William Lashner - Fatal Flaw

“I’ll link it up, Judge.”

“Will the purported author, this Jesse Sterrett, be testifying?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Then how will you link it up?”

“I ask for some leeway here, Judge. I believe I can lay the foundation for this document, but I’d like to do it in the order of my choosing. Remember, Your Honor, Mr. Jefferson chose to call this witness and have him point the finger of blame at my client.”

“Let me see the letter.” Judge Tifaro examined it and then examined my face to see if she could figure out what in the world I was trying to do. “How is this Jesse Sterrett relevant to this case?”

“You’ll see, Your Honor, but he surely is.”

“All right, Mr. Carl, pending a ruling later as to relevance and as to proper foundation, I’ll allow your examination to continue for now.”

“But, Judge-”

“That’ll do, Mr. Jefferson. You took enough liberties with this witness, I think it only fair I give Mr. Carl the same opportunity.”

“We take exception.”

“Exception noted. Go ahead, Mr. Carl.”

“Thank you, Judge. Mr. Cutlip, read the letter please.”

“Let me put on my glasses, then.” He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a set of reading glasses.

“Mr. Cutlip,” said the judge, “you didn’t put on your glasses when you were examining the photographs yesterday, did you?”

“Didn’t need them for that.”

“That’s encouraging. Go ahead, Mr. Carl.”

“Read the beginning of the letter out loud for the jury,” I said.

“’I am flying,’ it says, ‘I am floating through the air and I don’t never want to come down. Never.’ I told you he was like that, a sissy boy like that.”

“Who?”

“The Sterrett boy who wrote this.”

“Fine.” I glanced up at the judge, who smiled slightly at the admission as to authorship. “Now, go to the end, Mr. Cutlip, and read the last sentence, read that one to the jury.”

“Here it is: ‘I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight so I can wake up tomorrow and see your face and then after school and after practice run to the quarry so I can cover you in kisses till it’s dark and we have to go home and then do it all again the day after and then again and then again.”’

“And it is signed ‘J’ for Jesse Sterrett, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“And the quarry in Pierce, where you lived, is where the teenagers go to neck, or spoon, or make out, or whatever the word is now, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Is it still your testimony that Jesse Sterrett and your niece weren’t lovers, that they weren’t in love?”

“He might of been but she wasn’t. I know for damn sure she wasn’t.”

“If she wasn’t, why would she have kept this letter for fifteen years?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“All right, Mr. Cutlip. What happened to Jesse Sterrett?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do,” I said. “Tell the jury what happened to Jesse Sterrett, who loved your niece and couldn’t wait to go to sleep because it meant he was closer to waking and seeing her again and covering her again with his kisses? Tell them what happened to Jesse Sterrett sixteen years ago.”

Cutlip stretched his neck as if his collar were too tight. “He died.”

“Objection, Your Honor. This is too much. Counsel is dredging up something that happened years ago in another state. There is no evidence of a connection and so no relevance to this testimony.”

The judge peered down at Cutlip as he squirmed in the witness chair. “Where did this boy die?” asked the judge.

“In that there quarry.”

“How?”

“He slipped and fell and died in the quarry, and that was all.”

“His head was smashed in, wasn’t it?” I said.

“From the fall.” Cutlip stretched his neck again. “That’s what the coroner, he said.”

“Your poker buddy, Doc Robinson, your drinking and poker buddy, he was the coroner, right?”

“He said it was an accident.”

“And a few days later you left Pierce, West Virginia.”

“One had nothing to do with the other.”

“A few days after your niece’s lover Jesse Sterrett’s head was smashed in at the quarry, you left Pierce, West Virigina, didn’t you? You left your home, your nieces, your sister, you left and never came back again, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I left.”

“And you left because they found Jesse Sterrett dead. Isn’t that why you left?”

“Your Honor, I still have my objection.”

The judge continued to stare down at Lawrence Cutlip on the stand and said, “Mr. Carl, why should I not sustain Mr. Jefferson’s objection?”

“This witness testified that my client killed his niece. I am permitted under the rules of evidence to inquire about specific instances of conduct that may weigh on his truthfulness and credibility as to that issue. What happened to Jesse Sterrett, I believe, is one of those instances.”

“Objection overruled.”

“I’m done,” said Cutlip. “I got nothing more to say about that boy. I’m not feeling so well. I’m not a healthy man. I got problems. I got a weak constitution. I had beriberi. I been sick as a dog for the last seven years. I came here to tell you all that the dead girl, she was my niece and that this man kilt her, and now you’re asking me all kinds of questions about something that happened too damn long ago. I’m a carcass already near dead and now you’re trying to finish me off once and for all.”

“Take a moment, Mr. Cutlip,” said the judge, “to pull yourself together.”

I turned my back on Cutlip’s evil stare and leaned over the defense table to talk to Beth.

“How am I doing?” I whispered.

“Terrific,” she said. “You have him on the run, and you’ve kept my red marker busy.”

“What are we up to by now?”

“With his direct testimony, and with what you’ve done today, about a third.”

“What do you think we need?”

“It’s hard to say. Fifty percent would make it all pretty sure.”

“Let me know when we reach it.”

“You want me to signal you?”

“Yes.”

“Some secret signal?”

“Not too secret. Just call something out.”

“What, like Skink’s bingo?”

“Yes, exactly. Bingo.”

“Victor…”

“Just do it. Any word from Skink?”

“Not yet.”

I shook my head, stood straight, turned around. “All right, Mr. Cutlip. Something different, something less trying. Ms. Derringer and I met with you before this trial at the Desert Winds retirement home, isn’t that right? That’s where you live, isn’t it?”

“Sure do.”

“That’s out there in Henderson, Nevada, just a few miles from the Las Vegas Strip, isn’t that right?”

“Sure is.”

“It’s a nice place, that Henderson, the fastest-growing city in America.”

“So they say.”

“And the Desert Winds retirement home is lovely, isn’t it? The best of the best. The very lap of luxury.”

“I suppose it’s nice enough.”

“Pretty expensive place?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t pay the bills?”

“Was a lump sum deposited to take care of the bills.”

“Who paid the lump sum?”

“Hailey.”

“And you have your own personal attendant there at Desert Winds, don’t you?”

“Yeah. My man Bobo.”

“Bobo? Is that his real name?”

“That’s what I call him.”

“But his real name is Dwayne Joseph Bohannon, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know about the Joseph.”

“But the Dwayne and the Bohannon are right.”

“I suppose so.”

“Who pays for Bobo?”