Judge Hart continued pounding her gavel. “Counsel, you know perfectly well you cannot alter the charges in midtrial. If you want to try the fourth murder, you’ll have to file another indictment.”
Bullock nodded, acquiescing. He turned just enough to face the cameras, giving them a silent look of grim sadness, followed by steely resolve.
Ben felt a cold shiver running up and down his spine. An unborn baby. Murdered. This changed everything. Everything. The worst crime of the century just got worse still.
“Do you have any more questions, counsel?” Judge Hart asked.
“No, your honor. I guess not.” Ben hated to leave his cross on this abysmal note, but he had no idea what to ask next. He simply had no idea.
He took his seat beside Wallace Barrett. “How’re you doing, man?”
Barrett turned his head to the side, just enough for Ben and every juror in the box to see his tear-streaked face. “She never told me, Ben,” he said, barely in a whisper. “A boy. I always wanted a boy.”
Tears streamed out of his eyes; his face returned to the makeshift privacy of his hands.
Ben felt a hollowness in his heart that was almost unbearable. He knew Barrett must feel horrible; his agony was almost palpable. But at the same time, he knew that the jury, depending on which way they were leaning, could see an entirely different motivation for the scene at the defense table.
Where Ben saw tears of grief, they would see tears of guilt.
Chapter 54
MERCIFULLY, JUDGE HART CALLED a recess so the reporters could file their reports and some semblance of order could be restored before hearing the final witness of the day.
Ben’s aching had transmuted itself into a numbness, an emptiness he could hardly describe. He tried to put it out of his mind. They had one more witness to deal with, and it was important that this one go better for Barrett than the last had gone.
“The State calls Dr. Herbert Fisher to the stand.”
Ben shot a quick, puzzled look back at Christina. Weren’t they done with the forensic testimony?
He flipped quickly through his trial notebook to the witness list. That’s right—Fisher was a fact witness, not an expert. He was a friend and doctor to Caroline Barrett. Why on earth would they be calling him now?
Fisher took the stand. He was a tall man about Barrett’s age. Obviously a professional. He was handsome—so handsome, in fact, that it dominated all first impressions and obscured any lesser facts that might otherwise have been gathered. As Joni would say, he was a hunk.
Ben almost immediately noticed the difference in his client when Fisher took the stand. He became stiff and cold; his eyes burned across the courtroom to the witness stand. It was clear to Ben that there was no love lost between these two men.
Despite the lateness of the day, Bullock spent a fair amount of time delving into the witness’s educational background, his medical practice, his home in South Tulsa near Southern Hills. Almost half an hour passed before he asked, “Doctor, did you ever have occasion to meet a woman named Caroline Barrett?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when did you meet her?”
“Six or seven months ago.”
“Can you please describe the circumstances?”
Dr. Fisher folded his hands and nodded. “At that time, I was a general practice physician at Springer Clinic. Caroline was referred to me one day when her usual physician was unavailable.”
“Why did she need a doctor?”
“She had a bruised eye, as well as some damage to her nose.”
“Do you know what caused the injuries?”
Dr. Fisher paused, looked at the jury. “She told me she fell. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that she was lying.”
“Lying? Why would she lie?”
Fisher frowned. “It was obvious to me that she had been punched. Probably several times, given the extent of the injuries.”
“And do you know who struck her?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “Lack of personal knowledge. He wasn’t there.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
“Very well,” Bullock said, “did she tell you who struck her?”
“I still object,” Ben said. “That’s hearsay.”
“But your honor,” Bullock said, “the declarant is dead. She’s obviously unavailable.”
Judge Hart nodded. “I don’t like this sort of evidence, Mr. Bullock. I don’t think it’s the most reliable evidence to give the jury. But given the circumstances, I’m going to allow it once again. Just don’t take it too far.”
Bullock nodded. “Of course not.” He returned his attention to the witness. “Did she tell you who struck her?”
“Yes. Not that first day, but later, as we got to know each other better.” He turned his head to stare directly at Wallace Barrett. “She told me her husband beat her up.”
The murmur from the courtroom was somber and low. Ben immediately saw the plan behind Bullock’s seemingly erratic ordering of his witnesses. Now that he had nailed down the DNA identification, assuring everyone at the very least that Barrett was at the scene of the crime, he reconjured the specters of wife beating and domestic abuse. It was all the jury needed to understand the how and the why of the murder.
It was all they needed to convict.
“Did you believe her?” Bullock asked.
“Of course I did. The truth had been evident to me all along.”
Bullock pivoted around his podium. “You’ve said that you later got to know Caroline Barrett better. How did that occur?”
Fisher waved a hand casually. “Oh, in the same manner that all friendships do, I suppose. I saw her a few more times after that initial consultation. We met at a party. We had lunch together. We came to be close friends.”
“Did you continue to act as her physician?”
“No. After it became apparent that we were going to be close personal friends, I thought it was inappropriate for me to act as her doctor, so I referred her to someone else, although of course, just by seeing her as often as I did, I was aware of her continual injuries on an informal basis.”
Bullock pulled himself erect. “Let me apologize in advance, Doctor, but I’m afraid I have to ask you a personal question. Were you and Caroline Barrett intimate?”
“Intimate? What do you mean?”
“Was it a romantic relationship?”
“Certainly not.” Fisher spoke as if the very notion was absurd. “She was still married to the defendant, even though he made her life miserable. No, it was purely friendship. Nothing more.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Did you see Caroline Barrett during the month before she was so brutally killed?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How would you describe her state of mind at that time?”
“Not good.” Fisher frowned. “During that last month, I probably saw her almost every day. Certainly never more than a day or two passed that I didn’t see her. And she was miserable. Unhappy, depressed, despondent.”
“Why was she unhappy?”
“In a nutshell? Because she was afraid of her husband.”
“Why?”
“Because he had beat her up so many times before, and there was no telling when he would hit her next. She lived in fear—I mean, absolute fear— on a daily basis. The most innocent remark might set him off. There was just no way of knowing. And when those rages came over him, he was uncontrollable. Mean, violent, and uncontrollable.” He paused again, then made eye contact with the jurors. “She was afraid he’d kill her.”
Ben watched the jurors’ faces grow still and grim. Many of them looked over at Wallace Barrett, who was looking away, avoiding eye contact.
The testimony was having its intended impact. Slowly but surely the jury was seeing Barrett less as the sports hero/mayor and more as the abusive, wife-beating maniac.