“Did you yourself ever see Wallace Barrett strike his wife or children?”
“No, I did not.”
“And you certainly never heard him say he was going to kill them.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “No, I did not.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.” Ben started away, then, as if in afterthought, turned back to the podium. He knew he’d already gotten everything useful out of this witness he was ever likely to get. But there was one more matter he wanted to inquire about, for his own curiosity’s sake, if nothing else. “I just have one more question, Ms. Taylor. Why did you call the city office building?”
The question obviously took her by surprise. “What? What are you talking about?”
“You remember when I came to interview you at your place of work?”
“I remember you were a fairly sad excuse for an aerobicizer.”
Ben smiled. “After I left your office, you called the city office building. Where the city council meets and most of the members have offices. Why?”
Her eyes widened. “How do you know who I called?”
“Please answer the question.”
“But—”
Judge Hart intervened. “The witness will answer the question.”
For the first time, Cynthia seemed flustered. “Well, I don’t—I mean—I can’t imagine. I don’t think … oh yes. It must have been DVIS business. That’s right. I was working with the city council to toughen the laws on mandatory police investigation of domestic abuse calls. That must have been it.”
“I see. So you did call the city council offices, after all.”
“Yes, I guess I must have.”
“Did you talk to any particular city council member?”
“No, no one in particular.”
“Who in general?”
“Well, Loretta Walker was the one who sponsored the ordinance. Brian Erickson has been very supportive.”
“Bailey Whitman?”
She looked up at him quickly. “Yes, of course. He’s the head of the council.”
“Have you had many occasions to talk to Mr. Whitman?”
“Well, I don’t— Many? A few. I wouldn’t say many.”
“But you were in communication with him during the time of the murder and the subsequent investigation.”
“Uh, yes. I suppose I was.”
“Thank you. No more questions.”
Bullock waived redirect, and Cynthia, obviously shaken, stepped down. Ben avoided her eyes as she passed by his table. He felt certain that whatever small affection or respect he had earned by rescuing her from the reporters was now totally eradicated. It was a shame, but unavoidable.
“Very well,” Judge Hart said. “We’ve still got some time before lunch. Mr. Bullock, please call your next witness.”
Chapter 40
“THE STATE CALLS MR. Arthur Prentiss to the stand.”
As Mr. Prentiss strode forward and was sworn in and introduced, Ben made a silent prayer of thanks to the great gods of the judiciary for pretrial discovery and Grady v. Wisconsin. If the prosecution hadn’t been required to identify their witnesses in advance of trial, he wouldn’t’ve had a clue who this witness was or what he was about to say.
“Mr. Prentiss,” Bullock asked, after the witness was settled, “where do you work?”
Prentiss was a tall thin man with a scraggly black mustache and beard. He was in his mid-thirties, although he looked younger. Despite the beard, he had a clean, fresh-faced look. Basically, he looked like an honest man, which worried Ben no end.
“I work at the Baskin-Robbins over on Fifty-first, near Harvard. You know, next to Novel Idea.”
“What do you do there?”
“Well, I scoop ice cream, for the most part.” He grinned. “I’m the assistant manager, but we have a very small staff. There’s never more than two of us on-site at once. So I usually end up doing a little of everything. Stocking, scooping. Ringing up the cash register.”
“I see.” Bullock turned a page in his trial notebook, usually his subconscious signal to the jury that he was about to get to the good parts. “Let me ask you, Mr. Prentiss, if you’ve ever had occasion to know the defendant, Wallace Barrett.”
“Sure. Of course.” He shrugged. “He’s the mayor. I’ve seen him in the papers, on TV. And he used to come into the store.”
“Really. That’s interesting. I’d like to talk about that.” Ben knew better than to trust Bullock’s feigned surprise. Something was in the offing. “Did he by any chance come into the store on the afternoon of March 11?”
As if you didn’t know. “Yes, he did.”
“Was he alone?”
“No, he was with his wife and kids.” He glanced awkwardly at Barrett. “Er … late wife and kids.”
“Would you please describe that encounter for the jury in your own words?”
Prentiss shifted his angle slightly so that he faced the jury and could speak directly to them. “Well, at first it was no different from any other visit. Mayor Barrett greeted me by name, asked about my kids. He was that kind of guy, you know—always remembered your wife’s and children’s names and always remembered to ask after them. A good politician, I guess. We shot the breeze a little bit, like we always did. They’d just come from that press conference he gave. Where he announced he was running for reelection.”
Bullock nodded. “What was different about their visit on this particular occasion?”
“Well, it’s hard to describe. There was some kind of tension in the air, particularly between Wallace and his wife. Something was going on between them, but I wasn’t sure what.”
“What was the first … manifestation of this tension you’re describing?”
“It was the strangest thing. Those two little girls of his had their noses pressed up against the glass counter—you know, picking out their flavors. Mayor Barrett asked them what they wanted, and told them they could have any kind they wanted. And—”
Bullock leaned forward. “Yes?”
“And …” Prentiss seemed to be struggling for words. “And … the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. So thick I thought it was going to strangle them. Or her, anyway.”
“Her being?”
“Mrs. Barrett. Caroline. She told the girls they couldn’t have chocolate. The mayor apparently disapproved of this limitation. They started to argue.”
“Did the defendant become … angry? Agitated?”
“Actually, I thought he showed a remarkable amount of self-control. She was coming on pretty strong, but he kept calm. He told her she was creating a scene, and he was right, she was. Everyone in the store was watching them.”
“Did the defendant’s attitude ever change?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t know what triggered it. I don’t think it was anything she said. It was just as if something inside of him snapped, as if he decided he’d had enough—”
“Objection.” Ben decided to interject. This account was becoming a bit too colorful. “The witness has gone beyond recounting what he saw and heard and is … interpreting.”
Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. I’ll caution the witness to stick to what he saw and heard.”
Bullock stepped in to retake control. “You were telling the jury when the defendant’s attitude changed.”
Prentiss nodded. “Right, right. All of a sudden, his face got real solid and serious, and his eyes shrunk down to two tiny little slits. And he told her to shut up.”
“How did he say it?”
“The first time, he whispered it. Unfortunately, she kept right on talking. That’s when he went into a rage.”
“What did he do?”
Prentiss looked directly into the jurors’ eyes. “This time he shouted it: ‘Shut up!’ After that, the whole place got real quiet. I think we were all holding our breath, afraid of what might happen next. He snapped his arm back like this”—Prentiss demonstrated—“like he was getting ready to throw a forward pass. Then, like a rocket, he brought his clenched first forward. Toward his wife’s face.”