The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  That afternoon, Bratt’s cross-examination took Phillips through his story once more, making sure the witness stuck to what he had testified to that morning. Phillips never backtracked. He insisted on every fact as if it had been set in concrete, and that suited Bratt just fine.

  “I’d like to go back to the moment the two gunmen entered the apartment,” Bratt said as he walked over to the floor plan on the blackboard.

  “If you wanna talk about it again.”

  “I’ll try not to bore you. You said you heard the door slam and you turned your head to look at the group that was standing just inside the doorway.”

  “Yeah,” Phillips replied, showing some irritation at having to go over the facts yet again.

  “You pointed to this sofa and said you were sitting at the near end, here. I believe you said you were leaning your head on the back of the sofa.”

  “That’s how most people watch TV.”

  “I gather the TV show didn’t have you sitting on the edge of your seat.”

  “No, it didn’t.”

  “You didn’t lean forward at all? Not even when the door slammed?”

  “No,” Phillips answered with a shake of his head, not even trying to hide his exasperation now. His soft, hesitant attitude of that morning had disappeared quickly once the cross-examination began.

  “Fine, fine. Now you drew an ‘X’ next to the door where the taller of the two assailants was standing when he shot Indian. Standing right over his head.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And from the pictures in P-2 we can see Indian’s body, and where his head is in regards to the entrance, and your ‘X’ is really very accurate.”

  Parent stretched his long frame up and raised his hands, as if pleading for mercy, toward Judge Green.

  “My Lord, is my colleague planning to get to some sort of point?”

  “Why,” Green growled, “do you have a train to catch?”

  Parent was clearly surprised at the judge’s response, but not nearly as surprised as Bratt was. Bratt looked at Green’s face and thought, The old fart’s caught on. Now if only I haven’t lost the jury yet.

  “Go on, Mr. Bratt,” Green said.

  “Thank you, My Lord. Mr. Phillips, would you be so kind as to take this ruler and draw a straight line from where your head was as you sat on the sofa to where the taller of the two assailants was standing.”

  Phillips hesitated and looked over to Parent, suspecting some sort of trap, but the prosecutor did not return his look. Shrugging, the witness took up the ruler and the pen with which he had been marking the floor plan and did as Bratt asked. He then stepped back and looked indifferently at his questioner.

  Bratt couldn’t resist letting a little smile come to his lips as he saw an expression of discomfort appear on Parent’s face.

  “You must have X-ray vision, Mr. Phillips.”

  “Huh,” Phillips responded, turning to look again at the floor plan. Then he looked confused, as if someone had changed the picture without his noticing. The line he had drawn passed from his position on the sofa and through part of the living room wall, before ending at the “X” near the apartment door.

  “You did say that as soon as you heard the door slam you just turned your head and saw the taller one push Indian down and then shoot him?”

  “Yes,” Phillips replied, hesitating slightly now even though this was the fifth time that he had been asked some variation of that same question.

  “And you also said you never leaned forward, nor sat on the edge of your seat. Yet, as you can see on this very accurate floor plan, from where you were sitting this wall sticking out here would have totally blocked your view of the entrance. Isn’t that puzzling?”

  Phillips’s hand reached out to the floor plan and he ran his finger along the straight line he had traced, looking for some sort of explanation.

  “I know what I saw, okay?”

  “So you say. What I want to know is how you saw what you say you did?”

  Phillips didn’t answer, but just folded his arms across his chest, half in defiance, half as a defensive reflex.

  “You’ve told the jury that you had a perfectly clear view of the taller assailant’s face from the moment he entered the apartment. You said you could see his face when he spoke, when he pushed Indian to the ground and when he stood over his head and shot him. Is that not what you have been saying all day?”

  “What’s the difference? After he shot Indian he walked right up to me and I could see his face clear and up close.”

  “So, are you now telling us that you didn’t see his face when he came into the apartment, when he spoke and when he shot Indian?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “Well then, just what are you saying?”

  Phillips looked over at Parent again, but once again received no assistance from that corner. He squeezed his lips tight, afraid that an unwanted answer might slip out. After a few seconds Bratt looked at his watch and saw that it was 4:25 p.m. Might as well end it here, he thought. At least the jury’s got a little bone to chew on until tomorrow.

  “My Lord, may I suggest we give the witness the night to think up, um, I mean, think about his answer, and continue tomorrow morning?”

  “That’s fine by me, Mr. Bratt. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll continue with Mr. Phillips tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp.”

  “I don’t get it,” Kouri said as he sat on the sofa in Bratt’s office. He was feeling the exhaustion of being in court all day, although he himself had done nothing but take notes. “I thought he was doing so well. How did he let himself get painted into a corner like that?”

  Bratt blew into a cup of hot coffee that Sylvie had made for them before she left for the day, feeling content about the way the trial was unfolding.

  “His hatred blinded him,” he replied.

  “I guess so, although I’m not sure-”

  “He hates Small,” Bratt interrupted. “Not that I blame him. And I’m Small’s lawyer, so naturally he hates me too. Maybe more so because I’m questioning the terrible things that happened to him. So he spent most of the day hardening his position, making sure every answer he gave was carved in stone, when there was really no reason for it. Now he can’t back down from anything he said before for fear he’ll come out looking the worse for it. But that’s what’ll happen anyway because he’s too inflexible to admit to making any mistakes, or to being unsure about anything. And nobody’s that perfect.”

  Kouri nodded his head silently, letting it all sink in.

  “It’s funny, but if you had mentioned that part of the wall to me before the trial I wouldn’t have thought it was such an important point.”

  “It’s probably not that big a deal. I don’t expect to score any big points with Phillips. His story doesn’t allow for that. But I’ll just keep chipping away at his memory and hope the jury doesn’t lose interest. I don’t expect them to think he’s a total liar, just wonder a bit about how reliable his memory is and how much of his story they should take with a grain of salt.”

  “So, tomorrow you’ll ask him if he has an answer to your question.”

  “Hell, no. He just might come up with one that the jury could buy. I’d rather it stayed unanswered and just be one of many unexplained holes in his story.”

  “Something so terrifying,” Bratt said the next morning, “it must have seemed like an eternity before it was over.”

  Phillips scowled back at his questioner, as he had been doing all that morning. He was less confident in his answers than the previous day and Bratt wasn’t giving him much room to breathe.

  “It took the time it took. People didn’t move in slow motion or anything. I didn’t think I was dreaming. I knew exactly what was happening and exactly how long it took.”

  “And, ‘exactly’ how long was that?”

  “Ok, so I didn’t look at my watch. But I could tell.”

  “Then around how long did it last?”

 
“A few minutes.”

  “A few minutes? Could it be four to five minutes?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Mr. Phillips in one of your written statements to the police, this one dated June 23, 1999, at a time when your memory of the events was probably quite fresh, you said that from the time the door slammed to the time you lost consciousness was four to five minutes. Do you remember that?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Do you remember saying the same thing in response to a question posed by my learned colleague yesterday morning. Four to five minutes?”

  “Yeah, what’s your point?”

  Green’s head jumped up from his notebook and he rapped his knuckles on his desk.

  “Mr. Phillips, I will ask you to answer the questions in a courteous manner while you are in my court, is that understood?”

  Phillips bit his lip, clearly seething over having to answer what seemed to be an endless string of trivial questions that somehow always ended up with him unable to explain himself. He nodded in the judge’s direction, but said nothing. Green waved Bratt on with a snort, then bent his head to continue his copious note-taking.

  “I remember you had mentioned the time it took yesterday and you said you were able to see the face of the taller assailant quite well during the whole incident, a good four or five minutes. Do you wish to revise that estimate today, Mr. Phillips?”

  “No. Four to five minutes sounds about right. Like I said, I didn’t look at my watch at the time. I was worried about other things. But it’s about right.”

  “Of course, I understand. So it might have been a little more or a little less than four or five minutes. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Could it have been as short as three minutes?”

  Phillips’s hatred for Bratt came through loud and clear in his silent glare. Bratt managed to keep an expression of patient equanimity on his face, while under his black vest his heart was beating like a jackhammer. He was thoroughly enjoying every minute of this. He knew he was about to corner Phillips again, and felt a sense of childish glee overtaking him.

  After another of the long pauses he had gotten into the habit of taking before answering, Phillips nodded his head curtly.

  “I’m afraid we’ll need a verbal answer, Mr. Phillips. For the transcript.”

  “Yes,” Phillips spat out.

  “Could it have been as short as two minutes?”

  Phillips breathed deeply and closed his eyes briefly, as if to calm himself. Then he looked away from Bratt and toward the jury.

  “No, that’s way too short. I know that for sure. It was way longer than two minutes.”

  Bratt pulled out a stopwatch from underneath his robe and held it up for everyone to see.

  “Mr. Phillips would you indulge me? I’d like you to describe the events of last June 14 once more. Tell us what happened all over again, starting from the moment you heard the door slam, and try to keep your story as close to real time as possible. Could you do that for me?”

  Again, Phillips looked toward Parent. This time the Prosecutor looked like he wanted to object to this demonstration, but he held back. Bratt gave him a sly little smile, because he knew, as Parent surely did, that the jury would want to see how this experiment turned out and would wonder why anyone objected to it.

  “Mr. Phillips? Can you do that?”

  “I can do that.”

  Dramatically, Bratt held the stopwatch up high and looked knowingly at the jurors. He kept his eyes on them, noting their attentive and expectant faces.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Phillips? OK, begin now.”

  Bratt began the stopwatch and Phillips retold his story, speaking slowly and with great deliberation.

  “I was watching TV and I could hear Indian talking to these two guys. Then, suddenly the door slams shut and I turn to see them all just inside it. The tall guy yells out, ‘I’m here for your shit, so nobody fucking move.’

  “Then he pushed Indian down on the floor and I see the guns they have. He shoots Indian real fast, Bang! Bang! He looks up and sees me staring at him, and he points the gun at me and starts walking at me. He yells, ‘Get the fuck on the floor, or I’ll shoot you.’

  “All this time he’s walking straight at me. It’s maybe ten, twelve feet. He’s coming from my left and a bit in front of me, and I slide off the sofa, onto my knees. My hands are up in the air and I’m looking right up at his face as I lie down on my stomach. Then he’s standing right over me and he asks me if I have a gun, and then he pulls on my belt from behind. I look up at him quickly and see that he’s bending low over me, that’s when I saw the gap in his teeth. I look back down into the floor and then, that’s it.”

  “That’s it? The last thing you remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. So I’m stopping the stopwatch…now.”

  Bratt held the now-stopped timepiece up in the air for a few more seconds, letting the tension increase, then slowly brought it down and held it directly in front of the witness’s face. Phillips’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Can you tell the jury what the time on the stopwatch is, Mr. Phillips?”

  “Fifty-two seconds,” he whispered.

  “For those who didn’t hear his answer, he said fifty-two seconds. The judge will correct me if I’m wrong. So, less than one minute. Not way more than two. Not three. And certainly not the four to five minutes you led us to believe yesterday.”

  “Is there a question there, Mr. Bratt,” Green interposed.

  “Yes, My Lord, a question. Would you not agree, Mr. Phillips, that you had much less time to observe your assailant than you have claimed until now?”

  “It seemed longer.”

  “Yes. It must have seemed like an eternity.”

  “A question, Mr. Bratt,” Green raised his voice only slightly.

  “Many questions come to mind right now, My Lord, and I hope the witness will be able to answer some of them one day.”

  “Right,” Green pushed his chair back impatiently. “Time for lunch, the lawyers are clearly in need of a break.”

  Bratt kept his eyes on the jurors as they filed out, avoiding looking at Green because he knew the judge had been clearly irritated by his little off-the-cuff remark. Once the jury was out of earshot Green scowled angrily at him.

  “I expect that to be the last time you grandstand in my courtroom, Mr. Bratt. Is that understood?”

  Bratt still felt pumped up from his cross-examination and he had half a mind to answer Green back defiantly, but he knew this wouldn’t help Small’s case. He breathed deeply, and bowed his head as contritely as he could.

  “Sorry about that. Got carried away with myself.”

  Green looked mollified, and a maybe even a bit surprised, by Bratt’s quick retreat.

  “There was certainly no reason for it. See that it doesn’t happen again. Have a good lunch, gentlemen.”

  With that, he turned and walked off the bench. Bratt smiled broadly at Kouri, looking like a child who had gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar, but then was allowed to eat the cookie anyway. As he turned to pick up his notes his eyes fell on Nancy and he was momentarily surprised at seeing her there. He had been so concentrated on Phillips’s testimony the past two days that he had hardly noticed her presence.

  She didn’t look in his direction but simply followed Parent out of the courtroom and was soon gone.

  Just before 2:15 p.m. Bratt was standing in the hallway outside the courtroom, looking down its length while Kouri held the door open for him.

  “You know she only comes after the testimony begins,” Kouri said.

  “I know,” Bratt replied, craning his neck in the hope of catching a glimpse of the elusive Jennifer Campbell. “She’s turned into a bit of a holy spirit this week, the way she metabolizes out of thin air. That lady is unusual, to say the least.”

  “Maybe she just doesn’t want to disrupt your concentration.”

  “Well her pla
n backfired, then, hasn’t it? This sneaking in and out of court business has really gotten on my nerves.”

  “You could always just phone her.”

  Bratt turned toward the courtroom without responding and headed for his seat.

  I get the feeling that anything she might have to tell me I don’t want to hear over the phone.

  “Mr. Phillips, you remember the gun the taller assailant pointed at you, of course.”

  “Yeah, well, I had a good look at it, I guess.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you did. And that’s exactly what I want to talk to you about. You have testified that when he advanced toward you his arm was stretched out straight in front of him, with the gun pointed right at you. Yesterday you made a motion with your hand, which obviously wasn’t picked up by the court’s recording system. Could I describe it by saying that the assailant held the gun at eye level, almost as if he was looking down the length of his arm, aiming at you over the gun sight?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly what he did. He was walking at me and the gun was sticking straight out from in front of his face.”

  “And it must have felt like you were staring right down that big gun barrel.”

  “It didn’t just feel that way. I was staring right into that gun barrel. It looked like a cannon pointed at my head.”

  “A cannon that could have gone off and killed you at any second.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That certainly must have held your attention.”

  “You bet it did.”

  “Because I did notice that you weren’t able to really describe the gun itself, even though you were staring right at it.”

  “I wasn’t looking at the gun to admire it. All I could see was the mouth of that barrel, and I started thinking a bullet was going to come right out of there and kill me.”

  “Couldn’t take your eyes off it, could you?”

  “I was scared to look away. Like I thought he wouldn’t shoot me if I kept my eyes on it.”

  “And all this time the gun is held out in front of his face. And you’re sitting down, looking upward at that gun, is that right? You’re really concentrated on it.”

  Phillips opened his mouth to answer, then shut it tight. In his eyes there was a look of dawning realization.