Saving Ferris

by A R Kennedy

  “Any pets?” Sewell asked.

  “Oh yes. Mr. Calico. Need to get him some catnip.”

  Sewell watched the strain drain from Mr. Frasier’s face as he spoke about his family. He felt comfortable initiating the questioning. “Can you tell us what you do for a living, Mr. Frasier?”

  “Please call me Boomer. Because of all the booms where I work.” He looked at the jury, disappointed no one laughed. “I own the Frasier Gun Range on the outskirts of town.”

  “Have you ever met Mrs. Chandler?” Sewell asked, pointing to Cecilia.

  “Yes.” He looked at her and gave a little wave. “Once.”

  “And where was that?”

  “At my gun range. A few months before Joey died.” He turned to the jury. “Joey was a good man. He’d be—”

  “Objection,” Briscoe yelled.

  “Sustained,” Judge Lowe ruled. “Please answer the questions asked, Mr. Frasier.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.”

  Sewell walked up to the witness stand in an effort to calm Mr. Frasier, who was visibly shaken from the judge’s rebuke. “Why did Joey bring Mrs. Chandler to your gun range?”

  He cleared his throat before answering, “Joey brought her by to learn to shoot.”

  “Only the one time?” Sewell asked, ensuring the jurors got the point.

  “Yes.”

  “And why was that? Did she do so well the first time, no further lessons were warranted?” Sewell remained in front of Frasier, hoping to keep his anxiety levels low.

  Martin laughed. “No, the first lesson did not go well.”

  “How badly did it go?” Sewell asked.

  “Mrs. Chandler returned to the car after a few minutes. She didn’t look happy.” He leaned toward Sewell, as if it were just him in the courtroom. “City girls usually don’t like the guns.”

  Sewell took a few steps back and continued his questioning. “Do you know why Mr. Chandler brought her to the gun range?”

  “He was worried about her. He wanted to teach her self-protection. He didn’t like her being alone in the house when he got stuck at a job site at night. Joey was—” Frasier stopped and looked at the judge. “Sorry, Your Honor.”

  Judge Lowe signaled Sewell to continue.

  “Why didn’t he bring her back?” he asked.

  Frasier looked at Cecilia and gave her a sad smile. “I think he was embarrassed. Some of the other boys there were laughing.”

  “Objection. Speculation,” Briscoe said.

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  Sewell went to the podium and glanced at his paperwork. “Did Joey ever tell you why he didn’t bring her back to the gun range?”

  “He said she refused. Some husbands shouldn’t try to teach their wives some things. You know what I mean?” Mr. Sewell nodded, as did some of the male jurors. “I offered to teach her but he declined. Said she wanted no part of a gun.”

  “What did you think when you heard Cecilia had shot Mr. Gabbert?” Sewell asked.

  “I couldn’t believe it!” he exclaimed. Surprised by his volume, he lowered his voice. “I thought it was an accident. Or a misfire.”

  Mr. Sewell walked to the defense desk and Abigail handed him a folder. Returning to the witness stand, he pulled out the eight-by-ten photo of Gabbert. The same close-up shot Mr. Briscoe had showed the jury during his opening statement. Mr. Frasier recoiled at the photo of the dead man. Then he leaned in and inspected it. He held his finger over the gunshot wound.

  “That girl made that shot?” he asked, pointing to Cecilia, then to the gunshot wound. “From twenty feet?”

  “That is why we’re here, Mr. Frasier.”

  He shook his head as he inspected the photo. “Well, I doubt that was what she was aiming for.”

  Frasier held the photo out to Sewell and he retrieved it. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because when she shot a few rounds at my place, she missed her target completely. The boys had never seen such a bad shot. Or had such a good laugh.”

  “Last question,” Sewell started. A few jurors and a few people in the gallery smiled. “Do you buy your gun a Christmas gift?”

  “Um…No,” Frasier answered. He watched Sewell return to the defense table and sit. “Is that a thing?” he asked him.

  Sewell smiled and shook his head. He looked to Briscoe. “Your witness.”

  Briscoe stood. “Do you monitor the gun range?” he asked from the podium.

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty-four seven?”

  “Well, no. We’re not open twenty-four seven.”

  “But you monitor the gun range continuously during business hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who watches it when you have to go the bathroom? Or go in the back office for supplies?”

  “No one.”

  “So there are times when the gun range is not monitored?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “So, Mr. Chandler could have brought Ms. Chandler and you wouldn’t have seen her?”

  “He would need more than the five minutes it takes me to go the bathroom to make her a good enough shot to do that,” he answered, pointing in the direction the coroner’s photo had gone. “Plus, a girl like that don’t go anywhere in this town and not get noticed.”

  Briscoe ignored him and continued. “Does Chandler Construction, the company Ms. Chandler inherited upon Mr. Chandler’s death, have an account with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, Mrs. Chandler could have come anytime to shoot?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Does every shooter need to sign in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it possible that someone can come to the range and not sign in?”

  “No. I see everyone. I make sure everyone signs in.”

  Mr. Briscoe huffed. “Do you have to go through your office to get to the gun range?”

  “No.”

  “So someone could go straight to the gun range without signing in?”

  “Well—”

  “I’m asking, is it possible?”

  “Yes. But—”

  Briscoe cut him off before he could say more. “That’s all for this witness.”

  Cecilia sat on a bench and waited for the trial to resume. The lawyers and their assistants were in with the judge. No media outlet was allowed in this area. Staff only.

  Alone in the hallway, she felt she was in purgatory.

  Alive but not living.

  Free but not really free.

  Holden busted through the stairwell door and plopped down at the end of the bench. He was muttering under his breath while fiddling with his phone.

  “Good morning,” she said, to get his attention.

  “CeCe?” He looked up surprised. “I didn’t see you.” He scanned the hallway. “What are you doing here by yourself?”

  “Waiting,” she answered. He nodded, then looked at his phone and stared. “What’s the problem?” she asked, pointing to the phone.

  “The phone is frozen.” He turned it toward her and tapped it several times. Nothing happened.

  “Did you try turning it off and back on again?”

  “I’ve spoken to enough help desks to know that is the first thing I should try.”

  She held her hand out. Remembering her day job in the tech field, he handed over the phone. She hesitated. “There’s nothing on here I shouldn’t see, right?”

  “Like pornography?” he asked.

  With eyebrows raised, she slowly answered, “No, like police business. This is your work phone, isn’t it?”

  Embarrassed, Holden nodded. “Sorry, yes, it’s my work phone. Nothing confidential except in email.”

  “Okay, I don’t have to go in there.”

  “Okay.” He watched as she tapped the screen a few times. Same results as when Holden had tried. Frozen. She shut it off again, counted to ten and turned it back on.

  “Put in your code.” He did and she took it back. He
looked over her shoulder as she tapped a few keys, went into settings, and scrolled through. She tapped a few more times, then opened a few applications, but not the email, and returned to the home screen. She declared, “Okay, looks good.” She handed him the phone back. “You look. Make sure it’s working right.”

  Holden opened his email and everything was up to date. All the applications were working at their usual speeds. “Oh, I could kiss you!” he exclaimed. Once he heard himself, he uttered, “Sorry.”

  He watched as her cheeks became rosy. He resisted the urge to lean in and kiss her. There was a commotion behind him and he turned to see the defense team returning.

  “Thanks, CeCe,” he said as he got up.

  “CeCe?” Michael asked as Holden walked away.

  “The defense calls Dr. Dario Anderson to the stand,” Sewell announced.

  Cecilia didn’t recognize him from their brief meeting the night of the attack. He was clean-shaven and was wearing a well-tailored suit and dark rectangular-shaped glasses. He looked different from the unshaven man in blue scrubs she had met.

  “Merry Christmas, Dr. Anderson.” Sewell waited for the greeting to be returned but it wasn’t. “Are you done with your shopping?”

  “No.”

  “A few more shopping days left, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you buy your stethoscope a Christmas present?”

  Dr. Anderson glanced at the judge before answering, “No.” He shifted in his chair, waiting for the official questioning to begin. He eased when Sewell started. “Can you please tell us where you are employed?”

  “Folley General Hospital.”

  “And what do you do there?

  “I’m an emergency room doctor.”

  “Is this how you met Mrs. Chandler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you please tell us your assessment of Mrs. Chandler the night of the attack?”

  “She had a mild concussion. Two broken ribs. Multiple contusions. A few cuts.”

  “Please be more specific.” Sewell placed a diagram on the easel for Dr. Anderson to point to. On it were four body diagrams, each showing a side of the body. Cecilia’s injuries were already marked, in color, on the whiteboard.

  Cecilia tuned out, not wanting to listen to her injuries and a recounting of her time in the emergency room. She watched the jury, as Dr. Anderson tallied up her injuries. They were engrossed, or grossed out, by his testimony. Using a laser pointer, he pointed to the location, severity and type of each injury.

  “Why didn’t you admit her?” Sewell asked.

  “She refused.”

  “Why?”

  “She wanted to get home.” He shook his head. “Something about a dog.”

  “Do you have a dog or cat?” Sewell asked.

  “No, too many hours at the hospital.”

  Sewell returned to the defense desk. He noted that juror number one had taken few notes during his first witnesses. “I’m done with this witness,” Sewell told the judge.

  Briscoe stood to begin the cross-examination. “Did you examine Mr. Robert Gabbert?”

  “No,” the doctor answered.

  “Because he was already dead? Because Ms. Chandler killed him?” Briscoe asked.

  “Objection,” Sewell shouted.

  “Sustained,” Judge Lowe ruled. “The jury is instructed to ignore Mr. Briscoe’s last comment.”

  “Were any of Ms. Chandler’s injuries life-threatening?”

  “No.”

  “That is all for this witness,” Briscoe announced.

  “The defense calls Sophia Wesson to the stand,” Sewell announced and waited at the podium as she entered.

  Abigail tried to catch the woman’s eye as she walked down the aisle. She knew the young tech would be nervous. But Wyatt had wanted someone like her. He didn’t want a stuffy expert to testify. He wanted someone the jury would like.

  Ms. Wesson approached the stand, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Abigail wanted to remind her to smile and to breathe, but Sophia never looked up from her shoes. Each click of her heels echoed in the courtroom. Her hand trembled over the Bible as she was sworn in. She’d never testified in such a high-profile case.

  “Happy holidays, Ms. Wesson,” Sewell greeted her.

  “To you as well, Mr. Sewell.” She smiled, the tension leaving her body. Abigail had assured her Mr. Sewell would put her at ease. Abigail made no such assurances for the prosecution.

  “Where do you work?” Mr. Sewell asked.

  “UM Labs.”

  “And what do you do there?”

  “I’m a bloodstain pattern analyst.”

  “What is your degree in?”

  “Forensic science.”

  “How long have you been working in this field?”

  “Nine years.”

  Sewell removed the blank placard on the easel, displaying the blood-covered Chandler kitchen. “Can you tell me whose blood this is?”

  “Cecilia Chandler.”

  “All of it?”

  “Objection,” Briscoe said.

  “I’ll rephrase,” Sewell told the judge before he could rule. “Of the blood analyzed, whose was it?”

  “All the blood I analyzed was Cecilia Chandler’s.”

  “And what is this?” He pointed to the corner of the island kitchen. He removed that photo and revealed a close-up shot of the kitchen. The crime scene photo Wyatt had first seen in Cecilia’s dining room.

  “A fingerprint.”

  “Whose fingerprint?”

  “Robert Gabbert.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “That Mr. Gabbert was in the house during the attack.”

  “So no one could claim he’d been in the home at some earlier time?” Sewell looked pointedly at Briscoe.

  “Correct. He would have had to put his finger in the wet blood in order to leave the print.”

  Sewell had succeeded in proving that at some point during the attack, Gabbert had been in Cecilia’s home. He watched juror one make a note of it. Whether this was when Gabbert snatched Ferris, he didn’t know—but it didn’t matter. It only strengthened Cecilia’s case of self-defense. Briscoe couldn’t claim Gabbert was only in the backyard.

  With his point made, Sewell concluded his questioning. “Do you buy your front door a Christmas gift?”

  “Does a wreath count?” she asked.

  Mr. Sewell joined the laughter of the gallery before announcing he was done with the witness.

  Briscoe began his questioning with no pleasantries. “Were you ever at the crime scene?”

  “No.”

  “So you didn’t examine the fingerprint in person?”

  “No.”

  “What did you examine?”

  “A photo of the fingerprint.”

  “Were you given any other fingerprints to compare this one to?”

  “No.” The tension she had felt upon arrival was returning as Briscoe fired questions at her. She reminded herself to answer each question succinctly and not to ramble on, as Abigail had instructed her.

  Briscoe walked up to the easel and looked at the enlarged photo. “How many points of comparison are there in your analysis?”

  “Twelve.”

  “How many characteristics are there in the average fingerprint?”

  “Depends.”

  “What is the recognized average number, Ms. Wesson?” He returned to the prosecutor desk and Marcy handed him his research on fingerprinting examination. He expected her to dodge the question.

  “One hundred and fifty.”

  It matched his research and he proceeded. “So you were able to find only twelve where there are as many as one hundred and fifty characteristics?”

  “Twelve is sufficient.”

  “Sufficient?” Briscoe asked.

  “There is no standard requirement.”

  “What is the accepted range of points of comparison?”

  “Twelve to sixteen.”r />
  He referenced his research again. Not because he needed to but because he wanted the jury to know these were accurate numbers. “Do some agencies have points of comparison up to twenty?”

  “Yes.”

  “So when you were presented with one fingerprint to compare to just one person’s fingerprints, you found the bare minimum of twelve points of comparison?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is all,” Briscoe stated before sitting. Both he and Sewell saw juror one make a note.

  “The defense calls Jeremiah Coleman to the stand,” Sewell declared.

  Cecilia did her best to conceal her shock. The defense team had not shown Cecilia the updated witness list. Sewell had charged Abigail and Michael with assessing her reaction.

  Cecilia watched as Jeremiah walked down the aisle. She scanned the gallery, not seeing Brittany.

  Michael leaned over and whispered to Cecilia. “Don’t scowl at the witness.”

  She nodded and tried to appear neutral. She could not think of any reason Jeremiah would be testifying for her defense. She briefly feared Sewell had called him as a character witness and wondered if she could object.

  Sewell glanced at Cecilia. He didn’t like clients who didn’t tell him the whole truth. He needed to make sure she wasn’t hiding anything from him before putting her on the stand.

  “Why did you hire Robert Gabbert to scare Mrs. Chandler?” Sewell asked.

  He’d been afraid she had concealed this, in a misguided attempt to protect Joey’s family and therefore Joey.

  He didn’t miss her shock. Neither did the jury.

  “No comment.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question, Mr. Coleman.”

  “I was told by my lawyer not to answer,” he responded. “I take…I take the Fifth?” He looked at the judge, who nodded he had chosen the right number. And the right amendment. He was asserting his Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.

  “Why did you want to get rid of Mrs. Chandler?” Sewell asked.

  “I take the Fifth.”

  “How much did you pay Mr. Gabbert to stalk Mrs. Chandler?”

  “I take the Fifth.”

  Sewell started another question. “What did—”

  “Objection,” Briscoe said. “The witness has made it clear he will not be answering any questions.”