by David Ellis
The lawyers step back. Ogren goes directly to the issue now, the issue he tried so desperately to keep out of evidence, but that he will now try to front.
“Was there physical abuse in your relationship with your husband, Mrs. Reinardt?”
Rachel bows her head ever so slightly. “There was.”
“When did this start?”
“It would have been—something like April or May.”
“Of last year?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband would strike you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Was it . . . with his hand?”
Rachel looks out at the spectators, then the jury. Finally, her eyes glaze over. She is back in the house with her husband, clutching the pillow, or running through the bedroom. “His belt,” she whispers. Her mouth twists, suggesting some bitterness perhaps. This I have never seen from Rachel. She has never condemned him for it. “He would hit me on the back with his belt.”
Some of the jurors recoil again, even after hearing this for the second or third time, probably because now they are seeing the recipient of the abuse. Ogren keeps moving, trying to get through this topic as quickly as possible. He wants to front this evidence, but he doesn’t want to dwell on the image of his beloved victim as a wife-beater. “Did this happen often?”
“It wasn’t every night or anything like that.” Rachel inhales deeply. “Every—every week, I suppose.”
Ogren takes a step closer and almost bows his head. “Was there sexual abuse?”
Rachel has been remarkably calm through this. She holds her head up and speaks clearly, in a flat voice. “I wouldn’t call it that. Sometimes we would be—intimate—when I didn’t really want to. But I never told him that.”
“You never told him his advances were unwelcome?”
“No.”
“During these times, did he physically hurt you?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“All right. Now I’d like to talk about the week that your husband disappeared. Are you ready to talk about that?”
She nods her head, her wide eyes glossing over again, gazing at the floor. It’s hard enough for her to relive these moments, to say nothing of the fact that she will have to navigate through the story without implicating me. Can I ever compensate for this? Can she ever forgive me?
“Did your husband perform any operations that week?”
“Several.”
“Did any of his patients die?”
Rachel blinks several times. “He lost a patient that week.”
“The week he disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you that evening?”
“Home.”
“Was your maid there?”
“Agnes left after she made dinner. About five-thirty.”
“When did your husband come home?”
“About six o’clock.”
“Describe what happened when he came home.”
“He was very upset. He told me—he said—” Rachel tears up and shuts her eyes.
“What did he say, Mrs. Reinardt?”
“He said, ‘I couldn’t save him.’ He kept saying that. ‘I couldn’t save him.’”
“Okay. Now, what did you two do?”
“We had dinner. I tried to get him to eat, but he wouldn’t.”
“And after dinner?”
“He went upstairs. He went up into the study to read some files.”
“Did you visit him up there?”
Rachel’s face tightens now, her eyebrows raised, as she keeps her eyes focused on the floor.
“Mrs. Reinardt?”
“I—went up to the study, yes.”
“When?”
“About eight, I guess.”
“What was your husband doing?”
Rachel’s mouth comes open. Her breathing increases. “He was”—her eyes water up again—“he was reading the file on the patient he lost. Trying to figure out what mistake he’d made. He was crying.” She brings a fist up to her mouth as the tears fall.
“Did you notice anything else?”
Rachel is sobbing now, speaking in short gasps. “He—was—drinking. He was—he had been—drinking.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything!” Rachel loses all composure now, crying uncontrollably with her hands over her face. Two—no, three of the jurors have joined her.
This time, it is the judge who asks Rachel if she would like to take a break. A good two or three minutes pass. The judge asks Mr. Ogren if he would like a short recess, but Rachel looks up and says she’s okay. But still, Ogren gives her a good couple of minutes to get herself together, treating the packed courtroom to whimpers and sniffs. Despite the vicarious pain I’m experiencing, I’m grounded enough to realize that this whole scene is working out quite well for the prosecution.
Rachel finally continues to testify, breathing through her mouth. “A little while later, he came into the bedroom. I was sitting on the bed reading. He was—he had had a lot to drink.” She takes a deep breath. “He was upset.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to him. I tried talking to him.”
“What did your husband do?”
“He became more upset. He wasn’t himself. He—” Rachel covers her mouth with her hand, but she holds in the tears; after a moment, she removes her hand and speaks more quietly. “He hit me.”
“Where did he hit you?”
Rachel points to her left cheek.
“He hit you in the face?” Ogren didn’t seem ready for that one.
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I left the room.”
“Where did you go?”
“I went downstairs. Into the den.”
My pulse quickens now. We are in the den.
“What happened next?”
“I poured myself a drink. Then my husband came downstairs.”
“And then what happened?”
“He came into the room. He was sort of stumbling. He could hardly stand. He said it was all his fault.”
“What was all his fault?”
“The death of his patient. He said it was his fault. He was crying.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to him again. To console him.”
“What did your husband do?”
“He pushed me. He pushed a little harder than he meant to. I fell to the carpet.”
“What happened next?”
“Then I heard the sound of the glass breaking.”
No. That’s when he fell on top of you. He was tearing at your clothes. God, Rachel, don’t protect him that much. Tell them. Tell them the forewarning he had given you.
I know how it’ll end.
He’s going to rape me first. He said he’ll rape me then kill me.
“What glass was that?” asks Ogren.
“The glass from our sliding door.”
“Where is this door?”
“The door that leads to the outside patio. It’s in the den.”
“Okay. You heard the glass on that door shatter. And then?”
“Well—I looked up at the door.”
She looked up at the door?
“And—what did you see?” Roger Ogren asks.
Even before Rachel turns her head toward me, before her eyes narrow ever so slightly and her jaw clenches, I feel it. I feel it in the contraction of my stomach, the tightening of my throat, the sudden chill in my body.
It’s nothing more than a brief glance, but it’s enough to signal me. I meet her stare for that moment. I wonder what she sees in my eyes. Pleading. Fear. Disbelief. But in the end, acceptance. I never once told her to lie for me.
She pauses a moment, her eyes facing her lap. A fresh tear falls from her cheek to her leg.
“Then I saw Marty,” she says.
75
SILENCE, INITIALLY, AN EERIE MOMENT OF SUCH utter calm that I wonder if
I actually heard Rachel correctly. But of course I did. Were there any doubt, the reaction of the jurors, the judge, the prosecutors, confirm it. I should try to read the map now, see where the testimony is headed, but for the time being, rational thought escapes me.
They made her say it. They threatened her, more than I could ever know. She tried to protect me but they gave her no choice: Tell the jury you saw Marty in your house or we’ll put you next to him in the electric chair—
“The defendant?” says Roger Ogren, after a lengthy delay. Slowly his arm rises, like a drawbridge, finger directed at me. “It was the defendant whom you saw breaking into your house?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” Ogren is playing with time here, letting this revelation settle firmly into the jurors’ minds. His next words are delivered gently. “Please tell us what happened next.”
She holds up her hands unsteadily. “They struggled.”
“Your husband and the defendant.”
“Yes.”
“Can you give us any detail?”
“No, I can’t.” Rachel brings a fist to her mouth, like she’s about to cough. She pauses momentarily. “I—crawled out of the room. I went to the living room. I called emergency.”
“Did you, in fact, call 911?”
“I know that I did,” she says. “I don’t really remember it.”
“What happened next, Mrs. Reinardt?”
“A few seconds after the call—I heard it—I—I heard”—she covers her mouth again, trembles again with eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving—“the shots.”
“You heard gunshots?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“You were still in the living room.”
She nods. “By the phone.”
“What do you remember next?”
“A police officer, standing over me.”
“You had passed out, Mrs. Reinardt?”
“Apparently.”
“Did you talk to the police officer?”
She sighs. “I don’t remember.”
“Did you tell the police that the defendant had broken into your home?”
“No.”
“Well, did you ever tell the police that the defendant had broken into your home?”
“No.”
“All right, Mrs. Reinardt.”
Ogren returns to the prosecutor’s table, where he huddles with Gretchen Flaherty. I turn to Mandy for the first time since the bombshell. For all her courtroom demeanor, Mandy, too, has been blindsided.
Rachel collects herself after a good five minutes of a silenced courtroom, my attorneys stiff as statues, the judge as alert as I’ve seen him.
Ogren motions to his clerk. They are going to play the 911 phone call again. Paul Riley stands and objects. It’s already been admitted, we have stipulated to the contents, et cetera. But the judge allows it. Now, with the details fresh in their minds, the jurors once again hear Rachel’s words.
OPERATOR: 911.
CALLER: Please . . . please . . . come quick . . . he’s going to hurt me.
OPERATOR: Ma’am, where are you?
CALLER: He’s going to hurt me.
OPERATOR: Who is going to hurt you? Ma’am, where are you?
CALLER: Please . . . my husband . . . please . . . oh God.
(END OF RECORDING)
The clerk wheels the giant recorder back behind the prosecution table. Roger Ogren stands front and center. “Mrs. Reinardt, you were afraid that the defendant was going to hurt you, too?”
Rachel adjusts in her seat. She gives a curt shake of her head. “I—I don’t know. Maybe at that moment.”
“All right, Mrs. Reinardt. Now, when, if ever, did you next speak to the defendant?”
“He called me the next day.”
“At your home?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Rachel has subtly transformed. Her anger, apparently, has overtaken her horror, and she speaks in a flat voice now. “He said he was sorry to hear about my husband. And he asked me if the police had any leads.”
“And what did you take him to mean?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you take that as a threat?”
“Your Honor!” Paul Riley is on his feet. “Objection. It’s a leading question, it is completely argumentative, and there is no foundation whatsoever.”
The judge nods. “Sustained as to leading.”
Ogren turns back to Rachel. “Can you describe the defendant’s tone?”
“His tone?”
“Yes,” says Ogren. “Was it friendly? Threatening?”
“Same objection,” says Paul. “This is ridiculous.”
“No, Mr. Riley. The witness can answer.”
Rachel stares at the judge a moment, then looks off. God, have they bullied her. But she’s still fighting. “I didn’t take it as threatening,” she says.
Ogren deflates. Rachel will not help him here. “All right. What did you tell the defendant when he called?”
“I said no. They had no leads.”
“Have you ever spoken to the defendant since?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Reinardt, did there come a time during the police investigation that the police questioned you?”
“Yes.”
“And they eventually arrested you.”
“That’s right.”
“And yet, even then, you never told the police that the defendant was the one who attacked your husband.”
“That’s right.”
“You were scared, weren’t you, Mrs. Reinardt?”
“Objection! Leading.”
The judge peers down at Rachel. “Mrs. Reinardt, were you afraid of the defendant? Is that why you didn’t tell the police about him?”
Oh, Jesus. Now they’re ganging up. Rachel looks up at the judge. There’s something different about a question coming from the judge.
“It wasn’t fear,” she says.
Ogren steps forward, to reassert control. “All right, Mrs.—”
“There’s another reason,” she says.
“If we could, Mrs. Reinardt, I’d like to—”
“No.” Rachel glares at the prosecutor. “I want to say this.”
Ogren pauses, considering his moves. His witness is leading him now, and he is unsure of the destination. So am I. Finally, Ogren opens a hand.
“The reason I never told anyone about Marty—it has nothing to do with fear. I don’t think Marty would ever hurt me. The truth is, I blame myself. It’s my fault my husband is dead.”
Roger Ogren nods. Rachel’s trying to help me here, that much seems clear.
“I could have stopped him,” she says. “I had the power to do something.” She reaches into her purse and removes some papers. Divorce papers? She was going to leave her husband? Under the table, Mandy taps my leg. I turn to her and shrug.
“I went to see an attorney,” she says. “About two weeks before my husband’s death.” She flips through the papers, to the last one. “Yes. November fifth.”
None of the attorneys has any idea what’s coming. Ogren, who probably is too far down this road now to cut her off, clasps his hands behind his back. “Why did you see an attorney?” he asks, no shortage of uncertainty in his voice.
Rachel unfolds the document and smooths it out on her lap. “William Bedford was his name.” She sighs. “I wanted—oh God, I should have.”
“Why did you see the attorney, Mrs. Reinardt?”
“He drew up a request.”
“A request for what, Mrs. Reinardt?”
She pauses. The room is hers, once more. “For a restraining order against Marty.”
“A what?” I am on my feet; I have kicked my chair several feet behind me. The rush from the chair, the impact of her words, leave me dizzy, unsteady.
Paul rises and grabs me. “Your Honor!” he shouts. “We’ve been given no notice of any such document
! Move to strike this testimony.”
Ogren walks toward the judge. “First I’ve heard of it, Your Honor.”
Mandy stands. “Sit down, Marty. Sit.”
I comply, as Paul and Roger Ogren approach the judge. I fix a stare on Rachel, who is reading the document. Two weeks before Dr. Reinardt died. Against me!
Paul is back now, taking a seat and shaking his head. Roger Ogren continues. “You got a restraining order against the defendant?”
“The attorney drafted one,” she said. “We never filed it.”
The prosecutor approaches Rachel. “May I see it?”
Rachel hands him the document. “It was November fifth,” she repeats.
“Two weeks before your husband’s murder?”
Rachel nods her head. “We were going to file it—at the last minute I changed my mind.”
Ogren is leafing through the document. “Why? Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I was stupid,” she says. “I thought it would embarrass Marty.”
Ogren is still off balance. He reads through the document and asks her questions off of it. He was following you? Yes. He was threatening your husband? Yes. Paul objects furiously but to no avail. It’s coming down like an avalanche now. I’ve given up any pretense of decorum, dropping my head into my hands and squeezing my eyes shut.
“Do you have anything else, Mr. Ogren?” asks the judge.
“Just one more topic,” says the prosecutor. I hear his footsteps, his whispers with Gretchen Flaherty. Then his courtroom voice again. “Mrs. Reinardt, your husband had a gun.”
The murder weapon. I look up at the witness. Rachel’s eyes close. “Yes.”
“Where did he keep it?”
She shakes her head, almost casually. “Usually upstairs. It would depend.”
“Did you ever see that gun downstairs?”
She sighs. “Sure. It was an older model, kind of a relic, I think. I—I don’t know anything about those things. But he would show it to people. He was proud of it. He showed it to some people at the last party we had at our house for the foundation.”
“This was the April party? April of last year?”
“Yes.”
“Was the defendant at that party?”
“He was there.”
“Did your husband show the gun to the defendant?”
“I—I couldn’t say for sure. I believe he was in the room, yes.”
