Bullock’s voice boomed out. “Can you explain how traces of your blood were found on your wife’s body?”
“No,” he whispered. “Unless, when I cut myself—”
“Mr. Barrett, the forensic team found a significant quantity of your blood. How much did this cut bleed?”
“I—I don’t really know …”
“And what about the DNA test? How did your skin get under her fingernails?”
“I—I don’t know … Unless maybe, when we were fighting earlier—”
“Mr. Barrett, how much do you expect this jury to believe?”
“I—I don’t know all the answers. I don’t remember everything—”
“Mr. Barrett!” Bullock boomed out at the top of his lungs. “If you didn’t kill your family, who did?”
“I don’t know—”
“Who had the opportunity? Who had the motive? Who could’ve done it?”
“I—I just—”
“I repeat, sir. If you didn’t kill them, who did?”
Barrett held up his hands helplessly. “I don’t know.”
Bullock turned away, shaking his head with disbelief and disgust. “I have no more questions for this witness.”
“Any redirect?” Judge Hart asked.
Ben shook his head no. He wanted Barrett off the stand, the sooner, the better.
As Barrett returned to the table, Ben scanned the eyes of the jurors. If he had learned anything in the time he had been trying cases, it was to watch the jury. Their faces could usually tell you which way the wind was blowing.
But not this time. This time Ben saw faces in turmoil, confusion. Barrett had made a good initial impression, but Bullock had put on an effective cross, raising all sorts of doubts with his insinuations and accusations. The jury didn’t know what to believe. They were troubled.
And Ben knew what was troubling them, too. Bullock had hit the nail on the head, had known exactly how to finish. With the one question that no one could answer. The one question that cut the heart out of all Barrett’s protestations of innocence.
If you didn’t kill them, who did?
Ben knew that if he wanted to have any hope of winning this case, he would have to provide the jury with an answer to that question. And he would have to make them believe it.
Chapter 59
THERE WAS NO LONGER the slightest doubt in Deanna’s mind. Wallace Barrett was innocent.
She knew it. She felt it in her head, her heart, and her gut.
The question was: What was she going to do about it?
She’d been dwelling on this ever since she left the courtroom and got back to her hotel room, retracing the same thoughts, running the same futile arguments over and over in her brain.
Wallace Barrett’s reputation was already shot, she rationalized to herself. His life was irrevocably ruined. Even if he beat this rap, he could never again run for public office, could never again live in the public spotlight, and probably wouldn’t want to.
But Martha still had her whole life before her. All her opportunities were still possible; all the doors were still open.
Unless Deanna closed them.
Could she do that? Could she do it to her own flesh and blood? Even to save an innocent man?
It would be so much easier if she could just talk this out with Martha, discuss it, plan what to do together. But that was no longer a possibility. She was sequestered now, and there was no way the deputies were going to let her talk to Martha just so she could ease her conscience. Whatever decision she reached, she would have to reach on her own.
She would have to shoulder all the responsibility.
And all the blame.
She rolled over on her hotel-room bed, cradling the pillow in her arms. How had she gotten into this situation? She’d been a fool to let herself be put on this jury. She should have told them something, anything, to make sure she would be removed. But she had thought she was doing what was best for her daughter, trying to protect her.
What she’d forgotten was to protect herself. Now, as a result, she’d been forced to go into that courtroom every day. Been forced to stare out at that man sitting at the defense table, stricken, scared, on trial for his life. Been forced to harden her heart and to try not to think about what this must be doing to a man accused of committing a nightmarish crime she was almost certain he had not committed.
Because she was almost certain she knew who had.
It was just too much to be a coincidence. The camera, the photos. Buck’s constant flow of unearned wealth. His presence in the neighborhood at the time of the killings. He may not have acted alone; in fact he almost certainly was acting at the instruction of some other, richer person. But he was definitely involved.
It had been painful sitting in the courtroom today, watching that man plead to be believed. Watching the prosecution cut him and hurt him in all the most vulnerable, most personal ways. Despite the way the prosecutor battered him, she thought he did an amazing job of maintaining his dignity, of refusing to play the prosecutor’s games. He was a noble, honorable man. Surely that would be enough, surely the tide would turn and the other jurors would see him as she did.
But she knew that was not the case. She had heard two of the jurors whispering in the elevator, had heard a telling remark from another in the food line. They thought Barrett was guilty. They were leaning toward conviction.
And she knew why, too.
Bullock had brought all their reasonable doubts to a standstill by asking that one overwhelming question.
If you didn’t kill your wife and children, Mr. Barrett, who did? Who could have?
That was the question that dominated the trial now. And that was a question that she could answer.
She could remain quiet. She could say nothing, but refuse to join in a guilty verdict, hanging the jury. But what would that accomplish? Everyone would still believe he was guilty, just as they did now, conviction or not. He would always live with the stain, and eventually they would retry him and get a conviction, and he’d be executed or spend the rest of his life in jail. She wasn’t sure which would be worse. Put the man out of his misery, or let him live fifty or sixty more years with the knowledge that the world believed he had killed his own wife and children.
And if by some miracle they didn’t convict him? Then the investigation would continue, they would find Buck, and then Martha. And for that matter, they’d find Deanna, and they’d realize why she had refused to convict Barrett when she’d been on the jury. That she’d been withholding information.
Great. Maybe she could share a cell with her daughter.
If she went to the judge and told her what she knew, she didn’t know what would happen. Maybe a mistrial. Maybe some criminal charge. And there would certainly be an investigation of Buck.
And Martha.
But if she didn’t …
She kept thinking of that man, that face, those two brown eyes peering out from the witness stand, begging people to believe him, to believe that he did not and could not have committed this hideous crime.
And no one believing him. Not because of anything he had failed to do, but because she had failed to tell them what she knew.
Deanna threw the pillow down on the floor. She still wished she could talk to Martha first. She wished she could consult a lawyer, or at least a friend. But as she had told her daughter so many times before, if wishes were horses …
She cracked open her hotel-room door. A deputy was posted in the corridor outside, just a few feet from her door.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Meanders?”
“No. Well, yes. I mean—”
He stepped toward her. “What do you need?”
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I need to see the judge.”