William Bernhardt - Capitol offence

Ben watched Dennis carefully as he testified. He had been concerned that, having been so calculating throughout the pretrial period, Dennis would try to put on a show. But he seemed to have taken Ben's cautions to heart. If anything, he was leaning in the opposite direction. He was coming off a little cold, a little robotic. Even as he talked about how much he loved his wife, Ben was not sure his vocal inflection and body language carried the force of his words.

And he knew the jurors were watching very closely.

"Yes, we'd had a fight recently, but it wasn't about an affair. No one was having an affair. I don't know where the DA got that. I notice he didn't put on any evidence about it. Joslyn had lunch one day with an old boyfriend, someone she knew in high school. I overreacted. It was stupid, I know, but I do have a jealous streak. At one point, she shoved me a little, and I lost my head. I swung my hand in the air, not really meaning anything. But I slapped her. I felt horrible about it. It ended the fight right then and there. I took her in my arms and apologized and we both had a long cry about it."

"And you told your therapist about this later?" Ben asked.

"Of course I did. I felt terrible. I am not a violent man, not at all. I won't even step on cockroaches. I capture them and throw them outside. And even though hitting Joslyn was largely accidental, it still tore me up inside. So I brought it up at my next session."

"Did it ever happen again?"

"No."

"Did you ever believe your wife was having an affair?"

"No. There was one time when she stayed out late and I had concerns. Not even concerns, really. The thought just flashed into my head. She came home and I got over it."

"Were you ever concerned that she was having some kind of relationship with a police officer?"

"No."

"Prior to your wife's disappearance, have you ever had any hostility or ill will toward police officers?"

"No."

So much so good. Ben could tell the instant he walked into the courtroom that everything was different. Part of it was the surprise turn the trial had taken the day before. Part of it was the knowledge that the testimonial part of the trial could well end today. And Ben had to acknowledge that part of the reason for the increased tension arose from the possibility that Dennis Thomas might take the stand.

Throughout the pretrial period, Ben knew the local pundits had debated whether Dennis would testify. Most felt certain he would not, and for most of that time, Ben had agreed with them. But now, after the dangerous testimony that had gone before, expertly planned by Guillerman to have the maximum and most disastrous impact, that had changed. Even Guillerman recognized that. When Ben entered the courtroom, he didn't ask who Ben's next witness would be. He asked which exhibits Dennis would be using.

"Had anything changed in your relationship with your wife prior to the evening of April twelfth?"

"Nothing dramatic. It had been a rough week. She was very stressed about her job."

"How so?"

"Joslyn worked with cancer patients. Mostly women. As you might imagine, it's difficult, emotionally numbing work. No one is ever happy to see her. Treatment is difficult, often painful. She has to subject people to chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Successes are uncommon and usually temporary."

"I can see where that might be difficult."

"You can't imagine. Not unless you've done it. Many nights she would come home in tears. She was such a loving person. She would become attached to her patients, even though she knew their dire circumstances. And the likely outcome. It's one thing to deal bravely with bad news when you receive it. But Joslyn was thoroughly healthy. She chose this work. She chose to put herself out like that. A lot of people talk about helping others, but there aren't many who are willing to do it like she did." Dennis fell quiet. "She was a very special woman. Strength like you can't imagine."

"What happened on April twelfth?"

"It was mostly a normal morning. She left a little earlier than usual. Said she had to talk to someone. I was the usual breakfast chef at our house. She was actually a much better cook, but I had more time before I had to get to work. I made her favorite-a western omelet. She barely tasted it. And that was unusual for her."

"When did you talk to her next?"

Dennis pressed his lips together. Ben knew they were beginning to approach the material that would really be delicate and difficult.

"I called her during her lunch hour. I usually did, when I wasn't in class. Just to chat. She seemed fine. Didn't refer to anything outside of the usual work stuff."

"Did you get any idea what was troubling her?"

"Not really. She told me she'd taken a stroll through the children's ward. That usually brightened her spirits, even though the children were very ill. Apparently on this occasion it had not done the trick, though."

"Anything else?"

"I know she had an elderly patient she really liked who was dying. She'd been treating the woman a long time." Dennis smiled a bit. "She called her 'flinty.' Joslyn liked flinty." He paused. "That may have been getting to her."

"Was there anything else?"

"Not that I know of." His voice dropped a notch. His eyes fell. "That was the last time I spoke to her. Until… you know." He cleared his throat, coughed a bit. "Until she was almost dead."

Ben stepped away from the podium. The jury appeared riveted by the testimony. That did not surprise him. But what were they thinking about Dennis?

"What happened next?"

"For me, it was a day much like any other. Two classes, a few student advising sessions. Until Joslyn didn't come home. I wasn't concerned at first. It wasn't that unusual for her to be late. She worked very hard. But when it was nine and she hadn't even called, I knew something had happened. I couldn't get her on her cell phone. That's when I began to worry."

"What did you do?"

"I called her office. Someone at the front desk of the hospital had seen her leave. She'd signed out. Her car was no longer in the parking lot. So that left two possibilities. Either she had gone somewhere on her way home and not mentioned it to me, or she'd run into some trouble. I didn't believe the former. She would've called, even assuming she went somewhere, which was unlikely. She would've answered when I called her cell phone. I knew she was in trouble."

"What did you do?"

"I got in my car and drove. It was dark by then, but I searched everywhere, using my brights and a flashlight. We live out in Skiatook. Well outside the city limits. You take Lombard Lane and keeping going on curvy country roads for about fifteen minutes. These roads aren't on maps-not even a GPS can help you. We journeyed quite a distance out of town so we could buy a significant piece of property. It was worth it-or so I thought. That night, I wished we lived closer to the city."

"Did you have any success?"

"None. I worked all night-didn't sleep a wink. I called her friends-no one knew anything. I looked for signs of car trouble, signs that she'd had an accident. I called hospitals. Nothing. And no one had any information for me. No one could help."

"So what did you do next?"

"That morning, as soon as the sun came up, I went to the Tulsa Police Department, Uniform East Division, since Tulsa was the last place she was seen. I'll admit it-I had been up all night and I looked a mess. Hadn't shaved or showered or changed clothes."

Ben nodded and gently steered him back to his story. The most challenging part of direct examinations was that you could not ask leading questions-meaning your question could not suggest an answer. In cross, of course, virtually every question was leading. But in direct, the attorney was primarily limited to drawing out the relevant story and asking what happened next.