Full Disclosure

by Beverley McLachlin

  “Too risky. Way too risky.”

  “Okay, okay.” I go to the door. “Bring Mr. Trussardi in.”

  Minutes later, the guard pushes our client through the door, and he slumps into the seat opposite me. Fatigue lines his face. His eyes are still proud, but the shadows beneath them grow darker every day.

  “How are you doing, Mr. Trussardi?” I ask.

  “Well enough, under the circumstances. I long for this trial to be over.”

  Jeff shoots me a look. He’s talking like a man who’s given up—not a good sign.

  “We open the defense tomorrow morning, Mr. Trussardi. First thing, I address the jury.”

  “I see.”

  “The prosecution bears the burden of proving guilt, and we’ve thrown the jury the possibility that someone else did it, whether that’s Trevor Shore or Damon Cheskey. Still, it’s our considered opinion that we need to call evidence. More precisely, we need to call you. We need you to tell the jury that you were sailing when your wife died, need you to tell them that you and she had reconciled and were happy together, that you believed she was carrying your child, that there is no way you would have killed her.”

  “I agree,” he says. “I’ll testify.”

  “You need to prepare for some tough cross-examination. They might try to suggest that you fought with your wife, maybe even assaulted her.”

  “I never laid a hand on my wife. Ever,” he protests angrily. “Not on any woman. I am not that sort of man.”

  “She had no reason to fear you?”

  “None.”

  “So if someone suggested that she was seen running from your house, cowering in fear in the street—that would be false?”

  “Laura never feared me. She had no cause to run from me.”

  Jeff gives me a confused look—Where did that come from? I shake my head. Not now. I haven’t told him what Lois told me at the party, my promise to Lois niggling at in the back of my mind.

  “Let’s order in coffee and sandwiches, and go over what you’re going to say tomorrow,” I suggest.

  Vincent Trussardi shrugs. “It cannot be so difficult to tell the truth.”

  “The truth can sometimes be complicated. Before we get started, is there anything else you need to tell us?”

  “There is one thing,” he says. “I’d repressed it, maybe thought it didn’t matter.”

  “Tell us, Vincent. Now.”

  CHAPTER 47

  IT’S 10:00 A.M. ON WEDNESDAY, and I’m on my feet, outlining the theory of the defense.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I begin, moving close to the jury box, engaging each member as I speak—Mr. Kasmirsky, the nurse, the dockworker, the accountant. My friends, my confidants. “You have heard a great deal over the past eight days about the death of Laura Trussardi. You’ve heard a great about Laura Trussardi—the kind of person she was, who she saw, who she met. And you’ve heard about other people who had opportunities to kill Laura Trussardi. What you have not heard anything about is the accused, Vincent Trussardi. That, in the defense’s submission, is because he is innocent.”

  I had prepared my opening an eon ago, revised it over the weekend at Martha’s. After bidding Vincent Trussardi farewell late last night, I went over it yet again, tweaking, adjusting. In the jury business, every word and intonation counts. At least, that’s what we lawyers like to think.

  “The Crown’s case,” I go on, “rests entirely on what the law calls circumstantial evidence. Great caution is required before convicting on circumstantial evidence, which has been the source of countless wrongful convictions. For this reason, the law places a special obligation on the prosecution in such cases. The prosecution must establish beyond a reasonable doubt that there is no reasonable explanation except that Mr. Trussardi committed this crime. There is no onus on Mr. Trussardi to show that he didn’t commit the crime, nor that someone else committed it. It is for the prosecution to eliminate all other reasonable possibilities. The evidence called by the defense will show beyond a shadow of a doubt that the prosecution has failed to meet this obligation.”

  The jurors’ faces, closed at the outset, are starting to open. I drive my argument home.

  “In fact, the evidence will cement what is already apparent from the Crown’s case—that other explanations for the murder are out there, explanations which the police chose not to investigate in their mistaken and premature theory that this crime was committed by Vincent Trussardi. The evidence will also show that Mr. Trussardi, a law-abiding citizen, had no reason to kill his wife. He loved her, and she was carrying his child. He had every reason to want her very much alive. And finally, the defense will produce evidence that Vincent Trussardi was, in fact, somewhere else when the crime was committed.”

  Kasmirsky nods as I make my final pitch.

  “The Crown’s case is a thin tissue woven from fragile threads, each of which fails upon testing. In the end, when you have heard and considered all the evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will have no choice but to conclude that the Crown has failed to prove its case and thus failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Vincent Trussardi committed the crime with which he is charged.”

  I return to my chair, and Jeff gives my arm a squeeze.

  Justice Moulton clears his throat. “We’ll take the morning recess and return to hear the first defense witness.”

  We have our roster. It’s short. Our alibi witnesses—the yacht club waitress Sandra Day and Vincent’s friend Ollie Semple—today and tomorrow. Vincent Trussardi on Friday, Monday in cross-examination. Who knows how long Cy will take with him, but with luck we’ll have a verdict—for good or bad—before next week’s out.

  CHAPTER 48

  MR. TRUSSARDI, JUST A FEW more questions.”

  It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re finishing up our examination in chief. We’ve been through all the big stuff, how he loved his wife, how they were looking forward to a child, how he was sailing at the time of her death.

  The defense case is almost in. So far, so good. The waitress, Sandra Day, said what she had to say Wednesday afternoon. Cy toyed with her for an hour or so, filling out the day. He gave Ollie Semple a rougher ride on Thursday, but Ollie held his own.

  “Sure, I was a little tipsy, but I know what I saw,” he responded to Cy’s probing. “I remember Vincent’s jacket. He left it on my boat once last spring when I took him out . . . Sure, he was my friend—is my friend—but I would never lie, not even for a friend. I know what I saw.”

  Vincent Trussardi has thus far proved a good witness—calm, straightforward, addressing the jury eloquently. All to script.

  “Let me take you back to the night of the murder, Mr. Trussardi,” I say. “You came home and found your wife, called the police. How long did it take for the police to get there?”

  “About ten minutes.”

  “And during those ten minutes, what were you doing?”

  “I was in shock. I sat on the sofa, sobbing.”

  “Did you get up at any point?

  “Yes, I went out to the terrace.”

  “Tell the jury, did you see anyone on the terrace, talk to anyone?”

  Vincent Trussardi’s eyes briefly close. “It was a terrible night. A storm had blown up out of nowhere.”

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Trussardi.”

  “The boy was there,” he says, opening his eyes.

  “What boy, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “The boy she brought to the house once. He used to come around after the night she invited him in. The gardener would see him, lurking in the woods, staring at the house. He seemed to have a fixation on Laura.”

  “Did you talk to the boy on the terrace that night, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell us about it.”

  The jury leans forward, all attention.

  “I told him to go away. That he didn’t belong there, not now.”

  “And what did the boy say?”

  �
��He said, ‘All the police around—she’s dead, isn’t she?’ I told him yes, and then he began ranting, and I heard him scream, ‘I killed her!’ ”

  I hear a low gasp from the jury box. My eye catches Damon at the back, ashen faced.

  “Order,” Moulton chides.

  “Who was that boy, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “It was Damon Cheskey, the boy who testified here. He looked different then—skinny, long hair matted—but it was him.”

  “Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Kenge.”

  Cy sits very still. Justice Moulton reads his shock and decides to rescue him. “Three forty,” he announces. “Court will reconvene at ten o’clock Monday for cross-examination.”

  For once, the timing is in our favor. All weekend for the jurors to ponder the possibility that Damon killed Laura. We gather up our papers and head out.

  CHAPTER 49

  I LOVED MY WIFE,” VINCENT Trussardi tells Cy Kenge on Monday. “I could never have harmed her.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  Cy stands at the prosecution table, one hand on its leather surface to support the weight of his torso but otherwise relaxed, rested, and ready to go. He smiles at Vincent’s assertion that he could not have harmed his wife.

  “You maintain your wife had no reason to fear you, Mr. Trussardi. What if someone were to say that, a few days before the murder, your late wife was in the street outside your house, crying and afraid to return?”

  “I would say it’s nonsense. I never laid a hand on her.”

  “What’s this about?” Jeff whispers.

  “Maybe Cy’s just trying to get him mad,” I whisper back, but I feel nervous all the same.

  Cy has been going at Vincent Trussardi for over an hour now, by turns cajoling and attacking. He’s made limited headway. Trussardi remains cool and collected.

  Cy shakes his head, all sympathy. “Enough to drive any man to distraction, the way your late wife was carrying on. Do you agree?”

  “No, I loved her.”

  “I didn’t ask if you loved her, Mr. Trussardi. I asked whether you liked the way she was carrying on.”

  “I didn’t like the adultery. I hated it. But it was over.”

  “So you say,” says Cy, with a cynical nod of his head. “We’ll let the jury decide about that.” He moves close to the witness box, fixes Vincent Trussardi with his stare. “Admit it, Mr. Trussardi. Your wife was doing drugs, committing adultery, and cavorting with street boys. It made you angry; it pushed you over the brink; you couldn’t take it anymore.” Cy’s voice drops. “So you killed her.”

  “No,” says Vincent Trussardi. “No, no, no.”

  He’s holding his own. Still, the constant barrage is starting to wear on the witness. His face, pale a moment ago, is flushed with anger at the suggestion that his wife could have feared him.

  Cy moves on.

  “Let’s go back to the gun—the gun that killed your wife. Did you always lock your safe?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “As far as you know, no one else ever opened the safe?”

  “Not that I know. But someone must have.”

  “When was the last time you opened the safe?”

  “I’m not sure. I used to check the contents every few months.”

  “Was the gun in the safe when you last looked?”

  “Yes.”

  “But when the police had the safe unlocked by a locksmith after your wife’s death, the gun was gone?”

  “Yes. That’s what I was told.”

  “How do you explain that, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “I can’t. Trevor Shore knew where I kept the code—he designed the false compartment. Damon Cheskey watched me take out the code, open the safe. And Laura knew.”

  “You’re surely not suggesting your late wife tied herself up and shot herself,” Cy scoffs. “And as for Damon Cheskey, it’s lunacy to suppose a drugged-up street boy would have the wit to know the code and get the gun, don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Much less that he would have reason to kill the woman he adored?”

  “Objection.” I rise. “Mr. Kenge is asking the witness to speculate on matters he cannot know.”

  Moulton nods. “Sustained.”

  Cy moves on to our alibi. “Let me take you back to that fateful day, Mr. Trussardi. You say you drove to the yacht club about eight thirty that morning.”

  “I do. I did.”

  “And you had breakfast there, then took your boat out.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t come back until four o’clock or so.” Cy proffers a sheaf of small papers. “This is a copy of the club’s charge slips for that day. Have a look.”

  Trussardi inspects the slips.

  “And as you’ve pointed out in your evidence-in-chief, one of them is your breakfast chit. Twelfth from the top, I believe.”

  He finds the chit. “Correct.”

  “Would you count the breakfast chits for me?”

  The courtroom sits in silence while Trussardi counts the slips of paper. “Twenty-seven,” he says at last, raising his head.

  Cy takes the sheaf back, hands the witness a second spike of slips, much thicker. “I’m told that these are the slips from the afternoon and evening, with lunch and dinner charges. Would you be so good as to count them?”

  Again Trussardi counts; this time it takes longer. “One hundred seven,” he says faintly. I see where Cy is going.

  “A lot of people were at the club during the late afternoon of May fifth, Mr. Trussardi.”

  “The inference is yours, not mine, Mr. Kenge.”

  “We will leave the inferences to the jury, Mr. Trussardi,” Cy snaps. “Let me put it this way—the charge slips I have just given you show that there were many people in and about the Vancouver Yacht Club about the time you say you docked your boat, walked directly in front of the lounge and up to your car. Yet you have been able to produce only one witness—a man who says he is your friend and admits to being drunk at the time.”

  I frown, a warning. Vincent picks up on it. “All I can say is that I was there.”

  Cy offers the jury a sad, cynical smile. “Now let me take you back to that evening, Mr. Trussardi. You told the jury you waited for the police out on the terrace.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you saw a young man—a boy—there. A boy who said something like, ‘I killed her.’ Did you tell the police about this when they interviewed you, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “No,” Trussardi answers.

  “This is vital information to your case, wouldn’t you agree? Someone else saying they killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you have told the police about it at the first opportunity?”

  “My lawyer said to answer only the questions they asked. They didn’t ask.”

  Excellent response.

  “So you want the jury to believe that you didn’t give the police the one piece of information that might have cleared you?”

  “The boy was crazy, out of his head. When he said he killed her, I didn’t make much of it, not at the time.”

  I bite my lip. Don’t undermine what Damon said.

  “So you didn’t believe the boy killed your wife, Mr. Trussardi?”

  “No. I thought he was just raving.”

  “So why are you asking the jury to believe that the boy might have killed her when you didn’t believe that yourself?”

  “I didn’t know what to believe then. But now he admits he knew where the gun was, knew how to get in the safe. If I’d known that, I would have made more of his threat.” His voice drops. “The truth is, I still don’t know who did this terrible thing. All I know is that it wasn’t me.”

  Good, I think, stop there. But he doesn’t. He is looking down, lost in his memory.

  “The rain was freezing. I was looking out over the ocean, the water beating against my face, the wind cutting it. The boy sta
rted screaming. I grabbed him, pushed him away. ‘No,’ I said, ‘you didn’t kill her. I killed her.’ ”

  Shock descends over the court. The jury reels back in their soft red seats. I feel the blood drain from my head, the bile rise in my gut. What is he saying?

  “No further questions.” Cy swings triumphantly back to the counsel table.

  Out of the stunned silence comes Justice Moulton’s voice. “Reexamination, Ms. Truitt?”

  I struggle blindly to my feet. How can I fix this? Then words come.

  “What did you mean when you said, ‘I killed her,’ Mr. Trussardi?”

  He is sobbing, wiping away his tears. “I meant that I let her die. I married her. I was supposed to look after her. I left her alone, went out sailing, left her there to be killed.”

  “Mr. Trussardi,” I say, voice low. “Did you physically kill your wife?”

  His body is shaking. He’s falling apart; it’s all over. Then he draws himself up and looks the jurors in the eye. For the first time in the trial, he is a lion, magnificent.

  “I did not physically kill my wife,” he says, emphasizing each word. “I loved her. I did not kill her.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Trussardi.” I sink to my seat.

  Cy starts to stand, but thinks better and falls back into his chair. His triumphant moment is clouded, the fatal admission qualified. Still, I fear it’s the end for us. I killed her. The words have been uttered, seared into the jurors’ brains. The explanation that came after is just so much noise.

  Moulton’s eye moves to the clock. “We’ll take the noon break.”

  CHAPTER 50

  MY LORD,” I TELL JUSTICE Moulton when we return, “that completes the evidence for the defense.”

  I’m about to try for a reprieve on our address to the jury—no way to hold their attention when they’re exhausted from a morning of forced concentration—when Cy heaves himself to his feet.

  “My Lord, the prosecution wishes to tender evidence in rebuttal.” Cy gestures to the jury. “You might wish to excuse the jury while I advise the Court of the nature of the evidence.”