“She was … red … and …” He struggled to force the words out. “There was blood, all over her body. Her face was … mutilated.”
“What did you do?”
“I shouted out to her. But she didn’t answer. I tried to pick her up. I remember, I cut myself—maybe on her ring? I don’t know. Whatever it was, I guess it bled. I didn’t notice; I had a lot more on my mind at the time. I tried to move her, but she was so limp, and I was so upset. My eyes blurred, and I just kept shouting, ‘Caroline! Caroline!’ ”
Ben looked away. This was the hardest witness examination he had ever done, ever. He just hoped it was affecting the jury as strongly as it was affecting him. “Then what did you do?”
“I couldn’t move her, and I couldn’t get her to respond. I tried to take her pulse. Got her blood all over me. And the smell! It was so sickening, I just—” He shook his head. “There was no pulse. I knew she was dead.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I panicked. Just panicked. Started running through the house, shouting for the kids. Of course they didn’t answer. Finally I ran upstairs. And then I found them. Annabelle on the bed, Alysha in the bathtub.”
“Would you please describe the condition in which you found them?”
Barrett was shaking. His eyes were beginning to water. “It was just like the police officer who found them said. Annabelle was lying still, her hands folded, like she was sleeping. But I knew she wasn’t just sleeping. And then I found Alysha—my poor precious Alysha—in the tub with all that blood dripping and splattered and—”
His face fell into his hands, and he was consumed by weeping. Tears streamed through his fingers. The jurors watched, then eventually looked away. No matter what they believed, at that moment in time, no one doubted the depth of the grief Barrett was experiencing.
Several moments passed before Ben asked the next question. “Wallace, would you please tell the jury what you did after you found the last body?”
“I fled,” he said. “I ran. Bolted out of the house. That’s when Sanders saw me—it would have been six or so by then. I’m not proud of it. But I just panicked. My whole family had been killed. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think straight. For all I knew, the killer was still on the premises. For all I knew, I was the one he wanted. I don’t know what all I thought, really. I just ran to my car and drove.”
“Where were you going?”
“I didn’t know. Nowhere, really. Just driving. Just putting as much distance as I could between myself and that … atrocity. I couldn’t deal with it. I think I thought that maybe if I could put enough distance between myself and all that blood, then it wouldn’t be real. It would all disappear and everything would be normal again.”
“You were headed south.”
“Yeah, I know. I don’t know why. I have a sister in Dallas—she’s my only living relative. I think maybe some part of me was trying to get to her, trying to find the comfort and easy acceptance that only a family member can provide.”
“You did not call the police.”
“No. I should have, I know that. But they couldn’t have helped. They couldn’t have given my family back to me. I can’t explain how I felt. I just … wasn’t thinking in any sane, logical manner. I had just witnessed the most hellish nightmare that I could ever imagine. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“And what happened after that?”
Barrett shrugged wearily. “You’ve seen the tape. The police cars and copters found me. I knew they were there, but some part of me just wasn’t processing information properly. I felt like I had to keep on driving, that if I stopped, it would be like admitting they were dead, that my whole family had been taken away from me. I just couldn’t make myself do it.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “Then I got the searchlight from one of those helicopters in my eyes. It blinded me, I lost control, and I hit that tollbooth. I woke up in the hospital, and I’ve been in police custody ever since.”
“Have you cooperated with the police?”
“Absolutely. I’ve told them everything I know, tried to help them in every way possible. You got to understand—I thought the police would try to find the monster who committed these crimes. Imagine my shock and”—his teeth clenched together—“anger when I realized they were trying to pin it on me! Trying to accuse me of killing my own wife and children!”
“How did you respond when you heard the charges?”
“With outrage. But even then I didn’t understand the truth. I thought they’d follow up all the leads, whether they thought I did it or not. But they didn’t. Once they had me behind bars, they called the case closed and stopped looking. Why hasn’t anyone found those strangers who were seen casing my home? I get death threats every month. Why hasn’t anyone followed up on any of those? Every time I turn around I find out my opponents on the city council have been butting into this investigation—illegally. Why hasn’t anyone investigated that? The police don’t care about the truth. They just wanted a scapegoat, someone to save their butts and make it look like they’d done their jobs. I was the easiest scapegoat available, so they’ve tried to pin it on me and never even considered any other possibilities. Hell, they botched the evidence collection and let thrill-seekers trample through my house. People I don’t even know were barging through my home hoping to get a cheap thrill by seeing the dead bodies of my family!”
“Your honor, I must object,” Bullock said. “The witness is no longer being responsive.”
“Overruled,” she said curtly.
“All my life,” Barrett continued, “I’ve tried to work with the system, tried to do things the right way. That was true when I was growing up in the ghettos of North Tulsa, and it was still true when I was elected mayor. But I must tell you, this case shames me. This case has exposed our system for how fallible, how prejudiced it really is. How easily it can be manipulated. How much evil there is in the world. First they took my family away from me, then my freedom, then my dignity, then my good name. And as if that wasn’t enough, now they’re trying to take everything else.”
“Wallace,” Ben said evenly, “did you kill your wife?”
Barrett looked him straight in the eyes. “No, sir.”
“Did you kill your daughter Alysha Barrett?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you kill your other daughter, Annabelle Barrett?”
“No, sir. I did not.” He turned to face the jury. “I did not kill any of them. I would not—I could not commit these horrible crimes.”
“Thank you, Wallace. That’s all.”
Judge Hart, to the relief of everyone, called for a blissful thirty-minute recess.
Chapter 58
AFTER THE BREAK, A refreshed jury retook its seats and Bullock began his cross-examination. His jaw was set; his eyes had a steely cast to them. Ben knew he had spent the whole recess staring at his legal pad, furiously scribbling notes. Obviously, he planned to give this cross his best. Bullock, no less than Ben, had to be aware of the impact Barrett had made on the jury. Now Bullock would try to undo that good, to reestablish his portrait of Barrett as a cold-blooded killer.
“Mr. Barrett,” Bullock began, pointedly not calling him “Mayor,” “do you feel able to proceed now?”
“Sure,” Barrett replied. The break had done him some good, too. He’d regained his equilibrium; his voice had refound its strength. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you. If you feel you need another break at any time, just let me know, okay?”
“Okay,” Barrett said. “Thanks.”
Bullock’s lips turned up into a smile more enigmatic than the Mona Lisa’s. “That was quite a performance you just gave.”