by A R Kennedy
With her eyebrows furrowed, she turned to the judge. He nodded for her to answer. She answered, “No.”
CHAPTER 49
The defense team had been granted a room in the courthouse for lunch. Judge Lowe had agreed with Mr. Sewell that the town did not have the security for Cecilia to enter and exit the courthouse for breaks and lunches.
Cecilia sat alone while the defense team prepared for the afternoon.
Holden was walking by and noticed she was alone. He made a short stop at the vending machine before returning. He peeked in the room, still ensuring she was alone, before he entered.
“Hi,” he said, when he opened the door. “Waiting for lunch?”
“Not hungry.”
“How about a soda? I have an extra.” He slid it across the table to her. She smiled and reached for it.
Michael walked in. “Thanks, Chief!” he said, snatching the soda inches from Cecilia’s hand.
Holden handed Cecilia his soda. “Thanks,” she said.
“How’s it going?” Holden asked.
Before she could answer, Michael interrupted, “What are you doing in here? I don’t think Wyatt would like it.”
“Better me than the press,” Holden snapped at him. “You left her here alone. I was just checking on her.”
Michael shrugged and turned his attention to his phone.
“I still have your jacket,” Cecilia told him.
“I’ll bring it to him tomorrow,” Michael answered for him. He drank his Mountain Dew. “Is this a big drink here? She’s got a ton of these in her fridge. How much of this stuff can one person drink?”
She looked up at Holden and smiled. “You never know when you might have a guest,” she answered.
Holden returned the smile. “And I hear you have a few guests staying with you now. My officer told me about his visit and his concerns about Ferris.”
A look of panic crossed Cecilia’s face. “Do you think—”
“I doubt it. I don’t know for sure. But I think he’s right. Keep Ferris close.” Holden glanced at Michael, who was busy with his phone, then back to Cecilia. He leaned in and whispered, “Why didn’t you tell me about Mrs. Gabbert?”
“What’d you ask?” Michael said, looking up from his phone.
Holden straightened up in the chair and asked, “Have you seen or heard anything suspicious around the house?”
“Well, I thought someone was in the yard the night of the courthouse shooting.”
“I doubt it was anything dangerous.” Holden added, “Tomcat maybe? Friendly nighttime visitor?”
Cecilia covered her mouth to prevent a laugh. Holden wished they were in the room alone. He liked to see her smile.
“Yeah, the officer checked,” Michael told Holden. “He didn’t see anything.”
“I’m sure there’s no one in this town stealth enough to get in and out and Officer Pugliese not know,” Cecilia said. She smiled at Holden, who smiled back.
“I doubt there is.”
After the lunch break, Briscoe announced, “The prosecution calls Mr. Sydney Soloway to the stand.”
A man in his sixties, dressed in tan pleated pants, a white long-sleeved button down shirt, and a brown sweater vest, headed to the witness stand. His tortoise-framed glasses sat slightly askew on his face when he sat.
“Where do you live, Mr. Soloway?” Briscoe asked.
“In Folley.”
“More specific, please.” Briscoe tried to hide his annoyance. The other witnesses were professional. He’d trained them well. Mr. Soloway was going to be more difficult to get the information he needed.
“Oh…On Floral Lane.” He added, “105 Floral Lane,” before Briscoe had to prompt him.
“Do you know Ms. Chandler?” Briscoe asked.
Mr. Soloway looked at Cecilia. Neither smiled at each other. “Yes. She lives three houses down.”
“Have you ever seen Ms. Chandler with a dog?”
“Yes,” he answered. Briscoe had instructed all witnesses to be specific and concise. Soloway was catching on. He added, “A golden retriever.”
“Can you tell us what you saw?” Briscoe asked.
He cleared his throat and looked at the jury. Another instruction from the prosecutor. “One day, I saw her yelling at it in the front yard.”
“What was she yelling?”
“I don’t know exactly. Something about a shoe and she was waving a shoe around in her hand. I thought she was going to hit him with it.” He motioned in the air, as she must have.
Briscoe used his eyes to signal Soloway to look at the jurors again. He did. Most of the jurors were looking at Cecilia.
Cecilia closed her eyes, remembering the incident. She was never going to hit Ferris. But she was mad. She didn’t realize the neighbor had seen her. Up until a few minutes ago, she didn’t even know Mr. Soloway’s first name.
“That dog was really Joe’s,” he told the jury. She couldn’t disagree with that.
“Why do you say that?” Briscoe asked.
“I used to see him playing with him, walking him all the time.” Again, Cecilia couldn’t argue. “I don’t see her doing that.” He paused before finishing. The galley gasped when he did.
“Mrs. Chandler doesn’t like that dog.”
Wyatt slammed his briefcase down on the table. Abigail and Michael huddled in the corner, on their phones.
“Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like the dog?” Wyatt yelled.
“That’s not true. I love him.”
Wyatt raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Soloway tells a good story otherwise.”
“Fine. I didn’t always love him but—”
“But nothing, you should have told me.”
“Told you what? How should I know a neighbor was spying on me?”
“It’s a small town—”
“Who doesn’t yell at a misbehaving dog? You think there isn’t a witness or two of you yelling at your children? You think that means that you don’t love them?”
Wyatt smirked, knowing she was right.
“I never abused him, never neglected him. Joey loved him so I lo—tolerated him. He was Joey’s dog until—”
Wyatt glared at Cecilia for a moment before looking to his assistants. “Ideas?”
“Come on, Wyatt. We all know she loves the dog,” Michael said. “We’ve been in her house for weeks. For goodness sake, we’re living there now. If she didn’t love the dog, we’d know.”
“I know that,” Wyatt relented. “I just didn’t expect—”
Abigail interrupted him. “Jeez, Wyatt. Let’s be honest. You don’t care whether she loves Ferris or not.” He didn’t disagree with her and she continued. “You just have to prove to the jury she does.”
Sewell began his cross-examination from the podium. “The holidays are getting close, Mr. Soloway. Are you done with your shopping?” He didn’t answer. “Don’t want to admit on the record you still have to buy a gift for the wife?”
Mr. Soloway laughed. “True.”
“Do you have a dog, Mr. Soloway?”
“Yes.”
“Do you buy him a Christmas present?”
“No.”
Wyatt nodded and turned, contemplating his next question. Cecilia scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it over to Abigail. She nodded and then slid it over to the side of the table. She made eye contact with Wyatt, then to the slip of paper.
“Did you see these types of incidents a lot at the Chandler house?”
He paused. “No, I rarely saw Mrs. Chandler with the dog.”
“Do you know the dog’s name?” Sewell asked.
“Umm…no.”
“So, you wouldn’t say you and the Chandlers are close?”
“Well, I was pretty close to Joe,” he told the jury.
“‘Pretty close?’” Sewell asked. “But not so close that you know what his dog’s name is? What does that mean, ‘pretty close’?”
Soloway continually looked at the jury. Briscoe
had told him that was his audience and instructed him to look there often. “I’d see him regularly in town or on our street.”
Sewell walked from the podium to the jury box. He wanted to get Soloway’s attention. “You ever see him yell at Ferris? That’s the dog’s name, Mr. Soloway.”
“Not like—” he started, looking at Sewell.
“Yes or no, Mr. Soloway.”
“Yes.”
Sewell meant to keep Soloway’s attention and began his rapid-fire questioning. “Did you ever see Mrs. Chandler hit Ferris?”
“No.”
“Have you seen Ferris to be underweight?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen signs he was not cared for?”
“No.”
“So, to the best of your knowledge, Ferris has been well cared for by Mrs. Chandler since Joe’s death?”
“Yes.”
“Are there dog shelters in Folley?”
“Of course.”
“So, Mrs. Chandler could have gotten rid of Ferris?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever heard shooting from her house?”
“Yes, the night of the incident. I called the police.”
“So she never held shooting practice in her yard?”
The quick series of questions threw Mr. Soloway and he forgot to answer the question with a yes or no. “Please, I can’t believe she even knows how to hold a gun.”
Wyatt walked over to the defense desk to look at the waiting note. A slow grin appeared on his face. He pocketed the note and returned to the podium. “Do you buy your dog a Hanukkah present, Mr. Soloway?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Mazel tov. How about your desk?”
Soloway stared at Sewell, thinking he’d misheard the question. A few jurors were smirking so he assumed he hadn’t and answered, “No.”
Briscoe ambushed Sewell as he exited the men’s room. “I got your updated witness list.”
“As you should have. That is the procedure. I provided it as soon as I updated it.”
Briscoe hated Sewell’s smug tone. “You can’t call Coleman.”
“Why not?” Sewell asked. Briscoe pursed his lips. “Isn’t Cecilia’s brother-in-law a good character witness for her?”
Briscoe huffed. “Please, that is not the reason you are calling him to the stand.”
“What? Is there another reason I’d call him to the stand?” Sewell asked. His eyes were wide in anticipation.
They both knew there was. “I can take this to the judge,” Briscoe reminded him.
Sewell held out his arm. “Lead the way. I’d love to hear your case.”
Briscoe hesitated. He knew Judge Lowe’s reaction would not be positive. He’d have to do a little research to defend his actions before appearing before the judge.
“Just because he’s on the list, doesn’t mean I have to call him,” Sewell commented as he resumed his walk to the courtroom.
“So you did this for show?” Briscoe asked.
Sewell shrugged. “It would garner a little more sympathy for my client if they knew about Coleman’s and Gabbert’s relationship, don’t you think?”
Briscoe didn’t know if he meant sympathy from the jury or the public. It didn’t matter. He stormed off.
It was times like this Sewell really enjoyed his job.
CHAPTER 50
Briscoe, still rattled from his conversation with Sewell, shuffled papers on the prosecutor’s desk. His voice squeaked when he announced, “The prosecution calls Sergeant Paul Matthews to the stand.”
In full uniform, the officer walked to the witness stand, took the oath, removed his hat, and sat down.
Cecilia looked at him and didn’t recognize him as any of the other officers she had interacted with since her arrest. He had a different uniform from the Folley officers.
Briscoe stood at the podium and began his questioning. “Where do you work, Sergeant Matthews?”
“The State Police.” His voice was deep and full of authority.
“How long have you worked there?” Briscoe asked.
“Fifteen years.”
“And your specific duties with the State Police?”
“I’m a K-9 handler.”
Briscoe referenced his notes. “Can you tell us what happened on April ninth of this year?”
“My K-9 partner, Marmaduke, was killed in the line of duty.” A few people “ahhed” in the gallery. Sergeant Matthews sat stoic.
Briscoe ignored the quiet murmurings and continued, “Was the responsible party arrested?”
“Yes.”
“And what was he charged with?”
“A class A misdemeanor for criminal damage.”
“And why was that?”
“Marmaduke is…” Sergeant Matthews cleared his throat. “I’m sorry…was regarded as property in the eyes of the law.”
“And what was the sentence received?”
“Two years in the state penitentiary.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Matthews, for your time and your service.” Briscoe looked to Sewell, before sitting down at the desk.
Mr. Sewell got up to cross-examine the sergeant, with a folder in his hand. “I too would like to say thank you for your time and service to this great state.”
“Thank you.”
He stood at the edge of the jury box. “Last year, did you buy Marmaduke a Christmas present?”
“Yes.” Sergeant Matthews didn’t expand on the gift and Sewell moved on.
He walked up to the sergeant. “Can you tell me what this is?” Mr. Sewell asked, while handing him a copy of a newspaper article.
Sergeant Matthews waited to answer until he read the article. “It is a newspaper article about Marmaduke’s death.”
“Can you please read the highlighted portions?”
“K-9 officer Marmaduke was laid to rest today at the local pet cemetery. Marmaduke, Marmy to his fellow officers, was killed by a man who had just robbed the convenience store on Seventh. His K-9 handler, Sergeant Matthews, was also injured during the arrest.” Matthews cleared his throat and continued. “The ceremony was attended by all the canine officers and their handlers from the department, as well as many from around the state. K-9 officer Marmaduke was laid to rest with full police honors.”
Sniffles and murmurings emanated from the gallery. From the start of the trial, Judge Lowe had demanded a quiet courtroom. Disruptors would be forced to leave. Judge Lowe looked up to find the source of the noises emanating from the gallery. He saw more than a few reaching in their bags for tissues.
“What does ‘full police honors’ mean?” Sewell asked.
“A twenty-one-gun salute. His casket was draped with an American flag that the captain presented to me. He also received a K-9 salute.”
“And what does that mean?” Sewell asked, before turning to the jury.
“It’s ten seconds of controlled barking by other K-9 officers.”
“And why were you presented with the flag?”
“Because he was my partner.” Sergeant Matthews turned to the jury. “He was the best partner I ever had. Dependable. Loyal. Courageous.” More than one juror wiped a tear from his or her face.
“And who is in the photo?” Mr. Sewell asked, pointing to the article again.
“Me.”
“And what are you doing?” he asked.
Sergeant Matthews’s jaw clenched. He glared at Mr. Sewell before answering. “Crying.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you, Sergeant. You lost your partner. I don’t know a police officer, or for that matter a person, who wouldn’t cry at the loss of their partner.”
Wyatt pointedly looked at Cecilia and the jury didn’t miss it. She looked down into her lap, hoping to stave off tears.
The tension eased out of the sergeant’s jaw when he realized Mr. Sewell wasn’t trying to attack him. In previous court proceedings, Sergeant Matthews had found cross-examination hostile.
Sewell began pacing
in front of the jury. “I read you crashed your patrol car last year.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a similar ceremony?”
“No,” he answered incredulously.
This caused Sewell to stop and turn to Matthews. “But both your partner Marmaduke and your patrol car—I’m sorry, did you have a name for your patrol car?”
“No.”
“Both are deemed to be property of the police department?
“Yes,” Sergeant Matthews answered.
“Do you think that’s right?”
“No,” he answered, louder than Mr. Briscoe’s objection.
Despite Sergeant Matthews’s career-long disdain for defense attorneys, he was beginning to like Wyatt Sewell.
“Can you tell me what you think of the state’s punishment of Marmaduke’s murderer?”
“Weak.” He turned to the jury. “If we’d been on loan to the feds that day, and Marmy was killed, that guy would have gotten a much stiffer penalty.”
“Please explain.”
“There’s a federal law that has harsher fines for hurting or killing police dogs.”
“Objection,” Briscoe yelled. “How is this relevant?”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Lowe ruled.
Mr. Sewell walked over to the defense table and Abigail handed him three pieces of paper. He handed one to the prosecution, one to the judge, and one to Sergeant Matthews. “Is this the law you’re referring to?”
“Yes.”
“Please read the highlighted portion.”
“Under the Federal Law Enforcement Animal Protection Act, someone convicted of purposely assaulting or killing federal law enforcement animals could be fined at least a thousand dollars and spend up to ten years in prison.”
“What do you think of that law?”
“Justice,” he answered. Again, louder than Mr. Briscoe’s objection.
“Can you tell me about the Fall Harvest Festival from last year?” Sewell asked.
“The local high school raised a thousand dollars for a bulletproof vest for Marmaduke.”
“Do they hold similar fund-raisers for police officers?” Sewell asked, then turned to the jury before adding, “The two-legged kind?”
“No.”