Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  Ogren doesn’t understand why we would be questioning whether Rachel was abused by her dear husband. We were the ones who fought to get the evidence of abuse in front of the jury. The reason, Mandy told the judge, was it supplied a motive for Rachel to kill her husband or have him killed. Roger Ogren, knowing it was going to come in, talked about it first with Rachel to deflate the issue. But now, here we are, questioning the very evidence we fought for, suggesting that Rachel was not abused by her husband.

  It was the subject of much debate last night in Paul’s office. My lawyers batted it back and forth like I wasn’t even in the room.

  “The abuse is the only motive we have for Rachel,” Mandy argued. She didn’t want to challenge Rachel’s story. “Without that, we have almost no presentable reason why Rachel would want her husband dead.”

  “But if we could somehow show that she was lying about it,” Paul said, “then we completely destroy her credibility. Completely. Totally. And after her testimony today, identifying Marty and everything, that may be more important than anything else.”

  “The jury will hate us if we can’t prove it,” Mandy said. “They’ll think we’re monsters!”

  “It can’t be . . . excuse me for saying so, Marty”—the one time Paul acknowledged my presence during the conversation—“but it can’t be much worse than what they think of us now.”

  I left them there last night, not knowing which viewpoint would win out. I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was Paul’s.

  The lawyers step back, and Paul has the court reporter read back the last question.

  “No,” Rachel says, still seething, “I never showed anyone my scars.”

  “Scars,” Paul repeats. “Yes, now that you mention it—whips on the back would actually leave scars, wouldn’t they?”

  Rachel looks at him, trying to read where this is going.

  Paul saunters over to the jury box. “I mean, there’s a difference between a bruise and a scar, right? A punch might leave a bruise. Turn black and blue, whatever, then go away. But a whip—repeated whips, like you testified to—would leave scars, wouldn’t they?” He turns to Rachel now. “Well, wouldn’t they, Mrs. Reinardt?”

  “Your Honor,” Roger Ogren interjects, “we object. It’s a speculative question.”

  Paul turns to the judge. “I agree, Your Honor, and I withdraw the question.” Then to Rachel: “Mrs. Reinardt, didn’t, in fact, the whips from your husband’s belt leave scars on your back? I mean, isn’t that your story?”

  Rachel caught the drift while Ogren diverted attention. She sits up straight. “It’s the truth. But not permanent scars. They have healed. It’s been six months.”

  “It’s been four months,” Paul corrects. “But even still. Since you have told all of us that you were abused, then I suppose that during the months of this abuse, you had scars from the whipping. True?”

  Rachel holds her breath a moment, her eyes searching for a good answer. But all she says, all she can say, is “True.”

  Paul walks over to Mandy, who hands him the photograph. He shows it to the prosecution first, then approaches Rachel. She watches him with uncertainty as he hands her the picture.

  “Mrs. Reinardt, do you recognize this photograph?”

  She studies the photo and does a slow burn. I swear she shoots a look in my direction. Her jaw circles once or twice before she admits she recognizes the photo. “It was from a pool party last summer the foundation put on.” Her voice is flat, even, the words coming slowly.

  It shows a bunch of us around the pool. One of the little kids is jumping off the diving board, doing a cannonball. Rachel is sitting beside the pool, her back to the camera, in a bikini. Ready for the punch line? No scars on her back.

  I am suddenly very pleased that I kept this scrapbook. The police removed it from my house, but we got copies from the prosecution. This is one of the things Paul told the judge before today’s session started. Paul figured the judge would allow it in because it was in the prosecution’s possession all along.

  “This picture was taken in July of last year, isn’t that correct?”

  Rachel avoids looking at the photo now, lowering it to her lap. “Yes.”

  “If I told you it was July twentieth of last year, would that sound correct?”

  “I believe that’s right.”

  Paul reaches around and points at the photo. “Is this person by the pool you?”

  Rachel’s eyes never move off Paul. “Yes.”

  “For the record, you are the person with dark hair, sunglasses on the top of your head, sitting by the pool, just off to the right of the photograph, talking to an African-American boy who is sitting next to you. Do I have that right?”

  “You do.”

  “Your back is to the camera?”

  “It is.”

  Paul takes the picture from Rachel. “Thank you.” He strolls over toward the jury and stops, turned toward them.

  “Let’s see . . .” Paul says absently. “July twentieth . . . four weeks in May . . .” He ticks off the math on his hand. “Four weeks in June . . . almost three weeks of July . . . oh, and sometime in April . . . That would make something like twelve or thirteen weeks from the time that you claim Dr. Reinardt started beating you. Does that sound right?”

  “I never actually counted,” Rachel says in a voice that could freeze the sun. Paul has her on the run here. And Rachel doesn’t like to run.

  “Well,” Paul says, still turned to the jury, “four plus four is eight. Plus three is—”

  “I guess it was something like that,” Rachel says.

  “So that would be about twelve or thirteen episodes of this abuse, by the time this photo was taken.”

  Rachel turns to the judge. “Do I have to put up with this? Do I have to relive every detail of what happened to me?”

  Judge Mack leans in toward Rachel. “You must answer the questions, ma’am.”

  She turns to Paul again. “Yes. It was after several episodes. Scars heal, you know.”

  Paul ignores the last comment. “Judge, may we show this photo to the jury?”

  The jury passes the photo around very slowly. Rachel’s back is hard, taut, well defined under the string of her bikini top. And remarkably unscarred.

  Rachel watches the jurors review the photo, holding it close and looking at her back. “Why would I lie about this horrible thing?” she shouts. “Why would anyone make something like that up?”

  “A very interesting question,” Paul muses, standing by the jurors still.

  “I wouldn’t. I didn’t.”

  This is good for us, no question. But I’m not unaware of the risks. Paul is going all-or-nothing here. We don’t have a lot to go on to prove that Rachel made this whole thing up. If the jury doesn’t buy it, they will want to crucify me. But what Paul said to Mandy last night rings true: We didn’t have much place to go but up after Rachel’s testimony yesterday. And if the jury believes us . . . well, they seem interested so far.

  Now the downside: This is all we have to offer. Just the one photograph.

  Rachel continues to watch the jury, helpless. I’m sure she wants to go over there and yank the photo from the bank teller, who’s had the picture pretty much pressed against his nose for a good thirty seconds. There’s not much to see, pal.

  “The tan hides the bruises,” Rachel volunteers, like she’s talking to that juror.

  “The tan,” Paul repeats. He leans over by the bank teller to inspect the photo again, just two guys admiring a shot of a beautiful woman. “Yes, I couldn’t help but notice the tan. On your . . .back.” He stands straight and turns to her. “How’d you get that tan, Mrs. Reinardt?”

  That one stops her. Her face drops, her eyes darting from Paul to the jury, to the spectators. This is why I’m paying Paul Riley all that money.

  “You got that tan from being out in the sun all summer, at the foundation functions. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Reinardt? Wearing tank tops and swimsuits?”

/>   All she has to say is, no, I got it lying out in my backyard. Alone. Where no one could see my scars. Christ, she could say she went to a tanning salon. But Rachel is far too flustered right now—she’s great when she has time to think things through, but on-the-spot deception doesn’t seem to be her game. She looks away from the jurors. Then her eyes move back to Paul, as he walks toward the defense table, where Mandy is holding another photograph. A photograph of Jerry Lazarus and me, mugging for the camera. Rachel is nowhere in sight in this photo. But Mandy keeps the picture turned toward her and me, so neither the jury nor Rachel knows what it portrays.

  Rachel’s eyes move to the photo in Mandy’s hand. Paul takes it from Mandy and turns to Rachel. “C’mon, Mrs. Reinardt.” He shakes the photo in his hand. “You exposed your back to the sun all summer at foundation functions, didn’t you?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Rachel says, shaking her head severely.

  “Mrs. Reinardt—”

  “Yes! Yes!” She pauses and fixes her hair. Then she gently places her hands in her lap. “Yes. Of course I got it from the sun.”

  “Thank you.” Paul hands the photo back to Mandy, walks to the lectern, and flips through his notes. “Now, aside from this lawyer of yours, I believe you testified that you never told anyone—not your psychiatrist, not your husband, not your friends, nobody—about the fact that Marty was hounding you. Bothering you. Making passes at you.”

  “Not at first,” she says. She composes herself, no doubt relieved to change topics.

  “That’s right. Not at first. You eventually told the police, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told them that after they arrested you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “After they charged you with murder.”

  “Yes. But you seem to forget, Mr. Riley, that I told that lawyer two weeks before my husband was murdered.”

  Paul smiles. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. That worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it, Mrs. Reinardt?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.” It is Gretchen Flaherty making the point.

  “Overruled.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that,” says Rachel.

  “Well,” Paul says, strolling toward the jury box. “You knew your lawyer was sworn to secrecy, right?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “He couldn’t say a word about this restraining order business unless you turned him loose. Right?”

  “I suppose that’s the point of an attorney-client privilege, Mr. Riley. I’ll bet your client has told you some things he wouldn’t want you to repeat.”

  A nice stinger, sure. But the jury doesn’t seem to approve. Some of the gloss is coming off our lovely witness.

  “Oh, my client has plenty to say, Mrs. Reinardt,” says Paul. “Let’s focus on you for now.”

  “Let’s.” Rachel seems to have forgotten about the jury, about me. This is between Paul and her.

  “Just to confirm. You knew that your lawyer had to keep quiet about the restraining order business until you gave him the go-ahead. Isn’t that so?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And I’m going to bet that you paid that lawyer in cash. Right, Mrs. Reinardt?”

  Rachel pauses, her eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I don’t recall.”

  Paul nods amiably. “Well, I’ll be happy to subpoena your checking account records. And your credit cards. We can look for any payment to this attorney, Mr. Bedford.”

  Rachel’s eyes narrow, seemingly in concentration. “I believe it was cash, yes.”

  “So there was no record of this transaction with your attorney.”

  “If you say so.”

  Paul does a slight bow. Then he brings a hand to his chin. “Now, the time this lawyer took to meet with you, the time he took to draw up this request for a restraining order. I imagine it cost you at least a thousand dollars. Does that sound right?”

  Rachel shakes her head. “I don’t recall.”

  Paul shrugs. He’s toying with her. “We can bring Mr. Bedford in and ask him. Do we need to do that?”

  “You can do whatever you like, Mr. Riley. But I believe your estimate was correct.”

  “About a thousand dollars.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe more,” says Paul. “Maybe two.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you paid this attorney anywhere from a thousand to two thousand dollars in cash.”

  Rachel is nodding while Paul finishes his question. “I didn’t want my husband to know about it,” she says.

  “Well, sure.” Paul raises his hands. “This way, no one could know about it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And as long as you didn’t file this request with a court”—Paul turns to the jury—“no one would ever know.”

  “It’s my personal business,” she says.

  “But it’s always out there, right, Mrs. Reinardt? In case you need to spring it.”

  Roger Ogren rises. “Objection. The question is argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Paul points to Roger Ogren. “You never mentioned this to the prosecution, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t tell the police, did you? Even after they arrested you.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “So like I said before,” Paul says, “this worked out pretty well for you. This was your ace-in-the-hole.”

  “Same objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “I mean,” says Paul, walking slowly, one hand out, “as long as you don’t file it with the court—as long as this document does not become public—you can say anything you want, right? You could have your attorney draft any kind of document you want, right? It doesn’t have to be true. There’s no one to challenge it. You could draft a restraining order against the president of the United States, couldn’t you? As long as you didn’t actually file it with the court. No one can challenge your allegations.”

  Ogren stands, maintaining the calm that Rachel is showing. “Judge, I have to object to this—the question is compound and entirely argumentative.”

  The judge raises a hand. “Let’s do one question at a time, Mr. Riley.”

  Paul continues without acknowledging his instruction. “You never planned to file this, isn’t that true, Mrs. Reinardt? You could write whatever you wanted in this petition because you knew you would never have to prove it in a court of law.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You just wanted to keep it in your purse and wait until you needed it, right?”

  “No.”

  “This was just another part of the plan, wasn’t it, Mrs. Reinardt?”

  One of those rare moments follows. The judge, the jury, the prosecuting attorneys feel it. Paul himself takes a breath. A shift in direction. We are doing more than just destroying Rachel’s credibility now.

  “Plan?” Rachel says, confused. In her confidence she almost laughs. She is daring him, perhaps. Give me your best shot, Mr. Riley.

  Paul grows comfortable with the silence surrounding him. A trial lawyer’s number one goal, Paul has told me, is control. For the moment at least, Paul has regained control, the total attention of the room.

  “Your plan to kill your husband and frame my client.”

  Something out of a movie, murmurs behind me, the jury squirming, the judge banging his gavel. Paul is in no hurry for the next question. He looks almost with amusement at Roger Ogren, who has risen and moves to strike the question. “There is absolutely no evidence of any such plan,” Ogren says. “For God’s sake, Judge, the only so-called evidence they ever had to accuse Mrs. Reinardt was the spousal abuse—and now apparently they’re suggesting that the abuse never happened! They have no basis whatsoever for these accusations.” Even as he speaks, his eyes dart toward Paul. The prosecutor is wondering if he has just uttered famous last words.

  “Back it up with facts, Mr. Riley,”
the judge admonishes.

  “Sure, Judge.” Paul wraps his arms across his chest, then brings a finger to his mouth. “Let’s see.”

  Rachel watches Paul, her eyebrows raised, her mouth twisted in a dare. Her anger, her sporting side, has gotten the better of her. There is no pose for the jury, no humble, sympathetic posture.

  Paul takes a couple of steps toward the jury and just stares over the heads of the jurors. This is Paul’s thoughtful pose, letting his tongue roll around his cheek, clearly enjoying the weight of all eyes upon him, basking in the attention he commands. Finally, he turns on his heels toward Rachel.

  “Oh, I know,” Paul says, wagging a finger. “Mrs. Reinardt, why don’t you tell the jury about Rudy Sprovieri.”

  Rachel’s face breaks ever so slightly: the momentary part in the straight line of her mouth, the drop of her eyebrows, the subtle cock of the head. She starts, her mouth moving without a sound for a moment, her eyes darting from Paul to Ogren to the floor, where they remain, moving about wildly like she’s looking for a contact lens she dropped. Then the recovery: A quick blink, and she snaps back to form, calculating, wary. But she’s not ready for this, and it is a long moment before her mouth closes to a tiny “o,” and, looking up at Paul with an expression of bewilderment and probably terror, she painfully pushes out the air. “Who—?”

  “Rudy . . . Sprovieri,” Paul repeats, ever so innocently. “You seem surprised. You haven’t heard the name before?”

  “No, I”—she crosses her arms—“I’ve heard of him. He’s a friend.”

  “A . . . friend.” Paul approaches Rachel. “How good a friend?”

  “A—good friend, I guess?” She looks over at the prosecution table. Her cheeks have lost all color.