“Have you always lived in Tulsa?” Bullock asked.
“No. We grew up in Crescent, a much smaller town north of Oklahoma City. We both went to nursing school here in Tulsa. Then I moved away about two and a half years ago.”
“Why?”
“Well, I married, and my husband took a job in Chicago. Unfortunately, the marriage broke up about seven months ago. After the divorce was final, I returned to Tulsa.”
“Did you see your sister when you returned?”
“Of course I did. In fact, she met me at the airport. She knew I’d been through a … difficult time, and she wanted to be there for me.” She paused, and her eyes lowered. “She was always there for me.”
Bullock also paused, allowing silence to heighten the drama of the moment. “Was she alone when she met you?”
“Oh no. She had—had—” Cynthia’s head suddenly dropped, and her hand rushed up to meet it. Her face twisted in the picture of sadness. “She brought her two girls,” she said, first whispering, then crying. “My nieces.” Tears began to flow from her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” Bullock said solemnly. “I know how hard this must be for you. Your honor, may I approach?”
The judge nodded, and Bullock stepped forward and handed her a tissue which he just happened to have in his coat pocket. She dabbed her eyes, but the tears continued to trickle forth.
“It’s all right,” she said, whispering again. “They were just so … so young and pretty and …” She turned abruptly and looked up at the judge. “I’m sorry, your honor. I can go on.” She dabbed her eyes again and tried to compose herself.
Bullock gave her plenty of time. He seemed to be in no hurry, or perhaps more accurately, recognized that this emotional display would have more impact on the jury than any number of questions.
“What did you do that day? After she met you.”
“Oh … I hardly remember.” She forced a smile and tried to bravely carry on. “Nothing unusual. Shopping, eating. Just girl stuff. You know.”
“Do you recall anything unusual that occurred that day?”
“Oh, yes. It was—” She stopped. “I hardly know what to say. She was wearing sunglasses.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Well, yes. I had never seen her wear sunglasses before, and the sun wasn’t that bright. And then when we got back to her house, she still wore the glasses.”
“Inside?”
“Right. I pointed this out to her, but she just laughed and shrugged it off.”
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I became very suspicious. At that time, I’d been associated with DVIS for several years, and I knew that when a woman starts wearing sunglasses she doesn’t need to shield her eyes from the sun, it can mean trouble.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well, I couldn’t get any sort of straight answer out of her, so finally I just reached up and yanked the glasses off her face.”
“And what did you see?”
Cynthia hesitated, then turned her head to face the jurors. “Her left eye had a huge black bruise around it. Black and blue and red. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was the ugliest black eye I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some doozies. It was horrifying.”
“What did you say?”
“Well, of course I asked her how this happened. Who did this to you?”
“And what did she say?”
“Objection.” Ben jumped to his feet. “Hearsay.” Ben knew he would win few points with the jury by preventing them from getting an answer they were dying to hear, but given the circumstances, he had to try.
Bullock barely batted his eyelids. “Of course I think an argument can fairly be made that the declarant is unavailable. Since she’s been murdered.”
Judge Hart nodded. “And moreover, I find that the circumstances surrounding this testimony suggest unusual trustworthiness. I’m going to allow the testimony.”
Ben retook his seat. That was two for Bullock, zip for him.
“Please answer my question,” Bullock said, nudging her along. “What did your sister say?”
“Well, at first she told me some cockamamie story about falling down the stairs, but I let her know in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t having any of it. So then she told me the truth.”
“Which was?”
“He hit her.”
“Who?”
“Him.” She pointed across the courtroom. “The defendant. Wallace Barrett.” She paused. “Her husband.”
The courtroom acquired an audible buzz, whispers and scribbling pencils. It was the first nail in the prosecution’s case, the first nail in Wallace Barrett’s coffin.
Cynthia continued. “Apparently they’d been to some party, some mayoral function. She didn’t even want to go, but he forced her, and then complained that she had had the audacity to actually speak to another man while she was there. He’s a very jealous man. Crazy jealous. Irrational. Mean.”
“Was this the first time he’d struck her?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Lack of personal knowledge.”
Judge Hart nodded. The objection was proper, although given that she had already permitted the hearsay testimony, it was largely a question of semantics. “Counsel, rephrase.”
“Certainly,” Bullock said. “Anything to please defense counsel. Cynthia, did your sister tell you anything else?”
“Yes. She said this was not the first time her husband had hit her. In fact she told me that on two occasions she’d had to call the police. She hadn’t wanted to, she said, but he was out of control. She was afraid—well, she was afraid he might hurt the girls. Or even kill them.”
The buzz following that tidbit was even louder. Ben could already hear the sound bite replaying on the six o’clock news.
Bullock continued as if nothing unusual had occurred. “Do you know what caused these incidents?”
“What caused them is Wallace Barrett’s insane jealousy and uncontrolled temper.”
“Objection!”
Bullock held up his hands. “We’ll withdraw that, your honor. I believe the witness misunderstood my question. Cynthia, what I meant was, do you know what provoked the incidents that led to the violence and the police being called?”
“I know about one of them. It was another typical Wallace Barrett fight. Apparently he was laying his clothes out for the next day and he couldn’t find the tie he wanted. I mean, can you imagine? Just a stupid tie, that was all. He blew his top because he couldn’t find a tie. And of course he blamed her.”
“What did your sister say that he did?”
“He beat the hell out of her, that’s what he did. And I’ve seen the pictures, so I know it’s true. She had bruises on her face, arms, legs, breasts … everywhere.” She inhaled and her voice lowered. “That son of a bitch hit her everywhere there was to hit.”
“And then?”
“And then he threw her out of the house. I mean he picked her up and bodily threw her out of the house. She wasn’t even dressed; she didn’t have anything on but her bra and panties. So here she is, practically naked, banging on the front door of her own home, begging him to let her in. But does he? No, he’s upstairs watching television or something while she’s outside being humiliated. Such a cruel man. Heartless.”
“Your honor, I have to object.” Ben knew this was probably hopeless, but if nothing else, he could remind the jury that this was grade-A hearsay they were listening to, not an eyewitness account. “The witness is describing this incident as if she was there. She was not. She is simply recounting what she was told in a conversation.”