Grif Stockley - Religious Conviction

“In fact, you were a founding father of Christian Life, isn’t that correct?”

Before Tyndall can answer, Jill pops to her feet and in a bored voice says, “This is irrelevant. Your Honor.”

I respond, “I should be permitted to get at Mr. Tyndall’s relationship with Christian Life for the purpose of showing bias.”

Grider’s face takes on an amused, superior expression.

“Mr. Page, it seems to me as if you are about to convince the triers of fact,” he says, cutting his eyes to the jury, “that Mr. Tyndall was biased in favor of your client, not against her.”

For an instant I feel as if I am back in trial advocacy in law school, being hung up to dry by one of the trial lawyers who double as adjunct professors. I listen for more titters, but there are none. Perhaps the spectators have become embarrassed for me.

“I’d like to run that risk. Your Honor,” I say, trying not to sound as if I am pleading.

Grider shrugs as if it makes no difference to him if I screw up.

“Go on,” he says, “but I’m not going to let you waste the jury’s time with a lot of this.”

Quickly, I get Tyndall to confirm that he and Shane have known each other for over thirty-five years and have remained good friends. If Tyndall knows where I am heading, his eyes don’t betray him. Scratching at the padding on the armrest of the witness chair with a thumbnail, he seems like a rooster pleased to take his turn in the chicken yard.

“You were aware that Pastor Norman wasn’t at all happy with his son-in-law’s efforts to influence Leigh’s participation at Christian Life?”

Tyndall says dryly, “It was common knowledge.

Leigh had always been the apple of his eye.”

Tyndall’s smoothness is distressing. I had hoped that he would try to minimize his knowledge, and that I could expose his lack of truthfulness through Shane, who is waiting to testify out of his hearing. The problem with my theory is that Tyndall, despite his spy equipment, may not have anything to hide. There isn’t’ a shred of evidence he killed Art or even taped a single conversation.

“You used to be in the surveillance business, didn’t you, sir?”

Out of her seat, Jill roars, “Objection! This is totally irrelevant. Your Honor.”

Grider rubs the bridge of his well-shaped nose as if a headache has settled in.

“Answer his question, Mr. Tyndall.”

Confident as ever, Tyndall nods.

“And I sold it five years ago for a nice profit.”

“Just one moment. Your Honor,” I say, delighted with this answer. I walk over to the desk and pick up the envelope and take out the pictures and show them to Jill, who whispers, “What are these?”

“Souvenirs left over from the business,” I say, taking them from the table.

Jill stiffens, but there is nothing she can do. I walk back to the lectern and hold them up for Tyndall.

Though he is too far away to identify them, he should be guessing what is in my hand.

“Actually, you have some surveillance equipment in your house this very morning, don’t you, Mr. Tyndall?”

Tyndall pauses, and I feel my heart in my throat. If he denies that he does and then says the pictures don’t fairly and accurately depict the scene in his house, I’m stuck with his answer.

Finally, he answers, his voice sullen, “That’s true.”

chet’s comment that Christian Life people won’t lie to cover up for Leigh comes back to me, and suddenly I know that if I ask the wrong questions he may implicate Leigh. It’s a risk I have to take.

“In fact, you knew what was going on in the Wallace household the morning Art Wallace was killed.”

The old man’s jauntiness disappears completely. The expression of confidence on his round face has been replaced by fear and embarrassment.

“Let me explain,” he says in a low voice.

“By all means,” I reply, tapping the pictures against the podium.

Tyndall clears his throat.

“After Leigh and Art’s involvement with the church began to drop off, we were all worried about Leigh. Because of his deception, I was convinced that Art might be involved in other forms of wrongdoing, too, and I tapped their phone. After I discovered that Art was trafficking in pornography, I bugged their bedroom as well because I was afraid he would try to involve Leigh in it.”

The old man stops and waits for me to ask him a question. He doesn’t want to volunteer. Jill or even the judge will continue this line of questioning if I don’t, but I want to control it.

“Who knew about you tapping their phone and placing the bug in their bedroom?”

“Her father knew,” he admits, “but only about the phone tap.”

Tyndall is nothing if not loyal. He has begun to sweat.

“Did he ask you to tap their telephone?”

Tyndall nods.

“You have to speak up,” I direct him, “so the reporter can record your answers.”

“Yes,” he says, “but the bug in their bedroom was my idea. He didn’t know about that.”

I steal a look at the jury to see how they are taking this information. Every one of them seems frozen in place.

“What did you hear the morning Art Wallace was murdered?”

Tyndall swallows with some difficulty. Plainly, he is not happy with what he is about to tell us.

“I didn’t begin listening that morning until I saw Leigh returning home.” He pauses to clear his throat and takes out a handkerchief and wipes his mouth.

“I heard her husband tell her he wanted her to dance nude while he filmed her. She agreed.”

I glance over at Mrs. Holland, my Charismatic Catholic Her eyes are the size of dinner plates.

“What happened after that?”

Mr. Tyndall blinks rapidly.

“I called Leigh’s father at the church and told him what I was hearing.”

Damn! I should have figured that’s what Shane’s phone call was about. I ask, “How did he respond?”

“He was upset I had been listening in,” Tyndall says.

“But he said he would handle the situation from here on in and for me not to listen anymore.”

I stare at the jury. If that doesn’t get their attention, nothing will.

“Is that what you did?”

“Yes,” Tyndall says.

“I was ashamed at what I had done, so I erased the tape and spent the rest of the morning in the den watching television.”

The old man looks as if he is about to cry. I wonder if he is lying about having destroyed the tape.

“And yet you never told the police any of this?”

Tyndall shakes his head.

“They never asked,” he says, his voice defensive.

“They asked if I had seen Leigh that morning and I told the truth.”

I can’t let him get away so easily.

“But you knew,” I insist, “information that was material to this crime.”

Tears slide down Tyndall’s cheeks.

“I was embarrassed,” he says with great difficulty.

“Pastor Norman swore to me that neither he nor Leigh was involved in Art’s death, and I believed him.”

Sure. And I’m going to start growing hair on my bald spot.

“Did he say who he thought killed Art?”

Tyndall, clutching his handkerchief, wipes his eyes.

“He said he thought it might be some guy Art cheated.”

As farfetched as that conclusion seems right now, I do not belittle it. I’ll take all the suspects I can find.

“Can anyone verify,” I ask, “that you stayed home watching television the rest of the morning?”

The old guy launches into a fit of coughing. Even if he is innocent of murder, he knows the rest of his life is stained.

“No,” he says feebly.

“You were quite a marksman at one time, weren’t you, Mr. Tyndall?” I ask, remembering the trophy in his den.

Tyndall, now restless as a caged animal, says, “Yes, and I own some guns, but I didn’t kill Leigh’s husband, if that’s what you’re getting at.”