“Still, there are times—”
“Look, mister, I’ve got two kids of my own, and I’ve been able to discipline them just fine, but I’ve never hit them. Never once.”
Ben swallowed hard. What a position he’d gotten himself into. He’d sooner die than strike Joey. But here he was coming off as the defender of corporal punishment. He could see the headlines: BARRETT ATTY FAVORS CHILD BEATING. “Mr. Prentiss, this is a murder trial, not a referendum on the propriety of spankings. I realize there are television cameras in the room and that creates a temptation to pontificate on important issues, but I’ll have to ask you to stop trying to promote causes and to limit yourself to answering my questions.”
“Fine.”
“When Wallace administered this disciplinary blow to his daughter’s bottom, did he appear to be acting out of anger?”
“Well, no, not particularly.”
“Did he appear to do any serious harm to her?”
“No, no.”
“After the spanking, did he continue to show hostility to her?”
“No. In fact, he picked her up and carried her to the car.”
“So your portrait of a man abusing his family really comes down to a man raising his voice and giving his daughter a mild swat on the backside.”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Thank you, sir. No more questions.”
Ben sat down quickly, hoping they could move to the next witness. To his dismay, the instant he sat, he saw Bullock rise to redirect.
“May I approach the witness?” The judge nodded, and Bullock handed what appeared to be a videotape to Prentiss. “Have you seen this before?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a tape made in the ice cream parlor on March 11. We have a security camera behind the counter that tapes everything that goes on in the store. This particular tape displays the encounter with the defendant and his family that I just described.”
“Your honor, I move that this tape be admitted—”
Ben shot to his feet. “Objection, your honor! This is redirect. He can’t bring in new evidence.”
“This is in the nature of rebuttal,” Bullock explained. “I had hoped to avoid showing this to the jury”—I’ll just bet, Ben thought—“but now Mr. Kincaid has called into question Mr. Prentiss’s testimony. Was it a threat or a joke? Was it a spanking or a beating? The best way for the jury to determine the answers to these questions is to let them see what happened for themselves.”
“But your honor,” Ben protested, “this is duplicative. Prentiss has already testified to all this.”
“And the defense has disputed it,” Bullock answered calmly. “We now wish the opportunity to demonstrate that everything Mr. Prentiss has said is true and is in no way exaggerated.”
The judge nodded. “It’s a bit irregular, but given the circumstances, I’ll allow it. Have you got the proper equipment ready?”
Bullock nodded, and began setting up his VCR and television monitor in front of the jury box.
Ben collapsed into his seat. Damn! He’d been totally set up. Bullock had held back the tape, hoping to have a second shot, and Ben had given him his opportunity on a silver platter. Even if the tape showed nothing more than what Prentiss had already said, the jury would now hear it twice, instead of just once. It would be indelibly imprinted on their brains.
Ben sat down glumly as the lights dimmed and watched the grainy security video that was now being presented to the jury. He tried to focus, but one grim truth kept reasserting itself in his brain.
The first morning of trial had been a disaster for the defense. Or more to the point, for Wallace Barrett.
CHAPTER 42
AS IT TURNED OUT, the videotape didn’t impart any more information than Prentiss had already done. In fact, in many ways, the tape was an inferior means of conveying the information, which explained why Bullock had decided to lead with his live witness and to save the tape for redirect. The graininess of the tape, coupled with the poor audio, undermined the impact of some of the events, plus the shots of the spanking made it clear that it was a spanking, and a rather lighthearted one at that.
After the tape, Judge Hart called for a late lunch break. Ben ate with Barrett in his holding cell, but neither had much to say. What could he ask the man? Why the hell did you hit your kid in public? Why did you throw your wife out on the front porch half naked? All these questions would have to be asked before Barrett took the stand, but somehow, Ben just couldn’t bring himself to ask them now.
After lunch, Judge Hart reconvened the trial and instructed the prosecution to call its next witness. Ben tried to cheer himself. After all, the worst was surely over now. Who could they possibly call who could make Barrett look worse than he already did?
“The State calls Karen Gleason.” There was a mild stir, and then, from the back of the courtroom, a tiny eight-year-old girl slid off the bench and started timidly toward the front escorted by the sergeant at arms.
Ben’s head fell to the table. Just when you think it can’t get any worse …
Bullock boosted the child into the large chair in the witness box, putting a thick pillow beneath her so she could be seen over the rail. She had a small face with large brown eyes, pretty in an innocent, prepubescent way. Her black hair was braided back in matched pigtails on either side of her head.
Judge Hart swore in the witness, being particularly careful to speak clearly and to keep a pleasant expression on her face. Whatever it took to make this experience less of a nightmare for her than it would likely be anyway. Studies had shown that testifying in court was one of the most traumatic experiences a small child could undergo. It was worst, of course, when the case centered around child abuse or charges against the child’s parents. Nonetheless, the murder of your best friend was not a piece of cake.
“Karen, there are a few questions I need to ask you before you answer the lawyers’ questions. You understand that the lawyers are going to ask you some questions, don’t you?”
Karen’s small oval face turned up at the cheekbones. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you understand that you’ve promised to tell the truth, don’t you?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You need to say yes or no, Karen. So the court reporter can take it down.”
“Oh. Sorry.” A flush of embarrassment colored her face. “Yes, I promised.”
“And you’re how old?”
“I’m eight, ma’am.”
“Eight. So you’re old enough to know the difference between the truth and a lie, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes. My mama has been real strict on that.”
Judge Hart beamed a smile that was one part judicial and two parts maternal. “Good. Then just answer these questions truthfully and we shouldn’t have any problems. If you don’t understand their questions, you just tell them so.” She glanced up. “And I can assure you the lawyers will make themselves clear and won’t try to be tricky or to upset you in any way whatsoever.”
Message received and understood, Ben thought.
“Counsel, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Bullock squared himself behind the podium and borrowed the friendly smile the judge had been using. “Karen, you know why you’re here today, don’t you?”
Karen’s head bobbed gravely. “ ’Cause Alysha got killed. With her mama and sister.”
“That’s right, honey.” Ben felt a catch in his throat, and he knew the other jurors were feeling it as well. Not as if they didn’t all know what the crime was. But somehow, hearing it come from the lips of an eight-year-old girl made it all the more heartbreaking. “You knew Alysha, didn’t you?”
She nodded. “We went to school together. At Forestview.”