by Craig Smith
WHEN TAMMY MERRIWEA of time.’THER WALKED into the courtroom Monday morning, she was beautiful. The cherubic innocence of March was gone. So too the long silky blonde hair that had made her look more girl than woman. She was tall and thin now. Her eyes, the colour of blue smoke when photographed, as she often was in the weeks before her testimony, suggested a woman of fabulous mystery, dark secrets and unearthly spirituality. Whenever I was close to her and we had a chance to talk, I saw something else: not mystery so much as a certain terror lagging a step or so behind her. But today, I knew she meant to get a little more distance from it.
Her testimony was solid, her courage and honesty exactly the tone the prosecution wanted. In her version of events, Will had plotted murder with ruthless cunning, used her affection for the sake of his plan. She recited in detail the arguments Will had made to Penny Lyons, so Penny might be persuaded to swing the bat she held. When Massey finished his questions, Griswold stood. ‘No questions,’ he announced.
Penny Lyons came forward next. Penny confessed to an attempt on her father’s life, actually pulling the trigger on a gun that was out of bullets. She then provided painfully explicit portraits of her struggle against Will’s insistence that she kill first her father and, when that failed, Tammy Merriweather. The temptations Will always held out to her echoed what Missy Worth had described of her ordeal. The effect was to suggest anything but a man incapable of understanding what he was doing. Penny finished her testimony with a description of her being strapped to a chair with a shotgun pointed at her. Will Booker, at that point, seemed anything but irrational. More importantly, his foreknowledge of what was likely to happen to the girl illustrated, as nothing else had done, that Will knew exactly what he intended and for what reason he acted. When Garrat had finished with her questions Griswold again announced he had no questions.
Garrat, in a fine mood, took us all to Malone’s cafe across the street. She was not going to declare victory just yet, that would be tempting fate, but everyone knew Griswold’s insanity plea had lost all credibility. The jury didn’t have a hard choice to make. The jury was looking at a scheming and cruel murderer who perfectly satisfied the legal definition of sanity. Booker knew exactly what terror he meant to inflict and that it was wrong to do these things. His arguments to both Penny and Missy Worth proved it beyond a shadow of doubt.
All that remained was to present the jury with a stirring portrait of the ruin he had caused – in preparation for the sentencing phase of the trial. That began after lunch with Benny Lyons.
Benny, who had not yet been fitted with two artificial legs, entered the courtroom in a wheelchair. He described his experiences with Will Booker with special emphasis placed on his cunning and those arguments he had offered to Penny when Booker threatened both Benny and his father, if Penny refused him. Finally, Garrat asked Benny about the amputation of his legs. I could see that Benny fought down his tears as he explained all that he had lost in the months following the operation. The world had become for him an entirely different place because of Will Booker.
Out of curiosity I focused on the jury as the handsome boy bravely tallied his losses fortheir sake. Their objectivity failing, their eyes burned whenever they shot glances at the devil reading Holy Scripture.
CONNIE MERRIWEATHER WAS eager to assist the prosecution, but he was vulnerable onseveral counts, and Garrat had been careful to present his tes loly ot timony only after Tammy and the two Lyons kids had testified.
She had meant to show that Merriweather was not the fool most people assumed him to be, but simply another victim of Will Booker’s extraordinary ability to manipulate and persuade – hardly the talent of a man who did not understand the difference between right and wrong. She worked the man for more than an hour to illustrate the full nature and extent of Booker’s elaborate and quite conscious seduction, paying special attention to Will’s reasoning about Biblical stories. Finally, she brought up the issue of faith to finish the testimony. We expected trouble from Griswold on this, but Garrat had decided a series of objections from the defence would have a telling effect on this jury. Griswold needed to look nervous. Repeated objections, though perfectly justified would do that. She had no intention of discrediting Booker’s sham piety; this was simply to make Griswold look nervous.
‘In your professional opinion,’ Garrat asked, ‘would you say Will is a religious man, Dr Merriweather?’
I watched Griswold for a reaction, but the expected objection didn’t come. ‘A student ofthe Bible, I’d say.’
‘A believer, then?’
‘Not in my opinion, no.’
‘Never was?’
‘No.’
‘Is not now religious – in your opinion?’
‘Not at all,’ Merriweather answered. Both he and Garrat looked almost unnerved by Griswold’s silence. In fact, Griswold was paying close attention to everything but did not seem to mind this line of questioning in the least.
Garrat pointed at Will Booker, who was reading as usual. ‘That’s an act, in your professional opinion?’
The judge leaned forward, staring darkly at Len Griswold, ‘Counsellor?’
Griswold stood and smiled pleasantly. He hadn’t a problem in the world. ‘Your Honour, we are as anxious to hear Dr Merriweather’s professional opinion as the prosecution appears to be.’
‘The defence is prepared to stipulate that Dr Merriweather is an expert witness?’
‘In matters of the Christian faith we are, Your Honour. He is therefore fit to judge in these matters, much as a psychiatrist can offer judgement about the mental state of someone.’
Judge Wilson blinked in a bit of contrived confusion. ‘The prosecution may proceed.’
Garrat asked the court reporter to read back the last few exchanges, just to score her points a second time, and then prompted Merriweather by pointing at Will Booker and asking him again, ‘Is that an act, Dr Merriweather?’
‘No,’ the preacher responded.
Garrat seemed thunderstruck, ‘Do I understand you to say that we are not witnessing an act?’
Merriweather took centre stage. ‘Not at all. That’s a man reading a book. Will loves to read the Bible. But that is neither faith nor belief. And if you brought a thousand ministers up here, not one of them would tell you that such activity is the same as walking with the Lord.’
. ‘N">
‘Did Will Booker ever speak to you about voices? Did he ever say God told him to do something – at any time since you’ve known him?’
‘Will never spoke to me about voices. And when he spoke to me about God’s desires for his life, it was always in the context of scripture, which he knows very well.’
‘Have you spoken to the accused since his arrest?’
‘I went to the jail yesterday to see Will.’
‘What did the two of you talk about?’
‘We talked about what Will did to my family and my friends.’
‘The murders?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did Will blame God for what he had done?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention voices commanding him to act?’
‘Never.’
‘Blame it on scripture – something he read?’
‘Leading, your Honour...’ Griswold was not letting the prosecution slip Job into its case either by inference or direct reference. Garrat had lost that piece of the case before the trial began.
‘Sustained.’
‘Dr Merriweather, did William Booker tell you why he kidnapped your two girls and committed multiple acts of murder?’
‘He said his own lust drove him to it.’
Garrat turned to Griswold. ‘Your witness.’
Chapter 100
Tuesday 2:47 p.m., December 13.
GRISWOLD CAME AT CONNIE Merriweather gingerly. They were former allies, now on opposite sides of an important issue. But they were not enemies, and that was the first matter of discussion. ‘Not even a matter of forgiveness,’ Merri
weather offered with a kindly smile. ‘You still believe in Will; I can’t.’
‘Fair enough. Now I want to ask you about Will’s faith, Dr Merriweather...’
‘Will has no faith.’
‘You brought this man to the Lord!’
‘Not to my Lord.’
‘Let’s try this a different way then. For what reason did Will want to see you at the jail?’
‘He said he wanted us to pray together, the way we used to.’
‘And did you pray with him?’
‘No.’
‘You refused?’
‘I did.’
‘For what reason?’
‘Will doesn’t believe.’
‘Dr Merriweather, did you tell Will you hated him?’
‘I did.’
‘Then why did you go see him?’
‘I wanted to face him before I testified.’
‘No other reason?’
‘As you well know, Will had been asking to see me since his arrest.’
‘Any other reason, Dr Merriweather?’
Merriweather had a moment of discomfort, then answered brightly, ‘The prosecutor suggested that it could be useful.’
‘Ahhhh.’ Griswold turned toward the prosecution’s table. ‘Ms Garrat told you it would be useful?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Merriweather had his feet under him again. He looked honoured to have the opportunity to help such a wonderful woman.
‘And why did Will want to meet with you?’
Garrat stood. ‘Asked and answered, Your Honour.’
Griswold turned slightly and smiled at Garrat benignly, his eyes twinkling. ‘Yes, I believe it was. My mistake. Now, Dr Merriweather, did Will happen to ask your forgiveness at the jail yesterday?’
‘He did.’
‘Did you give it?’
‘No.’
‘And what did Will say to you when you refused him?’
‘He said he would keep asking.’
‘How many times would he keep asking?’
‘He had his scriptures mixed up – ’
‘How many times?’
‘Seventy-times-seven.’
‘That’s a lot, isn’t it? Let’s see...’ Griswold pretended some arithmetic with his fingers.
‘It’s how often...’ Merriweather stopped himself when he saw Garrat’s eyes.
Griswold knew where he was looking, but pretended otherwise. ‘It’s how often... what?’
‘It’s how often Our Lord tells us we must forgive.’
‘Can you find it in your heart to forgive Will, Dr Merriweather? Perhaps at some future time?’
‘I can never forgive him what he’s done.’
‘You are commanded by your Lord to forgive your enemies, are you not?’
‘Not this!’
‘Do you recall telling me one time that Will was truly the most genuine believer you had ever encountered?’
‘Yes.’
‘At that time you were convinced Will was not only a follower of our Lord, yours and my Lord, but a giant in his faith? Isn’t that how you phrased it to me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you hold the opposite view. That he is not a believer and never was?’
‘That is correct.’
‘I’m curious. What was it that made you say to me Will was a genuine believer?’
‘My own vanity, sir.’
‘I see. And are you quite certain that what you now say about his faith is not just your own hatred?’
‘Objection! Calling for a conclusion!’
‘The prosecution has questioned this witness as an expert – asking for his conclusions repeatedly – and the defence raised no objections to Dr Merriweather’s judgement with respect to religion, Your Honour…’
‘Overruled. Witness will answer the question to the best of his ability.’
‘No,’ Merriweather said. ‘I’m not at all sure. I simply believe that actions speak louder than words.’
‘I see. Actions?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dr Merriweather, am I to understand you are no longer preaching?’
‘I have no church at the moment.’
‘Selling cars, I believe... to keep body and soul together?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s right.’
‘And your marital status?’
‘Objection!’
Griswold was ready. ‘A vow to his Lord, your honour: actions speaking louder than words – according to his own testimony. I only mean to understand his statements, Your Honour.’
‘Overruled. The witness will answer the question.’
‘We’re... our divorce is pending.’
‘Have you lost your faith, Dr Merriweather?’
‘Objection! The witness is not on trial.’
Judge Wilson leaned forward slightly, glaring at Garrat, ‘He is on this issue, Counsellor.
Witness is instructed to answer the question to the best of his ability.’
‘My faith is not what it was. But I still love the Lord.’
‘The Lord who instructs you to forgive your enemies... or some other Lord, Dr Merriweather?’
‘Objection!’
‘We’ll sustain that one. Jury will please ignore the last question.’
‘I have no further questions of this witness.’
Chapter 101
Tuesday 3:48 p.m., December 13.
GARRAT STOOD TO CALL her last witness of the day. ‘State calls Tabitha Merriweather, Your Honour.’
Tabit Merriweather had still not recovered from her gunshot wound. She was in and out of a wheelchair, and came into court that afternoon seated. Her eyes were haunted with fear, like some mad darling who had been locked in an attic most of her life. Her beauty was gone. At sixteen she looked middle-aged. Her face was pasty white, swues D ollen oddly from medications.
Her shoulders seemed almost hunched and crooked, her body, like her face, unnaturally bloated.
The dead we can too easily forget. Not this one.
Tabit would fix any damage Griswold might have scored with Connie Merriweather, and we had anticipated some damage when the preacher testified. She was the explanation for why a Christian minister was unable to forgive, the reason a good and kind man had become bitter with rage, and, of course, the state’s best argument for execution: a visual essay in the continuing suffering and pain William Booker’s cruelty had caused.
Garrat went through the experience with Tabit fairly quickly, much of it the same we had heard the others describe. The girl’s voice was tiny, uncertain, but all the more moving for its tentativeness. When Garrat asked the girl to describe Will’s attempt on her life, her eyes grew wet and distant, but the voice hardly wavered. ‘He just walked in and shot me.’
‘He said nothing?’
‘No. He just did it.’
A minute or two about Tabit’s therapy, the nightmares that kept her from sleep, the counselling that could not take the girl from darkness, and then Garrat turned the witness over to Griswold.
Garrat was too good to look pleased, but I knew she was. Tabit had annihilated the defence. Nothing about the girl’s condition might move a jury to sympathise with Will Booker – no matter the story Griswold told when he put on the defence. This crime called for blood!
Griswold, knowing he could gain nothing by prolonging Tabit’s presence, stood up slowly, as if distracted by something he was reading. He had no questions, he said.
‘The witness is excused,’ Judge Wilson announced, and made a show of looking at his watch.
Tabit Merriweather looked frightened and confused, but her voice was loud enough to stop the court. ‘I want to say something!’
Tabit had been like a shadow as we had prepared for trial. She had something to contribute, but there was nothing we had drilled into her, nothing we had thought to worry about.
The truth was her testimony was chiefly about her physical ruin, the imprint of horror that anyone could see in her once lovely face. The sound o
f footsteps could start her shivering.
Laughter might cause her to cover her face in dread. We had always given her room, coddled her more than the others. It had seemed to all of us that we must, that she would break if we weren’t careful. And suddenly she was telling the court she had something to say.