Judge Hart tapped her pencil on her desk. “I understand your concerns, counsel. But the jury has been informed of the circumstances surrounding this testimony. I believe they are in a position to evaluate its credibility for themselves. Overruled.”
Something about the judge’s even, flat tone bothered Ben. She made every response sound as if she was being scrupulously fair. But the result was always the same. Ben was overruled; Bullock got whatever he wanted.
“What did your sister do?”
“Eventually she went next door and asked a neighbor to take her in. He gave her some clothes and let her stay there till Wallace calmed down. I think his name was Harvey. He’s an actor.”
Bullock turned to address the court. “The prosecution will be calling Harvey Sanders later to testify about these and other relevant matters.” Back to the witness. “Did you ever try to … counsel your sister with regard to this repeated violence from her husband?”
“Of course. This was what I did, after all. Working with battered women was second nature to me. What a crushing blow that I couldn’t help my own sister. I tried to talk to her, or I offered to have someone else from the shelter come talk to her. She would never agree.”
“Why? What explanation did she give?”
“Oh, different things. She said she was taking care of it, or that she could handle it. She said she had to think of her girls first.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning she wouldn’t get a divorce and destroy the family. She’d just go on being his personal punching bag.” Her hand darted back to her face. “I pleaded with her. Pleaded with her to leave that man. But she wouldn’t do it.”
“Did that ever change?”
Ben’s ears pricked up. He knew Bullock wouldn’t ask the question if he didn’t know—and like—the answer.
“Yes. She called me on the phone. She said that something had happened—she didn’t say what—and she realized she couldn’t go on living with this man any longer. She was ready to leave him.”
“What did you do?”
“I offered to drive over that very second and pick up her and the girls.”
“Did she agree?”
“No. She said she had to tell Wallace first. I tried to talk her out of it. He would only become mad, I told her. Probably violent. He’d try to stop her from leaving. I told her to just go and send a letter later. But she wouldn’t. She said fair was fair, or something like that. She was going to confront him.”
Bullock took a deep and slow breath. “Cynthia, when was this telephone conversation with your sister? When she said she was going to leave her husband.”
“That was the morning of March eleventh. The day she was killed.”
Bullock rushed right into the next question. “Cynthia, do you think telling Barrett she was leaving him could have provoked the violence that led to her death and the death of her children?”
“Objection!” Ben shouted, drowning out the answer, but he knew the damage had already been done. The point of Bullock’s question was not to elicit an answer. The point was to suggest a rationale, an explanation for this horrible crime. At long last the prosecution had a motive.
“Sustained,” Judge Hart said. “Anything more from this witness?”
“Just one more question. Did your sister tell you anything else during that … final phone call?”
Cynthia’s eyes seemed to blur. “Only about her plans. Our plans. Once she was free from him, we were going to take a trip together, just us and the girls, taking it easy, really getting to know each other. I can’t tell you what that meant to me, how much I looked forward to it. Now, it will never …” Her hand covered her face. Tears streamed through her fingers. “Now it will never … never happen.”
Bullock lowered his head sadly and turned away. “Nothing more, your honor.”
Chapter 39
“WILL THERE BE ANY CROSS?” the judge asked.
Ben tried to imagine whether there was anything he would like to do less than cross-examining this tear-stained, grief-stricken witness. Nothing came to mind.
Jeez. No wonder people hated lawyers.
“Yes, your honor.” Ben grabbed his notes and strode dutifully to the podium, contemplating his approach. Obviously, trying to come on like the tough guy would be a mistake. He wouldn’t get anything out of the witness and the jury would despise him.
He gave her a few more moments to collect herself before he started. “Ms. Taylor, my name is Ben Kincaid, and I’m counsel for the defendant, Wallace Barrett.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I remember.”
“Ms. Taylor, I have a few questions to ask you. Not all that many. I feel I already know most of what you have to say. You see … I read your book.”
Her head lifted. “What?”
“Your book. The Whole Truth, and Nothing But. That is your book, isn’t it? It has your name on it.”
Cynthia smiled but did not speak.
Ben held up the copy of the book that Mike had given him, with its lurid cover and unflattering photograph. “That’s your name on the cover, isn’t it?”
She licked her lips. “Yes. That’s my name.”
“So you wrote this.”
“I—uh—well, no.”
“No?”
“I told my story to someone else. A professional writer. He wrote it.”
“Is there some reason why you used an uncredited ghostwriter?”
She crossed and recrossed her legs. “My publisher felt that … time was of the essence.”
“Meaning they wanted to get the book on the street fast, while the story was hot, before the trial was over.”
“I suppose that’s correct.”
“You’ve been very busy since this book came out, right? Even been on some of the national talk shows, I understand.”
“That’s … true.”
“Sales good?”
“I … don’t know any actual figures, but … I understand sales are healthy.”
Bullock rose wearily to his feet. “Your honor, I fail to see the relevance of this testimony, unless perhaps Mr. Kincaid is hoping to write a book himself. If so, I can give him the name of Ms. Taylor’s literary agent and save the court a great deal of time.”
Judge Hart tried not to smile. “I think we’ll give Mr. Kincaid some leeway here, counsel. This may turn out to have some bearing on the matters at issue.”
Ben continued. “Ms. Taylor, did you receive an advance from your publisher?”
“Uh, yes. That’s standard procedure, I believe.”
“How much did you get?”
Bullock was on his feet again. “Objection! Your honor, this is not relevant. He’s just trying to embarrass her.”
Judge Hart shook her head. “The witness will answer the question.”
Cynthia licked her lips again. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Ben’s eyes widened. “A quarter of a million bucks?” It was more than even he had imagined. “That’s a pretty unstandard advance.”
Cynthia shrugged. “I guess they had a lot of confidence in the book.”
“I guess so. I would have to imagine, though—for that kind of money, they’re going to expect a very good book.”
“I’d imagine.”
“They’re going to want you to tell some juicy stories. Something that will sell that three-hundred-thousand-copy initial print run.”
Cynthia’s eyes lowered. “What are you suggesting?”
“Well, ma’am, did you ever tell anyone about this alleged abuse to your sister prior to her death?”
“Not that I recall.”
“You didn’t call the police?”
“I didn’t feel it was my place.”
“And you didn’t report it to any social services agencies. Including the one for which you are president.”