"Mr. Stone, you are excused," Judge Franklin says to Alex. "Call your next witness, Ms. Tate."
I flip through my legal pad to find my next set of questions and slide my eyes over to Alex as he breezes past me and straight out of the courtroom. I wish I could've given him some kind of show of support—a thumbs up, a wink and a smile, anything—but it would destroy everything we just did. The jury might see it as playing them the same way the defense tried to play Alex. I'll see him later and show my support in a more private way.
"State calls Detective Kent Markinson," I announce.
Markinson lumbers into the courtroom and manages to get his beefy body and long legs into the witness stand. His dark hair shows some graying at the temples and around the ears, but the deep creases in his forehead, and what I can only assume is a permanent frown on his face, depict a career which has aged him in ways I will never know.
"Detective, what was your role during the investigation into Ellen Wells' murder?"
Markinson pulls the microphone closer to his mouth, clears his throat, and turns his seat to the jury. "I was the lead detective assigned to the case." His voice is gravelly, and deeper than I remember from our phone conversations.
"Can you tell me what led up to you being assigned to this case?" I ask.
"We received a nine-one-one call to dispatch from a young male stating his mother was dead."
I nod to Lisa to cue up the recording on the laptop. "At this time, Your Honor, the State would like to admit the nine-one-one call as Exhibit A and play it for the jury."
Franklin looks over the top of his glasses at Hamilton, who says, "No objection."
I watch the jury's faces as they listen to the 911 tape. Every one of them appears to be shaken, and a couple have tears in their eyes as they listen to Alex explain his mother is dead. At its completion, I pause, and allow for the words – the raw emotion in Alex's voice – to sink in. I want the jurors to easily recall how they feel right now when they get back to the jury room and have to make a decision.
"Detective Markinson, when you arrived at the scene, what did you find?"
The detective pulls a pair of reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, as he flips through the file in front of him to refresh his memory. "A young man, approximately fifteen years old, answered the door and showed us into the family room where we found a woman lying on the floor."
"And what was the condition of the woman?"
"She was deceased."
I walk around the podium and stand a few steps away from the jury box. "Were you able to identify the victim?"
Markinson removes his glasses and places them on the desk in front of him. "Yes, according to the young male, the victim was his mother, Ellen Wells. This was confirmed by the coroner later that night."
"And who was the young man?"
"Alex Stone—at that time his last name was Wells."
"Your Honor, I'd like to display States Exhibit B, and admit the same as evidence."
"No objection, Your Honor," Hamilton says.
Matt hands me the laser pointer, and I step closer to the projection screen. The photo shows the interior living room of Alex's childhood home. Broken items litter the room, a side table is overturned, and in the bottom right corner is the body of a woman, facedown. As many times as I've seen this picture, it still chokes me up, and I have to fight back tears.
Crime scene photos don't usually affect me emotionally, in fact there have only been two cases that have brought me to tears—and this is one of them. Seeing Alex's mother, her head swimming in a black pool of blood, her eyes still open, it shreds me. I grieve for a woman I've never met, but who gave life to the man I love most in this world.
"I direct your attention to the photo that's up on the screen. Detective, is the crime scene consistent with the story Mr. Stone relayed to you that night?"
The detective slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose, peers over the top of them, and stares at the screen for a moment. He turns back to the jury, and states, "Yes, a preliminary examination seemed to be in line with what the young man explained happened."
I cross the courtroom, and resume my spot in front of the jury, intentionally leaving the gruesome crime scene photo on the screen. "What was Mr. Stone's demeanor when you talked to him?"
"It was apparent he'd been crying, his eyes were bloodshot, and his face tear-stained. But by that point, he seemed as if he was in a trance. His eyes were vacant. He answered my questions but was more concerned about getting back to his siblings, who were in the bedroom."
I smile at the detective and nod. "Thank you, Detective. Nothing more, Your Honor."
* * *
* * *
"Mr. Stone didn't provide an official statement for some time after his mother's murder, isn't that correct, Detective?" Hamilton leans back casually in his chair and waits for a response.
Arrogant prick.
"That's correct," Markinson states. "He was not interviewed for several hours. I believe it was the following afternoon when he came into the station."
Hamilton strokes his chin. "And is that the usual police procedure?"
Markinson shrugs his shoulders, cocks his head to the side, and frowns. "Not usually—it does happen, on occasion—but we prefer to have witnesses interviewed as soon as possible."
"And when Mr. Stone finally came in, was he alone?"
"No," Markinson refers to his file, and then looks up again. "Jack Daniels accompanied him into the interview."
Hamilton pops to his feet and steps up to the podium. "Jack Daniels, the well-known criminal defense attorney?"
"Yes –"
"Thank you," Hamilton cuts off the detective. "With the court's permission I'd like to replay a portion of the nine-one-one call."
Judge Franklin peers at me, and I nod my head. "No objection, Your Honor."
A young Alex's cries are heard once again through the courtroom sound system. His voice is low, scratchy, and it's difficult to make out what he's saying.
"It's all my fault – she's dead and it's all my fault."
"Mr. Stone states it's his fault, isn't that right?" Hamilton asks. I let my eyes drift over the jury's faces, many of them look skeptical.
"Yes–" Markinson replies, but Hamilton interrupts him again.
"In the course of your investigation, did you come across any reports of domestic violence in the Wells' home?"
Markinson consults his notes. "No."
Hamilton saunters back to the defense table and sits down. "Thank you, Detective. Nothing further."
I'm at the podium before the judge can even ask if I have rebuttal questions. "Did you find it odd Mr. Stone was accompanied by Jack Daniels to the interview at the police station?"
"Objection," Hamilton says.
"Your Honor, Detective Markinson is a seasoned detective with more than forty years’ experience. His opinion is allowable as an expert under the rules of evidence."
"Overruled," Judge Franklin says, "you may answer the question, Detective."
The detective shakes his head. "No, based on Mr. Stone's age at the time, and the fact he was a minor, it wasn't at all unusual for him to be accompanied by an adult. Mr. Daniels' introduced himself as a close friend of the family. He explained that Alex's guardians were dealing with the three younger children, so it was decided Mr. Daniels would bring Alex to the station."
I stroll around to the front of the podium and face the jury, casually crossing my arms over my chest. So much of litigation is in the presentation—including the impressions the jury gets of the attorneys. I like to give off an air of relaxed confidence. "So, why did it take so long for Mr. Stone to come in?"
"In light of what he'd been through the night before, there was concern due to him losing consciousness. Moreover, his doctor's diagnosis stated Alex was suffering from shock. It's unlikely anything useful would've come from pushing him before he recovered."
Markinson knows how to work a jury—they
hang on his every word and believe everything he's saying. He comes across not only as knowledgeable, but respectful, and it's clear they like him. That's good news for our side.
I nod and tilt my head slightly to one side. "With respect to the nine-one-one call, did you consider Mr. Stone's statement, quote – it was my fault – to be an admission of his physical involvement in his mother's death?"
Markinson shakes his head. "No, it's clear listening to the statement in its entirety, Mr. Stone was expressing guilt over not being able to help his mother."
"One more question, Detective," I glance briefly at the jury, and smile, which elicits a few sighs of relief and a couple of smiles in return. "In your years of experience as an investigator, are there circumstances where cases of domestic violence are never reported?"
Markinson leans forward in his seat, and looks straight at the jury, his demeanor now serious. "More often than not, unfortunately. A violent perpetrator controls others with fear. It's not unusual the abusive behavior is covered up by the abused, protected by the very people who are harmed. It's as much psychological abuse as it is physical."
I excuse the detective, and drop into my chair, while the judge adjourns court for the day.
Day one, and I'm physically and emotionally drained already. But I'm sure it doesn't compare to the pain Alex is dealing with.
I check the hallway outside the courtroom, but there is no sign of him. I turn on my cell phone, and it dings with a text message from Jake, informing me to call him when I'm done for the day. Nothing from Alex, and for some reason it causes my chest to tighten. It's not like him to leave without letting me know—unless he's upset.
I stand by the floor to ceiling windows and call Jake.
"Hey, where are you guys?" I ask when he answers.
"Out front. Do you need me to come in?" he asks.
"No. Is Alex with you?"
"No, he's at home."
My heart rate kicks into high gear, and my mouth goes dry. "When did he leave?"
"Right after he testified," Jake says in a low voice that sends a shiver up my spine.
"Oh." Damn. Something's wrong. No contact from Alex, the stilted response from Jake…my good mood is slipping away fast. I'm suddenly conflicted—I want to go home and address whatever issue Alex is having, but there is part of me that wants to stay away, remain focused on the case, and avoid what could turn into a fight.
Alex did everything I asked of him today. He may have single-handedly won this case for the prosecution. I owe it to him to hear him out, and work through this. No more running away when it gets hard.
"Okay, let me grab my stuff, and I'll be right down."
26
Jake drops me off at the front door, and I amble down the hallway to the library, dumping my briefcase on my desk. A soft glow is coming from Alex's office directly across the hall. I kick off my heels, pad to his door, and peek inside. Alex is sitting on the couch, still in his suit, but his tie is gone and the top buttons on his shirt are open. And he's drinking—I wonder how much and for how long?
I slide onto the couch next to him, liberate the crystal tumbler from his hand, and take a sip of the twenty-five-year-old scotch. I'm not normally a scotch drinker, but I love the warm honey taste as it slides down my throat, and the smoky, spicy finish. Besides, this has the added benefit of sharing something Alex enjoys. He hasn't spoken one word to me yet, and I'm guessing he's been sitting here stewing for a while.
I hand the glass back to him and place my hand on his chest. "You left."
"Yep," he acknowledges but doesn't look at me.
"Are you okay?"
He rubs his chin with his free hand and glances up at the ceiling. "Hmm, am I okay? Well, let's see—I had to tell a courtroom full of strangers how I watched my mother die right in front of me, then I was accused of strangling her. And during all of this, the woman I love more than my own life ignores the fuck out of me." He tosses back the remaining Macallan and leans forward to refill it from the bottle on the table in front of him. "So, to answer your question, no, I'm not okay."
I grasp his shoulder and coax him to sit back so I can see his face. "Baby, you know how I am when I'm in trial mode. I have to detach myself from the emotions or I'll lose focus. I'll miss something important and blow the entire case." I place my hands on either side of his face and turn it toward mine. "I'm so sorry I couldn't offer you more support—it wasn't because I didn't want to, or that I couldn't see how torn up you were. I was barely keeping it together."
Alex snickers, and jerks his head away from me. I grab his chin and force him to look at me again. Heat flushes through me. "Do you really think I was unaffected by your testimony?"
He narrows his eyes but doesn't look away.
"I know how much pain and anguish that caused you, Alex—it took everything I had not to break down during your testimony. You have no idea how badly I wanted to pummel Hamilton during his cross examination." My heart is beating wildly, the drumbeats echo through my body, and the first stream of tears roll down my cheeks.
"All I can do is what I do best—litigate—be the best damn lawyer I can and prosecute the hell out of this case. It's the only way to send that piece of shit back to prison for the rest of his life. To do that, I have to remove myself from the emotional side of this case. I don't know any other way to handle it. Especially this case—I know how much you and your family are depending on me. This is just as personal for me. This is the man who murdered your mother, the woman I owe so much to for making you the incredible man I love."
"I know," Alex whispers, "this isn't about you. You just get to be the one I take it out on because I don't know how to face the truth."
I run my fingers through his hair and try to console him. "What truth?"
"That Hamilton is right. I'm responsible for my mother's death. I knew it that night – I've known it all along. I just couldn't accept it. She would be alive if I had called nine-one-one earlier."
Sadness weighs me down, it rips my heart apart to see Alex this way, taking on all the responsibility for his mother's death while his father tries to avoid it. "You don't know that, Alex. She may have died while you were on the phone, and then you would've missed out on all the things she needed to tell you before she died."
Alex turns to me and rests his head on my shoulder. "God, I miss her so much, Kylie. I wish she was here, so she could see how much your love has given me. How you forced me to reevaluate my life." He lifts his head, unshed tears threaten to break free, but it's the sorrow in his eyes tearing me apart. "She would have loved you as much as I do."
"I see her in you, I know her through you. Your father may be incapable of love, but your mother had an abundance of it. When she died, she passed that love to you, and now I'm the lucky recipient of it. You didn't kill you mother, Alex, and you couldn't save her life, but she's far from dead. You keep her alive by honoring her last wishes. You protected Patty, Will, and Ellie. The biggest gift you can give her is to love – with everything you have – to believe you deserve that kind of love in return. And to forgive yourself for things out of your control."
We sit in silence, and I hold him the way he holds me when I'm in pain. Alex's demons are ambushing him, lying to him, murmuring he is the one to blame. And he believes them, follows them into the dark, and they convince him he is unworthy of love.
"Don't listen to them, Alex," I murmur, "don't go to that dark place. Stay here—in the light—with me. You have all of my love because you deserve it, and there is no one I could ever love more."
Light. It seems so close some days, and yet, on days like today, so far away. I wonder if we will ever truly have peace, banish our demons back to hell, and exist only within the light. If it's possible, it's only possible if we fight them together.
Step one is making sure James Wells spends the rest of his life behind bars.
Step two—get rid of John once and for all.
27
"The State calls Theodore
Loftus."
The low murmur in the courtroom ceases as the man with a kind, round face, light gray eyes topped by bushy white eyebrows, and wavy white hair makes his way to the witness stand. Even in retirement, Dr. Loftus is impeccably dressed in a dark blue Givenchy suit.
"Dr. Loftus, what was your occupation?" I ask.
"I was the county coroner for over forty years," he answers, looking straight at me. It's probably been some time since he testified in court, and apparently, he's forgotten some of the tricks of the trade.
"And are you retired?"
"Yes," he nods, and smiles, "for going on six years now."
I step from behind the podium and move closer to the jury box, and the doctor's eyes follow me. Either he will catch the hint and direct his answers to the jury, or we can fake it and hope the jury thinks he's talking straight to them.
"Can you tell me the cause of death in the Ellen Wells murder?"
"Mrs. Wells died of a traumatic brain injury. The autopsy revealed significant intracranial hemorrhaging as a result of brain herniation."
"And can you explain, in laymen's terms, what that is?"
"Oh, yes, yes…of course." He turns his body toward the jury. "Intracranial hemorrhaging is simply a brain bleed. An artery in the brain bursts and bleeds. When this occurs, the bleeding begins to kill brain cells. Now, with the brain injury sustained by Mrs. Wells, pressure caused the tissues to be shifted, and produced swelling within the brain."
I return to the podium and grab the legal pad with my notes. I quickly scan the research Lisa did on brain injuries, and one section piques my curiosity. "Could Mrs. Wells have been saved if she had medical assistance ten to twenty minutes prior to her death?"
Dr. Loftus cocks his head to one side, and stares past me, apparently giving serious thought to my question and his answer. "No, at that point, there would have been no way of saving her. Her injuries were too severe. She needed medical attention shortly after sustaining the injuries for there to have been any hope of survival."
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