“No,
no,” said Rebecca, “from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d
fired the first shot.”
“Then
I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?” Fletcher repeated,
turning back to face her. “Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the
second shot?”
“It
all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.”
“What
is your favorite work of fiction, Mrs. Elliot?” asked Fletcher quietly.
“Objection, your honor.
How can this possibly be relevant?”
“Overruled.
I have
a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr.
Ebden
.”
“You
are indeed, your honor,” said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness.
“Mrs. Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply
want you to tell the court your favorite work of fiction.”
“I’m
not sure I have a particular one,” she replied, “but my favorite author is
Hemingway.”
“Mine
too,” said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face
the judge, he asked, “Your honor, may I have your permission to briefly leave
the courtroom?”
“For what purpose, Mr. Davenport?”
“To prove that my client did not fire the first
shot.”
The
judge nodded.
“Briefly, Mr. Davenport.”
Fletcher
then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down
the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door.
“Your
honor,” said
Ebden
, jumping up from his place, “I
must object. Mr. Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.”
“If
that turns out to be the case, Mr.
Ebden
, I shall
severely censure Mr. Davenport the moment he returns.”
“But,
your
honor,
is this kind of behavior fair to my
client?”
“I
believe so, Mr.
Ebden
. As Mr. Davenport reminded the
court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your
principal witness.”
The
chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering
broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his
fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public
entrance.
Richard
Ebden
rose again, at which point the judge called for
order. “You honor, I move that Mrs. Elliot be released from further questioning
on the grounds that the defense counsel is no longer able to carry out his
cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.”
“I
shall approve your request, Mr.
Ebden
,” the state’s
attorney looked delighted, “should Mr. Davenport fail to return in under four
minutes.” He smiled down at Mr.
Ebden
, assuming they
had both worked out the significance of his judgment.
“Your
honor, I must’’’“ continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the
court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up
to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs.
Elliot, before turning to the judge.
“Your
honor, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?” he
said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.
Judge
Kravats
pressed the stopper and, looking down at the
stopwatch, said, “Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.”
Fletcher
turned his attention back to the defense witness. “Mrs. Elliot, I had enough
time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of
the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card,
and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t
have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance
when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason
you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you
were fearful of what he might have done.”
“But
even if I did think that,” said Rebecca, losing her composure, “it’s only the
second bullet that matters, the one that killed Ralph.
Perhaps
you’ve forgotten that the first bullet ended up in the ceiling, or are you now
suggesting that my husband killed himself?”
“No,
I am not,” said Fletcher, “so why don’t you now tell the court exactly what you
did when you heard the second shot.”
“I
went to the top of the stairs and saw Mr. Cartwright running out of the house.”
“But
he didn’t see you?”
“No,
he only glanced back in my direction.”
“I
don’t think so, Mrs. Elliot. I think you saw him very clearly when he calmly
walked past you in the corridor.”
“He
couldn’t have walked past me in the corridor because I was at the top of the
stairs.”
“I
agree that he couldn’t have seen you if you had been at the top of the stairs,”
said Fletcher as he returned to the table and selected a photograph, before walking
back across to the witness stand. He passed the photograph over to her. “As you
will see from this picture, Mrs. Elliot, anyone who left your husband’s study,
walked into the corridor and then out of the front door could not have been
observed from the top of the stairs.” He paused so that the jury could take in
the significance of his statement, before continuing, “No, the truth is, Mrs.
Elliot, that you were not standing at the top of the stairs, but in the hallway
when Mr. Cartwright came out of your husband’s study, and if you would like me
to ask the judge to adjourn so that the jury can visit your home and check on
the veracity of your statement, I would be quite happy to do so.”
“Well,
I might have been halfway down the stairs.”
“You
weren’t even on the stairs, Mrs. Elliot, you were in the hallway, and you were
not, as you also claimed, in your robe, but in a blue dress that you had worn
to a cocktail party earlier that evening, which is why you didn’t see the
television debate!”
“I
was in a robe and there’s a picture of me to prove it.”
“Indeed
there is,” said Fletcher, once again returning to the table and extracting
another photograph, “which I am happy to enter as evidence-item 122, your
honor.”
The
judge, prosecution team and the jury began to rummage through their files as
Fletcher handed over his copy to Mrs. Elliot.
“There
you are,” she said, “it’s just as I told you, I’m sitting in the hallway in my
robe.”
“You
are indeed, Mrs. Elliot, and that photograph was taken by the police photographer,
and we’ve since had it enlarged so we can consider all the details more
clearly. Your honor, I would like to submit this enlarged photograph as
evidence.”
“Objection,
your honor,” said
Ebden
, leaping up from his place.
“We have not been given an opportunity to study this photograph.”
“It’s
state’s evidence, Mr.
Ebden
, and has been in your
possession for weeks,” the judge reminded him. “Your objection is overruled.”
“Please
study the photograph carefully,” said Fletcher as he walked away from Mrs. Elliot
and passed the state’s attorney a copy of the enlarged photo. A clerk handed
one to each member of the jury. Fletcher then turned back to face Rebecca. “And
do tell the court what you see.”
“It’s
a photograph of me sitting in the hallway in my robe.”
“It
is indeed, but what are you wearing on your left wrist and around your neck?”
Fletcher asked, before turning to face the jury, all of whom were now studying
the photograph intently.
The
blood drained from Rebecca’s face.
“I
do believe they’re your wristwatch and your pearl necklace,” said Fletcher
answering his own question. “Do you remember?” He paused. “The ones you always
locked away in your safe just before going to bed because there had been
several burglaries in the area recently?” Fletcher turned to face Chief Culver
and Detective
Petrowski
, who were seated in the front
row. “It is, as Detective
Petrowski
reminded us, the
little mistakes that always reveal the amateur.” Fletcher turned back and
looked directly at Rebecca, before adding, “You may have forgotten to take off
your watch and necklace, Mrs. Elliot, but I can tell you something you didn’t
forget to take off, your dress.”
Fletcher
placed his hands on the jury box rail before saying slowly and without
expression. “Because you didn’t do that until after you’d killed your husband.”
Several
people rose at once, and the judge carried on banging his gavel before it was
quiet enough for the state’s attorney to say in a loud voice, “Objection. How
can wearing a wristwatch prove that Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband?”
“I
agree with you, Mr.
Ebden
,” said the judge and
turning to Fletcher suggested, “That’s quite a quantum leap, counselor.”
“Then
I will be happy to take the state’s attorney through it step by step, your
honor.” The judge nodded. “When Mr. Cartwright arrived at the house, he
overheard an argument going on between Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, and after he’d
knocked on the door, it was Mr. Elliot who answered it, while Mrs. Elliot was
nowhere to be seen. I’m willing to accept that she did run up to the top of the
stairs so that she could overhear what was going on while not being observed,
but the moment the first shot was fired, she came back down into the corridor
and listened to the quarrel taking place between her husband and my client.
Three or four minutes later, Mr. Cartwright walked calmly out of the study and
passed Mrs. Elliot in the corridor, before opening the front door. He looked
back at Mrs. Elliot, which is why he was able to tell the police questioning
him later that night that she was wearing a low-cut blue dress and a string of
pearls. If the jury studies the photograph of Mrs. Elliot, if I’m not mistaken,
she is wearing the same string of pearls as the ones she has on today.” Rebecca
touched her necklace as Fletcher continued. “But let’s not rely on my client’s
word, but on your own statement, Mrs. Elliot.” He turned another page of the
state’s evidence, before he began reading.
“I
ran into the study, saw my husband’s body slumped on the floor and then called
the police.”
“That’s
right, I did ring Chief Culver at home, he’s already confirmed that,”
interjected Rebecca.
“But
why did you call the chief of police first?”
“Because my husband had been murdered.”
“But
in your evidence, Mrs. Elliot, given to Detective
Petrowski
only moments after your husband’s death, you stated that you saw Ralph slumped
in the corner of his study, blood coming from his mouth, and immediately called
the chief of police.”
“Yes,
that’s exactly what I did,” shouted Rebecca.
Fletcher
paused before turning to face the jury.
“If
I saw my wife slumped in a corner with blood coming from her mouth, the first
thing I would do is to check to see if she was still alive and, if she was, I
wouldn’t call for the police, I’d call for an ambulance. And at no time did you
call for an ambulance, Mrs. Elliot. Why? Because you already knew that your
husband was dead.”
Once
again there was uproar in the body of the court, and the reporters who weren’t
old-fashioned enough to take shorthand struggled to get down every word.
“Mrs.
Elliot,” continued Fletcher, once the judge had stopped banging his gavel,
“allow me to repeat the words you said only a few moments ago when questioned
by the state’s attorney.” Fletcher picked up one of the yellow pads from his
desk and began reading.
was
I suddenly felt cold and
sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out
into the corridor and collapsed on the floor.”“ Fletcher threw the notepad down
on his desk, stared at Mrs. Elliot and said, “You still haven’t even bothered
to check if your husband is alive, but you didn’t need to, did you, because you
knew he was dead; after all, it was you who had killed him.”
“Then
why didn’t they find any traces of gunpowder residue on my robe?” Rebecca
shouted above the banging of the judge’s gavel.
“Because
when you shot your husband, you weren’t in your robe, Mrs. Elliot, but still in
the blue dress you’d been wearing that evening. It was only after you had
killed Ralph that you ran upstairs to change into your nightgown and robe. But
unfortunately Detective
Petrowski
switched on his car
siren, broke the speed limit, and managed to be with you six minutes later,
which is why you had to rush back downstairs, forgetting to take off your watch
or pearls. And even more damning, not leaving
yourself
enough time to close the front door. If, as you have claimed, Mr. Cartwright
had killed your husband, and then run out of the door, the first thing you
would have done would be to make sure that it was closed so he couldn’t get back
in to harm you. But Detective
Petrowski
,
conscientious man that he is, arrived a little too quickly for you, and even
remarked how surprised he was to find the front door open.