Ben crawled across the carpet and peered into Joey’s eyes. “I wish you would talk to me,” he repeated. “Or just make a noise. A sound. Anything.”
But there was no response. A wave of guilt and suppressed depression flooded over Ben. He’d been holding it back, trying not to think about it while he dealt with the more pressing crises. The trial. The maniac.
He stared at his front door. The unknown monster lurking somewhere on the other side of that door. How had he let this happen?
Ben closed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with it all at once. He hoisted Joey into the air. “What would you say to some macaroni and cheese, pal? Probably not much, huh?”
He pushed the swinging door and entered the kitchen. Small wonder I do such a wretched job of taking care of you, Joey, he thought to himself. I can’t even take care of myself.
Chapter 37
BEN WAS AMAZED AT the speed at which the trial cruised into first gear the next morning. Given the intense scrutiny given every word, every minor action or ruling, the trial made astounding progress. Or perhaps it only seemed that way because he was dreading every minute of it.
All the preliminary matters were dispensed with in less than half an hour. By nine-thirty, Judge Hart called for opening statements. Jack Bullock was standing before the jury again, assuring them in his calm, trustworthy manner that everything he said was correct.
“I’m not here to put on a show,” he told the jury, one hand in his pocket and one hand on the railing. “I won’t patronize you. I won’t humor you. I won’t try to win you over with courtroom tricks or flashy flourishes. I will let the facts speak for themselves. And believe me, they speak volumes.”
He paused, then walked thoughtfully to the opposite side of the jury box. “You already know what happened. I won’t melodramatize it.” He stopped again, and his face screwed up slightly. “The facts are horrible enough as they are.”
He walked to an easel, where several enlarged photos rested face down. “These are the photos taken at the crime scene. I won’t show them to you now. I wouldn’t do that to you. I wouldn’t be that … cruel.”
Ben suppressed a smile. In fact, Bullock had wanted to use the photos in his opening, but the judge wouldn’t permit it.
“You will, unfortunately, have to look at them later in this trial. This is what you will see.” He held his hands up chest-high, as if creating an imaginary television screen for them. “The defendant’s wife and the mother of his children—lifeless, draped backward over a dining room chair, almost every inch of her skin and clothes soaked and smeared with coagulated blood. Knife punctures in over twenty different places. She died, although the coroner’s testimony will reveal that she died neither quickly nor painlessly.”
Bullock removed the second of the still facedown photos. “In the upstairs bedroom, the defendant’s four-year-old daughter lying on her bed, a fatal puncture wound through her heart. Her hands folded across her chest in a grotesque parody of sleep.”
Bullock withdrew the third photo in the stack. Ben could only admire Bullock’s brilliant presentation. He was using the photos without showing them. In fact, this was better. He was creating an enormous sense of anticipation, causing the jury to hang on his every word and to wait breathlessly for the evidence he had to share with them.
“And finally,” Bullock continued, “in the bathroom, the defendant’s eight-year-old daughter. Dead—stabbed. Many times. And once again—blood everywhere.”
Bullock stepped away from the exhibits and rubbed his hands, as if washing away the blood and horror. “The crime scene alone tells us much about the person who committed these horrors. Obviously it was someone strong, someone … physical. Someone with access to the Barretts’ home. Someone consumed with hate. Not just a random grudge but a personal and specific enmity.”
Slowly and deliberately, Bullock moved back toward the prosecution table. “There has never been much doubt in the minds of the law enforcement community who committed this crime. The Barretts’ next-door neighbor saw Wallace Barrett flee from his home at the approximate time of the murders. Barrett then led several police officers on a high-speed chase down the Indian Nation Turnpike, a chase many of you watched on television. Was there any doubt in the minds of those who watched that chase why Wallace Barrett was running? I don’t think so. Common sense will answer that question for you. And if common sense isn’t enough, the witnesses we call to the stand, experts in their field, will give you rock-solid scientific evidence that will establish his guilt beyond question. Fingerprints. Blood analysis. DNA evidence. All pointing to the same culprit.” He turned and pointed. “Wallace Barrett.”
“The defense will undoubtedly expend all their energy trying to convince you that what is obvious is not true. I don’t know what their story will be. You see, in our criminal justice system, the prosecution has to give the defendant everything they’ve got, but the defendant doesn’t have to give the prosecution anything. So I can only guess. Maybe they’ll tell you it was all a mistake. Maybe they’ll tell you it was an accident. Maybe they’ll tell you it was drug dealers or Middle Eastern terrorists or some supernatural refugee from a Stephen King novel. Who knows? With some lawyers, the bigger the lie, the more convincing it seems. I can only ask that you disregard the theatrics, that you not be swayed by fancy footwork. Remember the evidence. Remember the facts. Listen to what common sense tells you. Listen to your heart. And do the right thing.”
Bullock paused. For a moment, Ben thought he might be finished. Then he raised a finger. “As you weigh the gamut of what ifs the defense offers to you, you may wish to keep one telling fact in your mind. When the police arrived after the fact in the living room of the Barrett home, they found a framed photo of Caroline Barrett that had been thrown against the wall and smashed. Ask yourself this question: Would a burglar stop to destroy Mrs. Barrett’s photo? Would a terrorist? Would a hit man? I will suggest to you that no one would smash that photo—except someone who knew her personally … and hated her. Someone who had decided that he couldn’t live with her any longer. That he wouldn’t live with her any longer.”
Bullock laid his hands gently on the rail. “By the time this trial is completed, I believe you will know not only who committed this crime, but why. At that time, I will ask you to do what must be done, even though some of you may find it personally unpleasant, even painful. Perhaps some of you recall the defendant from his football days or his press conferences and think of him as an amiable, good-natured fellow. Well, the Wallace Barrett you will meet in this courtroom—the real Wallace Barrett—is an entirely different person. A harder, more evil, more … malevolent man. A man who beat and tortured his wife. A man who terrorized his children. A man who used brute force to achieve his every petty desire. A man with a temper, a temper that, when it exploded, made him capable of anything. Absolutely anything.” He gestured toward the downturned photographs. “Even this.”
He turned back and looked each of them in the eyes. “Once you have met that man, I believe you will be able, will perhaps even be anxious, to do what must be done. To do the right thing.”
He glanced up at the bench. “Thank you, your honor.”
Judge Hart leaned forward. “Thank you, counsel. Mr. Kincaid, do you wish to make your opening remarks at this time?”
“I do.” Ben gathered his notes and moved toward the jury box. He had not expected to be called so soon. In your average big murder case, opening statements often went on for hours. But, Ben realized, Jack Bullock was not your average prosecutor. He was much smarter. He knew he didn’t need to give the jury every little detail about this case. They already knew what it was about. He just needed to tell them enough to get them to trust him, to believe him, and to make them eager to hear what he would have to say next. And at that he had succeeded.