Wordlessly, he held up the exhibits: first the enlargement of the crime-scene shot of Caroline Barrett, soaked with blood and draped over a dining room chair, then the picture of Annabelle Barrett, lying mummy-like on her bed, then Alysha Barrett, lying dead in a bathtub awash in blood.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, “I ask you to do your duty as responsible citizens and jurors. I ask you to find Wallace Barrett guilty of first-degree murder. Please.”
He folded up the exhibits and returned to his seat.
Judge Hart gave Ben the nod, and he took his place before the jury. How could he follow a presentation like that one?
Slowly Ben made eye contact with each of the jurors. “This is not a game. It is not a contest. It is not a duel between Mr. Bullock and me. It is not a horse race, where you try to bet on the winner. And it is not a circus, media or otherwise. This is a murder trial. A man is on trial, and make no mistake, the action you take today will irrevocably change the course of his life, and the lives of others, for all time. In your entire lives, you may never again do anything as important as what you do today. I do not want to make your job any harder than it already is. But given the gravity of the situation, you must be certain that you have considered all the facts. You must be certain that you have considered all the evidence. And you must be certain that you are right.”
Ben pressed his hands together. “What is it the prosecution would have you believe? First, that Wallace Barrett, successful athlete, businessman, and politician, is really a heartless, twisted, violent man with a temper he can’t control. Well, I don’t doubt that Wallace has a temper. We all do. He’s probably even lost it once or twice. I know I have. In fact, I’ve lost my temper once or twice since this trial began.” The jury smiled appreciatively. “But, ladies and gentlemen, this crime required far more than a temper. This crime required a callous, cold-hearted disregard for human life, even children. Have you heard or seen anything that suggested that this man was capable of destroying his entire family? I don’t think so.
“And even assuming that he could commit this crime, why would he? Just because he got mad one day? Because he was jealous? Because they had an argument at an ice-cream parlor? I find that impossible to believe. This man loved his children. You can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t hurt them for any reason, much less a trivial one. The prosecution would have you believe he was furious because his wife was pregnant, a fact he didn’t even know, because being pregnant would make her ugly. Is that credible? He loved his children, and he has always wanted a son. They’d been trying to have another child for years. Bizarrely enough, the prosecution would twist what should have been a blessed event into a motive for murder. Does that even make sense?”
Ben nodded toward the prosecution table. “Now, Mr. Bullock has made much of the fact that Wallace Barrett told you he was at home the afternoon of the murders, but left after an argument and was gone when the murders took place. Isn’t that convenient? they say. Well, I say, convenient for whom? For Wallace? Or for the man who had been stalking his family, the man who we know was in the neighborhood watching, waiting for his opportunity. When he saw Wallace Barrett leave the home, right after a noisy argument, he saw the chance he had been waiting for, not only to commit the murders, but to guarantee that Wallace would be blamed. That was part of the plan, after all. They didn’t just want him dead. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him destroyed.”
Ben gestured toward the prosecution exhibits, still leaning against the central podium. “The prosecution has made much of the forensic evidence in this case, because that’s really all they have. But let’s face it. It’s all circumstantial. At best, some of it proves that Wallace Barrett was at his home the day of the murders, a fact he has never denied. None of it proves that he was the one who killed his wife and children. Moreover, you’ve heard from the lips of the prosecution’s own witnesses how tainted the crime scene was. Dozens of people tramped through that house, touching things, leaving tracks, covering others. These shoddy police procedures call into question the credibility of any evidence taken from the crime scene. And ask yourselves this: If proper procedures had been followed, what other evidence might have been discovered? Evidence pointing to Buck Conners, perhaps? Or even Councilman Bailey Whitman?
“The prosecution has suggested that this trail of evidence pointing to the city council is speculative and unconvincing. Can you say the same? It doesn’t matter, actually, because that is not the question the judge will put before you. The important question is: Can you say that this evidence does not create a reasonable doubt in your mind? You’ve seen the evidence. Buck Conners admitted he was in the neighborhood at the time of the murders. He admitted that he worked with Councilman Whitman. He admitted their secret rendezvous at a secluded park in the middle of the night. Then he clammed up— because he didn’t want to incriminate himself.
“What about Councilman Whitman himself? He admitted hiring Conners, he admitted meeting him in the park, he admitted Conners was in Barrett’s neighborhood. He gave you some cock-and-bull story about a marketing brochure. Ask yourselves this: If that’s true, where’s the brochure? It’s been weeks since the murders took place. Shouldn’t it be done by now? The truth is there was never any brochure. There was only this—a cold-blooded plan to eliminate a political opponent, engineered by a man who has admitted that he hated Barrett, admitted that he has hated Barrett for years. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a motive you can believe.
“The proof of the pudding is in the documents. Whitman took the Fifth—so as not to incriminate himself—but he couldn’t deny the truth spelled out by his own e-mail messages. Those messages prove he was plotting with Conners, prove he met Conners on the street where Barrett lived. If there is any doubt whatsoever in your mind about the complicity of Conners and Whitman, ask yourselves this question: What did he mean when he asked Buck Conners on the day of the murder—‘Did you get the nigger?’ What did he mean? What else could he have meant?”
Ben lowered his hands and took a step back from the jury box. “Ultimately, you do not have to determine who committed this crime. You do not even have to determine whether you think the defendant committed this crime. The question before you as jurors is simply this: Is there a reasonable doubt? Regardless of what you think likely or probable—is there a reasonable doubt? Given all that you have seen, all the lies and deceit, sloppy police work and Fifth Amendment cover-ups and secret e-mail messages that drip with hatred, can you honestly say that there is no reasonable doubt? And if you cannot, if you are willing to admit that there is a reasonable doubt, then, as the judge will instruct you, you have only one choice. You must find the defendant not guilty. If you are not absolutely certain, if there is a reasonable doubt in your minds, you must agree with what Wallace Barrett said the day he was indicted for this horrible crime. He said that this monstrous crime made him sick at heart. But he was absolutely not guilty.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to follow the facts, follow the evidence, follow the judge’s instructions, and follow your hearts. This man would not commit this crime. He could not commit this crime. I ask you to return a verdict of not guilty.”
Bullock’s rebuttal was brief, to everyone’s relief. He did not attempt to rehash the whole trial, nor did he directly refute anything Ben had said in his closing. Instead, he approached the jurors holding a smashed picture frame in a plastic evidence bag.