Murder One

41

THERE WAS A DISCERNIBLE change in Keri as she watched the wife of her deceased lover approach the witness stand. Ben could feel it from where he was sitting, even with the tangible barrier of Christina between them. There was a certain stiffening, a detectable apprehension, as she watched the tall slender figure of Andrea McNaughton approach. There was an electric moment, as Andrea passed through the gate separating the gallery from the front of the courtroom. Neither woman looked at the other, but Ben knew each was keenly aware of the other’s presence. The hostility was palpable—and understandable. Both had shared the same man—and each apparently suspected the other had killed him.

There was a discernible change in the jurors as well, Ben noted. Their eyes were now filled with anticipation. Ben supposed that should be no surprise. The prosecution could go on for days with forensic evidence, police officers, and rabid psychologists, but when all was said and done, there were two witnesses the jury wanted to hear from, two witnesses who would make the greatest impact on their ultimate decision. And given the ever-present Fifth Amendment, they might never hear from one of them. That left Andrea McNaughton the star attraction.

Ben leaned across Christina to whisper into Keri’s ear. “Remember, whatever she says, whatever happens, you do not react.”

Keri didn’t answer. Her eyes were still focused front and center, on the witness box.

“We can’t have any more outbursts. The judge won’t tolerate it and the jury won’t like it. You have to seem interested but unconcerned. You don’t agree with what she says, but you don’t act defensive about it. You are innocent. You remain above the fray.”

Keri still didn’t respond.

“Do you understand me?”

Keri’s lips seemed to move more slowly than usual. “That woman hates me,” she said, her eyes never wavering. “She absolutely hates me. It’s so strong I can feel it.”

“Stay calm, Keri.”

“Don’t you understand? She could say anything. Anything at all.”

D.A. LaBelle took Andrea on a leisurely tour of her early life, giving the jury an opportunity to feel as if they knew the woman in the witness box. Andrea answered in a firm, if somewhat halting voice. This was clearly an emotional experience for her, but she was struggling to keep herself together.

The testimony only began to be directly relevant when Andrea described how she first met her late husband. “Joe and I met in high school, out in Broken Arrow. He was on the football team—first-string quarterback. I was in the Pep Squad. We fell in love and decided to get married. Both of our parents opposed it, but of course we wouldn’t listen. It’s an old story. I realize now that we should’ve waited to get married, but who listens at that age? We were in love, Joe had an entry-level job with the police department, and our hormones were raging. So we got married.”

Despite their youth, as Andrea described it, the early years of their marriage were happy ones. “Sure, we had problems, just like everyone else, but nothing we couldn’t work through. Joe felt strongly that I shouldn’t work. ‘I don’t want to see my wife slinging burgers,’ that’s what he used to say. It was a matter of personal pride to him. And I think he wanted me to be free, in the event we should be blessed with children. We never were.” Her head tilted lower, and for the first time Ben heard a slight tremor in her voice. “The doctors said we were both healthy and capable, but it never happened. That was probably our greatest disappointment, but we were still young and we both believed it would come in time. Except now,” she added softly. “Now it never will.”

Gradually, LaBelle brought her to the present, the twelfth and final year of their marriage. “A marriage changes over time. People change. It’s part of life. But we still had a happy marriage. We were still close. We were still … intimate. We were important to each other. We went out on dates—and we called them dates, just like when we were kids. We laughed and played and giggled. Joe had a real silly streak in him. I suppose his friends at work didn’t see much of it. But I did. I loved that about him.” She turned her face away, but Ben could still see the tiny twitch of her lips. “I loved everything about him.”

LaBelle cleared his throat. “When did you first suspect there was something wrong in your marriage?”

“When did I suspect? Never.” Her neck craned unnaturally. “I was such an idiot. I never had the slightest inkling. I thought everything was perfect.” She shook her head. “A fool in paradise.”

“When did you learn otherwise?”

“At lunch. That final day. I was visited by the wife of one of Joe’s partners on the force. Marge Matthews. I believe you’ve already met her husband, Arlen Matthews. I only slightly knew Marge, but for some reason she still felt it was incumbent upon her to spill my husband’s dark secret. She kept saying I had a right to know, which was a crock. She wasn’t there because I had a right to know. She was there because she wanted the dirty pleasure of being the one to tell me. To tell me what everyone else already knew.”

“What was that?”

Ben knew this question technically called for hearsay, but he saw no purpose in objecting. Everyone already knew the answer.

“She told me my husband was having an affair. That he had been having an affair for some months. With a teenager. A young girl the—well, the same age I was when he married me. All those years ago.”

“What was your reaction?”

“Oh, I went through the typical stages. At first I didn’t believe it. Deep denial. But Marge kept pounding away at me, inundating me with details. Where they met. Where they slept together. How often they did it. She even knew the dates, for God’s sake. And sure enough, the dates Marge said he’d been sleeping with this child were the same dates he claimed he’d been in Oklahoma City working on some big new investigation. After a while, I had to give in. It was obviously true. Joe had betrayed me.”

“What did you do?”

She turned her head away again, and for a moment, Ben was certain they were going to see tears, but Andrea managed to fight them back and continue. “I cried for the better part of the day. I walked into the shower, fully clothed, and screamed for an hour at the top of my lungs. I stared into the mirror and hurled insults at myself. I just felt so … cheap. So used. So pathetic.”

Ben dutifully made his check of the eyes of the jurors and saw that many of them—especially the women—were deeply affected.

“How long did this continue?”

“Too long. I was punishing myself. Finally I realized that this was not the right approach. After all, had I done anything wrong? No. I needed to stop tearing myself apart, and to start gathering my strength. So I confronted Joe.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t deny it, but he wouldn’t agree to stop seeing her, either. I think he was embarrassed, ashamed. Like a little boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Anyway, his pride got in the way and he refused to break it off. So I went to see her.”

“And by her you mean …”

“The defendant. Keri Dalcanton.” Her eyes moved to the defendant’s table only fleetingly, but the anger and hatred Ben felt as those eyes swept past was frightening in its intensity. “I rummaged through Joe’s address book till I found out where she lived. Then I hopped into my car and went over to see her.”

“When exactly was this?”

“After dark. About nine P.M. The night before he turned up in Bartlett Square.”

LaBelle nodded solemnly. The grim spectre of Bartlett Square awaited them, but apparently LaBelle wanted to postpone that for later. “What happened when you arrived at her apartment?”

“At first, it was almost comic. You see, she didn’t know who I was. I guess Joe never showed her my picture, which is understandable, I suppose. I showed up, ranting and raving and demanding that she break it off, and she didn’t even know who the hell I was. She was totally confused—until I said the W word. ‘I’m Joe’s wife,’ I told her. The instant I said that, she became hostile and threatening.

“She was wearing some kind of exercise suit,” Andrea continued. “A skimpy thing—not much to it. Her little teenage heart was pounding away in her chest. She was sweaty and breathing hard—but not as hard as once we started talking.”

“Did you ask her to break it off?” LaBelle asked.

“No, I didn’t ask her to break it off. I told her it was over.”

“And her reaction?”

“She laughed at me.” Andrea’s jaw tightened. “Do you understand what I’m saying? She laughed at me. Laughed in my face.”

“This is not true,” Keri murmured, under her breath. She was being careful not to let her face betray her feelings, but Ben could hear her just the same. “This never happened.”

When Andrea’s face turned up again, a single tear was tracing its way down her cheek. “She was so heartless. So … smug. She told me that I couldn’t satisfy Joe. That he loved her. That they had done things together that … that I never dreamed of doing. She held nothing back. She wanted to destroy me.”

LaBelle took a step forward. “I’m sorry to make you relive this, ma’am. If you need a break—”

“No,” Andrea insisted, “I want to go on.” She swallowed hard. “I told her she couldn’t have my husband. She laughed and said he wasn’t my husband anymore. Nothing was mine anymore, she said. ‘Everything you have is mine.’ And then, just to make her point, she whipped back her hand and slapped me, right across the cheek.”

“This is a lie,” Keri whispered, back at the defendant’s table. “A complete fabrication.”

LaBelle continued the questioning. “And what happened after she assaulted you?”

Andrea licked her lips, then wiped the tear from her face. “I lost it. Just totally lost it. I slapped her back. And then we were fighting.”

“By fighting, you mean—”

“I mean the real thing. Not just words. A real knock-down-drag-out. She grabbed me by the shoulders and slung me onto the carpet. I remember I fell on some exercise machine she had—felt like I’d broken my spine. We rolled around on top of each other, clawing and scratching and hitting. She even bit me.” She held out her wrist. “You can still see traces of it, after all these months. It left a scar, for God’s sake. It was a serious fight.”

“When did it end?”

“When her brother Kirk came home. If not for that, we might still be fighting. Or one of us would be dead, more likely. I was bleeding from half a dozen places when he finally pulled us apart. And she wasn’t in the greatest shape herself.”

“Did anything else happen before you left?”

“Yes. As I stumbled out the door, she spat at me. Really truly spat at me. Her brother held her arms behind her back, but she struggled and shouted.”

“What did she say?”

Andrea drew in her breath. “The last thing she said was, ‘If I can’t have him, no one can!’ ”

The effect of these words on the jury was profound. Ben watched as, one after another, the jurors turned, shocked and appalled, to scrutinize the face of the woman who had allegedly spewed out these incriminating words.

LaBelle had been trying to establish a motive for murder, but now he had even more. This was not just a mere motive. It was more like a promise.

“And what did you do then?”

“I went home. It was obvious that I was going to get nothing out of her. It would have to be Joe that broke it off. So I waited for him.”

LaBelle nodded sympathetically. Ben had to marvel at his sensitive performance; he was more like a daytime talk-show host than a district attorney. “What happened when Joe got home?”

Andrea waited a long while before answering, as if gathering her strength, mustering her control, choosing her words. “I’m sure you can imagine,” she said slowly, “that it was not a pleasant experience. Do you really want all the details?”

“I’m afraid I do,” LaBelle said.

“Very well.” She brushed her dark hair back behind her ears. “I had managed to collect myself enough to be at least somewhat rational. I didn’t scream and shout. I simply told him what I knew and what I expected to happen next, in no uncertain terms.”

“Did he agree?”

“Not at first. He was a man, after all. He puffed up his chest and told me no one could boss him around, yadda yadda yadda. But I gave him no choice. I told him it was her or me. If he didn’t break it off, I’d leave him. We’d be divorced—and everyone would know why. Everyone would know how young his little whore was, too—which I didn’t think would exactly contribute to his advancement on the force.”

Ben felt the heat rising from Keri when she heard the word “whore.” She too appeared to be struggling to maintain control—struggling to keep her face from revealing the bitterness she felt inside.

“So in the end,” Andrea continued, “he agreed to break it off. He wanted to wait till the next day to tell his little tramp the bad news, but I wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It ends today,’ I said. ‘You’ll tell her now.’ So he went over to her place to do just that.” She paused. “And I never saw him alive again.”

She turned away, and tears tumbled out of her eyes like the spray of a fountain. “The next morning, the police woke me up and told me—told me—” The anguish in her voice was so intense it hurt to hear it. “Told me he was dead. Not just dead—but dead in such a horrible, inhuman way. I was devastated. Just the day before, I learned I had lost his heart. Now—I’d lost everything.” Her hand covered her face. “And through it all, I just kept thinking of what that horrible woman had said to me. ‘If I can’t have him,’ she’d said, ‘no one can.’ And after that—no one did.”

The judge, bless his heart, called for a recess after LaBelle finished his direct examination. After that emotionally draining testimony, everyone needed a break, not just Andrea but every warm body in the courtroom. During the five-minute respite, Ben chatted briefly with his client.

“It didn’t happen like that,” Keri said “I swear. It wasn’t like that at all.”

Ben nodded. “I know. I’ll try to bring that out on cross.”

“But she made me seem so—evil. It wasn’t like that.”

“I understand. But I have to tell you, Keri—I was watching the jurors while she testified. And they believed her. She was very convincing.”

“You have to tell them the truth,” Keri said. “Make them understand.”

“I’ll do my best. But I think we have to face reality at this point. Only one person can tell them what really happened. Only one person can make them believe it. And that’s you, Keri.”

She turned her head away. “I’ve told you this already, Ben. I can’t testify. Absolutely not.”

“Keri, I don’t like putting my defendant on the stand, either, but there are times when I realize it’s necessary, and this is one of them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just—can’t.”

Ben broke off the conversation. All it was doing was escalating his frustration level. For now, he needed to be concentrating on his cross.

After Judge Cable called the court back to order, Ben dutifully walked to the podium. As he approached, he wondered if he should have let Christina handle this one. It was an important cross, true—probably the most important one in the trial. But she was a woman, and a woman crossing another woman might play better with the jury. Having a big gruff man go after this obviously tormented, bereaved widow might be too much; they might be so sympathetic to her and so antagonistic to him that it wouldn’t matter what he said or got her to say.

Well, the decision was made, and it was too late to turn back now. He would have to make the best of it. He knew he would never get Andrea to recant any of her testimony, and the jury would hate him if he started browbeating her in the attempt. The best he could hope for was to plant a few seeds in the jurors’ minds—a few seeds of doubt he could nurture during closing argument.

“You mentioned that your husband was involved in an investigation in Oklahoma City. Could you tell us what exactly he was investigating?”

“To tell you the truth, we didn’t talk much about his work.”

Probably true, but he wasn’t about to let her off that easily. “Nonetheless, you did know the general nature of his investigation, did you not?”

“I never got into the details. He’s not allowed to talk about—”

Ben cut her off. “He was investigating organized crime, wasn’t he?”

Her lips pursed slightly. “I believe that was the gist of it, yes.”

“Do you think investigating organized crime could conceivably be … dangerous?”

“Objection,” LaBelle said. “Calls for speculation. She has no personal knowledge.”

“Sustained,” Judge Cable said.

“Your honor,” Ben protested, “we’re discussing a man who was subjected to an extremely violent murder. If he was engaged in dangerous activities, anything that might lead to extreme retaliation, I think I’m entitled to pursue that.”

“With the proper witness, perhaps. But you have not established that this is the proper witness.”

Ben took a deep breath and regrouped. “Do you know who was the target of your husband’s investigation into organized crime?”

“I’ve heard some names. I would only be speculating.” It seemed Andrea was smart enough to pick up on cues from the judge.

“Would Antonio Catrona be one of those names?”

“I have heard the name.”

“You’ve heard the name because he was the subject of the investigation, right?”

She still hesitated.

“If there’s some doubt in your mind, we could call up some of the other police officers to confirm this.”

“I think that is correct,” she said.

“And you also had reason to believe that the investigation of Catrona could be dangerous, didn’t you?”

“All investigations are dangerous,” Andrea said. “Criminals are criminals. They don’t like to be caught.”

A valiant attempt to derail this line of questioning. But Ben wasn’t going to allow it. “We’re not talking about petty theft here, ma’am. We’re talking about organized crime.”

LaBelle rose. “Your honor, I must protest. Asked and answered. This badgering of a bereaved woman is unconscionable.”

“The question has been answered,” Judge Cable said.

“But not truthfully,” Ben replied.

Judge Cable pointed his gavel. “Counsel, I’m warning you—”

Ben switched back to the witness. “Mrs. McNaughton, isn’t it true that shortly before your husband was killed, you received a threatening phone call that you believed came from Antonio Catrona or someone working for him?”

The jurors’ chins rose, a sure sign that their interest level was increasing. Good.

“Joe did receive a phone call that … disturbed him. But I don’t know who called.”

That’s it, Ben thought. Keep being evasive. The more you play games, the easier it will be for me to poke holes in your story. “You may not have known with absolute certainty, but you believed—at the time—that it came from Catrona or his associates. You believed they were threatening retaliation against your husband.”

“I … don’t know if I would exactly …”

“You’re under oath, ma’am.”

She bristled slightly. “I’m well aware of that. But I still don’t think I’d say—”

“That’s what you told my associate, Ms. McCall.”

“I was just speculating—”

“If you’re having trouble remembering what you said, I can call Ms. McCall to the witness stand. She has a very good memory.”

“That’s not necessary.” Andrea straightened slightly, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s true, at the time, I thought the call must’ve come from the mob. But I don’t think that now. Now I realize that—”

“Thank you, ma’am. You’ve answered the question.”

Andrea wasn’t going to be stopped that easily. “Now I realize that the threats must’ve come from Keri Dalcanton.”

Technically, Ben should’ve moved to strike, but he decided to go with a frontal assault instead. “Do you know that for a fact, Mrs. McNaughton?”

“There’s not the slightest doubt in my mind.”

“You’re not answering my question. Do you know that for a fact?”

She frowned. “No.”

“You’re just assuming it was Keri, because you assume she’s guilty of this crime.”

“I think it’s obvious to any unbiased observer—”

“But you don’t have any proof that Keri made those calls, just as the D.A. doesn’t have any proof that she committed the murder, right?”

LaBelle was quickly on his feet. “Your honor, I object!”

“I’ll rephrase.” Ben tried again. “Do you have any proof that the phone call that frightened your husband was made by Keri Dalcanton?”

“No proof,” she said defiantly. “Just common sense.”

“Common sense. Common sense,” Ben repeated. He knew he’d get slammed by the judge, but he sensed this might be the time to make his point in an unmistakable way. “We’re talking about the brutal sadistic murder of a strong adult male, a man who was overcome, dragged a long distance, and chained to a fountain. What does common sense tell us is more likely to be the cause of this tragedy? A hundred-and-three pound teenager? Or a mob hitman?”

“Your honor!” LaBelle said, pounding the table. “Did I miss the call for closing argument?”

My, my, Ben thought, the D.A. made a jokie-poo. Surprises never cease. “Your honor, the witness was the one who brought up common sense.”

“And you twisted it around into an improper diatribe,” Judge Cable replied. “The objection is sustained. And if you can’t stick to questions, Mr. Kincaid, I’ll cut this cross off now.”

“Sorry, your honor. That won’t be necessary.” Duly chastened, Ben proceeded to the next part of his cross, knowing full well the judge would like it no better than he had the preceding. “Mrs. McNaughton … you don’t like Keri Dalcanton much, do you?”

She seemed somewhat taken aback by the question. “I’m … not sure what you mean.”

“It’s a pretty simple question, ma’am. I think everyone else gets it. In fact, I think everyone else already knows the answer. You don’t like Keri Dalcanton much, do you?”

“I suppose not.”

“In fact—you hate her. Right?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that …”

“I would. You despise her. And you would do anything to see her put away for life. Or worse.”

“That’s not true. I don’t know why you would say that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Possibly because I watched you try to break her nose in the courtroom.”

“That was an—I didn’t mean—”

“And because I watched you knock her to the floor in my own office.”

“That was unfortunate, but—”

“And because almost every time you mention her, you resort to unkind, untrue, words like whore and tramp.”

“The woman killed my husband!” The words erupted out of her, like a sudden burst from a volcano. “She’s a killer!”

“Accused,” Ben added.

“Even before she killed him,” Andrea continued, “she stole him from me. Stole his affection. Stole his … love.”

“You hated her, didn’t you?” Ben said quietly but insistently. “You still hate her.”

“Yes, I hate her,” Andrea admitted, her voice dark and low. “Why shouldn’t I? Don’t I have that right?”

“Perhaps,” Ben said. “But what I’ve noticed is that, in addition to being full of hate, you also … have a very violent temper.”

Several heads rose, both in the gallery and the jury box.

Andrea seemed somewhat shaken. “I don’t know why you would—”

“C’mon, ma’am. Your testimony is replete with instances of violence. All of them instigated by you.”

“That isn’t so!”

“You attacked my client in the courtroom, in front of hundreds of witnesses.”

Red blotches began to spot her face. “My husband’s killer was being released scot-free!”

“You attacked her again in my office.”

“Do you remember what she said to me?”

“You told my associate, Ms. McCall, that you attacked your own husband, mere hours before he was killed.”

“I didn’t attack him. I just—I—”

Ben made a point of reading directly from his notebook, so the jury would know he wasn’t making this up. “When he came home you confronted him with your knowledge of his affair. In your own words, you totally lost it. You hit him repeatedly on his chest. You scratched his face with your fingernails. You even bit him.”

“But—But—!”

“On the right arm. In fact, the marks were still visible when the coroner performed his autopsy. I can show you the report, if you like.”

“I was angry!” Andrea shouted, so loud it split the courtroom. “He betrayed me! For a—a—child!”

“So you attacked him.”

“He wouldn’t listen to me!” Her voice trembled. “I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t listen! He wouldn’t let that whore go!”

“Did you hate him, too?”

“Did I—but—I—no!”

“But you attacked him. You hit him over and over again.”

“I was terrified! And so angry!”

“Yes, you were. Your anger at him was so strong you lost control.” Ben paused just a hair before delivering his clincher. “And a few hours later, he was dead.”

Andrea’s mouth froze. “Wha—what are you saying?”

“You had a motive to kill your husband, didn’t you, Mrs. McNaughton? You had the motive, the opportunity—and the burning hatred necessary to do it.”

LaBelle jumped up. “Your honor—this is grotesque!”

“What’s more,” Ben continued, “you had the temper and the established penchant for violence that would be needed to bring off such a horrendous and brutal crime.”

“No!” Andrea cried. Tears spewed forth from her face. “It’s not true! I wouldn’t—”

“Your honor!” LaBelle shouted. “This is outrageous! The witness is not on trial.”

“Maybe she should be,” Ben replied.

LaBelle whirled on him. “You have sunk to some shameless tactics in your tawdry little career, Kincaid, but this time you’ve hit a new low.”

“Your honor,” Ben said, ignoring him, “the D.A. is interfering with my cross.”

“I’m making an objection!” LaBelle bellowed. “I’m objecting to this repellent line of questioning, this revolting assault on a woman who is still grieving the loss of her husband. And most of all I’m objecting to this disgusting defense attorney!”

“Personal attack on the opposing attorney, impugning his credibility,” Ben said, moving toward the bench. “I move for a mistrial.”

LaBelle threw up his hands. “More sleazy tactics!”

“There’s case law, your honor,” Ben said. “It’s automatic. You know it as well as I do.”

Judge Cable rose from his black cushioned chair. “Both of you—be quiet! Approach the bench!” He slung his gavel with such vigor that Ben ducked.

Cautiously, both Ben and LaBelle made their way to the front. “I will not put up with this in my courtroom!”

Ben held up his hands. “All I’m trying to do is cross-ex the witness.”

LaBelle pressed forward. “He’s trying to accuse a grieving widow of murder!”

“Silence!” Cable was so angry his whole body shook. He remained on his feet, towering over them like the Colossus of Rhodes. “I will not permit this to continue. I’m cutting you both off now.”

“But your honor,” LaBelle insisted, “he’s trying to suggest that the wife murdered her own husband. It’s incredible!”

“Oh, right,” Ben said. “That never happens.” He leaned across the bench. “Your honor, I’m permitted to explore alternate explanations for the crime. And that includes alternate suspects. In fact, as defense attorney, it’s my duty to do so.”

The judge gave him a harsh glare. “And you really think Mrs. McNaughton is the murderer?”

“What I think is not relevant.”

The judge’s face tightened like a fist. “I continue to be astonished by what attorneys are willing to do these days. Impugn the reputation of an innocent person just to exonerate their client. It’s offensive and I wont have any more of it.”

“Your honor,” Ben protested. “Under the Rules of Professional Conduct, I have an obligation to provide a zealous defense. If there’s another possible suspect, I have to bring that out.”

“Which you’ve done. Do you have anything more to add?”

“Well …”

“I thought not. So sit down and stop your speechifying.” He turned his loaded gavel toward LaBelle. “Do you want to redirect?”

“Of course!”

“So stop bellyaching and get to it. Now!” Ben and LaBelle scampered away from the judge’s ire, Ben to his table, La-Belle to the podium.

“First of all,” LaBelle said to Andrea, “let me express my deepest regret that you were subjected to this disturbing, unnecessary, and disgusting accusation.”

In the witness box, Andrea was still crying profusely. Her cheeks were flushed red and her mascara had streaked all over her face. Her hands were shaking.

“I have just a few more questions for you, ma’am, and then you may go. I don’t think anyone in this room has any problem understanding why you might bear the defendant some animosity. But the critical question is—”

“I didn’t lie,” Andrea said, cutting him off. “I wouldn’t. Sure, I don’t like what that teenager did, but I wouldn’t say something about her if I didn’t think it was true.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am. Now let me ask you another indelicate question. Forgive me for being blunt, but we all know the … defense attorney …” He said it as if it were a dirty word. “… has suggested that you are the murderer. So let me ask you straight out, Mrs. McNaughton. Did you kill your husband?”

“No. Of course not.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. “I couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly.”

“I know. But I had to ask. You see, what the defense attorney forgets is that, to commit this particularly gruesome murder, you would have to have more than anger. You would need all the specialized equipment. Tell me, ma’am, at the time of the murder, did you posses any heavy chains such as were used on your husband?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And did you own any black leather outfits?”

“No.”

“Did you have any knives similar to those that were used?”

“No.”

“Right. The only person who had those things—certainly the only person who had all of them—was the defendant. You couldn’t’ve committed this murder. And no cheap tricks can ever prove otherwise.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry you’ve been put through this, Mrs. McNaughton. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry you had to be here today.”

He glanced up at the judge. “No more questions, your honor. I think it’s perfectly clear what happened at Bartlett Square last March. The prosecution rests.”