Linda Fairstein: Bad blood

Because Amanda was the only one of the three sisters to marry someone interested in the family business, her father had welcomed Brendan Quillian into the company. After he completed his studies at Georgetown and received an MBA from New York University, Brendan learned the art of the deal from Richard Keating himself. By the time the Quillians celebrated their tenth anniversary, shortly before Keating succumbed to a chronic and severe case of congestive heart failure, he had made Brendan his partner in all his real estate ventures.

“Did Amanda Quillian work, Mrs. Meade? Did she have a job?”

“For the first three years after her wedding, she was also employed at Keating Properties. She handled some public relations matters for her father. But once Brendan was promoted to a management position, she wanted to get out of his way. Sort of take the pressure off him, the attention from other employees that he was the boss’s son-in-law.”

I knew the answers to the questions I was asking as well as Kate did. What I didn’t know, what distracted me now with the persistence of a small hammer pounding inside my brain, was the warning that Lem had laid out for me, the land mine I was certain to encounter as Kate and I moved forward together.

“What did she do after that?”

“Volunteer work, mostly. Four days a week. She was on one of the hospital boards, and she devoted a lot of her time to a project for literacy.” Kate came through with a smile. A forced one, perhaps, but several jurors responded in kind.

“Did Amanda have any children?”

“No, she didn’t. They didn’t.”

“To your knowledge, was she ever pregnant?”

“Yes, she was. Amanda had three miscarriages, Ms. Cooper. I was with her at the hospital when she had the third one, just about four years ago.” Any trace of that smile was now gone. Kate’s lips tightened around her teeth and she drew in a deep breath. “It was a-a very painful time for her.”

“How often did you and Amanda speak, Mrs. Meade?”

“Every day. Well, practically every day,” she said, smiling at juror number three, an elementary-school teacher in her forties. “Some days we talked two or three times. And I saw her several times a week. She’s the godmother-she and Brendan are the godparents of my oldest daughter. She was often at our house.”

“Did she confide in you?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Ms. Cooper knows better than to characterize, to lead, to-”

“I’ll take your reasons at the bench, Mr. Howell,” Judge Gertz said. “Not in open court. I’ve already ruled in your favor.”

I turned my back to the judge and walked to the railing behind me, pausing before I returned and continued questioning Kate Meade.

“After Amanda married the defendant, did she ever spend the night at your home?”

“No, no, she did not,” Kate said, looking down at her lap and again nervously clicking one thumbnail against the other. “Not until shortly before her father died. Then there was a time-several times-that she did.”

“Can you tell us why she came to stay with you?”

“Objection. Hearsay, Your Honor,” Lem said, rising to his feet and circling his right hand in the air, catching the light with his gold pen. “It calls for-”

“Sustained, Mr. Howell. I don’t need three of your arguments when one suffices.”

Lem grinned broadly as he sat down, claiming his victory to the jurors.

“Well, Mrs. Meade, the first time Amanda Quillian came to spend the night with you, was it at your invitation?”

“No, it was not. Certainly not.”

“Can you tell us when this visit occurred?”

“It was about five years ago, in April, I believe. On a weeknight. One o’clock in the morning, to be exact.” Kate was emphatic about the hour, as if no person of manners would confuse the time of night with a social invitation.

“Did she call you before coming over?”

“Yes, from a taxicab. She was on her way to a hotel, she told me.”

“Objection!” Lem Howell was on his feet now, all business, ready to rein me in. From this point forward, he would hold me to the rules of evidence. The insidious growth of the marital conflict I wanted to lay before the jury would be difficult to show without a victim who could tell her own tale.

Judge Gertz looked down at Kate Meade on the witness stand adjacent to his bench, cautioning her against the hearsay testimony she was trying to deliver. “Don’t tell us what Mrs. Quillian said to you, young lady. You may testify about your observations and your actions, but not about conversations she had with you.”

I had prepped Kate for the manner of this examination-and for the fact that Howell would fight to keep out parts of the story-but she was visibly upset that the judge had chastised her.

“Can you describe Amanda Quillian’s appearance when she arrived at your home that night?”

“She was crying. Crying hysterically. May I say that, Your Honor? I had never seen her as upset as she was that night. I held her and talked to her, but I couldn’t get her to stop crying.”

“Don’t tell us what she said, Mrs. Meade,” I guided her, since Amanda’s words themselves would violate the hearsay rules. Kate could be cross-examined by Lem about her observations, but Amanda’s statements to her could not be offered for their truth. “But did she explain to you why she was crying?”

“Yes, she did,” Kate said, turning her head to grimace at Brendan Quillian.

“Did she appear to have any injuries?”

“No, no, she did not. Not that I could see on her face.”

“Did she spend the night at your home?”

“Amanda spent five nights with us. She refused to go out of the house. I could barely get her to eat.”

“Did you see the defendant during those days?”

“Once. Brendan came to our door two days later, first thing in the morning.”

“Did you let him in?”

“No. I talked to him in the hallway. I told him that Amanda didn’t want him there.”

“Do you remember any specifics of your conversation with the defendant?” These statements by Quillian were not considered hearsay.

“Certainly. Of course I do.”

“What did he say to you, as best you can recall?”

“He asked me to let him in. No, he begged me to let him in.”

“Once?”

“Three-maybe four times.”

“Did he ask you how Amanda-how his wife was?”

“No. No, he did not.”

“What else did he say?”

“The only other thing he wanted to know was whether Amanda had told her father that she had left home.”

“What answer did you give him?”

“I told him that she had not. Not yet.”

“And then?”

“He wanted to know if I was sure of that. He asked me to promise him that I wouldn’t let Amanda admit to her father that she had walked out on him. Brendan said he’d do anything to get Amanda back.” Kate Meade was speaking softly now, trying to hold back the tears that had formed in her eyes.

I let the jury observe her for several seconds. I was relieved to have gotten this much of the story told without the backfire that Lem had hinted at to scare me. Maybe his warning had just been a scam to unnerve me as I started my case.

“What did you say to the defendant?”

She spoke to the foreman. “I told him to get out of my building. I told him I couldn’t make any promises to him.”

“When was the next time you spoke with the defendant after that?”

“It was on the sixth day. A Saturday, I think. Amanda had spent a lot of time talking with him on the phone the night before. He convinced her to come back home. He picked her up around ten o’clock that morning.”

“Did you talk with him then?”