William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“You have to—” Her voice broke. More tears fell. “You have to understand.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Understand what, Ms. Rutherford?”

“How—desperate we were. How desperate I was. I wanted a baby so much. My body ached for one, can you understand that? I ached. And yet, a baby was the one thing my body denied me. We tried everything. Fertility treatments. Drugs. Counseling. You name it. None of it helped.”

“So you decided to adopt?”

“Yes.”

Slowly, haltingly, Rachel took the jury through the five years of pain she had endured as she and her husband undertook the adoption process. All the American agencies that rejected them because her husband was too old. The con-man lawyer who repeatedly took their money promising them a baby, but delivering nothing. She told them about her suicide attempts.

‘That’s when you turned to Ronald Pearson, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

“I—I didn’t know what else to do. Ronnie always seemed so … capable, so efficient. Like he could accomplish anything. So I asked him to do this for me. And he did.”

“Why would he go to so much trouble for you?”

Rachel glanced down at her hands. “I rather like to think it’s because he loved me.”

Ben nodded. “How much did you know about how Mr. Pearson got the baby?”

“Until today, next to nothing. I knew some money changed hands. I knew he was using his South American connections. You have to understand—when I went to Ronnie—I didn’t want to live anymore. I had tried to kill myself twice and I knew I would try again. I didn’t know he bought the baby exactly, but—”

She lowered her head, and her next words were even softer than before. “But I wouldn’t have cared.”

Ben gazed across the courtroom at the poor, tormented woman. “You wanted a baby that much.”

“I did. I had to have a baby. If I didn’t—I would’ve died. I know it.”

“And after you got him?”

Her head rose slowly. “I would’ve done anything to keep him. Anything at all.”

70

BULLOCK TOOK A SHOT at breaking the jury’s rapt attention. “Your honor, I reurge my objection. This testimony is not relevant.”

“I think the connections are emerging,” Ben replied.

“What connections?” Bullock insisted. “What is Kincaid trying to prove? That this woman murdered Maria Alvarez? Even his own alleged eyewitness said the murderer was a man!”

“Your honor, if you’ll just allow me a few more questions …”

“That’s what he said the last time,” Bullock urged. “Judge, this has gone on long enough!”

Hawkins shook his head. “Overruled. You may continue, counsel.”

Ben approached the witness stand and gently laid his hand on the edge of the box. “Ms. Rutherford, you’re the blonde sunbather Ramona de Vries remembered seeing by the pool, aren’t you? When Maria Alvarez was at the country club.”

Her nod was barely perceptible.

“Would you tell the jury what Mrs. Alvarez said to you?”

“If I knew, I would. But she was babbling in Spanish. I had Spanish in high school, but it’s been so long, I couldn’t follow her. She was so distraught, so excited. All I picked up was, ‘niño, niño’ —baby, baby.” Rachel paused. “And that was enough to terrify me.”

“What did you tell her?”

Seconds seemed to drag out like days. Rachel appeared trapped—trapped by an answer she didn’t want to give, but knew she couldn’t avoid.

“All I did,” Rachel said finally, “was tell her to talk to my husband.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, without missing a beat, “if the prosecutor will waive cross-examination, I will call Harold Rutherford to the stand.”

“Counsel?”

Bullock waved his acquiescence. He seemed to realize this trial was spiraling out of his control.

The judge called Harold Rutherford to the front. He met his wife at the gate separating the gallery from the main courtroom. They looked at one another and exchanged a deep, penetrating gaze. Ben would’ve given a great deal to know what mutually understood information was being conveyed in their eyes.

The sergeant at arms led Rutherford to the front of the courtroom where he was sworn. Rutherford settled into the witness chair and stared ahead at Ben, his face a stony mask.

After establishing Rutherford’s identity and background, Ben said, “Mr. Rutherford, there’s one issue everyone in this courtroom is wondering about, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll cut to the chase.”

“As you wish.”

“Isn’t it true that Maria Alvarez was your adopted son Abie’s natural mother?”

“No. That’s not true. I mean—” His voice betrayed the barest hint of a tremor. “How would I know? I know nothing about the woman.”

“Mr. Rutherford, one of my assistants has been scrutinizing Peruvian data banks for days, including birth records. And hospital records. He learned that shortly before Maria Alvarez applied for a visa to come to this country, she was in a hospital having a baby. A baby boy.”

His lips tightened. “So you say.”

“Would you like to see the birth certificate?” Ben held out the papers. “Or the hospital records?”

Rutherford waved them away. “What difference would it make? I was the adoptive parent. They never tell us who the natural parents are. I have no way of knowing.”

“Didn’t Maria Alvarez tell you she was Abie’s mother when she came to the country club?”

Rutherford hesitated. He couldn’t deny talking to Maria without calling his wife a liar. “I vaguely recall trying to talk to the woman,” he said at last. “But I don’t recall what was said. It certainly had nothing to do with my son. She probably wanted a job. Or a handout.”

Ben stepped closer. “Mr. Rutherford, isn’t it true Maria Alvarez told you she was Abie’s mother?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you ask her to meet you later that night? At the caddyshack?”

“Absolutely not.”

Ben addressed the court. “Your honor, I request that Carlee Crane be brought back into the courtroom.”

The judge nodded at the bailiff.

“And don’t tell her anything before she gets here,” Ben added.

The courtroom waited in suspended animation while the bailiff stepped out. Rutherford’s face remained impassive.

When the bailiff returned, the courtroom was so quiet the creaking of the doors sounded like thunder. Behind the bailiff followed Carlee Crane.

Ben gestured for her to come forward, but she stopped halfway down the nave.

“My God!” She whispered, but the whisper was audible in every cranny of the still courtroom. Her face shifted from astonishment, to disbelief, to fear.

One by one, the spectators followed Carlee’s line of vision to the front of the courtroom—and the witness stand. Rutherford stared back at her, his eyes cold and hostile.

Carlee held out a shaking arm and pointed. “It’s him. He’s the man I saw in the caddyshack!”

“Your honor, I protest!” Bullock said angrily. “This is grossly improper!”

Hawkins banged his gavel. “I admit I didn’t realize Mr. Kincaid intended to—”

“This is outrageous!” Bullock continued. “And the jury has been hopelessly tainted by this improper identification. I move for a mistrial.”

“A mistrial!” Ben said. “Are you kidding? On what basis?”

“That woman trying to testify is not on the witness stand.”

“Fine,” Ben said. “I’ll excuse Mr. Rutherford, recall Carlee, and have her repeat what everyone in the courtroom has already heard.”

“I’ll object to that,” Bullock said. “She’s already testified, and she couldn’t identify the killer. She can’t change her story now.”