Harwood broke down again. Her testimony was getting to Tracy and she wondered how the jurors were handling it. While the defendant regained her composure, Tracy glanced toward the jury box. The jurors were pale and tight-lipped. Tracy looked over at Abbie Griffen and was surprised to see the deputy district attorney sitting quietly, and apparently unconcerned, while Harwood stole her jury.
"What happened next?" Knapp asked when Harwood stopped crying.
"Vince raped me," she answered quietly. "He done it a couple of times.
In between, he'd beat me. And . . . and all the time he was screamin' at me on how he was gonna kill me and cut me up."
"Did he tell you what he would use?"
"Yes, sir. He had a straight razor and he brung it out and held it to my face. I squeezed my eyes tight, 'cause I didn't want to see it, but he slapped me in the face till I opened them."
"After he raped you the last time, what happened?"
"Vince fell asleep."
"How did you finally escape?"
"It was the razor," Harwood said, shuddering. "He left it on the bed and forgot. And . . . and I took it, and I . . ."
Harwood's eyes lost focus. She ran a hand along her cheek.
"I didn't mean to kill him. I just didn't want him to hurt me anymore."
She turned pleading eyes toward the jury. "It was almost an accident. I didn't even know the razor was there until I touched it. When I picked it up off of the bed Vince's eyes opened and I was so scared, I just did it. Right under his chin is all I remember."
Harwood started to gulp air.
"Do you need a break, Miss Harwood?" Judge Dial asked, afraid Harwood might faint or hyperventilate.
The witness shook her head. Tears coursed down her cheeks.
"Marie," Knapp asked gently, "you've seen the autopsy photos. Mr.
Phillips was cut many times on his body. Do you remember doing that?"
"No, sir. I just remember the first one, then it's a blank. But . . . but I probably done that. I just can't picture it."
"And why did you kill Mr. Phillips?"
"To get away. Just to get away, so he wouldn't hurt me no more. And .
. . and the cocaine. I didn't want to be a slave to the cocaine no more. That's all. But I didn't mean to kill him."
Harwood buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Knapp looked at Griffen with contempt. In a tone that suggested a dare, he said, "Your witness, Counselor."
Just before Griffen rose to begin her cross-examination, the courtroom door opened. Tracy looked over her shoulder and saw Matthew Reynolds slip into a vacant seat in the rear of the court next to a prim gray-haired woman. As he sat down, the woman glanced toward him, then flushed and snapped her head back toward the front of the courtroom.
Tracy could understand the woman's reaction, but it angered her. She supposed that Reynolds was used to those shocked first impressions and had conditioned himself to ignore them. Tracy's own reaction to seeing Reynolds was not one of shock or disgust, but of awe. If she could pick any job in the country, it would be as Matthew Reynolds's associate, but Reynolds had responded to her employment inquiry with a tersely worded letter that informed her that his firm was not hiring.
Reynolds was America's most famous criminal defense attorney and his specialty was defending against death penalty prosecutions. He was a strange-looking man who had been battling the grim reaper in courtrooms across America for so long that he was starting to resemble his adversary. Six-five and gaunt to the point of caricature, Reynolds seemed always on the verge of collapsing from the weight he bore on his frail shoulders. Though he was only forty-five, his hair was ash gray and had receded well back from his high forehead. His paper-thin skin stretched taut across sunken cheeks and a narrow, aquiline nose. The skin was as pale as bleached bone, except for an area that was covered by a broad hemangioma, a wine-red birthmark that started at the hairline above Reynolds's left eye, extended downward over his cheek and faded out above his upper lip. You would have thought that jurors would be put off by Reynolds's odd looks, but by trial's end they usually forgot them. His sincerity had been known to move jurors to tears. No one he represented had ever been executed.
Griffen started her cross-examination and Tracy turned back to the front of the courtroom.
"Do you feel up to continuing, Miss Harwood?" Griffen asked solicitously.
"I'm . . . I'm okay," Harwood answered softly.
"Then let me start with some simple questions while you regain your composure. And anytime you want me to stop, just say so. Or if you don't understand a question, just tell me, because I don't want to trick you. Okay?"
Harwood nodded.
"When you were living with Mr. Phillips, it wasn't all bad times, was it?"
"I guess not. I mean, sometimes he could be sweet to me."
"When he was being sweet, what did you do together?"
"Drugs. We did a lot of drugs. We partied."
"Did you go out together?"
"Not a lot."
"When you did, what did you do?":
"Vince liked movies. We'd see lots of movies."
"What kind did Vince like?"
"Uh, karate movies. Action movies."
"Did you like them?"
"No, ma'am. I like comedy movies and romantic ones."
"You mentioned a stereo and a big-screen TV in the bedroom.
Did you guys listen to music or watch TV?"
"Well, sure."
"You didn't go to the police after you killed Mr. Phillips, did you?"
Griffen asked, quickly shifting the subject.
"No, I was too scared."
"Where did you go?"
"I went back to John John."
"And that's the gentleman you were staying with when we arrested you, a week and a half after you killed Mr. Phillips?"
"Yes."
"You were John John's girlfriend before you took up with Mr. Phillips, weren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And he was a rival of Mr. Phillips in the drug trade?"
"Yes."
"When did you take the money, Miss Harwood?" Griffen asked without missing a beat. "What?"
"The thirty thousand dollars."
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you know Roy Saylor?"
"Sure. He was Vince's friend."
"His crime associate."
"Whatever."
"Roy's going to testify that Vince was planning to buy two kilos of cocaine from his connection that evening for fifteen a kilo."
"He never mentioned that. He was too busy beating and raping me to mention business," Harwood answered bitterly.
"Roy will also testify that Vince went to the bank at four to take the money out of a safety-deposit box."
"That could be, too. I just never seen it."
"That's fair. But if you took it, we'd understand. You're terrified.
He's dead. You know you might have to run, so you take the money with you."
"Man, I wasn't thinking about money. I just wanted out of there. If I wanted money, I'd've stayed. Vince was always generous with money. It just wasn't worth it to me."
"He really scared you?"
"You bet he did."
"In fact, as I recall your testimony, Mr. Phillips abducted you, dragged you inside his house, stripped you right away and forced you to perform oral sex."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then he raped and beat you repeatedly and fell asleep?"
Harwood nodded.
"This was one right after the other? He was either beating you or raping you?"
Harwood's eyes were on the rail in front of her. Her nod was barely perceptible.
In her trial practice classes in law school, Tracy had been taught that you never gave an opposing witness a chance to repeat her testimony during cross-examination because it reinforced the story in the jurors' minds. Tracy could not understand why Griffen had just repeated Harwood's pathetic tale three times. She glanced over at Reynolds to catch his reaction. The defense attorney was leaning forward and his eyes were riveted on Griffen.