William Lashner - Fatal Flaw

So it was strategy that I focused upon, but not only strategy. I brought to my apartment everything I had found about this case, from the forensic reports of the murder to the notes I had taken of my trips to Pierce, West Virginia, to the notes of testimony already collected, to the contents of Hailey Prouix’s safe-deposit box. I examined everything, questioned every assumption, turned everything upside down and downside up, twisted back to front and vice versa. I reviewed my notes of Cutlip’s direct testimony, and as I did so, and examined everything else, something seemed not right, something seemed out of order.

And then it came clear, in a sudden burst of insight, something I had badly mislabeled, something that was very much other than what I had thought it to be.

Now I had something, something definite, something to work with, something that might just force Cutlip to come face to face with his past, force him to describe smaller and smaller circles around the truth, until – flop! – and that would be the end of him.

And it had been there, the crucial piece of evidence, been there almost the entire time, right in front of my face.

“MR. CUTLIP,this is my client, Guy Forrest,” I said, standing behind Guy with my hands on his shoulders. “Before this trial had you ever laid eyes on him?”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Ever spoken to him?”

“Nope, and can’t say I’m sad about it neither.”

“And yet it was your testimony that without ever meeting him or talking to him you were against your niece’s marrying him, isn’t that right?”

“After what he done to his family, walked out like a dog, yes, I was.”

“You told Hailey Prouix she was making a mistake with him, isn’t that what you said? You told her to get away from him while she could.”

“And I was right about it, too, wasn’t I?”

“Can I approach, Your Honor?”

The judge nodded.

“I’d like this marked Defense Exhibit Nine.” I gave a copy to Troy Jefferson and took the original to the court reporter to be marked before dropping it in front of Cutlip. “You recognize the man in this picture?”

“I never seen this picture before.”

“Just answer my question. Do you recognize the man in the picture?”

“Yeah, it’s him.”

“The record will indicate that the witness was pointing at the defendant, Guy Forrest. This, then, is a picture of the man who wanted to marry your niece and is accused by you and the state of murdering her. What do you feel about this man?”

“I hate his whole guts, what you expect? He killed my niece dead and stole my world like a thief.”

“Good. Now, here I’m handing you a black Sharpie marker. Cross out the picture of this man you hate so.”

“Why?”

“Indulge me.”

“What for? I told you I never done seen this picture. I’m just here to say the dead woman, she was my niece. I don’t understand.”

“It’s not up to you to understand, sir. It’s only up to you to do it.” I put a little juice into the “do it,” just enough to get his back up about it, and it did. I saw that lovely serpentine flicker of hate in his eyes. “Don’t be a coward, now, the picture’s not going to jump up and bite you.” That got a little laugh, which made him even angrier. “Just go ahead and do what I tell you to do. Cross it out.”

He gave me a slow, insolent stare and then went at the picture with the marker.

“Fine, thank you.”

I picked the photograph off the front rail of the witness stand and showed it first to Troy Jefferson and then to the jury, a fine color photograph of Guy Forrest with a ragged, violent zig-zag-zig running through it.

“So you never approved of Guy Forrest for your niece. Did you know she was seeing someone else at the time?”

“She said something or other like that, just to rile me.”

“Rile you? Why would that rile you?”

“I didn’t like her acting like no tramp.”

“She never told you who he was, this other lover, did she?”

“No, not exactly. But I heard things. I heard he was some Puerto Rican or something.”

“Puerto Rican?” I thought on that a moment, turned to Beth, who simply shrugged, and then I remembered. “You’re referring to Juan Gonzalez, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, right. I heard she got mixed up with him somehow, and I hated to hear it.”

“You rejected Guy Forrest as a suitable husband for your niece, without ever meeting or talking to him, and you were against her other Puerto Rican lover, so my question, Mr. Cutlip, is this: Of which of your niece’s boyfriends did you ever approve?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said Troy Jefferson. “This is pretty far afield.”

“It goes to bias, Your Honor. It goes to credibility. The People opened this door in direct, opened a lot of doors in direct. It is not for Mr. Jefferson now to object when I walk through them.”

“I think that’s right, Mr. Jefferson. You did open the door. Go ahead, Mr. Carl, but very carefully.”

“I’ll repeat the question, Mr. Cutlip: Of which of your niece’s boyfriends did you ever approve?”

“None of your damn business.”

“Oh, I think it is. Answer the question, please, or I’ll ask the judge to compel you to answer it.”

Cutlip turned to look at Judge Tifaro, who was peering down at him through her half glasses like a librarian from hell.

“There was some, I suppose,” he answered.

“Who? Tell us.”

“Well, there was the football player, that Ricky Bronson she was with her last years in high school. I didn’t mind him so much.”

“Is that because, as you so wittily told me, he was more interested in standing over the center than he was in being with her?”

“Maybe. And he wasn’t even the quarterback.” He slapped the rail and laughed, his little staccato laugh, and some joined in, which made him laugh even harder.

“What about Grady Pritchett? You didn’t like him much, did you?”

“Oh, I didn’t mind old Grady.”

“You went after him with a shotgun, didn’t you? Want me to bring him up here from West Virginia to tell the court how you went after him with a shotgun?”

“He was hanging around too damn much. He was older than her and arrogant and like the rest of them only interested in one damn thing.”

“What was that, Mr. Cutlip?”

“Now you’re being cute. You know damn well what boys want in a girl like that.”

“And men, too.”

“Hell yes.”

“What about Jesse Sterrett? Did you approve of your niece’s relationship with Jesse Sterrett?”

“They was just friends, not boyfriend-girlfriend or anything like that.”

“Oh, they were more than just friends, weren’t they, Mr. Cutlip? They were out-and-out lovers, weren’t they?”

“No. You’re wrong. He was, maybe, less than a man, from what I heard. From what I heard, I’d more expect him to be interested in that Bronson boy than in her.” That same staccato laugh, but this time no one joined in.

“They were lovers and they wanted to spend their lives together and you hated that, didn’t you, just like you hated the idea of Hailey’s marrying Guy Forrest?”

“You’re flat-assed wrong about that.”

“I’d like this marked Defense Exhibit Ten,” I said, dropping a photocopy before Troy Jefferson and taking the original up to be marked by the court reporter. When it was marked, I handed it to Cutlip. “You recognize what that is?”

“No, I sure as hell don’t.”

“It’s a letter from Jesse Sterrett to your niece Hailey. Why don’t you start reading it out loud to the jury?”

“Objection. There’s no foundation for this letter to be entered into evidence or to be read to the jury. He said he couldn’t identify it.”