A Killer's Wife (Desert Plains)

by Victor Methos

  “Is it her handwriting in these journal entries?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Did you give the journal to the police?”

  “No. I couldn’t find it. We looked everywhere for it and it just wasn’t in the house. It makes sense he took it, I guess. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it at the time.”

  Yardley felt a stab of sympathy for her, that she would now have to imagine Wesley Paul searching Jordan’s room. “Move for admission into evidence as prosecution exhibit fifty-four.”

  “Any objection?”

  Wesley rose. “Your Honor, sidebar.”

  They approached. Yardley put her arm on the judge’s bench as Wesley did the same. She could smell his scent, and it sickened her, so she took a step back.

  “Your Honor, this journal was found by Ms. Yardley recently without anyone else to verify that’s what occurred. Its veracity is deeply in question. I would object to its entry on hearsay grounds.”

  “It falls under the then-existing mental-and-emotional-state hearsay exceptions, Your Honor. You have Ms. Russo confessing her deepest emotions toward the defendant, expressing her mental state at the time around her death, which is what the exception was carved out for. I’m not introducing these journal entries as verification for truth of the matter asserted, just to get a sense of how she felt toward Mr. Paul at the time of the relationship.”

  Wesley said, “Ignoring the fact that not only didn’t we have a relationship, I don’t know who she was.”

  “Not knowing them never stopped you from killing someone before.”

  Wesley stared at her with venom, his mouth twisting in an ugly frown as the judge said, “I do find they fall under the then-existing mental state exception and will allow them into evidence. Please step back now.”

  They returned to their positions. Once the journal had been admitted, Yardley gave it to Isabella and said, “Will you please read the entry for January tenth of the year she was killed?”

  Isabella opened the journal, flipped to the page, and began reading. “I’m so lucky to have met Wes. He’s older than me and I first didn’t like that ’cause he has wrinkles on his forehead. But now I think they’re adorable. Funny how that changes when you get to know someone, huh? He’s from Tennessee and I love his accent. He’s got this smile that just warms my heart and he knows how to make me laugh and he’s super smart. Probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. He teaches me so many things about the world and how it works. I just hope he doesn’t get bored with me. I feel so stupid around him, like I don’t know anything. I hope he knows that I have a lot of love to give and a lot of other good things besides being smart.

  “We had—” Isabella had to stop for a moment. “We had sex the other night for the first time. He likes it more rough than I do but I didn’t mind. It was different. I had a lot of bruises after and he choked me really hard and I had to wear a scarf for a few days at work. I told him I don’t like it that rough and he apologized and said he would . . .”

  Isabella put the journal down.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Yardley. I can’t keep reading this.”

  “It’s okay,” Yardley said, taking the journal. “The jury will be able to take it back and read it themselves.” Yardley put her hand on Isabella’s arm and said, “It’s okay; you did great. Thank you.”

  Yardley took a transparent evidence bag off the table and brought it over to Isabella. “What is this, Ms. Russo?”

  “It’s Jordan’s ring.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” she said, taking the bag and examining the ring. “It has the inscription ‘To My Bumblebee,’ which was what her father called her.”

  Yardley introduced the ring and handed it to the jury to examine.

  “Was she wearing it the day she disappeared?”

  “She was. I saw it on her when she gave me a kiss before leaving.”

  “And it was found among Wesley Paul’s belongings, correct?”

  “Objection!”

  “Withdrawn,” Yardley said. “Thank you, Isabella.”

  Yardley sat down. She’d known that last question would be objected to, but she wanted the jury to hear where the ring had been found before putting Baldwin on the stand to explain about the lockbox.

  Wesley stared at the woman on the stand, running his finger over his lower lip. Isabella sat with sunken shoulders, staring at the floor: a broken, defeated woman. Wesley had to be careful how he approached her.

  “You wear glasses, Ms. Russo?” he said, rising.

  “I do.”

  “Nearsighted or farsighted?”

  “Near.”

  “So you have trouble seeing things from far away?”

  “Objection, Counsel is testifying.”

  “Overruled.”

  “You may answer,” Wesley said.

  “Yes, some trouble.”

  “How far away was the person you claim to be me standing from you that first time you saw them?”

  “Objection, calls for expert testimony.”

  “She knows how far things are, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  Wesley, with a hint of annoyance, said, “Go ahead, Ms. Russo. Answer the question.”

  “Oh . . . about twenty feet maybe. I was pulled close to the door.”

  “What was the weather like?”

  “Objection, relevance.”

  Wesley sighed. “It’s relevant to how clearly she could see, obviously.”

  “The objection is overruled.”

  “The weather, Ms. Russo,” Wesley said.

  “Sunny.”

  “Anything obstructing your view?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a history of mental—”

  “Objection,” Yardley said. “Relevance.”

  “Haven’t asked it yet, Judge.”

  “Agreed. Overruled.”

  “Do you have a history of mental illness, Ms. Russo?”

  “Objection, relevance,” Yardley said.

  “It’s clearly relevant, Your Honor, in how Ms. Russo interprets what she sees. What if she has a history of hallucinations or delusions? Certainly I’m allowed to explore that.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  “You may answer,” Wesley said. “Any mental illness?”

  “No, not really.”

  “By ‘not really’ you mean—”

  “Objection, calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled.”

  Wesley glanced back at Yardley and then continued, “I think what you meant to say was—”

  “Objection, Counsel is testifying.”

  “Overruled.”

  Wesley hesitated a second and then said, “You meant you have some mental illness, correct?”

  “It’s not really a mental illness.”

  “What is it?”

  “Depression.”

  “Chronic depression is a—”

  “Objection, mischaracterizes the evidence. She never said ‘chronic depression,’ just depression.”

  “Sustained.”

  Wesley sighed and said, “How long have you had depress—”

  “Objection, Counsel lacks personal or professional knowledge to ask about the duration of depression.”

  “Overruled.”

  Wesley glared at her a moment and then turned back to Isabella and said, “How severe is your depression?”

  “It comes and goes. Sometimes not too bad and sometimes bad.”

  “By ‘bad’ do you mean—”

  “Objection, vagueness.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Ms. Russo, by ‘bad’ do you mean—”

  “Objection, beyond the scope of direct.”

  Wesley chuckled with just a hint of anger. “That is not an objection in the federal system, Your Honor. Ms. Yardley should’ve learned that in law school.”

  “The objection is overruled, Ms. Yardley.”

  Wesley adjusted the sleeve of his sports coat. H
is face had flushed a slight pink. “You have more than depression, don’t you, Ms. Russo? Isn’t it true—”

  “Objection, compound question.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Ms. Russo, you have—”

  “Objection, speculation.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Ms. Russo,” he said calmly, “please tell this jury what other mental illnesses—”

  “Objection, improper characterization.”

  “It wouldn’t be improper if you’d let me finish a damn question!”

  Wesley had raised his voice, his face red as he snapped at her. His brow furrowed with anger as he glared at Yardley. He had turned exactly in the direction of the jury, and they could get a good look at his face. When the anger faded enough for him to realize what he had done, he cleared his throat, swallowed, and said, “Judge, will you please instruct Ms. Yardley to only make relevant objections?”

  “I cannot tell if they’re relevant or not until the objection is made, Mr. Paul, but I’m happy to instruct on the importance of relevant objections if you like.”

  Wesley scowled at Yardley. She stared right back at him. Wesley sneered, away from the jury, and said, “That won’t be necessary. No further questions for this witness.”

  72

  The day ended at four, and before Yardley left, Wesley said, “That was particularly well played. She was a grieving mother, so even though the jury saw you were purposely interfering with my questioning, they thought it was to protect her and sided with you. I’m proud of you. Very clever.”

  She hung the strap of her satchel over her shoulder. “I couldn’t care less what you think about anything, Wesley.”

  Baldwin waited for her near the doors, a grin on his face. When they got out into the hall, she said, “What?”

  “What?”

  “You have a mischievous grin on your face. Like a ten-year-old boy caught doing something bad.”

  “I just enjoyed that a lot more than I thought I would. He seemed completely in control until that moment.”

  “He has a temper, always has. I didn’t notice it before because he attempted to control it around me, but looking back, I can remember glimpses of his real personality slipping out. I just wish I’d been paying more attention.”

  “We’re not built to think the unthinkable about people. You did nothing wrong.”

  He walked her down to the parking garage and to her car. As she put her satchel in the back seat, he said, “Did you want to grab dinner?”

  She paused and looked at him. “Cason . . . I’m not really at a spot in my life—”

  “Whoa, whoa, before you finish that sentence and insult me, let me just tell you that I like you as a friend. And if all you want to be is friends, that’s cool with me. But I don’t even want to have that conversation right now. I can’t imagine what you’re going through with all this, and I’m sure that is the last thing you want to talk about, and it should be. Right now, I just want to make sure I’m here for you.”

  She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I know you’re here for me. But I need to prepare for tomorrow.”

  As she pulled away, she saw him watching her car leave the parking garage.

  It was six in the evening when Yardley got the text she was waiting for: the forensic odontologist would be landing on a red-eye flight. In the morning, he’d go directly to the coroner’s and perform the comparison to see if the teeth marks on Jordan Russo’s right foot were a match to the retainer made from Wesley Paul’s teeth.

  Yardley nibbled a salad standing next to the sink. A pair of Tara’s shoes sat by the front door. She still remembered the tiny boots she had bought as her first pair of shoes. Little gray moccasins for her chubby feet. It seemed so recent. Like she could reach out and touch the memory.

  Money had been tight then, and Yardley had to choose between the boots and buying dinner for herself the next few days. She’d chosen the boots and eaten some peanut butter with a spoon until her next paycheck. She had never told Tara that story. Tara would never know the choice she’d had to make and how easy it had been for her to decide to not eat so that her daughter could have nicer shoes than the ones from the thrift store.

  She washed the plate and put it away before going out to check the mail. The sun was still out, the sky light pink with a few scattered clouds like cotton. A neighbor of hers, an elderly woman, was out and stared at her. When Yardley waved to her, she turned away.

  A few bills, a few advertisements, and a notice from the federal district court addressed to her. She opened it. It was a motion and order from Eddie Cal’s attorney asking for a stay of his execution. The document exceeded fifty pages, but Yardley scanned enough to get the point: That there was new evidence exonerating Cal for the crimes he’d been convicted of. That Wesley Paul was the actual Dark Casanova, and evidence showed he had manipulated Cal into a position where a conviction against him and not Wesley was favored. Yardley’s office had sent her a copy of the motion since she was prosecuting Wesley.

  Nice try, Yardley thought.

  At first it gave her a small satisfaction at how ridiculous the motion was. It stank of desperation. The hopelessness of an animal that knew it was going to die. But Yardley understood that in his spot, she would file the same motion. A sliver of hope to live was better than none at all.

  It also confirmed to her the question of why Wesley had started the killings now. This motion was Cal’s lifeline, and he needed new murders and a new Dark Casanova for it to have a chance at working. She had no doubt he had told Wesley he only needed a suspect, but in reality what he needed was a conviction.

  She folded the motion, walked to the blue recycling bin in the driveway, and threw it in. She didn’t have the energy to waste feeling bad for a monster.

  Now the elderly woman had strolled over to her mailbox, which wasn’t far from where Yardley stood. Despite the earlier discourtesy, Yardley said, “How are you?”

  “Better than you.” She input a code into the keypad on the mailbox and took out several envelopes. “You bring strange men into your bed, depraved things are bound to happen after. Sleep with dogs, you’re bound to get fleas.”

  Yardley stared at her, then said, “Have a good night, Rochelle,” before going into her house and shutting the door.

  73

  Yardley and Baldwin met the forensic odontologist in the lobby lounge of his hotel early the next morning to go over the exam and what would be happening in court if the bite marks matched Wesley Paul’s retainer. He was a tall man, slim, with deep-set dark eyes and a poofy fluff of salt-and-pepper hair. The thin glasses on his nose kept slipping down.

  Dr. Griffin Johnson had done this for over thirty years and needed little preparation for a trial. But Tim had been right about one thing: this was the primary piece of evidence in this case. It was the only direct evidence they had that Wesley had attacked Jordan Russo before her death. If the bite marks came back a match, Wesley would fight it with everything he had.

  Yardley said, “I’d like you to testify today, but the judge may want to give Wesley time to go through your report. We can fly you out and then have you back on whatever day the judge schedules for your testimony, but I’d like to get you in today if at all possible.”

  He nodded. “What should I expect?”

  “He’s going to attack you with things you may have forgotten about.”

  He shrugged and pushed up his glasses. “I’ve had tough cross-examinations before. Nothing new.”

  Yardley glanced at Baldwin, who looked at her silently. “Is there anything in your past that an investigator might have turned up if he dug deep enough? Maybe criminal charges that were never filed? Past inaccuracies in testimony, drug addiction, mental illness, stays in mental health facilities, anything like that?”

  Johnson interlaced his fingers on the table. “Not that I can think of, no.”

  Baldwin said, “He’ll say that you’re paid to be here and only testify for the pro
secution. He’s done that for every expert in this case.”

  “That’s a simple rebuttal. I don’t testify just for the prosecution. It’s predominantly prosecution, merely because you have more work, but I have testified in dozens of trials for the defense.”

  “That’s good,” Yardley said. “We should probably mention that right as I’m introducing you.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. We should likely discuss the recent advancements and criticisms of forensic odontology as well.”

  “Like what?” Baldwin said.

  “There’ve been numerous recent studies calling into question the accuracy of the field. The problem is that skin is highly elastic, so bite marks can shift and display alterations due to the skin’s movement. One study suggested that to be accurate, the bite mark must be analyzed in exactly the position the victim was in when the bite mark was made. Add to that the irregularities in the skin before the bite occurs at all, and you have good doubt as to the veracity of bite marks. What’s different about this case is that the bite mark is in bone, something fixed and generally immutable. Far more accurate than a bite in skin. I should explain all that to the jury first thing.”

  Yardley looked to Baldwin, who raised his eyebrows, impressed.

  She checked her phone. “The medical examiner is meeting you in an hour to take you to the morgue. Call me as soon as you’re finished.”

  By the time Yardley sat at the prosecution table, a surge of confidence had swelled inside her. Wesley had adeptly attacked every witness, but the fact remained that the jury believed Isabella that she had seen Wesley and Jordan together. They believed Jordan’s journal, ring, and hair had been found among his possessions, they understood that Jordan was sleeping with an older man named Wes from Tennessee who had a southern accent, and if Dr. Johnson was able to match Wesley’s teeth to the marks embedded into Jordan’s bone, they would have everything they needed for a conviction. Even with only an inconclusive finding for the teeth marks, explaining to the jury that she’d likely kicked him trying to crawl away and he’d bit her would add a bit of gruesome detail that would stick with the jury in the deliberation room.

  Yardley glanced behind her. Baldwin wasn’t there. The judge would be out in about five minutes. She should have received a text or a call an hour ago that the comparison had been completed. Yardley texted Baldwin and asked where he was.