B003YFIVKO EBOK

by Campbell, Drusilla

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t presume to say that.” Frobisher pushed up the bridge of his glasses. “Mrs. Duran was operating under substantial emotional stress, to be sure. She has had several children in a relatively short space of time and almost certainly suffered some hormone imbalance as a result. Additionally, she has a natural tendency to bipolarity, which would have been exacerbated by hormonal surges. But none of this is terribly unusual.”

  “In your conversations with Mrs. Duran did you uncover some significant event, some clue to what triggered her murderous actions?”

  “Well, to start with, she fired the nanny,” Frobisher said. “Without the nanny her life became intolerably stressful. Even as simple a task as making cupcakes was too much for her.”

  “Are you saying that she tried to murder her children because she couldn’t bake cupcakes?”

  Cabot stood. “Your Honor, I have to object to Mr. Jackson’s tone here.”

  Roxanne knew that the prosecution needed Frobisher’s testimony to convince the jury that Simone was sane, but Cabot had predicted Jackson would still dismiss any attempt at a psychological explanation, perhaps ridicule it, in order to weaken the defense argument in advance of its introduction.

  Cabot said, “Simone Duran’s future and the future of her family hangs in the balance today. Sarcasm is unbecoming here.”

  “Did you intend sarcasm, Mr. Jackson?” the judge asked.

  “Certainly not, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled. Continue, Mr. Jackson, but watch your tone.”

  “To sum up, Dr. Frobisher, is it your expert opinion that Simone Duran attempted the murder of her children because she was under stress?”

  Frobisher turned to look at the judge. “May I elaborate on that question, Your Honor?”

  “Be my guest, Doctor.”

  The psychiatrist shifted in the witness chair and spoke directly to the jury. “Most of us deal with stress pretty well. Our bodies and our relationships may suffer in the process, but we cope. We are very good at coping, as a matter of fact. But Simone Duran has been pampered all her life. She is dependent upon her husband to an extraordinary degree. This last pregnancy—little Claire—and especially the loss of the nanny, was finally too much for her. All she wanted to do was escape the stress.”

  Jackson asked, “Why didn’t she ask for help?”

  Frobisher said, “According to Mrs. Duran, she never tried to conceal her problems but she says that nobody paid any attention. She claims no one wanted to help her but that seems far-fetched. Her recall of events is highly selective.”

  “You mean she lies when it suits her purposes.”

  “Objection, Your Honor, there’s no basis for that question.”

  “Sustained. Rephrase, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Dr. Frobisher, from your study of Mrs. Duran does it appear she will lie to protect herself?”

  “Most people will alter facts to avoid unpleasant consequences, Mr. Jackson. Simone Duran is no exception.”

  “So, finally—let’s be crystal clear about this—it is your expert opinion that at the time of the crime, Simone Duran knew what she was doing and she also knew the difference between right and wrong?”

  “Absolutely. Yes, to both questions.”

  It was after three on the second day of the trial when David Cabot rose to cross-examine Frobisher.

  “There are one or two points I’d like you to clarify for us.”

  Frobisher sat back and crossed his legs, perfectly at ease in the witness stand.

  “First, it would help us if we knew how long you spent in conversation with my client, Simone Duran.”

  “May I consult my notes?”

  “If you must, but can’t you give us a ballpark estimate?”

  “Well, let’s see. The better part of one afternoon. After lunch until about four.” Frobisher tipped his chin a little to the right and looked up. “The next day we had a couple of hours and then I believe there was a lapse of a few days and I saw her again for most of one morning.”

  “Could we say a total of six or seven hours then?”

  “Closer to eight.”

  “That’s not very long, Doctor, is it?”

  “In this case it was perfectly adequate.”

  “During your conversations with my client did you discuss her childhood?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Why was that necessary?”

  “The mind works in subtle and complicated ways. Who Mrs. Duran was at the time of the incident is linked to who she was long before that.”

  “ ‘Subtle and complicated.’ That makes sense. Do you mind if I use that term again?”

  Frobisher dipped his head. “Not at all.”

  “So of the eight hours you spent with Simone Duran, how long do you think you spent talking about her childhood?”

  “I couldn’t say. We returned to it a number of times.”

  “Would you say two hours? Four?”

  “Altogether? Between three and four.”

  “Did you discuss her marriage?”

  “Of course.”

  “She and Mr. Duran have been married… how long?”

  Frobisher looked down at his notes.

  “Never mind,” Cabot said with a hint of antipathy, as if he did not think much of a doctor who could not recall the answer to so basic a question. “If I said they’ve been together roughly ten years would that be close enough?”

  Frobisher nodded.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Doctor. Can you estimate for the court…? Did you spend thirty minutes talking about her marriage, three minutes for every year?”

  “Again, Mr. Cabot, the time was sufficient.”

  “Sufficient for what?”

  “To determine if Mrs. Duran knew the difference between right and wrong at the time of the crime.”

  “No kidding.” David Cabot stepped back and looked at the jury with a surprised expression. “You could come to a conclusion in so short a time? I think that’s amazing.”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “If you were talking to Mrs. Duran and you discovered something that didn’t support your belief that she knew right from wrong at the time of the incident, would you report this or ignore it?”

  Jackson leaped to his feet. “Your Honor, Dr. Frobisher is a highly respected professional in his field. Counsel’s question is insulting.”

  “This is cross-examination, Mr. Jackson.” MacArthur frowned over the top of his glasses. “You may respond, Doctor.”

  Frobisher squared his jaw. “I am a scientist, so of course I kept an open mind until I had gathered the facts.”

  “Dr. Frobisher, did you question Mrs. Duran about her sexual relationship with her husband?”

  “We didn’t speak about sex. Sex had nothing to do with the crime.”

  “But if her marriage was relevant and sex is part of marriage… You talked about marriage but not about sex? I find that a little confusing, Doctor.”

  Dr. Frobisher’s credentials could not be faulted, but Cabot wanted to plant a seed of doubt in the minds of the jurors as to his impartiality and the thoroughness of his analysis.

  “Mrs. Duran has been pregnant eight times in ten years, counting the miscarriages. But you didn’t mention sex?”

  “Mr. Cabot, you haven’t laid a foundation for that question.” Judge MacArthur sounded cross. “Move on.”

  “Can you explain to the court why sex wasn’t relevant?”

  “My goal was to determine if Mrs. Duran knew what she was doing at the time of the attempted murder and could tell right from wrong. I didn’t have to know the intimate details of her personal life.”

  “Okay, you didn’t talk about sex. Did you talk about Mrs. Duran’s relationship with her sister, her mother, her children?”

  “We covered all of that, yes.”

  “Again, how much time do you remember that taking?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Cabot. I do not compartmentalize my interviews. They la
st until I form a professional opinion.”

  “Can I assume you talked about the near-asphyxiation itself?”

  Roxanne knew David would never say “attempted murder.” It was always the event, the incident, the near-asphyxiation.

  “Of course.”

  “And all of this you did in the space of six or seven hours.”

  “Between eight and nine.”

  “Would you call your examination of my client thorough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say it was a comprehensive examination?”

  “Limited by time, of course, but sufficient under the circumstances.”

  “Can you swear you learned the subtle and complicated way Simone Duran’s mind worked at the time of the incident?”

  Frobisher flushed, paused a moment, and then said, “Yes.”

  Cabot turned to the jury, to Amos MacArthur, and then back to Frobisher. “Doctor, do you believe that you could spend a few hours with His Honor, Judge MacArthur, and say you know him thoroughly and comprehensively?”

  “Objection!”

  “Would you comprehend the subtle and complicated way his mind works?”

  “I said I object, Your Honor!”

  “And I heard you, Mr. Jackson.”

  “I withdraw the question,” Cabot said. “I have nothing further at this time.”

  On the third day of the trial, after calling several more witnesses, including Celia, the Durans’ housekeeper, a social worker, and a number of psychologist scholars who testified that postpartum psychosis was extremely rare and seldom, if ever, rendered a woman unable to tell right from wrong, Clark Jackson called Merell to the stand.

  Beside Roxanne Johnny drew a sharp breath. Like her, he had been preparing himself for this moment; nevertheless, hearing Merell’s name spoken by Jackson was like a gunshot out of nowhere, an ambush.

  Months earlier, when he learned that his daughter would be called as a witness against Simone, Johnny’s outspoken rage had provided headlines for all the supermarket tabloids. Emerging from a long pretrial conference with the prosecutor and Judge MacArthur, Cabot told him that Jackson had prevailed.

  “She’s going to testify. The judge says she’s old enough.”

  “Testify about what?” Roxanne asked. “She and I were together in the garage. Why doesn’t he call me as a witness?”

  “Goddamn it, Cabot, she’s a kid.” Johnny stormed across the attorney’s office on the third floor of a renovated downtown building. The corner windows overlooked Broadway, eight blocks east of the court complex. “I don’t want my daughter—”

  “What you want doesn’t count here, Johnny.”

  “Of course it counts. I’m her fucking father. What’s Jackson going to do to her?”

  “Calm down, Johnny. The judge won’t let Jackson get away with anything. He’s as concerned as I am about Merell’s well-being.” Cabot said, “If she were my witness, I’d ask her about the 911 call. I would try to establish a link between what happened at the pool back in July and the incident in the garage. He wants to show a pattern of intent.” Cabot paused as an ambulance passed on the street below, its siren screaming. “Jackson knows we’re going to say that in the garage Simone didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. But if he can convince the jury that just a month or six weeks earlier she tried to drown Olivia—”

  “That’s a pile of crap!”

  Ellen had finally told Johnny the truth about that day. He didn’t believe her.

  Cabot said, “Jackson will be happy if he can just plant a suspicion of intent in the jury’s mind.”

  Johnny sank onto the office couch, his head down, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Everything will be done to protect Merell,” Cabot assured him. “During any prep sessions, there’ll be a court-appointed social worker in the room to protect her rights. Jackson’s a good lawyer and I wouldn’t expect him to try to intimidate her, but just in case, we know there’ll be someone with her. She won’t be alone.”

  Johnny resumed his restless pacing of the length of the room, his face twisted in frustration. Roxanne had never seen him this way and his changed demeanor was mildly gratifying after all the times she’d seen him flaunt his power. He was accustomed to getting what he wanted, to having money and influence behind him in every fight; he didn’t know how to deal with powerlessness.

  Cabot said, “It’s an interesting tactic, using Merell.”

  “Interesting?” A drop of sweat slipped from behind the orb of Johnny’s ear. Roxanne watched it move down his neck and disappear beneath his shirt collar. “More like child abuse.”

  “Jackson’s taking a chance. It’ll all depend on how the jury takes to her. Merell’s not a reliable witness, if you ask me he’ll take advantage of that. She lied—”

  “She’s not a liar,” Johnny said.

  “She told one story to the 911 operator and another to the police. One of them was a lie.”

  “She got confused. That’s all that happened.”

  “Whatever.” Cabot shrugged and Roxanne thought she saw pity in his expression when he looked at Johnny. “Jackson’s going to try to convince the jury that she lied to protect her mother.”

  “I’ll talk to her, we’ll get her story straight once and for all.”

  “No. You won’t do that.” Cabot strode across the office and stood in front of Johnny. “Sit down and listen to me.”

  Roxanne thought Johnny was going to argue.

  “From this point on,” Cabot said, laying down the law in a way that stopped Johnny’s objections, “in your house, with anyone in your family, there will be no discussion of anything connected to this case because if there’s the slightest suspicion that you’re trying to influence the prosecution’s witness…”

  “You’re telling me I can’t have a conversation with my own daughter?”

  “It’s a crime, Johnny.” Roxanne sat on the couch beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was startled by the heat of his body and the rush of tenderness she felt. “You could go to prison.”

  “And if you tamper with a witness you can forget any chance for Simone. If you want her to go to jail for twenty years, that’s the way to do it.”

  “All right, all right.”

  Roxanne saw that until that moment Johnny had misunderstood the situation. He had believed himself to be in charge, with Cabot operating according to his wishes, but now he had been forced to submit, to bend his will before another’s, and it pained him. She saw him grimace.

  It was chilly and damp in the courtroom on the afternoon of the third day of the trial when a female bailiff escorted Merell down the gallery’s center aisle, through the gate in the bar, and into the witness box.

  That morning as she was leaving home Roxanne had seen three crows hunkered on the branch of a canyon eucalyptus. They seemed to be watching the house like a trio of dour monks, menacingly still. An omen, she thought, and not a good one.

  Merell looked taller and bonier than when Roxanne had seen her a few days earlier. Her bangs had been cut too short, accentuating the bend at the end of her nose and giving her a slightly orphaned look. Her cowlicky hair was pulled back in what was, for Merell, a tidy ponytail. She wore her Arcadia school uniform, Mary Janes, and knee socks. There was a note of obstinacy in her voice when she swore to tell the truth and stated her name. Seeing her there in the witness chair, vulnerable and yet fierce in the way little girls can be, Roxanne felt something in her chest give way, as if the muscles that held her heart in place were slowly tearing.

  “And how old are you, Merell?”

  “Nine.”

  “Where do you attend school?”

  “Arcadia Academy.”

  After every answer Merell squared her shoulders and closed her mouth in the tight straight line so like Gran’s that Roxanne found herself hoping that the old woman’s spirit was in the courtroom now, giving some of her strength to her great-granddaughter. It was a thought worthy of Eli
zabeth.

  “What grade are you in?”

  Merell looked straight ahead, focused on the middle of Clark Jackson’s red-and-black-patterned tie.

  “Upper primary.”

  “That would be about fourth grade, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they teach you the difference between right and wrong at Arcadia Academy?”

  “I guess.”

  She had to be frightened, but she hid it well. Two days earlier a note had arrived in the mail addressed to Roxanne in the careful penmanship of a fourth grader. It contained one sheet of paper on which was written a single sentence. I hate him. There was no return address, no signature. She would not be intimidated by Clark Jackson. She would show him how tough she was. Roxanne wished she could caution her before the trial went further. Jackson is dangerous, she wanted to say. Tread cautiously, little girl.

  Jackson paced a little. “Will you describe for the court exactly what happened in the first week of September 2009, the day you came home from Macy’s with your aunt Roxanne?”

  Merell was prepared for this question and spoke so automatically that Roxanne thought she must have memorized the words. “We came in the house and I heard a noise like a car in the garage, and I thought someone was stealing one of Daddy’s vintage cars.”

  Jackson led her through details of where and how the cars were stored and maintained.

  “What did you see when you opened the door to the garage?”

  “I didn’t open the door.”

  Jackson looked at her with mild surprise.

  “My aunt Roxanne opened it.”

  “Very well, continue.”

  Roxanne guessed that Jackson didn’t have children. He tried to sound kid-friendly, but he wasn’t convincing.

  “There were five cars in the garage, you say. Which one did you notice first?”

  “The Camaro.”

  “And tell the jury what you saw in the Camaro.”

  For the first time, Merell’s confidence faltered. She looked up at the judge.

  MacArthur spoke like a kindly grandfather. “I know it’s not easy, young lady, but you have to answer the question. This is the law and I can’t change it. Go on now, tell folks what you saw.”