A Conflict of Interest (41 page)

“And it entered your mind that if she found out about the affair, she might seek to divorce you.”

“I didn’t think that would happen, and it hasn’t.”

“That’s not my question, Mr. Ohlig. Before your wife found out about your affair—before Mrs. Miller was murdered—did you think about the prospect of her divorcing you if she found out?”

“Fleetingly, perhaps.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Robertson says. She hesitates a beat, perhaps because she’s expecting Broden to object, but he doesn’t. “And if she did divorce you, she’d get nearly every penny of the money, wouldn’t she?”

“I don’t know. That would be an issue for the lawyers to figure out.”

“Oh come now, Mr. Ohlig. You’re not telling this jury that the thought never crossed your mind that if your wife found out about your affair she might divorce you, and that would leave you with nothing. You’re not saying that, are you, sir?”

“I can’t say that I never thought about it.”

She’s done well with this part. I didn’t expect Ohlig to give her what she wanted without a fight, but she got it in the end.

“No more questions, your Honor,” she says, and then, as she walks back to counsel table, she smiles at me.

“Your Honor,” Broden says when Ohlig is excused, “at this time the defense rests.”

“Any rebuttal, Ms. Robertson?” Judge Rodriguez asks.

“We will have one rebuttal witness,” she says.

“Very well,” the judge says. “Given the lateness of the hour, let’s pick this up Monday morning for rebuttal and then closing arguments.” He pauses and then remembers to ask, “Ms. Robertson, who will the people’s rebuttal witness be?”

“Alex Miller.”

The moment Judge Rodriguez leaves the courtroom, I confront Robertson. “I thought I was done testifying.”

“I wasn’t trying to trick you, Alex,” she says in a whisper. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to put on any rebuttal case at all. But I’m concerned Ohlig may have some people buying the suicide angle, and you’re the only one who can contradict his testimony about your mother’s mental state at the time of her death.”

I wonder if there’s something in my expression that leads to her next question.

“You up for this, Alex?”

“Of course,” I say, trying to assuage her concern.

“Because this is it. You’re going to need to tell the jury that you had no reason to think your mother committed suicide. If there’s any reason you think you can’t do that, tell me now.”

“No reason. No reason at all.”

To my great surprise, Elizabeth is sitting on the bed watching television when I get back to the hotel room. She’s six months pregnant, and even though I saw her a week ago, she seems much larger now. She looks almost as if she won’t be able to get any bigger, but I know from our experience with Charlotte that she’s still got a long way to go.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. “And where’s Charlotte?”

“She’s with my mother. And I’m here because you sounded so sad on the phone last night that I thought you could use some moral support. I figure that closing statements are going to be difficult, and then the witness impact stuff. I just thought I might be able to make it a little easier on you.” She pauses a moment. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s more than okay. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here. It was okay for you to fly?”

“Yes, the doctor said it was fine.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Great. Second trimester, nothing better than that. Although I’ve got to figure out how to get the baby on a schedule so she sleeps when I sleep, rather than using that time to practice her soccer kicks.”

We found out during the first sonogram that our second child would be another daughter. I felt the slight pang of the Miller name not continuing, but only for a moment. The prospect of having another daughter was nothing to be disappointed about.

“I’m really glad you came down, Elizabeth. Thank you. I really missed you.”

She kisses me, fully on the mouth, and I can feel her swollen belly rubbing against mine.

“Do you remember what one of the great benefits of the second trimester is?”

“I do,” I say, knowing that she means that the sex is great.

“Good,” she purrs, pulling off her shirt.

I
’m no more relaxed for my return engagement to the witness chair than I was the first time. If anything, I’m a little more nervous, feeling as if the case now rides on my shoulders. The gallery is the most crowded it’s been so far, having more to do with the fact that closing arguments are to follow than any interest in my testimony, but it still adds to the pressure.

Judge Rodriguez reminds the jury, and me, that I continue to be under oath from my prior testimony, so there’s no need for me to be re-sworn. He asks if I understand, and I tell him that I do. With that, the judge tells Robertson to proceed.

“Mr. Miller,” Robertson begins, “you have been called to give what is referred to as rebuttal testimony, which means it’s limited to certain issues that have already been addressed in the trial. In this case, I only have one subject to ask you about—your mother’s mental state at the time of her death.”

“Okay.”

“Mr. Miller, were you in the courtroom on the day that Michael Ohlig testified?”

“I was.”

“Do you recall Mr. Ohlig testifying that he thought it was possible that your mother committed suicide?”

“I do recall him saying that.”

“Do you believe that your mother committed suicide?”

I had given considerable thought to how I would answer this series of questions. Not to the actual responses, which I had little doubt about, but the tone I should convey. Matter of fact? Outraged by the suggestion? Surprised?

I go with matter of fact. “No, I do not.”

“Did your mother leave a suicide note?”

“No, she did not.”

“Did your mother ever—
ever
—say anything to you to indicate that she was suicidal?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you spoke to your mother?”

“The day before she died.”

“Please tell the jury about that last conversation you had with your mother.”

“Objection!” Broden shouts. “May we approach, your Honor?”

Judge Rodriguez motions for the lawyers to come forward to the bench, and shifts his body away from me so that I won’t hear what’s transpiring. I have little doubt Broden is making a hearsay objection, the same one that Robertson made when Broden had Ohlig on the stand and asked about his conversation with my mother the day before she died—and Robertson will argue that a hearsay exception for state of mind is applicable, the same exception that Broden tried to use.

When the sidebar breaks up, Robertson says, “Mr. Miller, what did you and your mother talk about during that last call you had with her?”

Judge Rodriguez overruled the objection and is going to allow me to testify as to what my mother told me on the phone. Like a running back that sees daylight, I rush as fast as I can through the hole the judge has opened. “My mother said she was very excited about spending Thanksgiving with her friends. She also said that she was looking forward to seeing my daughter, her granddaughter—”

“I apologize, Mr. Miller,” Judge Rodriguez interrupts, apparently realizing his earlier ruling had been in error. “Your testimony should focus on what you said to your mother, rather than what she said to you. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, I realize that may seem to you a strange distinction, but Mr. Miller is an attorney and will recognize that what his mother told him is hearsay, and therefore I cannot allow testimony concerning it.”

“I apologize, your Honor,” I say.

“No need to apologize, Mr. Miller,” he says with a smile. “Just limit your response to what you said to your mother on that call.”

Even with the judge’s belated imposed limitation, I still had enough
leeway to pour it on thick. “We discussed my daughter, my mother’s only granddaughter. Her name is Charlotte and at the time she’d just turned five.” I catch the eye of the two older women in the jury—both of whom are grandmothers according to the jury questionnaires they filled out before trial—and they’re smiling. “I told my mother that Charlotte had recently confided in me that she was in love with a boy in her class.”

This earns a modest amount of laughter from the gallery. Much more importantly, the two grandmothers nod with approval. That’s enough encouragement for me to further gild the lily.

“I also discussed with my mother taking a visit to Florida with Charlotte and my wife. We talked about going to Disney World.”

“The last conversation you had with your mother was inviting her to a vacation at Disney World with her granddaughter?” Robertson says, reemphasizing the point even though she must recall that I never mentioned such a conversation during our preparation.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Miller, do you have reason—any reason at all—to believe your mother took her own life?”

“No. To the contrary, I know she would never do that.”

This time I know Broden is going to question me. He’s in the worst position possible for a lawyer—he’s got to shake my testimony without looking as if he’s attacking the victim.

Broden stands, folding his hands across his chest. As with all his cross-examinations, he has no notes. He walks deliberately to the jury rail, and then leans on it with one arm, careful that his back is not to any juror.

“Mr. Miller,” he begins, “you just said that you had no reason to believe that your mother might have taken her own life.” I don’t say anything, following Robertson’s prior instruction to answer only questions. “Do you recall that testimony?”

“I do.”

“The thought never—withdrawn. Mr. Miller, isn’t it the case that the police told you that your mother’s death may have been a suicide?”

“No, the police arrested your client for murdering my mother. I take that to mean they thought she was murdered.”

There are some chuckles in the gallery, but Broden doesn’t seem the slightest bit ruffled. He looks at me hard and says, “The police ultimately decided to charge Mr. Ohlig with this crime, but that was not my question, Mr. Miller. I know it’s difficult, but please try to listen to what I’m asking because it’s very important. Can you do that for me?”

This last part is for him to show he’s not without some power to make me look foolish too. At first I don’t answer, but he repeats the question, which only highlights the point.

“Yes,” I say, trying not to look too chastened.

“Thank you. Now, my question was whether anyone in the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Office ever communicated to you that your mother’s death might be a suicide.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“No. Never.”

I’m trying not to break eye contact with him. Not an easy feat considering Broden looks like he’s going to spit fire at me.

“Mr. Miller, you recognize you are under oath, correct?”

“I do. As you know, Mr. Broden, I’m a lawyer too. So I take the witness oath very seriously.”

Clint Broden asks the judge for a moment and turns away, slowly moving back toward the counsel table. When he gets there, he leans over and whispers in his client’s ear. After a moment, Ohlig breaks contact with him and focuses on me, actually squinting his eyes as if he’s trying to read my mind. There’s not much mystery about what the two of them are discussing, however.

Broden now has three choices. He could call Deputy Sheriff Gattia and ask him if the police ever seriously considered suicide a possibility, but considering that Sheriff Brunswick has denied my mother committed suicide, Broden’s not likely to get Gattia to contradict the boss. Second option is to play the Abby card, but I’m sure he knows that I’ll deny ever having such a discussion with her, and he’s got to be concerned that if he starts down that path, I’ll follow through on
the threat I made back in his office to tell the jury that Ohlig confessed to me.

When Broden straightens back up and faces me, I know what he’s decided to do by the fact his jaw is clenched. He’s going to select the third option.

Still standing behind his client, Broden says, “Mr. Miller, I have no further questions.”

Judge Rodriguez excuses me from the witness stand, but rather than take my usual seat in the gallery, I leave the courtroom. I’ve had enough testimony for the day.

Elizabeth must have followed me out, because a minute later she’s joined me on the wooden bench in the hallway.

“Quite a performance,” she says.

Elizabeth will leave it at that. Someone else would be more direct, asking me why I lied … about Disney World, about my suspicions that my mother took her own life, or about the sheriff department’s initial suspicions of suicide. I know Elizabeth well enough to know that she’s not going to go there. She’s said all she needs to on the subject, and she’ll wait for me to tell her my reasons when and if I’m ready.

The jury files out a few minutes later, several of them nodding at me as they walk by. Robertson comes out right after that, looking as giddy as a schoolgirl.

“You did it, Alex!” she says. “Broden just rested, and by the way the jurors were nodding during your testimony, I think they’re going to convict. Poor Broden, that son of a bitch didn’t know what to do with you. You both go out and have a nice bottle of wine tonight—” She stops herself short, in recognition of Elizabeth’s condition. “You have the wine, Alex. Elizabeth, you should stick with something healthy.”

We take Robertson up on the suggestion and go to an Italian restaurant on Worth Avenue. It’s the same place that Elizabeth and I once took my parents for their anniversary, maybe two or three years ago.

“Do you think he’s going to be convicted?” she asks me after our entrees have arrived.

“I don’t know. Obviously Morgan thinks so.”

“If he is, will he get the death penalty?”

“Hard to say. Morgan’s going to ask for it, and even though it’s not Texas, they’re pretty liberal with giving it out here too. But it’ll ultimately be the judge’s call.”

“How would you feel about that? About his getting the death penalty?”

“I try not to think about it, actually. I’m glad it’s not going to be my decision.”