Naked Justice

Chapter 45

THE LAST WITNESS OF the day was Officer Kevin Calley, the first policeman at the scene of the crime. Calley was a baby-faced officer with curly brown hair and a smooth, somewhat chubby face. He looked younger than he probably was. Ben wondered if this was his first time to testify. He was obviously nervous, although, given the general clamor and hubbub in the courtroom, who wouldn’t be?

“What were your duties on the day of March 11, Officer?” Bullock remained crisp and professional, despite the fact that he was on his fifth witness of the day and had to be tired.

“I was on patrol duty in one of the downtown districts. We call it the Utica beat.” Because it was in the vicinity of Utica Square, Tulsa’s shopping haven for those who don’t look at price tags before buying.

“Do you recall receiving a call on your car radio at approximately five forty-five in the afternoon?”

Calley nodded. “I do.”

“What were your instructions?”

“I was told to proceed to a residence on Terwilliger not far from Philbrook Museum.”

“And did you?”

“Yes.”

“Whose residence was it?”

“Well, as I saw upon arrival, it was the home of the defendant. The mayor.” He nodded toward the defense table. “Mr. Barrett.”

“What was the nature of the call?”

“I was told that an anonymous caller had reported a domestic disturbance.”

“Domestic disturbance being a euphemism for what?”

“Violence. Wife beating, usually.”

“I see.” Bullock folded his hands on his notebook. “Tell us what happened next.”

“When I arrived at the Barrett home, I exited my vehicle and approached the front door.”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual?”

“Well, what was unusual was that I didn’t hear anything. Usually, on these domestic abuse calls, you can hear the couples going at it a mile away. I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Did that concern you?”

“Yes, it did. It was possible that the parties involved had simply cooled down on their own, but that would be quite unusual. Therefore, I became concerned that the incident may have escalated into something more serious.”

Ben knew perfectly well why Bullock was dragging the officer through all this testimony about his concerns. Ben had made a pretrial motion to exclude evidence based on Calley’s unwarranted entry and search of the home. Bullock was trying to show that Calley had ample justification for entering the premises.

“What did you do?”

“I rang the doorbell, but there was no answer. I knocked on the door, but again there was no answer. While I was knocking, however, the door swung partly open.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, since whoever left the door open obviously wasn’t too concerned about privacy”—a quick glance at the judge—“and since I was concerned that some violent activity might be occurring inside, possibly involving children, I decided to enter the premises.”

Ben saw Bullock check him quickly out the corner of his eye to see if he was going to object. Forget it. Ben knew this was a loser.

“What did you see inside?” Bullock continued.

“At first, nothing. Then I passed through the entryway into the dining room.”

“And what did you see there?”

Calley frowned. His respiration seemed to quicken.

“Officer Calley,” Bullock said sympathetically, “I know this is probably difficult for you. These are unpleasant details, to be sure. But I must ask you to describe for the jury what you saw.”

Calley spoke in measured, even tones. “In the living room, draped across a dining room chair, I found the body of Caroline Barrett. She was dead.”

“Could you tell how she had been killed?”

“Not specifically, but she was covered with blood. Some of it was already dried and caked. It covered her face and her hands and her clothes and—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Everywhere.”

Bullock strolled over to the podium and reversed the first enlarged photo. It was every bit as hideous as every juror had imagined it might be. Red was the dominant color—bright, vivid, sickly red. It covered almost every inch of her face and hands, every inch of her clothing.

“Officer, can you identify this photograph?”

“Yes,” he said, only looking at it for the briefest of moments. “That’s Mrs. Barrett. That’s how she looked when I found her.”

Bullock asked a few more procedural questions to fulfill the authentication requirements. “Your honor, I move that this photograph be admitted into evidence.” Ben did not object. The photo was admitted. Bullock returned to his podium, leaving the photo exposed and facing the jury. “What did you do next?”

“After I confirmed that she was dead, I began searching the rest of the house. Obviously, at this point, I felt it was urgent that I determine whether there were any more victims in the house, anyone who might require emergency medical assistance. I toured the rest of the downstairs, but I didn’t find anyone. I then proceeded upstairs.”

“Did you find anything unusual there?”

“Yes.” His voice cracked. Ben looked up and saw, to his surprise, a tear creeping out the corner of Calley’s eye. Police officers were usually coached to remain stoic and nothing-but-the-facts when testifying. Ben had never seen anything like this before.

Bullock cleared his throat. “And … what did you find?”

“In one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one on the far left, I found the Barretts’ younger daughter. She was lying on her bed, her arms folded across her chest—” Calley choked—literally choked. He could not complete the sentence.

Bullock didn’t press him. “Was she alive?”

Calley shook his head. “No. I could tell at a glance, although I confirmed it by searching unsuccessfully for a pulse. Her face and body were an almost … unnatural white, a ghostly pale. I guess.” Once again, Calley did not manage to finish his sentence.

Bullock flipped over the next enlarged photo. If anything, this one was even worse than the one before. It had an unholy calm about it; it at first suggested that she was simply resting on her bed, a suggestion soon shattered upon closer inspection by the realization that she had been murdered.

“Officer Calley, is this the scene you witnessed in Annabelle Barrett’s bedroom?”

“Yes. That’s it.”

Bullock moved that the photo be admitted into evidence, and it was.

“Officer Calley, where did you go next?”

Calley seemed flushed and embarrassed, both sickened by the memory and upset that he wasn’t handling himself in a more professional manner. As if anyone could. “To tell you the truth, sir, I … uh … wasn’t feeling very good at that point. I had noticed that there was a bathroom near the bedroom so I ran in there thinking that, um …” He swept his hand across his face. “Well, I thought I was going to be sick.”

“And what happened?”

“I ran to the bathroom, pushed wide the door, and was instantly confronted with … the other daughter.”

Bullock paused to give Calley a few moments to gather himself. “Could you tell the jury precisely what you saw?”

“The older Barrett girl—Alysha—was lying in the bathtub. There was no water in it, and she was still in her clothes.”

“Was she dead?”

“Yes, of course she was dead.” Calley pressed his hand against his forehead. “She was very dead.”

Bullock flipped over the third of the grisly enlarged photos, revealing a bathtub streaked with blood and the lifeless body inside, one arm draped over the edge, like a pathetic parody of the famous painting of Marat. “Does this photo accurately represent what you saw?”

“Yes.”

Bullock had the third photo admitted into evidence. He allowed another respectful silence, then continued. “Did you do anything else in the Barrett home?”

“No,” Calley whispered. “I left the house. I called for an ambulance, although I knew they were all dead. And I called homicide.”

“Thank you, Officer Calley. I have nothing more.”