by A R Kennedy
“Objection,” Briscoe shouted from his desk. “Who’s testifying here?”
“Sustained. Keep to asking the questions, not answering them, Mr. Sewell.”
He nodded and walked over to Abigail. She handed him a folder. “You said Ferris is worthless?”
“Yes.”
“But he’s worth a lot to you, isn’t he?”
Dr. Kinney looked from one lawyer to the next and then to the judge. “I don’t understand.”
“In the time Ferris has been living with the Chandlers, how much money have you made off of Ferris?”
“Oh…” Dr. Kinney hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Sewell handed him the folder. “Here are the itemized bills for Ferris’s care.” Dr. Kinney nodded and scanned the pages. There were a lot of pages. “What is the total, highlighted in yellow, on the last page?”
Dr. Kinney pursed his lips before answering. “Your Honor, I…I can’t know if this is an accurate amount.”
The judge looked at the papers. “These look like your invoices, Dr. Kinney.” The judge had gotten enough of those over the years with Fluffy. “Are you saying they aren’t?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Just answer the question then.”
Dr. Kinney cleared his throat. “Nine thousand, five hundred and sixty-three dollars.”
The gallery gasped at the inordinate amount. Judge Lowe didn’t command them to be silent because he gasped as well.
“And?” Sewell asked.
“Seventy-three cents.”
“And over how long a period?”
Dr. Kinney looked from the first invoice to the last. “Three years.”
“And you said earlier Ferris is in good health?”
“Yes, but—”
Sewell cut him off and continued, “How much do you charge for a home visit?”
“Oh…I don’t know offhand.”
Sewell handed him the invoice for the night of the attack. “How much does it say you charged?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
“What else did you charge Cecilia for?”
“Objection,” Briscoe yelled. “How is this relevant?”
Sewell looked to the judge. “I’m getting to that, Your Honor.”
“Overruled. Please read the charges, Dr. Kinney.”
Dr. Kinney nodded and read down the list of charges, including vaccinations.
“Are Ferris’s vaccinations up to date?”
“Yes. Ferris is up to date on all vaccinations.”
“Have you ever see any signs of neglect?”
“No.”
Mr. Sewell paused, allowing the jury to take in that Ferris was well cared for under Cecilia’s care, before changing the line of questioning. “Did you know the veterinarian associations are fighting domestic animals becoming legally people?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
Dr. Kinney did little to hide his annoyance with the defense attorney. “You’d have to ask them.”
“Is it because you like that legally a pet is worth ‘nothing’?” Sewell asked, using Dr. Kinney’s own words against him. “Nothing to sue over if something goes wrong. Keeps those malpractice premiums low, doesn’t it?”
“Objection,” Briscoe said. “As you ruled earlier, Dr. Kinney cannot answer questions about malpractice premiums.”
“Sustained,” Judge Lowe ruled.
“You and your colleagues want to keep pets as property yet, when clients bring their pets to you for treatment, you refer to these pets as their ‘babies’. You refer to the owner as their ‘mommy’ or their ‘daddy’. Don’t you?” Dr. Kinney paused, contemplating an answer. “I’ll bring some of your clients or staff in to verify if you don’t admit it.”
“Yes, I do.”
With eyebrows furrowed, as if he didn’t know the answer, Sewell asked, “And why do you that?”
“Because that’s what the owner wants,” Dr. Kinney answered. Briscoe smiled, glad Dr. Kinney had reiterated ‘owner’ as his clients’ relationships to their dogs.
Mr. Sewell laughed. “Come on. How much do you make a year, Dr. Kinney?”
“Objection. Not relevant,” Briscoe said.
“Sustained,” Judge Lowe ruled.
Sewell continued, “Enough to keep a summer house in Mexico and a large home? One of the most expensive homes in Folley?”
“Yes.”
“You have built a sturdy and very profitable practice exploiting the relationships of clients and their pets. You profit off a client viewing their pet as a child, a member of the family. They spend more money when they are trying to save the life of their dog or their cat, versus if they were trying to save a piece of property like an oven. If an oven breaks you get a new one. If a pet breaks, what do you do? Bring him to you…for a sizable fee.” Sewell waved the invoices in the air.
“Is there a question?” Mr. Briscoe asked the judge.
The judge looked to Mr. Sewell.
“Thank you, Dr. Kinney.” Mr. Sewell walked toward the defense table. “Oh, last question.”
A juror tried to hide her smile.
“Do you buy your oven a Christmas gift?” Mr. Sewell asked.
Dr. Kinney paused before answering, “No.”
CHAPTER 48
Cecilia had turned off her phone at night. The next morning, with Ferris next to her on bed, she turned it on.
Several texts from her sister, Janna, appeared. One was “Your phone is off.” Momentarily, she thought maybe her sister had forgotten about the trial.
“Can’t make trial. Can’t get off work. Boss says sister on trial for murder not excusable absence.”
“Oh thank God,” Cecilia muttered.
“What’s that about?” Abigail asked as she entered the room.
“My sister won’t be coming to the trial.”
“Oh, that is a ‘thank God’.” Abigail went to her closet and starting looking at options.
Cecilia read the last text from Janna. “You’re dressing better. Abigail doing good job as always.”
“She approves of your costume design work with me,” Cecilia told Abigail.
“Thank you,” she said, giving a small curtesy.
“She knows your name. Are you well known because of Sewell?”
“He encourages us to be active on social media.”
Cecilia’s eyebrows raised, fearing what she might share about her.
“Nothing about our clients and never when we’re at trial,” Abigail added.
Ferris stood up and stretched before jumping off the bed.
“Looks like I’m going to need to find Ferris a new vet,” Cecilia said.
“I would say so,” Abigail answered.
Abigail laid out the day’s outfit on the bedside chair. A pink sweater set and gray skirt.
“Can’t I wear pants?” Cecilia got up and pulled out a few pairs of pants that would match.
“No. Skirts or dresses the whole trial. The women here expect you to wear a skirt or a dress. And the men want to see you in one.”
“Fine.” Cecilia acquiesced. “But I wore that skirt during jury selection,” Cecilia reminded her.
“I know.” She pulled out two-inch gray heels to match and placed them by the chair. “You want to appear neat, clean, and relatable. We can’t have you in a new outfit every day.”
Cecilia nodded, trying to push the notion from her head that she was being judged on her attire.
“We want you to look nice but not too nice. Repeating clothing makes them more able to identify with you.” Abigail stepped back to appraise her work. “If you have a new outfit on every day, they’ll think you’re rich and un-relatable. Not one of them.”
But I’m not one of them, Cecilia thought.
The pro-Gabbert protestors had noticed a lull in enthusiasm the day before. The pro-Ferris section was louder, more organized, and more populated than the pro-Gabbert side.
The Gabbert supporters knew they needed
to bolster morale. They needed a larger crowd. They needed more media attention.
And only one person could do that.
The victim’s mother.
Peggy Gabbert arrived at the courthouse and marveled at the scene. She was equally repulsed by the pro-Chandler side as she was pleased by the pro-Bobby side. As she had been each day of the trial.
She’d been pleased when a supporter, Ariika Johnson, had called her and asked her to speak before the day’s proceedings. Once meeting arrangements were made, she hung up and called her brother.
The call went to voicemail. She left a message pleading for his support at the protest. She and Bobby needed him. She, and Ariika, knew the mayor’s presence would garner even more attention than just Peggy’s presence.
Ariika met her at her car and they headed to the cordoned-off area. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gabbert,” the officer said as she stopped her at the gate. “We have to search everyone.” Officer Margaret Monty went through Peggy’s purse and patted her down. She was glad Mrs. Gabbert didn’t recognize her as the officer who had subdued her son, Nicholas, after the shooting.
Once in the protestors’ area, Ariika escorted Peggy through the middle of their section. Pro-Gabbert attendees called out their condolences and their support to the grieving mother. Ariika assisted her onto a box so the crowd could see her.
Murmurings of “shh” went through the crowd. Peggy looked at the crowd of hundreds. Ariika’s social media postings advertising a special speaker before the day’s proceedings had worked. The crowd was larger than the day before. Much to her annoyance, even the pro-Ferris side was bigger.
Everyone quieted and waited for Peggy to begin. Even those on the opposing side.
She surveyed the posters that the crowd held. Some for her and some against.
Pro-life posters. Posters with Bobby’s picture on it.
Every life matters posters. Posters with dogs, calling them their best friends.
She stood frozen. What was she doing here? She wasn’t the public speaker. That was George. She didn’t like the spotlight. That was George. She scanned the crowd hoping to see his face. She hoped he would save her once again, because that’s what big brothers did.
But he wasn’t there. He was hundreds of miles away, doing everything he could to forget the trial and bolster his hairline.
Nothing Peggy could say or do here could give her what she wanted. Nothing could bring her son back.
Someone yelled, “We love you, Momma!” and it woke Peggy from her trance.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Margaret Gabbert.” There were cheers. “You can call me Peggy.” Many screamed “Peggy” in response. “I’m thankful so many of you are here, supporting me, my family, and most of all, supporting Bobby.” She glanced at the pro-Ferris side and held her tongue. “My boy, Robert Harrison Gabbert, is gone. He was killed—murdered—by that Chandler woman.
“Now, the police have taken my other boy. They’ve arrested him for protecting his mother—”
The statement was met with boos and hisses from the other side. The opposing protestors yelled about her hypocrisy, but they were out yelled by the pro-Gabbert side.
Peggy raised her voice to be heard over the crowd. “Distraught with grief, my boy Nicholas was trying to do right by me, to do right for his brother.”
The supporters began chanting “Justice for Bobby!”
The opponents began chanting “Justice for Ferris!”
She tried resuming her speech but was drowned out by the chants. They had lost interest in her and had returned to their interest in each other. Peggy looked at the courthouse and knew it was time for her to go. The attendees had begun filing in. She stepped off the box and made her way out of the protest area. She made her way toward her waiting seat behind Briscoe.
The opposing sides didn’t notice her departure. They were only concerned with their opposing views.
What good had it done? she thought. Bobby was still dead.
The jurors filed into their section. Cecilia noted that more than one of the ladies wore a shirt they had worn previously. Being sequestered must be difficult, Cecilia thought. At least while under house arrest, she had access to all her usual items. How did one pack quickly for a trial that had no set end date?
The first juror caught her eye again, dressed in a suit and bowtie, as usual. He reminded Cecilia of her grandfather. He was a by-the-rules kind of man. Things were black or white. No areas of gray.
Briscoe stood and announced, “The prosecution calls Dr. Vanessa Landry to the stand.”
In a navy business suit, cut slightly below her knee, she headed to the stand. She pushed her oversized black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose when she sat.
“What do you do for a living?” Briscoe asked.
“I’m the state’s medical examiner.”
Cecilia recognized her name but had never met her before. She’d read the name on Joey’s death certificate. She had performed his autopsy as well.
“What are your qualifications?” he asked.
“I have a medical degree with a specialization in forensic pathology.”
Briscoe stood at the podium, asking his questions, as he did with the other witnesses. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Nine years.”
“Do you work here in Folley?”
“As needed.”
“How often is that?”
“Not often,” she answered. “You don’t get many homicides or suspicious deaths here.”
“Did you examine Mr. Robert Gabbert?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us your findings.”
Dr. Landry pointed to Marcy, who arranged the easel and stood next to it. She removed the first panel, a blank one, when Dr. Landry instructed her to do so. It revealed a wide shot of Gabbert’s nude dead body on the morgue’s table.
“I performed an autopsy on the deceased on the fifth.” She signaled to Marcy, who removed the wide-shot photo for a close-up of Gabbert’s head. “He died of a gunshot to his head.” Dr. Landry pulled out a laser pointer and used the red beam at the gunshot wound.
“How close was Mr. Gabbert from the gunman?”
She signaled to Marcy again. Marcy removed the photograph of Gabbert’s dead face, revealing a schematic drawing. The diagram had the Chandler’s backyard, its trees, the fence, and the patio furniture. It also had Gabbert’s dead body position and Cecilia’s standing position.
“Based on the victim’s and perpetrator’s height, and gun type, I’ve established Ms. Chandler was approximately fifteen to twenty feet from the victim.”
“So, not in immediate danger.”
“Objection,” Sewell said before she could answer.
“Withdrawn,” Briscoe stated before the judge could rule. “Thank you, Dr. Landry.”
Briscoe turned to return to the prosecution desk. He signaled to Marcy that the questioning was done. She placed the panels back onto easel. The close-up shot of Gabbert’s face on top.
Mr. Sewell stood to cross-examine Dr. Landry. He headed to the easel knowing he wouldn’t have the jurors’ full attention until he removed the morbid shot.
“How are you today, Dr. Landry?” he asked, while he pulled out the crime sketch schematic and placed it on top.
“Fine.”
“Are you preparing for the holidays?” He walked to the podium.
“Yes.”
“Have you bought gifts for family and friends?”
“If we have agreed to do so and have established spending limits, yes.”
Sewell pointed to the diagram. “Lovely schematic you have here.”
“Thank you.”
He walked back up to it and pointed at it. “I noticed it’s not entirely accurate.”
She glanced at it and asked, “In what respect?”
“The dog isn’t in it. He should be right here.” He pointed next to Gabbert.
“The dog is irrelevant to my calculations.”
“Do you have a dog?” Sewell asked.
“No.”
“Do you have any color photos of the autopsy?”
“No.”
Mr. Sewell signaled to Michael, who delivered large color photos from the autopsy. Gabbert’s face was not pictured.
“Is this Robert Gabbert?”
She took the photo, examined it, and answered, “Yes.”
“What are these?” Sewell asked, pointing to colored areas on his trunk.
“Bruises.”
“Do you know when they were sustained?” Sewell walked up and down the jury box so each juror could see the bruises.
“Shortly before death.”
“And what does that tell you?” Ensuring all the jurors had seen the bruises, he placed the photos on the easel.
“That he had been in an altercation prior to his death.”
“How big was Robert Gabbert?” Sewell asked.
“He was five-foot-six, weighing one hundred and sixty pounds.”
“And what is Mrs. Chandler’s height and weight?” Sewell pointed to Cecilia. Abigail poked her to stand. Cecilia stood and straightened her skirt.
“I don’t know. I have never examined her.”
Sewell looked over at the standing Cecilia and wished she would stop fidgeting. He gave her a sharp look and she stopped. “If you had to take a guess?”
“Objection,” Briscoe yelled.
“She’s a medical professional, trained in examining the human body,” Sewell explained.
“Overruled,” Judge Lowe ruled.
Sewell simplified the questions. “Is she taller or shorter than Gabbert?”
Dr. Landry appraised the standing Cecilia. “About the same.”
“And does she weigh more or less than him?”
“Less.”
Sewell removed the autopsy photos and replaced it with the schematic.
“Can you tell where Mrs. Chandler was aiming?”
“No.”
“Lastly, do you buy your bed a Christmas gift?”