by Lauren Rowe
Apparently, I’m not gonna be called to the witness stand like I was at Mother’s trial on account of something called the “marital privilege.” It’s probably for the best, though. My loyal and loving testimony (“I swear my husband never left my side that night!” “No, he’s never laid a hand on me!”) might have been a little too convincing (because when it comes to juries, you just never know, even when you’re dealing with a defendant who’s guilty as sin.) I’m not too worried about me not testifying, though—I reckon I can do plenty of damage from the front row of the peanut gallery, just the same.
“Can you describe Elizabeth Franklin’s injuries for the jury?” the prosecutor asks his medical expert.
“The deceased suffered severely traumatic and fatal fractures to all regions of her skull, including her frontal, orbital, parietal, and occipital bones,” the expert explains. “Injuries sustained were to the regions of her skull represented here, here, here, and here on this diagram.” He points to a diagram showing the various bones of the head and face. “The fracture she sustained here, to her occipital orbit, caused her entire eye socket to collapse and her eyeball to dislodge from her head. This was the most devastating blow of all—probably the fatal one.”
Oh my, my, my, how Kurtis loves to whack a woman upside the head. I glance at the jury. They’re horrified—and, frankly, I just might be horrified right along with them. I needed Bettie to die, of course, but I never reckoned Kurtis would turn the poor girl’s head into Hamburger Helper. Good lord. I actually feel sorry for the girl.
“Rhonda Kostopoulos,” a fellow dancer at the club testifies when the prosecutor asks her name. “Yes, I’ve known Bettie—knew Bettie—for years. She was my friend.” Rhonda chokes on that last word.
“Did Bettie ever say anything to you about being acquainted with the defendant, Kurtis Jackman?”
“Objection, hearsay,” Kurtis’ high-priced attorney says.
“Your Honor, it goes to foundation,” the prosecutor declares.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says.
I’m slightly confused by what that all means, but it seems the judge is letting Rhonda talk. That’s good—because by the way Rhonda’s glaring at Kurtis, I’m pretty sure she’s planning to send my darling husband up the river.
“Well,” Rhonda continues, “he was Bettie’s boss at the club—and mine, too—so, of course, she knew him. But, yeah, she always referred to him as her ‘boyfriend.’”
A low murmur ripples through the courtroom. I look down, the picture of humiliation.
“Did you ever observe Bettie and Mr. Jackman together?”
“Yeah, I saw them together at the club a thousand times.”
“Literally, a thousand times—or is that a figure of speech?”
“Uh, yeah, I mean, you know, lots and lots of times.” She shifts uncomfortably. “Not a thousand.”
I can only see the back of Kurtis’ head as he sits at the defense table, but his body language is stiff and cold as hell.
“Did you ever observe Mr. Jackman behaving violently toward Bettie?”
“Objection,” Kurtis’ attorney states calmly. “Inadmissible character evidence.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. He turns to Rhonda. “Do not answer that question.”
The prosecutor regroups. “Did Bettie ever say anything to you about Mr. Jackman’s proclivity for violence?”
“Objection,” Kurtis’ attorney says. “Hearsay. Inadmissible character evidence.”
“Are you asking me if Kurtis hit her?” Rhonda asks, nodding furiously.
“Hold on a minute,” the judge says to Rhonda, putting up a hand. “Don’t say anything else.”
“I’m not offering it for the truth of the matter asserted,” the prosecutor explains. “It’s a statement offered against a party that wrongfully caused the declarant’s unavailability.”
What the heck are those dang lawyers talking about? I wish they’d just speak English. Kurtis’ fancy lawyer is making this a lot harder to pull off than Mother’s baby-lawyer did all those years ago—a particular annoyance considering this time I’m working against someone who actually committed the dang crime.
The judge considers. “It’s inadmissible character evidence. Objection sustained.” He turns to Rhonda. “Do not answer that question.”
Rhonda instantly assumes an expression that clearly says, “Well, that’s fine, but he did hit her.”
I shoot Rhonda a look that says, “He beat the crap out of me, too,” and I’m certain at least a few of the jurors noticed this nonverbal exchange. Screw the lawyers. Rhonda and I will nail Kurtis to the cross, just the two of us girls, without having to say a damned thing.
The prosecutor rethinks his strategy. “Did you ever observe Bettie with bruises or injuries?”
“Objection,” Kurtis’ lawyer says. “Your honor, it’s irrelevant.”
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I sure wish Kurtis’ windbag-attorney would shut the hell up and let the woman speak.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says. He turns to Rhonda the Stripper. “You can answer the question—but just that question specifically, without elaboration.”
Rhonda nods at the judge and smiles. “Okay.” She pauses, looking up. “Wait, what was the question again?”
A few journalists in the row behind me snicker. Well, that’s just plain rude. How ’bout they try sitting up there in front of God and everyone and see how well they remember the dang questions? The poor girl is doing her best.
“Did you ever observe Bettie to have bruises or injuries?” the prosecutor asks.
“Yes, Bettie always had bruises,” she says, like she’s divulging a huge secret, and then she quickly adds, “but Bettie always said, ‘There’s nothing I can do about it—Kurtis signs my paychecks and pays my rent.’”
Kurtis’ lawyer leaps out of his chair and throws up his hands. “Move to strike everything after ‘yes’ as non-responsive, Your Honor.”
The judge shoots a scolding look at Rhonda, but she puffs out her chest and looks darned proud of herself. The judge looks at the jury. “Please disregard the latter portion of the witness’ testimony about Mr. Jackman hitting Ms. Franklin and signing her paychecks and paying her rent, and limit your consideration to the fact that Ms. Franklin had the bruises, source of origin unknown.”
I make a point of looking small and submissive in my seat. I reckon the tinier and more timid I look to the jury, the easier it will be for them to imagine Kurtis beating the crap out of me—and, therefore, Bettie, too.
The prosecutor says he’s done asking Rhonda questions, and Kurtis’ attorney stands. I reckon it’s his turn to try to dismantle Rhonda’s testimony on cross-examination.
“You say Bettie told you Mr. Jackman was her boyfriend?” Kurtis’ attorney asks.
“That’s correct,” Rhonda says.
“But he was her boss at the club, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you ever observe them together?”
“All the time.”
“At the club?”
“Yeah.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Nope.”
“Did you ever observe them having any one-on-one conversations?”
“All the time. Usually, he was pissed at her.”
“Well, hang on. Did you ever overhear the content of their discussions?”
“Nope.”
“Then you’re just speculating when you say he was ‘pissed at her,’ aren’t you?”
“Well, I could tell by his body language and his loud tone of voice that he was angry, even if I couldn’t hear what he was saying.” Rhonda shoots Kurtis a scathing look that clearly says she wouldn’t walk across the street to piss on him if his hair was on fire.
“But you didn’t hear what he was saying to her, right? For all you know, Kurtis and Bettie could have been having work-related conversations all those times, like about her being late to work, for example, c
orrect?”
Rhonda looks at the lawyer like he’s a maggot.
“Could you please answer the question?”
Rhonda clears her throat. “I suppose it’s possible.” She grits her teeth.
“Did Bettie ever mention any other boyfriends to you?”
Rhonda opens her mouth to speak.
“Objection,” the prosecutor says. “Hearsay.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Do not answer that question.”
Kurtis’ attorney regroups. “Did you ever observe Kurtis behaving with particular affection toward Bettie?”
“Nope.”
Kurtis’ attorney flashes a smug smile. “Then what fact, other than what Bettie allegedly told you, supports your supposition that Kurtis was Bettie’s ‘boyfriend,’ as you’ve previously testified?”
“Well, Bettie always said Kurtis was crazy-jealous when some other guy sent her flowers and—”
“Move to strike,” Kurtis’ attorney barks. “Hearsay, nonresponsive.”
Good lord. Kurtis’ attorney is pulling on my last nerve.
“Sustained.” The judge turns to Rhonda. “The question is whether you’ve ever observed something with your own eyes that made you conclude Mr. Jackman was Ms. Franklin’s boyfriend, not whether you heard a statement in that regard from Ms. Franklin.”
Rhonda smiles politely at the judge and then turns her gaze back to Kurtis’ attorney, her expression instantly hard. “Well, I walked in on them when they were fucking in the dressing room.” The courtroom gasps. “That’s what I observed.”
The entire courtroom begins murmuring all at once, and the judge demands order in the court. In a flash, I can feel every single eyeball in the courtroom on me. I try to give them nothing, even though a Kurtis-and-Bettie porno that makes my flesh crawl has just popped into my head. Even after all this time, it chaps my hide and hurts my heart to think Kurtis was nailing Bettie the whole time he was whispering sweet-nothings to me.
Kurtis’ attorney clears his throat. “Well, hang on. You just said a minute ago you never observed Mr. Jackman behave with any particular affection toward Bettie.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Rhonda is stone-faced now.
There’s a beat as Kurtis’ attorney tries to make hide or hair of the situation. He shakes his head, not comprehending.
“When I walked in on them,” Rhonda explains without further prompting, her tone exasperated, “Kurtis’ behavior was anything but affectionate.”
The entire jury adopts an expression of revulsion and so do I, but only fleetingly, just long enough for a couple of jurors to catch me—and then, just as quickly, I broadcast nonverbal solidarity with Rhonda, as if I understand better than anyone why she’s characterizing sex with Kurtis as a decidedly unaffectionate act.
Kurtis turns to whisper something to his attorney, and even though I can only see Kurtis’ face in profile, there’s no mistaking the fury in his expression. I notice at least two jurors observing Kurtis’ demeanor with disgust, and right then and there, I know Kurtis is toast. But, seeing as how this trial is funded by the taxpayers, and the prosecutor’s probably worked long and hard getting all his ducks in a row, we’ve still got weeks to burn before the fat lady starts singing on this one.
Kurtis’ secretary, Mildred, gets on the witness stand next, flashing Kurtis an apologetic look. “Yes,” Mildred reluctantly answers the prosecutor, “I ordered flowers to be sent from Mr. Jackman to Bettie every single week.... Red roses and tiger lilies ... Yes, Bettie came to the office many times.... Yes, they stayed alone in his office with the door closed quite a few times—more times than I can count. No, the other dancers from the club never did that, just Bettie.”
I try to make my face look humiliated but hopeful: Maybe my husband was just generously giving one of his employees pointers on her dance routines?
“Hmm,” Mildred says, responding to the prosecutor’s next question. “I started ordering flowers for Bettie... let’s see...not too long after she began dancing at the club. So, hmm, I guess Kurtis sent Bettie flowers every week for about... two years or so?”
Two years? Holy hell.
Mildred looks at the prosecutor with pleading eyes, but nope, he’s not even close to done with her. “Did you ever personally observe anything that led you to conclude Mr. Jackman had a romantic relationship with Miss Franklin?”
“Objection, calls for speculation,” Kurtis’ attorney says.
“Overruled. I’ll allow it—as long as it’s based on her personal observation.”
“You mean something romantic I observed besides the fact that he was sending her flowers every week for two solid years?” Mildred asks.
“Yes,” the prosecutor replies.
“And besides the fact that Bettie came to visit Mr. Jackman’s office and they closed the door?”
“Besides that.”
She closes her eyes for a long beat. “Yes. Mr. Jackman once asked me to buy Bettie a gift. A piece of jewelry.”
My stomach clenches.
“What kind of jewelry?”
“A necklace.”
My breathing turns shallow.
“A necklace with a heart on it—a pendant,” Mildred adds. She glances at me apologetically. “A heart covered in diamonds.”
I touch the diamond-covered cross on my neck, remembering how I cried tears of joy when Kurtis gave it to me in that cramped supply closet. Even after all this time and everything that’s happened, I still feel like crying at the memory.
“Can you think of anything else you personally observed that made you think Mr. Jackman had a romantic relationship with Miss Franklin?”
Mildred looks like she’s going to be sick.
The prosecutor stares her down. Clearly, he’s got all day.
“Yes,” Mildred finally answers. “There was one more thing.”
“And what was that?” the prosecutor asks.
Mildred swallows hard. “I sometimes heard... um... noises from inside the office when Bettie was in there with Mr. Jackman.”
The prosecutor can barely stifle his grin. “What kinds of noises?”
“Objection, calls for speculation,” Kurtis’ attorney says. “Irrelevant.”
“Overruled.”
Mildred shifts in her seat for the umpteenth time. “How does one describe a noise, really...?”
“Try,” the prosecutor commands.
Mildred looks green. “Moaning, groaning, banging sounds, skin slapping, you know...”
“Noises consistent with two people having sex?”
“Objection,” Kurtis’ attorney says, leaping up from his chair. “Calls for speculation, Your Honor. This is ridiculous.”
“I’ll allow it,” the judge says sternly. “Overruled.”
Kurtis’ attorney sits back down, livid.
Mildred nods feebly. Her face looks downright squeamish, and I’m sure mine does, too.
“Is that a yes?” the prosecutor asks.
Mildred looks at Kurtis sheepishly. “Mmm hmm.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
Bastard.
“In the time period immediately leading up to Miss Franklin’s death, did Mr. Jackman ever express any anger in regards to Miss Franklin?”
Kurtis’ blowhard attorney objects for the hundredth time, this time on grounds of hearsay, cementing his title as the world’s most annoying person, ever. Good lord, that man’s pulling on my last nerve—he’s got a ten-gallon mouth, big enough for ten rows of teeth.
“It goes to the defendant’s state of mind,” the prosecutor says smoothly, saving the day like the government-sponsored white knight he is.
“Overruled.”
“Go ahead, please,” the prosecutor says to Mildred.
“What was the question?” Mildred asks, her voice thin.
The prosecutor turns to the court reporter. “Would you read my question back, please?”
“‘In the few months leading up to Miss Franklin’s death,
did Mr. Jackman ever express any anger in regards to Miss Franklin?’” the court reporter drones in a monotone.
“Um... yes,” Mildred mumbles. “On several occasions during that time period, Mr. Jackman expressed... anger...” She shoots yet another apologetic look at Kurtis, and even from my viewpoint behind him, I can tell Kurtis is seething. “It seemed Bettie had received flowers at the club from someone besides Mr. Jackman, and he asked me if I’d sent Bettie a floral arrangement to the club. I told him, no, always to her apartment, and he seemed upset to think Bettie might have been romantically involved with someone else.”
“Did Mr. Jackman say anything else?” the prosecutor asks Mildred.
“About what?”
“About him being upset Bettie had received a gift from someone besides him?”
“A gift? You mean anything? Not just those particular flowers?”
“Sure. Anything.”
Mildred sighs. “Bettie received flowers from lots of different men, quite frequently, and jewelry, too. And, once, some guy even sent her a puppy with a big red bow on it. And Mr. Jackman expressed irritation about all of it. Quite frequently.”
Oh my. I didn’t see any of that coming. And here I thought I’d been stirring the soup all by myself.
“So,” Mildred continues, “Mr. Jackman sometimes called different florists and jewelers, asking if a particular delivery for Bettie had come from them, but he never had any luck getting answers. So then he’d ask me to call around for him and see what I could find out.” She shrugs.
“And did you?”
For a fleeting moment, the slightest hint of an eye-roll flickers across Mildred’s face. “No.”
“And why not?”
Mildred blinks slowly before answering. “Because it was my belief that florists and jewelers weren’t gonna willingly tell me which customers of theirs had purchased gifts for a stripper at the Casanova Club.”
There’s a rustle of activity in the courtroom, and I use the opportunity to steal a quick glance at the jury. Several of them are nodding in apparent agreement with Mildred’s logic.
And what am I doing right now? I’m letting out the longest exhale of my life. Holy hell, those dang flowers I sent to Bettie are gonna be the death of me. When I sent those suckers, I didn’t know Kurtis was gonna be on trial for killing Bettie; I thought Bettie was gonna be on trial for killing Kurtis, in which case no one would have given two squirts what flowers Bettie might have received down at the club. I’d had no idea back then I’d be sitting here right now, listening to a prosecutor ask Kurtis’ secretary about flowers sent to Bettie at the club.