said, “what’s up?”
Emily took a deep breath and let it out. “Is there any way we can win the trial if I don’t testify?”
I felt my mouth drop open and my head begin to shake from side to side. “No.”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “Because I’d prefer not to. I’ve seen what you do on cross-examination and I can just imagine what the prosecutor will do to me. I’m too confused and I’m afraid I won’t do a very good job.”
My heart thudded in my chest and I felt dizzy, as if I’d drunk too many margaritas under a blazing sun. “You’d be committing suicide if you don’t testify.”
She smiled as if I were being much too melodramatic. “A trial,” she said in her dreamy sounding voice, “is such an odd way to get at the truth, don’t you think? It makes simple things sound terribly complex and complex things sound so simple. Innocence and guilt, for instance. Who isn’t both innocent and guilty?”
I wanted to shake her, but she’d had enough physical violence to last her a lifetime. “Emily, wake up! Now is the time. Open your goddamned cage—it isn’t locked—and fly away.”
In a small bewildered voice, she asked, “Where would I go?”
“Anywhere you want to.” I knew I sounded desperate, but I couldn’t help it. I gestured wildly around the room, at the judge’s bench, the court reporter’s empty chair, the rows of deserted seats, the soundproof windowless walls. “Anywhere is better than here.”
She stared at me, then blinked her eyes and said, “Yes, of course you’re right. Oh Rachel, I’m terribly sorry if I scared you.”
Chapter Six
The next morning, I arrived at the Justice Center at a quarter to eight and found Donald sitting on one of the narrow wooden benches in the hall outside the courtroom. Since the doors to the courtroom were still locked, I sat down beside him to confer about our witness list.
Besides Dr. Midman, we planned to call Emily’s best friend, Alice Timmerman, seven medical doctors, the neighbor who’d seen Hal slam a car door on Emily’s foot, a Boulder County policeman who’d arrested Hal six years earlier for domestic violence, two felons willing to testify that Hal had used excessive force on them, and of course, Emily. Normally, I would have saved my client for last, but Donald and I both agreed we’d better put her on second, as soon as Dr. Midman finished testifying. After that, she’d be free to dissociate for the rest of the trial. Later, after we’d won, I could tell her the conditions were safe now, and like a political refugee hiding in some other country, she could finally return home.
It took almost forty minutes to figure out which witnesses were available that afternoon, and which ones we’d call on Wednesday and Thursday. None of the doctors could testify until Wednesday after lunch and some were asking not to be called until Thursday. The neighbor, who’d screamed at Donald after being subpoenaed, had
the busiest schedule of all: bridge, golf, an art appreciation class and lunch with her daughter-in-law. She’d advised us she was only available between ten thirty and eleven fifteen tomorrow morning.
“Is she worth the hassle?” Donald asked. “She’s really pissed off at us.”
“I know,” I said, “but she’s a crucial witness, the only person who ever actually saw Hal hurting Emily. We have to put her on.”
He grunted. “Okay fine, I’ll phone her this afternoon. How much abuse do I have to listen to before I get to hang up?”
I reached over and began adjusting his tie. “We really need her.”
He grunted again. “So a lot.” He was trying to frown, but I could tell by the flash of pleasure in his eyes that he liked someone touching his clothes, attempting to spruce him up.
The bailiff, a slight, nervous man who always wore a bow tie and matching suspenders, unlocked the courtroom at eight thirty and we marched inside. After arranging my files the way I wanted, we sat at the defense table waiting for Dr. Midman who promised to arrive early. She would be our first witness. The room was beginning to fill, but the trial wouldn’t start until nine. True to her word, my expert showed up a few minutes later carrying a briefcase in one hand and a green leather overnight bag in the other. She looked a little out of breath, but otherwise calm and composed.
“I’ve been subpoenaed to testify tomorrow in another murder case in Massachusetts,” she told us. “If I’m done by one thirty, I could catch a plane at three. If not,” she made a face, “there’s another one at midnight.”
“Another battered woman case?” I asked.
She nodded. “And compared to that one, yours is a piece of cake.”
“Why is that one so much worse?” Donald asked.
Dr. Midman shrugged. “The woman handcuffed her husband to the bed while he was sleeping and then set him on fire.”
“Any insurance policy on the husband’s life?” Donald asked.
“No.” Dr. Midman laughed. “No insurance policy.” She looked around the courtroom. “Where do you want me to sit?”
Donald pointed to the front row right behind us. “You can sit there. Give us something nice to look at.”
“Well thank you,” Dr. Midman said, placing her bags on the seat beside her.
“You’re welcome,” Donald said.
“Donald,” I murmured, “you old dog.”
He blushed. “Did that sound as dumb as I think it did?”
“Not at all,” I said, “very Sam Spade.”
“Yeah, right.”
Since the first day of trial, my investigator’s appearance had steadily improved. The huge boil on his neck had finally burst and he was looking almost presentable in a seedy, used-car salesman kind of way. He’d washed his hair and slicked it straight back, had splashed some water on his wrinkled button-down shirt, and had made an effort not to spill any additional food on his tie and pants.
Besides handling witnesses and keeping me company at trial, Donald had made himself invaluable in other ways as well. The night before, he’d offered to pick up Alice Timmerman at the airport and drive her to my office, which gave me enough time to run home, take a shower and scarf down some yogurt before meeting her there.
Although Alice was clearly tired from the trip, she had a million questions and was anxious to help in any way she could. Within minutes, I understood why Emily liked her so much. Originally from Israel, she was a smart, straightforward woman with a dry, self-deprecating sense of humor. After we finished preparing her testimony, I found some Brie and crackers in the kitchen (if you’re in trial, there’s an unspoken rule you can steal anyone’s provisions) and made us a late night snack. Later, I drove her to the Boulderado Hotel on Thirteenth Street where I’d reserved a room for her.
At a quarter to nine, Donald and I finished discussing logistics and were waiting for the guards to bring Emily into the courtroom. Usually they brought her at least ten minutes beforehand so that we could have a little time with her. While we were waiting, Alice arrived looking very chic in a maroon silk dress. She was a tall, heavyset woman with thick curly hair and a ruddy complexion. The night before, I’d learned she was the executive director of a national children’s cancer association based in New York City. We introduced her to Dr. Midman, who admired her dress and asked where in the city she’d bought it. Alice named the boutique and Dr. Midman recognized the name. They laughed and then Alice mentioned a different store and Dr. Midman knew that one too.
Donald and I looked at each other and shrugged. It was a sad day in Hicksville when I identified more with Donald than two fashionable women from the big city. I glanced down at myself and wondered if my navy pinstripe suit was a little too subdued, maybe even drab. When the trial was over, I would make Vickie go shopping with me. Or better yet, I’d call Karen Midman and ask her to take me.
At five minutes to nine, the bailiff stepped into the courtroom to check whether everyone was present. There were about twenty spectators in the audience, at least three of them reporters from the Boulder Daily Camera and the Rocky Mountain News. Louise Watkins was there, of course, flanked by a couple of well-dressed elderly women. I’d hoped that Hal’s ex-colleagues from the Weld County Sheriff’s Department would get tired of showing up, but they didn’t; today, five beefy representatives, who looked like an advertisement for Budweiser Light, were sitting behind Louise. Jeff Taylor and Detective Moorehouse were bent over the prosecution table, thumbing through one of the many thick black notebooks scattered in front of them. I caught the bailiff’s eye, and then looked pointedly at the empty seat beside me to indicate I was still waiting for my client. The bailiff nodded and slipped back out again.
A few minutes later, I saw Janet Ellers walking up the aisle and waved her over.
“You came,” I said, smiling at her. I’d guessed she would. I’d called her a couple of weeks ago and told her that Emily was fine about her coming to support us.
Janet was wearing a pale yellow sundress and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the way Emily often wore hers. It was still hard to look at Janet without a slight pang: the one who got away. She carried an open cloth handbag with a ball of yarn and a pair of plastic knitting needles inside.
“It took a few days to arrange the time off,” she explained, “but I can be here until the trial is over. If there’s anything I can do, please ask.”
“Thank you,” I said and introduced her to Alice and Dr. Midman. Alice immediately made room for her to sit down. If they were surprised at Janet’s resemblance to my client, they kept it to themselves. I glanced at the three of them. Until today, the rows behind the defense table were always empty, a dead giveaway Emily lacked supporters. At last, she had a decent cheering squad.
By nine twenty, I was beginning to feel queasy. Why hadn’t they brought Emily over yet? Had something happened during the night? What if she’d checked out for good? I didn’t really think so, but I couldn’t dismiss the possibility. Should we have taken the deal? If I’d seriously pushed, Jeff might have come down to twenty-six, maybe even twenty-five. Stop it, I told myself. Finally one of the side doors to the courtroom opened and I saw a redheaded guard named Sunny who often accompanied Emily to court. Thank God. But then I saw he was alone. Sunny hesitated in the doorway, and then hurried over to where I was sitting.
“Oh-oh,” Donald said.
“Bad news,” Sunny whispered. “She wouldn’t come. We all tried talking to her, but she wouldn’t come. She told me to give you this.” He handed me a folded sheet of paper. “I’m sorry. We really tried.”
For a moment, I had the strongest urge to lay my head down on the table and go to sleep. Just for a few minutes, an hour at the most. But of course I didn’t.
“What does it say?” Donald asked.
I spread the paper flat on the table so that we could both read it.
Dear Rachel,
Please don’t hate me. I’m sorry, but I just can’t go through with it. I’ve been u
p most of the night debating with myself, but my courage simply fails me. I know this is something you can’t understand because you’re always so strong and steadfast, so certain of the right course of action. The thought of your disappointment and disapproval pains me, but taking the stand and justifying my life with Hal to twelve incredulous strangers and then being cross-examined by Mr. Taylor is beyond my present capabilities. You’ll have to go on without me.
Good luck,
Emily
I blew out a long breath. Shit. Suddenly my mouth felt dry and I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it. Then, I poured myself another.
“What are you going to do?” Donald asked after I drank the second one.
I sat still for a couple of seconds, then folded the paper and stuck it in my briefcase. “Waive her presence, put on Dr. Midman, go to the jail during lunch, and convince my client to come back and take the stand.”
Donald looked at me and nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It’s a plan.”
We turned around to the women sitting behind us and explained what was going on. They were worried, of course, but heeded my advice not to show it. As far as the defense was concerned, everything was hunky-dory. I informed the bailiff I was ready and that I would be waiving my client’s presence for the morning only. As soon as the judge took the bench and the jury was seated, I stood up and announced that my client had decided to absent herself during Dr. Midman’s testimony because she felt it would be too painful to hear. Jeff looked surprised, but didn’t object.
My direct examination of Dr. Midman took about two and a half hours and went even better than I’d hoped. She was a true professional and as Emily had predicted, an excellent witness. Through her careful answers, she managed to convey both her competence and experience without ever sounding like an arrogant know-it-all. Because I wanted the jury to trust her judgment, I spent a considerable amount of time discussing the literature on battered women and attempting to portray my expert as a mainstream psychologist with views generally accepted by the vast majority of the profession. I watched a number of the female jurors warming up to her, and a few of the male jurors admiring the way she looked. Hey, whatever worked.
