"Yes."
"Just like Jennifer did?"
"Yes. I mean until later."
"What happened later?"
"Well, later, when Tom got older, he'd, like, he tried to protect me. So Phil would make sure Tom wasn't around."
"But that wasn't the case with Jennifer?"
"I'm sorry. What wasn't?"
"Your late husband, Phil, would hit you even if Jennifer was around?"
"Sometimes."
"And she didn't try to stop it?"
"She couldn't stop my husband. I couldn't…" She stopped, realizing that finally she had done just that. "He was too strong. Jennifer just hid, I think."
"So Jennifer hid and watched her father beat you up without trying to help you in any way. But your son Tom tried to step in. How do you feel about your son now?"
"Tom? He's a good boy."
"You love him?"
"Of course. He's my son."
"And of course mothers love their sons."
"Yes."
Powell let that sink in. "And yet you testified that Jennifer was all you had left?"
Nancy glanced in panic around the room, then looked at Hardy. He nodded. It was okay. She was doing fine.
"That was just a figure of speech," she said. "She's the only daughter I have left."
"And are you very close to her?"
"Yes. Very close."
"You're very close. I see. Can you tell the jury roughly how many times, in the past year before your daughter was arrested, that you visited her at her house?"
Hardy put a hand to his forehead. The trap was going to spring here. Jennifer had her hand on his arm.
Nancy hesitated, sitting back now for the first time. Seconds crept by.
"Mrs. DiStephano," Villars prodded, "please answer the question."
Powell waited some more. He wasn't pressing – it was an obvious and simple question, hanging in the room. No one, least of all Nancy, was apt to have forgotten it. "Not last year," she said at last.
"You didn't visit your daughter's home during the last year?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"No."
Powell did a three-sixty, his expressive face showing every nuance of his deep surprise. "Well, how about the year before that?"
Nancy started to sound a little snappish. "No, we didn't see them very much. Larry was… Larry didn't want us to."
"Larry didn't want you to." Powell, sparing Nancy's feelings, a good guy, tried to find a way out for her. "Then, with your very close relationship, you and Jennifer must have spoken on the phone quite a lot?"
She looked down. "She was very busy."
"Your daughter was busy. Did she have a job?"
"I had a job, I have a job."
"Which left nights and weekends, is that right?"
Hardy stood up. "Your Honor, this is badgering."
"Overruled."
Powell asked again. "Just approximately, Mrs. DiStephano, how often did you and your daughter speak?"
Nancy kept her eyes down.
"Every week? Once a month?"
"She always called on my birthday. I always called on hers."
Powell let the words speak for themselves. He nodded, then walked back to the prosecution table. "I'd like to explore one last point – you've told us, Mrs. DiStephano, that Matt was Jennifer's life, that she even spoiled him. I wonder if you could be more specific."
Again, the eyes came to Hardy, pleading for help. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, if you didn't see much of Jennifer and Matt, which you've just told us, how do you know how she felt about him or how she treated him?"
"Well, when he was younger, when he was a baby-"
"Matt was Jennifer's life then?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Yes."
Powell was still trying to seem gentle, generous. He came close to the witness box, speaking softly. "Mrs. DiStephano, I just don't see how you can know. Please help me here."
Nancy sat quietly for an hour's worth of fifteen seconds. Finally Hardy stood and asked if a question had been asked. Powell gave it some more time, then sighed, saying he supposed not. Mrs. DiStephano could sit down.
49
Finally, after lunch, the defendant took the stand.
She wore a taupe-colored suit with a bright multi-colored scarf. Hardy wasn't sure how he felt about the outfit – it gave out conflicting messages. On the one hand, it cut Jennifer away even further from the common thread shared by the rest of the people on the jury, which was not good. She needed their empathy, not their envy. But he had to admit, and statistics supported it, that there was a subtle dynamic at work in death-penalty cases. A natural reaction, he guessed, although not a particularly noble one. A jury would only be likely to vote for the death penalty if it had become convinced that the defendant was, in some tangible way, a kind of monster, a deformity cut off from the bonds of humanity. To avoid this impression – shallow as it might be – Jennifer's clothes would help. Looking as she did, dressed as she was, she was very much a human presence, not a non-person, certainly not a monster. More than that, there was something in her physical beauty and carriage that was generally highly valued in America. Hardy hoped the jury – especially the men – would not be inclined to vote to turn this suffering beauty into a corpse.
Of course, his fear in calling her to the stand was that by opening her mouth she would break the spell cast by her appearance. And Hardy well knew that from behind that appearance might erupt someone to turn off even the most predisposed in her favor.
They had discussed the format for this testimony, and had decided that Jennifer should say what she had to in her most modulated voice. She would be her best self. The risk would come with Powell's cross-examination. Meanwhile, Hardy tread lightly.
"Jennifer, you're up here today to argue for your very life. Is there anything you would like the jury, and the judge, to know?"
She turned to them. "I know that you have found the evidence was enough to convict me." Swallowing, nervous, she looked at Hardy, who nodded. "I'm really not here to make an argument for my life, as Mr. Hardy says. I'm here to tell you that I did not do any of this. I did not kill my husband. I certainly did not kill my son." She swallowed again. "I admit I may not have been the greatest mom in the world, but I loved Matt…" Again, she stopped, bit down on her lower lip. Gathering herself, she forced a weak smile. "I guess that's all."
Powell was scribbling furiously – about what?
Hardy had intended to question her some about Larry, but this statement was so clean that he was tempted to stop right there. The jury now had heard her deny the killings with her own voice – it just might be all he needed, or at least the best he was going to get.
But on the other side, the jury might feel it was too easy to fake something so short. He felt he had to bring her out a little more – as Freeman had said, life was a risk.
"Do you want to tell us about the morning of December 28?"
Powell stood up. "Your Honor, this testimony belonged in the guilt phase of this trial."
Hardy had to get in a word before Villars ruled. "This is Jennifer Witt's story and the jury deserves to hear it, Your Honor."
The judge frowned as she always did when counsel went at each other, then she agreed with Hardy. Turning to Jennifer, she said, "Tell us about that morning, Mrs. Witt."
Jennifer nodded. "I got up early because we'd had dinner late and I hadn't done the dishes from the night before. And Larry was going to be home all day, all week really, so I wanted to be sure the house was perfect. I wanted to go jogging later, which I usually did, so I just put on my running clothes and went downstairs.
"It got pretty late, maybe eight-thirty, but it was Larry's vacation and I thought he should be able to sleep in if he wanted. Then finally he came down. Matt was still sleeping, he was a good sleeper."
Nice touch, Hardy thought shamelessly.