William Bernhardt - Murder One

Judge Cable rose from his black cushioned chair. “Both of you— be quiet ! Approach the bench!” He slung his gavel with such vigor that Ben ducked.

Cautiously, both Ben and LaBelle made their way to the front. “I will not put up with this in my courtroom!”

Ben held up his hands. “All I’m trying to do is cross-ex the witness.”

LaBelle pressed forward. “He’s trying to accuse a grieving widow of murder!”

“Silence!” Cable was so angry his whole body shook. He remained on his feet, towering over them like the Colossus of Rhodes. “I will not permit this to continue. I’m cutting you both off now.”

“But your honor,” LaBelle insisted, “he’s trying to suggest that the wife murdered her own husband. It’s incredible!”

“Oh, right,” Ben said. “That never happens.” He leaned across the bench. “Your honor, I’m permitted to explore alternate explanations for the crime. And that includes alternate suspects. In fact, as defense attorney, it’s my duty to do so.”

The judge gave him a harsh glare. “And you really think Mrs. McNaughton is the murderer?”

“What I think is not relevant.”

The judge’s face tightened like a fist. “I continue to be astonished by what attorneys are willing to do these days. Impugn the reputation of an innocent person just to exonerate their client. It’s offensive and I wont have any more of it.”

“Your honor,” Ben protested. “Under the Rules of Professional Conduct, I have an obligation to provide a zealous defense. If there’s another possible suspect, I have to bring that out.”

“Which you’ve done. Do you have anything more to add?”

“Well …”

“I thought not. So sit down and stop your speechifying.” He turned his loaded gavel toward LaBelle. “Do you want to redirect?”

“Of course!”

“So stop bellyaching and get to it. Now!” Ben and LaBelle scampered away from the judge’s ire, Ben to his table, La-Belle to the podium.

“First of all,” LaBelle said to Andrea, “let me express my deepest regret that you were subjected to this disturbing, unnecessary, and disgusting accusation.”

In the witness box, Andrea was still crying profusely. Her cheeks were flushed red and her mascara had streaked all over her face. Her hands were shaking.

“I have just a few more questions for you, ma’am, and then you may go. I don’t think anyone in this room has any problem understanding why you might bear the defendant some animosity. But the critical question is—”

“I didn’t lie,” Andrea said, cutting him off. “I wouldn’t. Sure, I don’t like what that teenager did, but I wouldn’t say something about her if I didn’t think it was true.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am. Now let me ask you another indelicate question. Forgive me for being blunt, but we all know the … defense attorney …” He said it as if it were a dirty word. “… has suggested that you are the murderer. So let me ask you straight out, Mrs. McNaughton. Did you kill your husband?”

“No. Of course not.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly.”

“I know. But I had to ask. You see, what the defense attorney forgets is that, to commit this particularly gruesome murder, you would have to have more than anger. You would need all the specialized equipment. Tell me, ma’am, at the time of the murder, did you posses any heavy chains such as were used on your husband?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And did you own any black leather outfits?”

“No.”

“Did you have any knives similar to those that were used?”

“No.”

“Right. The only person who had those things—certainly the only person who had all of them—was the defendant. You couldn’t’ve committed this murder. And no cheap tricks can ever prove otherwise.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry you’ve been put through this, Mrs. McNaughton. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry you had to be here today.”

He glanced up at the judge. “No more questions, your honor. I think it’s perfectly clear what happened at Bartlett Square last March. The prosecution rests.”

42

AFTER DINNER, BACK AT Ben’s office, the mood was universally glum. Usually, the conclusion of the prosecution case, which heralded the opening of the defense case, was a happy time for the defense team. But not tonight. Tonight, Andrea McNaughton’s testimony had cast a pallor over everything.

Including the conversation in the main conference room. Ben and Christina and Keri were all three gathered together again, but this time, instead of Christina being strategically positioned between them, Keri was in the middle, feeling the pressure mounting on both sides.

“You promised I wouldn’t have to testify!” Keri said. She was kneading her hands with such vigor that she left white marks long after her fingers were gone. “You promised.”

“And you don’t,” Ben replied. “The Fifth Amendment takes care of that. But what I’m saying now is—I think you should.”

Keri’s fingers pressed against her temples. “Why?”

Christina jumped in. “Keri, we can’t minimize the impact of Andrea McNaughton’s testimony. The jury heard what she was saying and for the most part, I think they believed it.”

“I thought Ben did a good job on cross,” Keri said.

“I do, too. The best he could, given the circumstances. But the fact remains—she’s a tragic figure, a bereaved widow. People’s hearts naturally go out to her. And while Ben successfully planted the possibility of another killer, I don’t think anyone believes Andrea could kill her own husband.”

“I believe it!” Keri said. “You’d believe it, too, if she’d knocked you to the floor a few times.”

“Just the same,” Ben said, “as your defense attorneys, we have to assume the worst. We have to assume the jury believes Andrea McNaughton. We have to believe they were persuaded by the prosecution evidence. It may be circumstantial—but a lot of circumstantial can add up to ‘beyond a reasonable doubt.’ ”

Keri’s fingers combed through her platinum hair, so forcefully it looked as if she might tear it out by the roots. “But why do I have to testify? Surely we have other witnesses.”

“Other witnesses, yes,” Ben said. “But no one who can tell the story of what really happened the night Joe died. No one else knows.”

“Plus,” Christina added, “the jury needs to hear it from you. They need to hear you say that you did not kill Joe. Thanks to Andrea’s testimony, this case has become a sort of showdown between her and you. The jury can only believe one of you; they have to choose. They heard Andrea say that you killed Joe, and like it or not, she was convincing. You need to be equally convincing. Or more so.”

“But what about the cross-examination?” Keri asked. Her eyes looked frightened. Ben had to remind himself how young Keri was—how terrifying and unfamiliar this must be to her. “I hate that man—LaBelle. He’ll start asking me questions. Things I don’t know. He’ll try to trick me.”

“Yes,” Ben agreed, “he will. No doubt about it—there’s risk involved. But I think we should take the risk. I think we have to.”

The conference room fell silent for a moment. Keri looked down, elbows on the table, hands pressed against the sides of her head.

“I know what you think,” she said finally. “You think if I don’t testify, they’ll convict me. You think they’ll sentence me to death.”

Ben could not make eye contact with her. “It’s a possibility,” he said quietly. “A very real possibility.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry to both of you. But I can’t. I won’t.”