‘Yes, I did,’ said Rebecca, sounding even more defiant.
‘And when you were woken by a gunshot, you checked the time by looking at the clock on your side of the bed?’
‘Yes, it was just after two o’clock.’
‘So you don’t wear a wristwatch in bed?’
‘No, I lock away all my jewellery in a little safe Ralph had installed in the bedroom. There have been so many burglaries in the area recently.’
‘How wise of him. And you still think it was the first shot that woke you?’
‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’
‘How long was it between the first and second shot, Mrs Elliot?’ Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. ‘Do take your time, Mrs Elliot, because I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake that, like so much of your evidence, needs correcting later.’
‘Objection, your honour, my client is not...’
‘Yes, yes, Mr Ebden, sustained. That last comment will be struck from the record,’ and turning to Fletcher, the judge repeated, ‘stick to your brief, Mr Davenport.’
‘I will try to, your honour,’ said Fletcher, but his eyes never left the jury to make sure it wasn’t struck from their minds. ‘Have you had enough time to consider your reply, Mrs Elliot?’ He waited once again before repeating, ‘How long was it between the first and second shots?’
‘Three, possibly four minutes,’ she said.
Fletcher smiled at the chief prosecutor, walked back to his table and picked up the stopwatch, which he placed in his pocket. ‘When you heard the first shot, Mrs Elliot, why didn’t you phone the police immediately, why wait for three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?’
‘Because to begin with I wasn’t absolutely sure that I had heard it. Don’t forget, I’d been asleep for some time.’
‘But you opened your bedroom door and were horrified to hear Mr Cartwright shouting at your husband and threatening to kill him, so you must have believed that Ralph was in some considerable danger, so why not lock your door, and immediately phone the police from the bedroom?’ Rebecca looked across at Richard Ebden. ‘No, Mrs Elliot, Mr Ebden can’t help you this time, because he didn’t anticipate the question, which, to be fair,’ said Fletcher, ‘wasn’t entirely his fault, because you’ve only told him half the story.’
‘Objection’ said Ebden, jumping to his feet.
‘Sustained,’ said the judge. ‘Mr Davenport, stick to questioning Mrs Elliot, not giving opinions. This is a court of law, not the Senate Chamber.’
‘I apologize, your honour, but on this occasion I do know the answer. You see the reason Mrs Elliot didn’t call the police was because she feared that it was her husband who had fired the first shot.’
‘Objection,’ shouted Ebden, leaping to his feet as several members of the public began talking at once. It was some time before the judge could gavel the court back to order.
‘No, no,’ said Rebecca, ‘from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d fired the first shot.’
‘Then I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?’ Fletcher repeated, turning back to face her. ‘Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?’
‘It all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.’
‘What is your favourite work of fiction, Mrs Elliot?’ asked Fletcher quietly.
‘Objection, your honour. How can this possibly be relevant?’
‘Overruled. I have a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr Ebden.’
‘You are indeed, your honour,’ said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness. ‘Mrs Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply want you to tell the court your favourite work of fiction.’
‘I’m not sure I have a particular one,’ she replied, ‘but my favourite author is Hemingway.’
‘Mine too,’ said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face the judge, he asked, ‘Your honour, may I have your permission to briefly leave the courtroom?’
‘For what purpose, Mr Davenport?’
‘To prove that my client did not fire the first shot.’
The judge nodded. ‘Briefly, Mr Davenport.’
Fletcher then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door. ‘Your honour,’ said Ebden jumping up from his place, ‘I must object. Mr Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.’
‘If that turns out to be the case, Mr Ebden, I shall severely censure Mr Davenport the moment he returns.’
‘But, your honour, is this kind of behaviour fair to my client?’
‘I believe so, Mr Ebden. As Mr Davenport reminded the court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your principal witness.’
The chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public entrance.
Richard Ebden rose again, at which point the judge called for order. ‘You honour, I move that Mrs Elliot be released from further questioning on the grounds that the defence counsel is no longer able to carry out his cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.’
‘I shall approve your request, Mr Ebden,’ the state’s attorney looked delighted, ‘should Mr Davenport fail to return in under four minutes.’ The judge smiled down at Mr Ebden, assuming they had both worked out the significance of his judgment,
‘Your honour, I must...’ continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs Elliot, before turning to the judge.
‘Your honour, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?’ he said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.
Judge Kravats pressed the stopper and, looking down at the stopwatch, said, ‘Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.’
Fletcher turned his attention back to the defence witness. ‘Mrs Elliot, I had enough time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card, and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you were fearful of what he might have done.’
‘But even if I did think that,’ said Rebecca, losing her composure, ‘it’s only the second bullet that matters, the one that killed Ralph. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the first bullet ended up in the ceiling, or are you now suggesting that my husband killed himself?’
‘No I am not,’ said Fletcher, ‘so why don’t you now tell the court exactly what you did when you heard the second shot.’
‘I went to the top of the stairs and saw Mr Cartwright running out of the house.’
‘But he didn’t see you?’
‘No, he only glanced back in my direction.’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs Elliot. I think you saw him very clearly when he calmly walked past you in the corridor.’
‘He couldn’t have walked passed me in the corridor because I was at the top of the stairs.’
‘I agree that he couldn’t have seen you if you had been at the top of the stairs,’ said Fletcher as he returned to the table and selected a photograph, before walking back across to the witness stand. He passed the photograph over to her. ‘As you will see from this picture, Mrs Elliot, anyone who left your husband’s study, walked into the corridor and then out of the front door could not have been observed from the top of the stairs.’ He paused so that the jury could take in the significance of his statement, before continuing, ‘No, the truth is, Mrs Elliot, that you were not standing at the top of the stairs, but in the hallway when Mr Cartwright came out of your husband’s study, and if you would like me to ask the judge to adjourn so that the jury can visit your home and check on the veracity of your statement, I would be quite happy to do so.’