The Furthest City Light Page 12

  I allowed myself to look indignant. “Your Honor, as this Court knows, I don’t make frivolous objections. The question has been asked and answered. If the prosecutor has anything else to ask, I think he ought to get on with it.”

  The judge looked pointedly at the clock on the wall. It was close to five. “I’ll allow the question one more time.” He looked over at Emily. “You may answer the question.”

  “She may not remember it,” I said, in case she wanted a few more seconds.

  Jeff made an exasperated sound. “I will ask another question instead. Ms. Watkins, you’ve told the jury that you weren’t seriously planning to leave your husband despite about twenty incidents of violence?”

  She took a deep breath. “There were more. A lot more. Those were all I could specifically remember.”

  “You weren’t seriously planning to leave even though he supposedly struck you in the face?”

  “On numerous occasions.”

  “And he supposedly kicked you, shoved you, broke your arm and gave you a number of black eyes?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Yes, he did.” Then she looked down at her lap, clearly ashamed.

  “But you weren’t seriously planning to leave despite all the incidents you recounted on direct?” By now, a less seasoned prosecutor would have expressed sarcasm or incredulity, but Jeff was too smart; it played best when you let the jurors have their own reactions without any prompting by the lawyers.

  Emily slumped in her chair. “No.”

  “And you never told anyone about these incidents of violence?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the doctors you went to see afterward?”

  She shook her head sadly. “No.”

  “You lied to every one of them?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” She looked up at him and then around the room, as if she were seeing it for the first time. There was a look of amazement on her face, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just acknowledged.

  Jeff smiled with absolutely no warmth. “You never told anyone during the ten years of your marriage that you were a battered woman.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t think I was.”

  “Because the violence wasn’t that bad?”

  “Well,” Emily said, “in hindsight, I think it was, but at the time I thought it wasn’t.”

  “You never thought you were a battered woman until after you were charged with first-degree murder?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I knew my husband was violent on occasion, that it would probably never stop although I always hoped it would, but I never really believed I was a battered woman.”

  “Until your lawyer and your hired expert suggested that you were?”

  I jumped to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor! That’s the second time.”

  “Sustained. Don’t do it again, Mr. Taylor.”

  Jeff nodded briefly, but he was on a roll and wasn’t about to stop. “You still don’t really think you were a battered woman, do you?”

  Emily tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “I’m beginning to think I was.”

  “Because you’re claiming self-defense?”

  “Because I think I really was.”

  “Although you never acknowledged it before you needed it as a defense?”

  Emily shrugged again. “I’d never acted in self-defense before.”

  She looked exhausted. Jeff was probably three-quarters of the way through his cross. About three more miles to go, Emily. Three lousy little miles and you’re done.

  Jeff studied his notes, and then nodded to himself. “Ms. Watkins, three weeks before you killed your husband, you took out an insurance policy on his life for a quarter of a million dollars.”

  Emily’s head bobbed up and down like a rag doll. “It was Hal’s idea as well as mine. He agreed to it. I was worried about his health. He wouldn’t stop drinking. The doctor told me that if he didn’t stop drinking, his health would start to deteriorate. That it was just a matter of time.”

  “Hal passed the physical?”

  “Yes, he did. But he was an alcoholic.”

  “The doctors gave him a clean bill of health?”

  Emily sighed impatiently. “They took me aside and told me that if he didn’t stop drinking, it was only a matter of time.”

  “But it didn’t happen that way, did it? He died of a stab wound to his abdomen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were the beneficiary of that policy.”

  “Yes,” Emily said, “but I didn’t kill him for the money. I never thought about the policy once we got it.” She was beginning to sound uncertain. She was getting tired of defending herself.

  “Well, you knew you had it?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think about it.”

  “You mean consciously?”

  I stood up. “Objection, You Honor.” The question was improper, but I was too tired to figure out the reason. “The question makes no sense.”

  “Sustained.” The judge was getting tired as well.

  Jeff tapped his fingers on the podium. “Ms. Watkins, you’d just taken out a large insurance policy on your husband’s life three weeks beforehand. Are you telling this jury that you were unaware of that on the night you killed him?”

  “No, I must have been aware of it, but I wasn’t thinking about it. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I just did it.”

  She was close to tears, but fighting to keep control. I glanced at the jury. Don’t cry now, Emily. It’s too late in the cross; it won’t help.

  “So you weren’t thinking about anything at the time you stabbed your husband?”

  “Well, some part of me must have been thinking he was going to hurt me.”

  “Well, isn’t it possible that some part of you must have been thinking, ‘That’s enough, I’ve had it’?”

  “Objection,” I said, “calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Thomas said. “You may answer the question if you can.”

  “Yes, it’s possible,” Emily said. Her voice was so low it was almost a whisper. A number of the jurors were leaning forward in order to hear her.

  “And isn’t it possible that some part of you must have been thinking, ‘I can’t stand this anymore. I’ve had it with his drinking’?”

  “I guess it’s possible.”

  No, it isn’t, Emily. Don’t let him put words in your mouth.

  Jeff had left the podium and taken a couple of steps toward the witness stand. “And finally, Ms. Watkins, isn’t it possible that some part of you must have been thinking, ‘I’m going to leave him and this is the only way I can do it’?”

  Emily put up her hand as if to stop him. “So many things are possible, Mr. Taylor. The mind is extremely complex; it’s capable of having all kinds of contradictory thoughts at the same time. It’s capable of dissociation. It’s capable of denial. It’s capable of convincing itself that things are tolerable when they aren’t. I’d had all kinds of thoughts about my husband for years. I was capable of great self-deception.” She paused. “But I think at the time I stabbed my husband I was defending myself.”

  Way to go, Emily. The finish line is just a couple of yards away.

  “But you’re not positive?”

  “No, I’m not positive. But I think so.” She hesitated. “I hope so.”

  Jeff swooped down on this like a hawk at dinnertime. “You hope so, Ms. Watkins. Because otherwise you would be a murderer?”

  “Yes, otherwise I would be a murderer.”

  Jeff retreated to the podium and started gathering up his papers. He was done; the ordeal was over. But then, as if the question just occurred to him, Jeff looked up and said, “Ms. Watkins, would you be surprised if the jury convicted you?”

  I jumped to my feet. “Objection, Your Honor! The question is irrelevant under Rule 401 and prejudicial under Rule 403.”

  Judge Thomas hesitated. “It goes to her state of mind, so I’ll allow it.”

  Em
ily, I thought, all you have to say is, “Yes, I’d be surprised.”

  But of course my Emily shook her head and said, “No, I wouldn’t be surprised, although I don’t think I’m legally guilty. But I’m not an innocent person either. I took my husband’s life. I should have had the courage to leave him but I didn’t. That makes me at least morally guilty. I will accept the jury’s verdict, whatever it is.”

  For a second, Jeff looked almost apologetic. “Thank you, Ms. Watkins. No further questions.”

  A marathon is exactly twenty-six miles, three hundred and eighty-five yards. My client had run, walked and crawled her way to the finish line. I turned to Donald and said, “She told the truth. Everyone could see that, even Jeff. I think she did all right. What do you think?”

  Donald’s face looked gray and puffy, as if he’d been deprived of oxygen for a dangerously long time. There were huge dark stains under his armpits. “Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Yeah, it could have been a lot worse.”

  ***

  Over the next couple of days, I called twelve defense witnesses to the stand. There were no bad surprises. Alice testified concerning her limited observations of Hal and Emily’s marriage, how Emily always deferred to her husband, and how on occasion she’d inexplicably refuse to leave the house. The neighbor grudgingly agreed that she’d seen what looked like an act of unprovoked violence on Hal’s part. The police officer verified that Hal had once been arrested for domestic violence and that the case had been dismissed because Emily refused to cooperate. The doctors all described the various injuries Emily had suffered and readily acknowledged that people sometimes lied about the source of their injuries, especially if they were battered women. And the two felons (for what it was worth) both described Hal as a brute who used way more force than necessary arresting them.

  On Friday morning, I gave the best closing argument of my career. I pulled out all the stops and could hear a number of people in the audience crying as I described the wasted years of Emily’s life and pleaded for the jury to finally set her free. Even the judge seemed affected. Jeff waited a full five minutes before giving his second closing argument which was much more subdued than his first.

  Once they were excused, the jurors filed quietly out of the courtroom with downcast eyes, as if they were exiting a funeral. Although it was impossible to tell what they were thinking, I imagined they were worried about the length of time it might take to reach a unanimous decision.

  As soon as court was adjourned, Alice and Janet both came up and hugged us. They planned to wait in the hallway for the next couple of hours and then go have lunch together. A few moments later, Ellen Silver and Ray Martinelli walked up to the defense table, holding hands. I gave Ray a look and said, “Well, well.” Which was public defender code for “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Your closing was terrific!” Ellen exclaimed. “I cried my eyes out.”

  “Good,” I said, and then looked at Ray who nodded in agreement.

  “It was very compelling, Rachel. If there’s any justice in this world, you’ll win.”

  Which was public defender code for “I wouldn’t start celebrating just yet.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the criminal defense profession, there’s a phenomenon known as trial psychosis, a state of mind every good lawyer slips into a few days before trial and doesn’t snap out of until the jury delivers its verdict.

  Trial psychosis is an essential state of mind without which there would be hesitation, doubt and pessimism. When a lawyer enters this state, she still sees everything clearly, can still interpret data and adjust to the inevitable surprises. She can tell whether things are going well or not, change her strategy, make tactical objections, etcetera. But something perforce is missing: a useless sense of perspective, the ability to stand back and view the case in the worst light possible. The ability to imagine defeat.

  If it weren’t for trial psychosis, there would be no way to trudge through cases with atrocious facts, to cross-examine grieving widows or adorable children molested by their fathers and then stand up at the end of the trial and deliver a passionate closing argument, and sometimes win. As Emily’s defense attorney, I was keenly aware of the obstacles in her case, how difficult they were, how dangerous, but once the prosecution rested and it was our turn, I knew they could all be overcome.

  I knew it until the bailiff called my office less than two hours after the jury began deliberating and informed me there was a verdict. Suddenly my head was clear, my psychosis gone. In a complicated self-defense case like Emily’s, the longer the jury stayed out, the better. After a couple of days, the defense could begin to expect an acquittal. On the other hand, if the jurors reached a unanimous decision in less than three or four hours, it was almost always for the prosecution. I drove back to the courthouse with little hope, and by the time I reached the entrance and walked inside, I’d lost the rest. With my perspective back in working order, I could see it all. There would be no miracles; it would not come out all right. As soon as the prosecutor returned from his victory mug of beer at the Walrus Saloon, Judge Thomas would emerge from his chambers, take the guilty verdict in open court, and my client’s chronically uncertain future would finally be settled.

  When I entered the courtroom, Emily was already seated at the defense table working on what appeared to be a crossword puzzle. Sunny was sitting a few rows behind her, a sour expression on his face, as if he had acid indigestion. But I think he was simply worried for Emily. He’d seen enough jury trials to know that a verdict in ninety minutes—barely enough time for everyone to use the bathroom, elect a foreperson, and take a straw poll—meant a life sentence for his favorite inmate. I didn’t see Donald but I knew he’d be here soon. In the hallway, I’d passed Janet and Alice standing near a window chatting like old friends and told them to come inside when they were ready, that the jury had reached a verdict. They must have seen something in my face or posture because they didn’t ask me any questions.

  As I headed up the aisle, I felt light-headed and nauseous. Once, a few years earlier, I’d been telemarking down a steep black-rated slope in Crested Butte and had fallen face forward on my camera, which I’d stupidly left hanging around my neck. The moment I stood up, I knew I’d busted a couple of ribs. I felt faint and was breathing way too fast, taking shallow little breaths that hurt like hell. My lungs begged for oxygen, but every time I tried to take a deeper breath, I thought I’d pass out from the pain. There was no one around me—my friends had taken a different easier route—and so there was nothing to be done except straighten up, ignore the pain, continue down the hill. And hope I didn’t fall again. Eventually, I saw my friends waiting near a clump of trees and headed toward them. “Looking good, Rachel,” they called. “Looking good!”

  I skied down those last few hundred yards like a pro, but oh how I’d wanted to stop and cry out, to let go of my form, to collapse in pain. But of course I hadn’t, and I wouldn’t do it now. Instead, I walked slowly and deliberately forward. When I reached the defense table, my client was still busy with her crossword puzzle. I nodded to Sunny, surveyed the nearly empty room, placed my black leather briefcase on the floor beside me, and took my seat.

  “What’s a seven-letter word for frenzied?” Emily asked without looking up from her puzzle. “It starts with a B.”

  “Berserk?”

  Emily bent her head closer to the page, squinting at a row of blank vertical boxes. “That’s it. Thanks.”

  I looked at my watch. Donald hurried in and I could tell by the look on his face that he’d reached the same conclusion I had. He sat down right behind us and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He reached over to pat my arm.

  “It ain’t over till it’s over,” he said.

  “Yogi Berra,” Emily responded, glancing sideways at us.

  Donald grunted in surprise. “You know, I think you might be right.”

  Emily nodded. “Okay then, would either of you happen to know the capita
l of Switzerland?”

  “I don’t even know the capital of Florida and I was born there,” Donald said.

  Emily turned to me. “What about you, Rachel? Five letters, also starts with a B.”

  Suddenly, I felt cranky and uncooperative. “The thing is, Emily, I’ve never liked crossword puzzles.”

  She waited patiently, a trait she’d obviously perfected.

  I sighed. “Berne.”

  She tried the letters, which of course fit. “Hey, good guess.”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t a guess.” I reached into my briefcase, pulled out my appointment calendar, and then realized the judge would probably sentence her on the spot. No need to set any further dates in the case. I could tell Emily was watching out of the corner of her eye as I put the calendar away. The defense table was clear except for the crossword puzzle.

  “Where did you get that anyway?” I asked, pointing to the puzzle.

  “Penny gave it to me.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “Well that was nice of her.” I hesitated. “Listen, Emily, I think you should put the puzzle away and begin preparing yourself for the worst.”

  She regarded me with her kind blue eyes, and then patted me on the shoulder as if I were a good dog, but a little slow. “I’m quite prepared,” she said. “Sunny warned me, but I’d already figured it out for myself.” A moment later, she returned to her puzzle.

  Come on, I thought, let’s get this over with. I was feeling sicker by the minute as if I were coming down with the flu. No, not the flu; a flu generally lasts seven or eight days. This portended to be much worse. A bleak, no end in sight, dark gray depression, a gravity-less state in which everything that had been painstakingly nailed down in my life would once again be up for grabs. If I’d had a closer relationship with my mother, I might have run out and called her, wailed to her, “Mama!” Instead, I sat still and brooded.

  In the end, my client’s husband had managed to win the ten-year war that cost his life. In less than a quarter of an hour, his victory would be memorialized and my client would be led out of the courtroom in shackles. A tiny bleat and she’d be history. And as for yours truly? Destined, once again, to play the stunned and helpless spectator, the liberal do-gooder who had done no good.