“Nah, who’m I to stand in the way of redemption?”
It got him a laugh and earned him some juror love. Score one for the bad guys.
I looked at Saul to see if he was laughing—a mistake because he should be looking remorseful; even if he hadn’t killed his wife, he was a shitheel for cheating on her. The corners of his mouth twitched, but he’d managed to rein himself in. Damn.
I’d planned to call a few more friends to paint the picture of marital discord, but since no one had seen the defendant get physically violent with Melissa, and the jury’s eyes were starting to glaze over, I decided it was probably overkill. I leaned over to Bailey.
“Time for the trump card, such as it is?” I whispered.
Bailey nodded and went to fetch our witness: Officer Susan Abrams. Still in uniform because she was in the middle of her shift, Officer Abrams raised her right hand, swore to tell the truth, and adjusted the microphone as she sat down. I quickly established that she was one of the police officers who participated in the search of the house in which Melissa and the defendant lived. Then I pulled out the photograph of the room where she found our key piece of evidence.
“Officer, did you personally search this room?”
“Yes, it’s a small study at the back of the house.”
“And what, if anything, did you find of significance there?”
We always say “if anything” to avoid the objection that the question assumes there was something significant to be found. It’s a silly formality. Why would I be asking her about the search if she didn’t find anything of significance? Lawyers have to say a lot of useless things like that.
“I found a diary.”
I turned to Bailey, who produced the actual diary in a plastic evidence envelope. Pulling on a set of rubber gloves, I took the envelope and the box of gloves up to the witness stand. Officer Abrams gloved up and removed the diary from the envelope.
“This is the diary I found.”
“Please look at the last entry.”
She turned to the page.
“Is that what you saw when you found this diary?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Please read the entire page for us.”
The officer did so, and concluded with the final line: “ ‘I know if I don’t get out of here, he’s going to kill me. If I’m dead when you read this, it’ll be because he killed me.’ ”
Officer Abrams did a nice job of it. A few peeks at the jury while she was reading from the diary showed that they were riveted. Juror Number Four was nodding to himself and taking notes. Excellent.
“No further questions,” I said, and sat down.
Bailey leaned in and whispered, “I think I saw Juror Number Nine wiping away a tear.”
More excellent still. Score another one for the good guys.
Ronnie’s cross started out to be an uninspired do-over of all my questions on direct—the typical move defense attorneys make when they really have nothing to ask. And then he dropped the bomb. It started innocuously enough.
“Now, Officer—and I trust the prosecution will not object to an obvious point that may be a little outside your field of expertise—there’s no way to know exactly when that last entry was written, is there? At least, there’s no forensic science that can tell us when ink or pencil was put to paper, correct?”
I wanted to object, because I had a bad feeling about where this was going. But I knew this to be true, and any expert—mine or his—would agree to the unremarkable proposition. I sat tight and held on to my poker face. Officer Abrams shot a quick, puzzled glance my way but answered without further hesitation.
“No, not that I’m aware of.”
“And so that writing could have been there for days, even weeks or months, before Melissa left, correct?”
“I suppose.”
“Or, conversely, that writing could have been done days, weeks, or even months after Melissa left, isn’t that right?”
Officer Abrams’s expression had grown even more perplexed. A fast look at the jury told me they were equally confused, but many were leaning forward in their seats. I would’ve done the same if I hadn’t been busy acting like I didn’t give a damn.
“Well, no. How could that be? I mean, the handwriting matches. It’s Melissa’s.” Officer Abrams shook her head and shot O’Bryan a look of contempt. “She couldn’t have written it after your client killed her.”
Much as I loved the snarky dig, I knew it could be trouble. Juries don’t trust cops who come out swinging. They generally like their officers neutral and unbiased—“Just the facts, ma’am.” Saying that Melissa couldn’t have written the entry after Hildegarde had killed her was about as biased, and obviously improper, as it got. Juries have been known to turn on us for less. I tried not to cringe when O’Bryan made his objection.
“Objection!” Ronnie said. “Motion to strike! That is obviously improper!”
“It was,” the judge said. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re ordered to disregard that last remark.”
The jury nodded solemnly. I kept my poker face on, but I was in a quandary. Was Ronnie actually claiming someone dummied up this diary? Forged Melissa’s handwriting to frame the defendant? Who? According to everyone I’d asked, no one in Melissa’s life had even known she kept a diary. And I couldn’t think of anyone with a plausible motive—friends or family—who had access to the evidence after we’d seized it. Flashing back on all the people I’d spoken to, I couldn’t come up with a single one who’d given me a suspicious vibe. Had I missed it? I glanced at Hildegarde, who had a smug little smile on his face.
“Now I want to ask you some personal questions, Officer Abrams.”
I prepared to object—how could anything personal about the officer be relevant?—but his next question brought me to a dead stop.
“How long have you known Melissa Gibbons?”
I could’ve objected. The question assumed she’d ever known our victim, but I knew that’s exactly what O’Bryan wanted. If I objected it’d only help O’Bryan to underline the point; worse, it would look like I’d known all along and was trying to hide it—whatever it was. I surreptitiously inhaled and pressed my lips together as I wrote on my legal pad to Bailey: WTF???
Bailey, her expression stony, wrote back: NO FRIGGIN’ CLUE.
Officer Abrams opened and closed her mouth silently as though she had gills. When she finally found her voice, it came out rough. “What? What are you talking about? I never met the victim.”
“Really? Aren’t you married to Angus Warren?”
Officer Abrams’s brow furrowed as she answered slowly, “Yes.”
“And you’re aware that your husband, Angus Warren, was previously married to a woman named Jeanine Stryker?”
“I, ah… yes. I think that’s her name.”
“Oh, come now, Officer Abrams. You’re all remarkably friendly, aren’t you? Amicable divorce and all that, you all see each other socially, attend the same parties. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. I just… didn’t remember what her maiden name was. We don’t see each other all that often, honestly.”
“But you do see each other, don’t you? You’re not trying to tell this jury otherwise, are you?”
“I… no, of course not. I just don’t get—”
“Of course you do. Jeanine Stryker is Nancy Gibbons’s sister. Melissa is Jeanine’s niece.”
Officer Abrams’s face froze. I struggled to look nonchalant. The defense had just thrown a veritable grenade into the heart of the case. By proving that Officer Abrams had a connection to Melissa’s family, he’d shown there was someone with both motive and access who could’ve altered the evidence.