The Witness: A Novel (41 page)

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Roast chicken. And mashed potatoes!” It struck her as funny that Brian, who always cooked potatoes, had brought her potatoes.

“Same schedule in the morning,” Casey told Davies and Hunt. “Sir, I’ll be back in a couple, if that’s acceptable.”

At a nod from Sinclair, the three men departed.

“Jenny, they cannot win. I’m sorry this is so difficult, but you must know that your cause is just. Your very presence in court means victory.”

“Every question was a trap. It was worse than I expected. Well, to be honest, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Their approach is to place the focus—and the blame—on the victim. It’s not going to work.”

She pushed her plate away. “I know now what it feels like to be raped by a woman,” she said with a bitter smile. “She spent all afternoon raping my reputation, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. Except stand there knowing I have to report tomorrow for more of the same.”

“Once more into the breach.”

“
Henry V
,” she replied. “He was trying to encourage his men to attack again.”

“Jenny, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Will tomorrow be my last day?”

“There’s no way to know.”

“Then I’ll need more clothes. I only have this one suit—and one more clean blouse.” She cleared the desk. “Were the families of the other women in the gallery today?”

“They’ve been there every day, Jenny.”

“If you see them, will you tell them I’m doing my best? And will you tell Danny’s family the same? I think about him all the time. I wish he were here.”

Colin smiled. “I can’t grant that wish, Jenny. All I can do is wish it with you. And I do.”

Casey gave her a sleeping pill as soon as he returned, hoping she’d have an undisturbed eight hours.

“Sergeant Casey—do you think I did okay today?”

He chose his tone carefully. “Jenny—yes.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. And Sullivan would think so as well. Rest now.” As he waited for her to fall asleep, he wondered what he could do tomorrow to ease the weight on her shoulders. He had known her court experience would be difficult, and he feared that the defence’s posturing was simply the prelude to a full-scale assault.

T
he door to Judge Lloyd’s chambers opened. It was Colin, bringing Jenny his Bible. There was an envelope on top with her name on it. “I can’t stay,” he said. “Super’s outside. Good luck.”

She sat down on the sofa and opened the envelope.
Read the end of Ephesians 6:13
, his bold handwriting instructed.
It’s what you did yesterday. You can do it today
. He had signed his name.

She flipped through the pages and found the verse. He had underlined it: “that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.” She read the rest of the verse and several that followed. They spoke of putting on the armor of God, wearing truth, walking in peace, and being shielded by faith. She needed all those things. The armor could keep the barbs of the defence counsel from getting through, and it could cover her poor rumpled suit, too.

Colin’s note was still in her hand. She wished she could take it into court with her, and in her mind she heard him answer, “I can grant that wish, Jenny.” She folded it carefully, unbuttoned her blouse, and slipped it inside her bra.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

S
he took a deep breath as she stepped into the witness-box and felt the edges of Colin’s note against her skin. Unwittingly, he had called it: She would have to stand. There was no chair.

“Proceed, Mr. Alford,” Judge Thomas said.

“Your Honour, the cross-examination will be led by my excellent colleague, Mr. Kevin Rhoads.”

Another barrister rose to his feet. He was younger and broader than Mr. Alford, and everything about his features was exaggerated slightly, his high forehead, overlarge eyes, full lips, and jutting chin. His black eyebrows looked out of place with the white wig he wore. She would have known he was a predator even without the aquiline nose. He completed a series of questions Mr. Alford had started, about her employment history, or, as Rhoads emphasised, her lack of it.

Next he turned to her recreational activities, and she fielded one
query after another about her participation in sports and entertainment. He made her sound as if she had been active only outside the classroom. He did not refer to her university transcript, which would have proved that she had spent some productive time in study. He paused. “If Your Honour could give me a moment,” he said to the judge, looking through a stack of papers.

“Don’t try my patience,” Judge Thomas warned.

“Your Honour, I wouldn’t think of it,” Rhoads responded. “Ah, here it is.” He opened a large brown envelope. “Could the witness be shown Defence Exhibit H, please?” He handed something to the clerk, who took it to the judge.

Judge Thomas frowned. He passed the exhibit to the clerk, who gave it to Jenny. She gasped, the color drained from her face, and she collapsed.

Sergeant Casey went to her without waiting for the judge’s permission. He knelt down beside her and lifted her head slightly. Judge Thomas stood, as did the members of the press and a number of other observers. Both Davies and Hunt took several steps closer to the box, Hunt unable to keep anger from flooding his features. Rhoads turned away, hiding his satisfied smile from the jury but not from Sinclair. Benjamin was on his feet, an expression of horror on his face. “Your Honour—”

“Give us a moment,” the judge replied.

Casey patted her cheeks. “Miss Jeffries, Miss Jeffries, are you all right?”

She could hear the sergeant’s voice—but why was he calling her “Miss Jeffries”? She opened her eyes, and it all came back to her: the courtroom, the questions, and the picture of poor, dead, naked Rob. She doubled up and began to sob.

“Does she need a doctor?” asked the judge. “Should we recess?”

“Wait one, sir,” Casey replied. He ran his hands over her quickly. “There’s no evidence of fracture, sir,” he reported. “Could she have a glass of water?”

The water was brought, and the sergeant helped her to sit up. He saw then what she had seen: a morgue photograph of the completely nude body of a young man—a young man who might have been attractive before physical trauma had crushed his chest and bloodied and distorted his other features.

“Bloody hell,” Casey swore softly. He wasn’t surprised to see Sinclair nearby. He handed him the photo and saw a dangerous expression cross his face. After a minute Sinclair gave it to the clerk, who passed it back to the judge. A member of the defence, managing to maintain a blank look, provided a copy for the prosecution.

“Sir, she needs a chair.”

It took a few minutes to locate one, and the judge remained on his feet until it was provided. Casey helped her into it and gently pressed her head between her knees.

“Take your time, Miss Jeffries,” the judge counselled.

Slowly she straightened.

“Any dizziness?” Casey asked.

She shook her head.

There was a rustle of concern in the court, and Sinclair could see why. Her face was stark white. Why had that bloody defence counsel done this?

“Take another sip of water,” Casey suggested, wanting to buy her some time. It wasn’t his no-nonsense voice; he sounded much kinder, but she obeyed anyway. He set the glass on the edge of the witness-box and took her elbow. With a little pressure he closed her arm so that her fingers rested on her neck where the cross was.

She thought suddenly of the flag in her room with the crosses on it, and Padre Goodwyn’s belief that God used people to carry out His will. “Thank you, Sergeant,” she whispered.

Casey nodded at the judge. “She’ll do, sir.” His heart heavy, he left the witness-box. He had done all he could. The rest was up to her, as it always had been, but she looked weak and small as she sat there alone.

Her microphone was adjusted. Sinclair returned to his seat.

“You may proceed, Mr. Rhoads,” said Judge Thomas in a thin voice. He nodded for the clerk to pass the photograph to the jury.

“Miss Jeffries, do you need to see the exhibit again?” Rhoads’ stout voice rang in the still room.

Tears ran down her cheeks. “No, please, no.”

“Then please identify for the court the young man in the photograph.”

“His name is Rob Morris.”

Sinclair was shaking with anger. She was bleeding. Her tears were the external symptom that inside she was broken.

“Who is Robert Alan Morris, Miss Jeffries?”

She hated hearing Rob’s name on Rhoads’ lips. Rob had been everything this man was not: gentle, compassionate, loving, and funny. “A friend from college.”

“Miss Jeffries, this court is tired of your half-truths. You supposedly swore to tell the whole truth. Isn’t it true that you were more than friends with this Robert Morris?”

“Your Honour, I don’t see the relevance,” said Mr. Benjamin.

“Your Honour, that will become clear,” Rhoads said quickly.

“See that it does,” said the judge.

“Miss Jeffries, what exactly was your relationship with this young man?”

“I was in love with him.” She saw the jury out of the corner of her eye. Their faces were shocked, and several of the women had wet cheeks. They had also seen the picture.

“Do you drink, Miss Jeffries?” Rhoads demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” She was confused by his sudden change in tactics.

“Don’t be obtuse, Miss Jeffries! Do you consume alcoholic beverages?”

“Occasionally,” she said. “I am of legal age.”

“On the evening that Mr. Morris was killed—in a horrific automobile accident, I might add—were you drinking, Miss Jeffries?”

She bit her lip. “Yes.”

“I didn’t catch that, Miss Jeffries.”

She had spoken too softly. She repeated her answer.

“And were you
of legal age
then, Miss Jeffries?”

“No.”

“You and Mr. Morris were drinking together, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“You knew he had a long drive ahead of him later that evening, didn’t you?”

It was a question; she had to answer. “Yes.”

“And yet you still enjoyed that bottle of wine and encouraged him to do the same—didn’t you, Miss Jeffries?”

“Yes,” she gasped.

“Miss Jeffries, please try to calm yourself,” Judge Thomas said.

“I can’t,” she wept. She spoke into the microphone, but she hadn’t looked in Rhoads’ direction since seeing the photograph.

“You sabotaged him, didn’t you, Miss Jeffries?”

“No! It was an accident.”

“You sent him to his death, didn’t you?”

“No, no, no! We didn’t drink that much. I loved him!”

“Your irresponsible behaviour caused his death, didn’t it?”

Davies wanted to throttle Rhoads’ thick throat. Casey wanted to get Jenny out of the line of fire, then take him down.

“Your Honour, you must require the witness to answer,” Rhoads declared.

“Mr. Rhoads, you have gone quite far enough,” Judge Thomas responded. “You are not empowered to require me to do anything I do not wish to do. And in view of the time—and the obvious emotional distress of the witness—my wish is to recess until two.”

“Your Honour, I have more questions for this witness,” Rhoads protested.

Judge Thomas threw his pencil on the desk. “They’ll have to wait,” he snapped. “You cannot proceed without me, and I am leaving.”

“Rise! All rise!” the usher exclaimed, caught off guard.

“Can you stand?” Casey asked her. The word reminded her of Colin’s Bible quote. Oh, God—she had not even been able to stand. Casey put an arm around her waist and wrapped one of hers around his neck. “Davies!” he called. “Bring the chair.”

When they reached Judge Lloyd’s chambers, Casey set her down on the sofa and examined her properly. She had fallen onto a hard floor, and he found numerous places that were tender.

“What the bloody hell was that about?” Hunt yelled.

“It was a morgue shot,” Casey said, “of her fiancé in Texas.”

“We were celebrating our commitment,” she cried. “We weren’t
drinking on an empty stomach—we’d had dinner. It wasn’t late. We didn’t even finish the wine. Alcohol wasn’t a factor, it wasn’t.”

Sinclair came in. “Jenny, can you continue?”

“If I quit, he wins,” she sobbed. “I don’t have a choice.”

Sinclair sat down next to her. “Yes, you do have. At two o’clock I can tell the judge he’ll have to adjourn.” He handed her his handkerchief. “You can’t testify in this condition.”

“I wish I were made of sterner stuff.”

The boxed lunches Andrews had delivered were on the desk. Casey looked through them. The sandwiches looked decent, but he didn’t think the beverages were sufficient. “Davies, Hunt—Jenny needs hot tea, as strong and sweet as you can make it. We’ll give her some caffeine courage. Fetch some biscuits, the milder the better.” He pulled the chair Davies had taken from the witness-box in front of her. “Sit here, Jenny,” he commanded.

Sinclair took her arm and helped her change places.

“I’m going to start counting,” the steely voice continued. “Count after me. One.”

“One,” she sobbed.

“No, you say the next,” he ordered.

“Two,” she repeated.

“Three.”

“Four.”

They had passed twenty before the sobs were completely gone and fifty before the shakiness had left her voice. Casey sent her to the bathroom to wash her face. “Sir, we got her mended and well for this? Frankly, sometimes I think our system sucks.”

“My sentiments exactly, Sergeant.”

They were both quiet when she returned. Davies and Hunt came in with their purchases and tucked into the sandwiches while Casey started her on the tea. After several sips, he opened a package of biscuits. He couldn’t treat the soreness he knew was coming unless she ate something, and she’d have to have sustenance to carry her through the afternoon. “Take one bite.” It was the voice no one said no to. “Another. Another.”

Sinclair handed him a sandwich, and Casey gave her half. “Drink some tea, then eat a bit.” He devoured his portion and nodded for more. She stopped eating. “One more bite, Jenny.”