Jill begins her case with the two octogenarians Leigh originally claimed she spoke with at the church between nine and eleven-thirty and follows with Nancy Lyons, who also contradicts the story Leigh gave to the police.
All we can do right now is pretend we are not being hurt by her lies. During the middle of their testimony I send Dan across the street to the Excelsior with his briefcase to pick up what I hope are some pictures of the inside of Tyndall’s house. Ten minutes later he comes back and nods, and it is all I can do to resist tearing into the envelope he lays beside me on the defense table. For the last hour I have imagined I could hear sirens, but my strange friend Jessie St. Vrain must have carried out her crime undetected. Hurray for the West Coast, I think, as Dan whispers, “She got a few halfway decent shots of some equipment and the interior of his house.”
Watching the jury as Jill zips through her witnesses, I think about Tyndall’s possible answers. If he doesn’t authenticate the pictures, they will be useless. Leigh, beside me in a beige suit that sets off her magnificent black hair, has a quizzical expression on her face, but I shrug as if Dan merely went out to get some routine documents. Since Chet’s death, I have not been able to read her. If she has been participating in some kind of cover-up involving her father, Chet’s suicide is not a part of it. If anything, she is more perplexed than I am by his decision to end his life. Understandably, she is so nervous today she can’t keep still and stirs impatiently at almost every question.
“Try to remain motionless,” I remind her.
“If you move around too much, some of the jurors will take it as a sign of guilt.”
She nods solemnly and clasps her hands in her lap.
Her testimony will be the key, but all she can do now is wait.
Jill puts on the cops who took Leigh’s statement, follows with the pathologist who fixes the time of death at between ten and eleven-thirty, and then calls Mrs. Sims, who found Art’s body. As I listen to this poor old lady babble about the crime scene and how she burst into tears, I find it unlikely that Leigh would have picked a weepy, frail old woman in her seventies to discover Art’s body. Yet, that unlikelihood could have been part of a desperate attempt to cover up his murder. I waive my chance to cross-examine the witness lest I reinforce the impression she is making. Between sobs, she has volunteered that Leigh, like herself, became hysterical.
Beside me, Leigh tears up, possibly from guilt at what she put the old lady through. I don’t discourage her, and during this emotional moment, I take a peek at the pictures. They could help, but everything depends upon Tyndall’s answers. As I quickly flip through them, I see that Jessie has done about as well with the Polaroid as I could have hoped for. Though the quality isn’t terrific, she has managed to get various pieces of equipment, including a tiny microphone similar to the one she wears, next to a photograph of Tyndall and a young woman, who may well be Mary Patricia.
Ann and Bobby Wheeler prove to be more nervous witnesses than I would have expected, given their wealth and sophistication. Holding herself stiffly erect in a spruce-green cotton knit dress which is overlaid with expensive jewelry, Ann, so warm and sympathetic before when I interviewed her, answers in a tense, clipped voice. She is more forthcoming than her husband and establishes that there was, indeed, an argument between Leigh and Art the night before he died.
“Did you check out their alibis?” Dan asks, during Jill’s examination of Bobby.
“Hell, no,” I mutter. Moments before, Bobby Wheeler barely acknowledged that there had been a little unpleasantness in the neighborhood that day. Still, Dan is right. We should at least have made a phone call or two. Ann, her gold bracelet clanking against the arm of the witness chair, tells Jill she was playing tennis at the “club” all morning. If I had been able to establish that they, too, had actually been at home at the time of Art’s death, Leigh’s odds might have improved. But as fastidious and career-driven as Bobby appears to be, I can’t form a mental picture of him taking off a morning to murder anyone or even to screw his wife. These people are simply embarrassed to be here.
Hector Tyndall strides briskly to the witness stand as if he is anxious to begin a marathon. Jaunty in gray slacks and a blue blazer complete with red handkerchief, he doesn’t act as if his goddaughter’s sister has been charged with murder. But then, in my presence, he never has. The day I interviewed him, he didn’t volunteer a word about his closeness to Shane and his family.
Why not? But, if he had murdered Art, wouldn’t he have pretended remorse or at least concern?
After Jill briskly takes him through his story about seeing Leigh on her way home the morning of her husband’s murder, I begin by asking him why he didn’t tell me the day I interviewed him that he was a godfather to Leigh’s sister.
“My goodness!” he exclaims, his voice strong and clear of an old man’s foggy rasp.
“You claimed to be Leigh’s lawyer. I figured you knew that already.”
Behind the railing that separates the trial participants from the spectators, laughter rolls toward me like a faint peal of thunder. What kind of fool does Leigh have for a lawyer? Yet Tyndall’s attitude doesn’t wash. That day he seemed too removed, too self-centered. Granted, it was months after the incident had occurred. But a family friend would have showed more emotion. However, people are weird, especially this guy. He may be no more capable of showing his feelings in front of another person than a robot.
“Mr. Tyndall, you’re a member of Christian Life?”
Tyndall smiles benignly.
“I told you that day that they even let old men go.”
Behind me I hear more titters. The spectators love the guy. From the grin on his face, Tyndall loves it, too. He is getting to go one on one and winning as usual.
“In fact, you were a founding father of Christian Life, isn’t that correct?”
Before Tyndall can answer, Jill pops to her feet and in a bored voice says, “This is irrelevant. Your Honor.”
I respond, “I should be permitted to get at Mr. Tyndall’s relationship with Christian Life for the purpose of showing bias.”
Grider’s face takes on an amused, superior expression.
“Mr. Page, it seems to me as if you are about to convince the triers of fact,” he says, cutting his eyes to the jury, “that Mr. Tyndall was biased in favor of your client, not against her.”
For an instant I feel as if I am back in trial advocacy in law school, being hung up to dry by one of the trial lawyers who double as adjunct professors. I listen for more titters, but there are none. Perhaps the spectators have become embarrassed for me.
“I’d like to run that risk. Your Honor,” I say, trying not to sound as if I am pleading.
Grider shrugs as if it makes no difference to him if I screw up.
“Go on,” he says, “but I’m not going to let you waste the jury’s time with a lot of this.”
Quickly, I get Tyndall to confirm that he and Shane have known each other for over thirty-five years and have remained good friends. If Tyndall knows where I am heading, his eyes don’t betray him. Scratching at the padding on the armrest of the witness chair with a thumbnail, he seems like a rooster pleased to take his turn in the chicken yard.
“You were aware that Pastor Norman wasn’t at all happy with his son-in-law’s efforts to influence Leigh’s participation at Christian Life?”
Tyndall says dryly, “It was common knowledge.
Leigh had always been the apple of his eye.”
Tyndall’s smoothness is distressing. I had hoped that he would try to minimize his knowledge, and that I could expose his lack of truthfulness through Shane, who is waiting to testify out of his hearing. The problem with my theory is that Tyndall, despite his spy equipment, may not have anything to hide. There isn’t’ a shred of evidence he killed Art or even taped a single conversation.
“You used to be in the surveillance business, didn’t you, sir?”
Out of her seat, Jill roars, “Objection! This is totally irrelevant. Your Honor.”
Grider rubs the bridge of his well-shaped nose as if a headache has settled in.
“Answer his question, Mr. Tyndall.”
Confident as ever, Tyndall nods.
“And I sold it five years ago for a nice profit.”
“Just one moment. Your Honor,” I say, delighted with this answer. I walk over to the desk and pick up the envelope and take out the pictures and show them to Jill, who whispers, “What are these?”
“Souvenirs left over from the business,” I say, taking them from the table.
Jill stiffens, but there is nothing she can do. I walk back to the lectern and hold them up for Tyndall.
Though he is too far away to identify them, he should be guessing what is in my hand.
“Actually, you have some surveillance equipment in your house this very morning, don’t you, Mr. Tyndall?”
Tyndall pauses, and I feel my heart in my throat. If he denies that he does and then says the pictures don’t fairly and accurately depict the scene in his house, I’m stuck with his answer.
Finally, he answers, his voice sullen, “That’s true.”
chet’s comment that Christian Life people won’t lie to cover up for Leigh comes back to me, and suddenly I know that if I ask the wrong questions he may implicate Leigh. It’s a risk I have to take.
“In fact, you knew what was going on in the Wallace household the morning Art Wallace was killed.”
The old man’s jauntiness disappears completely. The expression of confidence on his round face has been replaced by fear and embarrassment.
“Let me explain,” he says in a low voice.
“By all means,” I reply, tapping the pictures against the podium.
Tyndall clears his throat.
“After Leigh and Art’s involvement with the church began to drop off, we were all worried about Leigh. Because of his deception, I was convinced that Art might be involved in other forms of wrongdoing, too, and I tapped their phone. After I discovered that Art was trafficking in pornography, I bugged their bedroom as well because I was afraid he would try to involve Leigh in it.”
The old man stops and waits for me to ask him a question. He doesn’t want to volunteer. Jill or even the judge will continue this line of questioning if I don’t, but I want to control it.
“Who knew about you tapping their phone and placing the bug in their bedroom?”
“Her father knew,” he admits, “but only about the phone tap.”
Tyndall is nothing if not loyal. He has begun to sweat.
“Did he ask you to tap their telephone?”
Tyndall nods.
“You have to speak up,” I direct him, “so the reporter can record your answers.”
“Yes,” he says, “but the bug in their bedroom was my idea. He didn’t know about that.”
I steal a look at the jury to see how they are taking this information. Every one of them seems frozen in place.
“What did you hear the morning Art Wallace was murdered?”
Tyndall swallows with some difficulty. Plainly, he is not happy with what he is about to tell us.
“I didn’t begin listening that morning until I saw Leigh returning home.” He pauses to clear his throat and takes out a handkerchief and wipes his mouth.
“I heard her husband tell her he wanted her to dance nude while he filmed her. She agreed.”
I glance over at Mrs. Holland, my Charismatic Catholic Her eyes are the size of dinner plates.
“What happened after that?”
Mr. Tyndall blinks rapidly.
“I called Leigh’s father at the church and told him what I was hearing.”
Damn! I should have figured that’s what Shane’s phone call was about. I ask, “How did he respond?”
“He was upset I had been listening in,” Tyndall says.
“But he said he would handle the situation from here on in and for me not to listen anymore.”
I stare at the jury. If that doesn’t get their attention, nothing will.
“Is that what you did?”
“Yes,” Tyndall says.
“I was ashamed at what I had done, so I erased the tape and spent the rest of the morning in the den watching television.”
The old man looks as if he is about to cry. I wonder if he is lying about having destroyed the tape.
“And yet you never told the police any of this?”
Tyndall shakes his head.
“They never asked,” he says, his voice defensive.
“They asked if I had seen Leigh that morning and I told the truth.”
I can’t let him get away so easily.
“But you knew,” I insist, “information that was material to this crime.”
Tears slide down Tyndall’s cheeks.
“I was embarrassed,” he says with great difficulty.
“Pastor Norman swore to me that neither he nor Leigh was involved in Art’s death, and I believed him.”
Sure. And I’m going to start growing hair on my bald spot.
“Did he say who he thought killed Art?”
Tyndall, clutching his handkerchief, wipes his eyes.
“He said he thought it might be some guy Art cheated.”
As farfetched as that conclusion seems right now, I do not belittle it. I’ll take all the suspects I can find.
“Can anyone verify,” I ask, “that you stayed home watching television the rest of the morning?”
The old guy launches into a fit of coughing. Even if he is innocent of murder, he knows the rest of his life is stained.
“No,” he says feebly.
“You were quite a marksman at one time, weren’t you, Mr. Tyndall?” I ask, remembering the trophy in his den.
Tyndall, now restless as a caged animal, says, “Yes, and I own some guns, but I didn’t kill Leigh’s husband, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
I lean against the podium.
“You’ve shot a twenty two-caliber pistol before, haven’t you?”
Cornered, Tyndall becomes belligerent.
“Of course!”
he snaps.
“But I don’t own one.”
“No more questions,” I say. I will not even bother to try and introduce the pictures into evidence. I want the jury to remember the look of anger on his face.
Clearly surprised, on redirect Jill covers much of the same ground. Tyndall adds a few details and admits breaking into the house while the Wallaces were on vacation, but essentially repeats his story and looks a decade older as he leaves the witness stand. As he is led out of the courtroom, I ask Leigh, “What did your father say to Art when he called?”
Leigh insists, “What I told you before. He didn’t say a word then about what Hector had done.”
Jill calls the name of Shane Norman, and I, along with everyone else, watch as he is brought into the courtroom by the bailiff. Shane looks like a preacher who is disappointed with his flock and manages only a weak smile for his daughter. He can’t know what is coming. I wonder how Jill will handle him. If he lies, her case, as far as Leigh goes, is dead.
Jill wastes no time in confronting Shane with Tyndall’s testimony, but if he is surprised, I can’t tell it.
With amazing aplomb, he explains what happened.
“I knew I wanted to get Leigh out of that bedroom, but I didn’t want to admit to Art or her right then that their conversations in their bedroom had been taped. Art answered the phone and said Leigh was at the church. Of course, I knew this was a lie, and I lost my temper and called him a son of a bitch. I hung up then and tried to think what to do. I had to get out of my office and so I walked over to the house to try to think everything through. I went back to the office after a while and was there when Leigh called to say she had found Art’s body.”
Stunned by his coolness, I think back to my conversation with him. He had lied to me, but his story today just might hang together. Jill is plainly furious that he has not come forward with this story before and berates him, “Why didn’t you tell the police this story when they interviewed you?”
Shane responds forthrightly, “My daughter is on trial for murder. I didn’t lie to the police, but on the other hand I’m not going to embarrass her or help convict her. She’s my daughter and I love her.”
Abruptly, Jill switches gears and leads Shane down memory lane; and we hear, as she promised in her opening statement, of a father’s boundless love for his daughter. I can hear snuffling behind me from the spectators as Shane talks about Leigh’s accomplishments in the church and his obvious pride in her. While Leigh steadily wipes her eyes, Dan whispers, “Do you believe this horse shit?”
I don’t know what to believe, but I can’t wait to cross-examine Shane. As Jill lets Shane run on with story after story of Leigh’s perfect life before she married Art, I whisper back, “Jill is setting up her argument on closing that it was Leigh’s guilt that led her to kill Art.”
Shane is preaching a sermon to the jury whose subtext is forgiveness.
“Her faith strengthened my own,” he tells the jury.
“There were times on these trips when everything imaginable would go wrong, and I’d look up and see Leigh holding a filthy, love-starved urchin on her lap as if the child were her own. Then I’d be certain that we were right to have come.”
Gently, Jill brings him to the day that Leigh told him that she was going to marry Art, and before our eyes Shane changes into a figure out of the Old Testament.
His whole manner, from his glowering expression to the barely suppressed rage in his voice, tells the jury that Art was the Fallen Angel. The jury, composed of men and women who know a preacher when they see one, sit fascinated. Though Shane has no pulpit to pound, his message is ancient: good corrupted by evil, and now that the evil has been banished, if we can’t very well rejoice, at least let his daughter get on with her life very soon, if not today. He turns his head to Leigh and then back to the jury.
“This was a child who time after time had followed me in faith and love all over the world.
This man was scum, and he had possessed her so completely she was willing to humiliate herself in any way he demanded.”
Dan nudges me so hard he bruises my ribs. Cupping his hands against my ear, he hisses, “He’s begging you to go after him!”
I look over at Leigh, who is hiding her head in her hands as Jill sits down after a few more questions. I half expect her father to confess now, but he doesn’t. If he is directly asked if he murdered his son-in-law, surely he will admit it I begin my questions as I rise from my chair.
“When you went to your home after speaking to Art,” I ask, to make sure Pearl isn’t going to suddenly turn up as an alibi for him, “where was your wife?”
Shane, who is perched on the edge of his chair, says blandly, “She was in Benton visiting her mother that morning.”
I nod.
“So she can’t testify she was home with you?”
Obviously trying to relax, Shane pushes back in his chair.
“Hardly,” he says dryly.
I stand by the side of the podium and ask him why he had taped Art. Each time Wallace’s name is mentioned, anger flows into his voice. It is obvious that he felt personally betrayed by the man. Turning directly to the jury, he talks about how Art deceived him. Art’s acceptance of the Scriptures seemed as genuine as anyone’s he had ever witnessed.
“If he lied about that,” Norman says, “I knew he was a liar about other things, and I wanted to find out what they were.”
I goad him.
“Leigh defended him, didn’t she?”
Norman’s eyes flash.
“That’s why I know she didn’t kill him,” he says firmly.
“He had her fooled completely, too.”
“How did you feel,” I ask, “when Mr. Tyndall called and told you about Art having Leigh dance nude in front of him?”
Shane set his jaw.
“I was absolutely furious. My first thought was that he was going to use the film for some kind of pornographic video. That’s the kind of man he was.”
“Were you mad enough,” I ask quickly, “to kill him?”
Surely expecting this question, Shane gives me a bitter smile.
“An angry Christ drove the money changers from the Temple, but he didn’t kill them.”
I stare at Shane.
“We’re not talking about Jesus, Pastor Norman. Throughout history, angry Christians have killed thousands of their enemies. Were you angry enough to kill Art Wallace?”
Defiantly, Shane says, “Yes, yes, I was angry enough to kill him! But I didn’t! As God is my witness, I didn’t kill him and my daughter didn’t either! Leigh is totally nonviolent. When we were leaving to go to Peru on a mission trip some time back, the Shining Path had just murdered ten people. Leigh wanted us to go to minister to them.”
This is welcome testimony, but what else would a father say? I ask him a few more questions and let him step down.
After a brief lunch recess, Jill calls Pearl Norman to the witness stand. As she comes through the door, it is obvious that she is drunk.
“Hoo boy, she’s looped,” Dan marvels, as she lurches toward the witness stand.
“She must carry a flask in her purse and drink in the bathroom.”
Indeed she must, because anybody over the age of three knows something is seriously wrong. Beside me, Leigh flinches as her mother slurs her own name. For the first time since I’ve known her, she looks sloppy.
Her lipstick has missed the mark, and her hair isn’t quite combed. Jill asks sternly, “Have you been drinking, mrs. Norman?”
Pearl Norman nods and bursts into tears. Leigh tugs at my arm and whispers, “She doesn’t know anything.”
I stand and ask Grider for a conference and he motions me and Jill to the bench. We approach and, with my back to the jury, I say quietly, “Maybe we can stipulate to her testimony. Your Honor. I understand she has areal alcohol problem.”
Grider looks at Pearl in disgust and turns to Jill.
“What do you want out of her?”
Jill shakes her head.
“I want her to tell what she knows about this case!”
For the first time Grider seems to be on my side.
“Haven’t you already interviewed her?” he asks sharply.
“Does she help the State’s case?”
Like a child being questioned by her father, Jill shifts her weight from side to side.
“I don’t know what she’s going to say under oath. Your Honor. We’ve had a few surprises already,” she adds dryly.
I look over at Leigh and suggest to Grider, “Why don’t we go ahead with her direct testimony? I’m not afraid of her.”
Grider looks past us at Pearl and says harshly, “Are you too drunk to tell the truth to this court?”
Pearl smiles foolishly at him.
“No, Judge.”
Irritably, Grider snaps, “I should hold you in contempt of court. Let’s get on with it.”
As expected, the next few minutes are a waste of time. Either Pearl cries, rambles, or gives such vague answers that the jury, now that its initial titillation at her condition has worn off, grows visibly restless and bored. All that Jill shows is that she is a strangely pathetic creature who is an embarrassment to her husband and her youngest daughter. When Jill is through with her, I let her sit down without a question. She seems so relieved it is impossible to avoid wondering if she is hiding something after all.
Jill concludes her case by calling Laura Partrain, who reinforces Shane’s testimony about the changes in his daughter caused by Art Wallace. A pillar at Christian Life, mrs. Partrain speaks of her own personal efforts to keep Leigh involved in the church. She makes real the anguish experienced by other church members.
“No matter what we said or did,” the woman, an attractive redhead, laments, “Leigh came to church less and less.
Her husband was a terrible influence on her. Leigh had been such a joy, too. We hated what was happening, but nobody could do a thing about it.”
I let mrs. Partrain go without a question, and after Grider summarily dismisses my motion to dismiss the charges, I begin our defense. Daffy is my first witness, and, as strange as he is (thank God he is wearing shoes instead of sandals), he does a decent job of piecing together Art’s scheme to launder the two hundred thousand dollars he swindled from Jack Ott. Grider gives us an unexpected break when he allows Jessie St. vrain to play the tape in which Robert Evan confessed that Jack Ott had hired him to torch a rival porno dealer’s store.
Over Jill’s vehement protest, Grider permits the recording to be admitted into evidence because Evan said on tape he was supposed to burn up the dealer as well.
However, the recording is difficult to understand and Evan sounds like the drug-crazed loony he was.
If the jury is impressed, I can’t tell by their expressions.
Jill and the cops have already emphasized to them that there was no forced entry and no sign of a struggle. If Art feared for his life, why was he sitting at his desk when he was killed? It all sounds too far out and crude for the rich neighborhoods that overlook the Arkansas River. As she steps down, I smile, at Jessie, who has done as well as she can. Although she has surprised me by keeping her promise to wear a dress, she still looks like a young boy, but she is close enough for the jury to give her the benefit of the doubt; Turning to smile at the jury as she steps off the witness stand, she seems as unlikely to have just committed a breakin as Pearl Norman.
I look over at Dan and he shakes his head. Don’t put Leigh on the witness stand. But I have to. Credibility is what this case is about. Shane has made too powerful a witness on his own behalf for me to believe that Leigh is safe. Shane may well have convinced the jury of his own innocence, but if he is telling the truth, there is no way he can save his daughter. He wasn’t there. Leigh will have to save herself.
Leigh takes the stand, and I have her tell her story. In a tense, anxious voice she sounds so much like her father I wonder if I could tell their words apart if I were reading their transcripts. Without apology, Leigh admits she was a daddy’s girl from the time she was born, and listening to her words, no one in the courtroom can escape the conclusion that they adored each other. Her one defiant act was marrying Art.
“His personality was a lot like my father’s,” she volunteers, as if it weren’t obvious.
“He was very determined and gave me a lot of attention.”
To make plain to the jury how much control Shane exercises, I ask about Pearl.
“How did your mother figure in the picture when you were growing up?”
Leigh gives me a bitter smile.
“As you saw today, my mother unfortunately has a drinking problem and has had for many years. I’m sure she’s been very lonely at times. My father has gotten attention all his life, and she has received very little. He is such a dominant personality it has been hard for her to find her own niche.
I really haven’t been very close to her.”
I nod, content with her answer. The jury has to feel the bond between Leigh and Shane if they are going to believe her story of why she lied to the police.
“I felt enormous guilt for not going to the church as regularly as I had before I married Art. The church was my whole life, and I felt terrible when Daddy would comment about my not being there.”
For the next ten minutes I get Leigh to explain her actions the morning of the trial.
“I had told Daddy that I would come to hear a missionary from Guatemala. Art wanted me to stay home, so I went up to the church twice that morning to make Daddy think I had been there all the time. I know it sounds pathetic, but I always felt so bad when he asked me to come to the church.”
Knowing Jill will ask this question if I don’t, I say, “Did you relieve those bad feelings by killing your husband?”
“No!” she exclaims.
“I loved Art. He was the smartest man I’ve ever known. And he made me feel like a person and a woman for the first time in my life.”
I steal a glance at the jury but can’t read anything. A new Art is emerging from Leigh’s lips. Gone is the terrible deceiver who seduced her away from Christianity.
She is free-lancing with this version, but intuitively she must know that if she gives the impression that she had begun to hate him, the jury will assume she had a reason to kill him. Cautiously, I go with this new, improved model.
“You loved him despite the fact,” I ask, giving her a chance to explain, “that he was a thief?”
Leigh responds earnestly, “He took the money from pornographers. I was worried about our safety, but I wasn’t upset at what he did.”
“Did you feel threatened?” I ask, watching Leigh carefully. She is fighting for her life now, but she is on thin ice.
“Of course,” she says, “but we couldn’t very well go to the police.”
I have no choice but to ask her about the video. It is a double-edged sword, equally a problem for her as well as her father.
“Why did you let your husband film you naked?” I ask, wondering how closely she will stick to the script. Whatever I argue to the jury in my closing statement about Hector and Shane, the jury will be asking itself if Leigh suddenly blew up.
Her face colors, and her voice drops into a lower register.
“I was always taught that the husband is the head of the household,” she says softly.
“Sex generally was a taboo in our house. I suppose you could say Art was trying to teach me that the body didn’t have to be dirty.”
I am impressed at how manipulative my client has become. If Leigh had a self-destruct button, it is no longer apparent. After a few more questions, to which she reiterates her innocence, I sit down and watch Jill’s assault.
Jill begins by forcing Leigh to admit the name of each person she deceived. Beginning with her father and the women in the church down through the police, it makes an impressive list.
“Isn’t it a fact,” Jill asks harshly, “that in this case you’ve lied whenever it was convenient for you to do so?”
Leigh pauses and finally admits, “Yes.”
Jill covers much of the ground I have already been over in an effort to reinforce how guilty Leigh must have felt during the last two years. Jill’s contempt for Leigh is palpable. Though surely it is part of the prosecutor’s bag of tricks, Jill truly does not like Leigh. I wonder how much of it is rooted in disdain for her apparent hypocrisy. Jill pushes Leigh on her decision to dance naked for Art.
“Were you embarrassed when he turned on the camera?”
Leigh ponders the question. To be consistent, she must answer yes. Instead, she answers, “It was in the privacy of our home.”
Dan nudges me.
“She’s trying to be cute. The jury has got to believe her. Jill will crucify her on closing if she doesn’t cut this out.”
“So your testimony is that,” Jill badgers her, “you weren’t embarrassed when you danced naked for your husband?”
In preparation for her testimony I have begged Leigh not to try to outsmart Jill, but even the most astute clients make that mistake. Jill will make her look as though she is incapable of presenting a consistent image to the jury.
“Art said it would never leave the house.”
Jill bores in on her.
“Isn’t it a fact that just the night before you and your husband had had a fight in which you told Art to quit ‘bad-mouthing’ your father?”
“It wasn’t a fight,” Leigh says defensively.
“And isn’t it a fact that the next morning an hour before your husband’s death,” Jill asks, “you were upset with him because of an angry conversation he’d just had with your father?”
“Just because I was upset,” Leigh says, “doesn’t mean I killed him.”
“Are you saying,” Jill asks bluntly, “your father shot your husband?”
Leigh shakes her head.
“I don’t know who shot my husband.”
Jill asks grimly, “What about you, mrs. Wallace?
You’re capable of telling repeated lies. But are you just too sweet and pretty to kill anybody?” Before Leigh can answer, Jill turns her back on her and goes to her seat.
I remain where I am. I don’t want to hear the answer.
After Grider instructs the jury on the law of the various degrees of murder, Jill begins her closing argument by summarizing the testimony of each witness and its significance, then goes to work on the crucial hour and a half between Shane’s phone call and the discovery of the body.
“What happened, ladies and gentlemen,” she asks rhetorically, standing in front of the jury rail, “after Art Wallace put down the telephone after speaking to the defendant’s father?” Jill looks back over at Leigh for an instant and then says conspiratorially, “You know as well as I do what happened. The defendant was feeling a crushing sense of guilt. Her entire life had been centered around her father. From the time she was born until this very moment, her father adored her, and she adored him. No relationship was more important in some ways to either of them. She made trip after trip with her father to foreign lands; after graduation from college she worked for him in the church. It is not too much to say that Leigh was as much inspiration to this tireless minister of the Gospel as he was to her. And why not? She was willing to try to convert the Shining Path, the Maoist guerrilla group terrorizing the country of Peru. And the defendant reveled in her father’s love.
What daughter would not? Inevitably, this beautiful woman was bound to attract the attention of other men, and perhaps, understandably, she probably thought they were all as wonderful as her father.”
Jill pauses here and then says dryly, “Well, Art Wallace was not. With a persistence that bordered on the fanatical, he began to chip away at the defendant’s relationship with her father and her church until one devastating morning Leigh Wallace found herself lying to her father, lying to her friends, and dancing naked in front of a camera. Of course, we know what happened next! The police have told us there was no forced entry, no evidence of another soul coming into that house until the defendant brought mrs. Sims back with her to discover her husband’s body.”
Jill raises her voice slightly as she taps her right hand above her left breast.
“Guilt and anger, ladies and gentlemen guilt and anger are a deadly combination of emotions, and Leigh was experiencing them both when she frantically began to get ready to drive to the church so she could pretend she had been there all along. She felt guilt because of everyone she had betrayed, and she felt anger at herself and the man who had debased her.
Her husband, we know, got dressed and went into his office and sat down behind the desk and turned on his computer. What happened, ladies and gentlemen, was that Leigh took a twenty-two-caliber pistol and walked into her husband’s office and shot him through the heart and killed him. She then drove to the church, pretended she had been there all morning, and invited a friend to lunch so she could happen upon her husband’s body.
There is no evidence in this case that supports any other explanation..