The Wages of Sin (21 page)

Nixon protested. “What are you doing? I can't see.”

She ignored him, staring at Ivy, willing the child to answer.

Judge Callaway frowned. “Ivy Dent, let's try again.” He repeated the oath.

But Ivy wasn't listening. Her gaze was locked on the defense side of the courtroom, her eyes narrowing behind the new glasses, with a look that combined suspicion and fear.

She crossed her arms, and turned sideways in the chair, her back to the judge.

Elsie felt the blood rush to her head and pound in her ears. She walked up to the witness stand, trying to maintain an outward appearance of calm. Laying her hand on the wooden rail that separated her from the child, she spoke in a clear voice that didn't betray her inner quaking.

“Ivy.”

Ivy shifted even farther away from Elsie, presenting her back to her. The tag of her dress hung out at her neck; it was a size six, Elsie saw.

“Ivy, please turn around. You're in court.”

Ivy turned her head, but didn't change position. Elsie studied the child's profile for a moment, silently willing her to swing around in her seat. But Ivy made no move to face her. Elsie looked up at Judge Callaway. Their eyes met. He leaned forward, a question in his face. “Ms. Arnold?”

“Judge, we need a recess.”

Claire O'Hara still stood at the defense table. “Your honor, if the prosecution is unable to proceed with this witness, let's move on.”

“Just a few minutes,” Elsie said. Her voice carried a pleading note.
Stop it,
she thought.
Don't sound weak.

“The defense objects.” Claire turned to the jury. “The prosecution seeks to coach the witness. If the court permits that, we'll ask for a mistrial.”

Elsie heard a gasp behind her.
Shut up, Madeleine,
she thought.
Put on your damned poker face.

The jurors were shifting in their chairs, glancing at Ivy and looking away. Elsie could read the tea leaves. She was losing ground.

She walked to the side of the witness stand and faced Ivy, placing her back to the jury. Elsie's mother was a career schoolteacher; she affected Marge Arnold's best classroom voice. “Ivy, please turn around in your seat and answer the judge's questions.”

The child's face was mulish. When she spoke, Elsie's stomach dropped.

“I don't know nothing,” Ivy said.

Elsie took a deep breath. “Ivy,” she said, in a gentler voice.

But the girl's arms tightened across her chest. She lowered her head and glanced away from Elsie, then repeated the prior statement.

“I don't know nothing.”

Sam Parsons stood, and said in his booming voice, “The State requests a brief recess.”

Claire said, with a timbre that matched Parsons's volume, “Defense objects.”

Judge Callaway looked down at the child's stiff figure for several protracted moments. While Elsie waited for his decision, she could feel sweat dripping from her hairline. She thought she was sweating in her underwear.
Flop sweat,
a voice whispered in her head.

With a somber face, Judge Callaway shook his head. “Prosecution's request is denied. This witness may step down. Let the record reflect that she was unable to respond to the oath.”

Elsie turned to the courtroom, intending to seek direction from her cocounsel. But Claire O'Hara caught her eye instead. The defense attorney settled in her chair, looking like the cat that ate the canary. Her self-­satisfaction wasn't unexpected; she had won the round. But Claire pulled a packet of Kleenex tissues from her bright red briefcase and applied one to her nose with a hand that shook so violently, it made the bangle bracelets around her wrist jingle.

Elsie didn't have the opportunity to reflect upon the reason for Claire O'Hara's uncharacteristic fit of nerves. As Tina Peroni escorted Ivy from the room, Judge Callaway turned to the prosecution table and said, “Call your next witness.”

They had no other witness. Ivy was the key to the prosecution's pitch for the death penalty. It had been Ivy's job to demonstrate to the jury the impact that was made by Jessie Dent's death.

And Ivy was no longer a player. It appeared that she had switched teams.

What did I do wrong?
Elsie wondered as she slid back into her chair under the baleful eye of Madeleine Thompson. She would have wagered a fortune she did not possess that the girl would speak up in court. Ivy Dent had grit, intestinal fortitude, chutzpah. She was a survivor.

When Madeleine hissed in her ear, “What on earth was that about? What did you do?” Elsie didn't speak a word in her own defense. Because she was wondering the same thing.

 

Chapter Thirty-­Nine

Elsie watched with
a stoic face as the bailiff held the door open for Tina Peroni and she walked out, holding tightly onto Ivy's hand.

As Ivy's figure in the yellow dress retreated through the doorway, it was replaced by another: Bob Ashlock stood in the doorway, unable to enter, like a captive prince in a fairy tale.

The door closed on him, but he continued to stand before it, staring at Elsie through the glass panes.

She raised her eyebrows at him; he shook his head. Glancing away, she checked to see whether they were the object of anyone's attention; but no one was paying her any mind.

She looked back. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it in his hand, staring her down.

Her briefcase was at her feet. The phone was inside, the bell tone off. She bent over and felt for the phone, covertly checking for a message from Ashlock without removing the phone from its pocket inside the bag.

Ashlock had texted:
SPD is here.

She looked up at him in confusion, lifting her shoulders to show that she didn't understand. Ashlock turned and walked away.

Parsons was whispering to Madeleine, so Elsie lent an ear. “She blew your case for the death penalty. You needed her to establish the impact of the deceased's death on the survivors, under the death penalty provision in the criminal code.”

Who's “she,”
Elsie wondered. Did he blame Ivy? Because the fault should fall squarely on her own shoulders. Elsie had undertaken the task of enabling Ivy to articulate what her mother's death had wrought. It was Elsie's responsibility, her duty.

She had failed. The jury would never see what was in the child's heart.

Madeleine twisted in her seat, placing her back pointedly to Elsie. The pair at the counsel table continued to whisper.

Parsons said, “We've still got Closing Argument. Are you ready?”

“What about the defense evidence? To mitigate punishment?”

“They got nothing. We'll rest, they'll rest, we'll talk jury instructions with the judge. Then we'll close. The baby. Drive home the baby.”

“And Ivy,” Elsie whispered.

Madeleine turned. “Are you insane?”

Parsons followed up. “We need them to forget all about that fumble.” He dropped his voice. “I never liked that kid.”

A sudden wave of anger washed over Elsie; in her mind's eye, she saw the mulish face with ragged blond hair framing broken glasses: the survivor. The title was apt. Ivy was a true survivor.

Parsons was rising, resting his fingertips on the counsel table as he announced, “The State rests, your honor.”

Callaway nodded, without surprise. “Defense counsel, you may call your first witness.”

A flash of prognostication, fueled by Ashlock's text, struck Elsie. They've got something. Something major.

Josh Nixon stood. “The defense calls Lieutenant Vincent Boone to the witness stand.”

Emil Elmquist didn't have to call the policeman's name; he opened the door and Lieutenant Boone marched in, dressed in his uniform blues.

The patch on his arm reading
SPD
didn't take Elsie by surprise; but it sent Madeleine into a coughing fit.

Boone took the oath and took his seat on the stand. Even a casual observer could detect ambivalence in the policeman's attitude.

Josh Nixon said, “State your name, please.”

“Vincent Boone.”

“What is your occupation, sir?”

Defense counsel hadn't called Ashlock
sir
,Elsie noted. It was a message to the jury, that demonstration of respect granted to one lawman and withheld from another.

“I serve as Lieutenant in the Violent Crimes Division of Springfield, Missouri Police Department.”

“How long have you served in that capacity?”

“I've been with SPD for fourteen years.”

“What's your educational background?”

“I have my bachelor's degree in criminology from Missouri State University.”

More ways to make our local police department suffer by comparison,
Elsie thought. Ashlock had done some coursework at Missouri Southern in Joplin, but had not attained a degree. No time to devote to it, she thought, mounting his defense in her head.

“Lieutenant, have your heard of the Lethality Assessment?”

Ooooh shit,
Elsie thought. She suspected she could guess the direction the direct examination would take.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is the Lethality Assessment, to the best of your understanding?”

The lieutenant shifted to face the jury. “The Lethality Assessment was established in an effort to reduce homicides, and serious injuries, in domestic assault cases. It's a series of eleven questions used to determine whether the victim of domestic abuse is at risk of death.”

“What are the questions, Lieutenant? Can you tell us?”

“I can, sir.”

Don't call the defense attorney sir,
Elsie thought, pinching her lips together in frustration. The lawman was raising the defense profile by such offhand expressions of respect.

The lieutenant didn't have to resort to notes; he recited the questions from memory.

“We ask the victim: ‘Has he ever used a weapon against you or threatened you with a weapon?' ”

Nixon nodded. “What else?”

“ ‘Has he ever threatened to kill you or your children?' ”

“Go on.”

“Okay, number three: ‘Do you think he might try to kill you?' Number four: ‘Does he have a gun or one he can access easily?' ”

The lieutenant paused. Nixon said: “Continue.”

“ ‘Has he ever tried to strangle you?' ”

A member of the jury exhaled with an audible gasp. The policeman looked at her with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. These are pretty heavy.”

Nixon said, “Indeed.” Elsie saw Nixon make eye contact with the juror that gasped. The defense attorney blew his breath out in a silent whistle.

Elsie didn't like it, didn't like it a bit. Nixon and the juror were creating a connection.

Nixon turned back to Lieutenant Boone. “Next one?”

Boone took a few second to recall, raising his eyes to the ceiling tiles. “We ask, ‘is he consistently jealous of you or others?' ”

“Next question, please.”

“ ‘Have you left him or separated after living together or being married?' ”

“And?”

“ ‘Is he unemployed? Has he ever tried to kill himself?' ”

“Next one, please.”

The lieutenant closed his eyes briefly. “Give me one second, please.”

When he opened them, he turned to the jury. “I know these questions like the back of my hand. Then I get on the stand, and I hit a blank.”

Three jurors smiled and nodded.

“Ready?” Nixon said.

“Yes, sir. There's two more: ‘Does he follow or spy on you or leave threatening messages?' ”

Nixon cruised to the jury box and leaned on it with his elbow. “Tell us the last question you ask the victim of domestic violence.”

“Do you have a child that he knows is not his?”

The gasping juror huffed again with a loud inhalation.
Ivy,
Elsie thought. Ivy was actually the defendant's Exhibit Number One.

“Lieutenant Boone, what is the purpose of asking all these questions?”

“We do it so that the officer can identify victims of domestic violence that have the highest risk of being killed by their husband or partner. Boyfriend, or whatever. Killed, or seriously injured.”

Nixon still stood by the jury. “So if they're high risk, what do you do at the SPD? Just tell the women—­I'm sorry, I mean the victim—­that they're in danger? Or give them a referral? Or hand them a card?”

“No, sir. The officer immediately calls a twenty-­four-­hour crisis hotline and puts the victim in touch with The Victim Center and Harmony House.” He turned to the jurors. “The Victim Center provides free counseling to victims of violent and sexual crime. And Harmony House provides a safe place to stay.”

Elsie didn't know whether the defense tactic was working on the jury, but it was certainly having an effect on her.
Why haven't we done that in Barton,
she wondered. Barton had the Battered Women's Center of the Ozarks, where she volunteered.

“Lieutenant Boone, thank you for your time,” Nixon said. He nodded at the judge. “No further questions.”

As Nixon settled back into his seat, Elsie huddled with Madeleine and Parsons to conduct a whispered exchange.

“What do we do now?” Madeleine said.

“What do you want to do with him?” Parsons asked.

Madeleine turned to Elsie, the question in her eyes. Elsie whispered, “What the hell can we do? Attack him because Springfield has a better policy on domestic assault cases than the Barton PD? Let him go, and smile at him on the way out. We're on the same team; we are all law enforcement.”

Parsons frowned; it almost looked like a pout. “I could ask for numbers. See if he can substantiate whether the Lethality Assessment has saved any lives, or if it's just baloney.”

“Are you nuts? Why would you attack a procedure that's designed to keep women alive?” Elsie glanced up; most of the jurors were staring at the prosecution table. “This is taking too long. The jury is getting suspicious—­like, what are we talking about?”

Madeleine stood. “We appreciate our cohort's presence today, but we have no questions of Lieutenant Boone.” She shot the lawman a brave smile. “Thanks for coming, Vince.”

As the lieutenant walked out, Elsie reached over to Madeleine's legal pad and wrote,
Well done.

Claire O'Hara stood. “For our next witness, the defense calls Chuck Harris to the witness stand.”

Elsie dropped the pen she'd been holding. Madeleine's face transformed from a pleasant expression to a mask of angry shock. Parsons did a double take, then turned to Elsie and Madeleine to demand: “What did she say?”

Oh fuck,
Elsie thought.
Fuck me running
.