A Case of Self Defense

"Quiet," the bailiff called out, and the murmur died.

Feldman smiled at the bailiff before continuing.

"What's the State's position on bail?"

Knight cleared his throat, needing to make sure he was heard throughout the room. "Given the gravity of the charge, the State requests that Defendant be remanded to custody pending trial."

The murmur arose again, and Feldman shot a look at the crowd, who quieted down.

"Ms. Lyons?"

"Your Honor, Mrs. Bradford has strong ties to this community. She has a family, very young twin girls, and a husband who also has ties to the community. She poses no risk of flight. We request that bail be set at a reasonable amount."

Feldman nodded, then scribbled something on the form in front of him. "Bail will be set at ten million dollars, ten percent to apply. If she can post that, she'll have to surrender her passport."

Knight smiled, pleased with such a high bail. Then he heard a thud and turned to his right. Jennifer Bradford had fainted, and the courtroom erupted in noise.

Knight's smile got broader. Oh yeah, he knew, this was going to give him that third term sure as hell.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Five months later, Ben was nervous, his right knee pumping up and down as he sat in the front row five feet behind Jennifer and Rebecca. They had spent the past four days picking a jury, and Rebecca had assured Jennifer and him that it was a good one. Five men and seven women; only one of the men unmarried, but he was engaged; and three of the women unmarried, but that didn't matter with a self-defense claim based on attempted rape.

Ben noticed that Jennifer didn't look well. She was dressed simply in a white blouse and gray skirt, no make up, hair dull with cheap jail shampoo. Most noticeably, she was pale, gaunt, and had dark circles under her eyes. Jail definitely didn't agree with her, he knew. But then again, who does it agree with except psychos and career criminals?

Rebecca, on the other hand, was a model of intense self assurance. She wore a black skirt and jacket over a white blouse, simple cross necklace visible at the base of her slender throat, hair neatly coiffed, eyes blazing intently as Knight finished his opening statement and retook his seat at counsel table, turning to look at Rebecca with raised eyebrows.

"Does the defense wish to offer an opening statement at this time?" Judge Feldman asked from the bench.

Rebecca rose. "No, your Honor," she said. "If the Court will permit, we wish to defer until the commencement of our case in chief."

"The Court will so permit, Ms. Lyons," he responded. Turning to Knight, he said, "Will the State please call their first witness."

"Your Honor," Knight said, standing at the podium and turning toward the door at the back of the courtroom, "the State wishes to call Deborah Broussard."

Ben was expecting this. Rebecca had explained how trials in the real world–those not skewed in made-for-television movies–really worked. The first witness was almost always the life-and-death witness. That was the witness called to testify she had seen the victim just before death and he was alive. Then, she'd seen him after the death, and he was dead. It seemed ridiculous, but to prove a murder you actually had to have testimony that a live person was now dead; then you had to have the coroner testify that the death was by foul means; then you had the remaining array of witnesses to testify that the defendant was the person responsible for that death by foul means. Moreover, Rebecca had told Ben that surviving spouses were inevitably called as the life-and-death witness because they immediately created sympathy with the jury, contempt for the scoundrel charged with ruining this poor witness's life by killing the spouse, and an appreciation that a real person was now dead, struck down in the prime of their happy, idyllic life.

The door was held open by a bailiff, and Deborah Broussard strode down the aisle between the seats and toward the bench. Knight went rigid at her appearance, and Ben turned to look.

Deborah Broussard was dressed in a glittering array of expensive gold and diamond jewelry, attired in a flowing white pantsuit that accentuated her long legs and the glitter of her jewelry. She didn't look anything like the grieving widow, Ben realized, and he turned to catch Rebecca's reaction. Rebecca's lips were pressed, but there was a glint of humor in her eyes.

The witness was sworn in, and Deborah took the witness stand. The first few questions were introductory. Name, address, occupation, how long have you lived there, were you married, to whom, when were you married, did you have any children. Then the fireworks began.

"Mrs. Broussard, prior to the late evening hours of September twenty-third, when was the last time you saw your husband?" Knight asked, setting up the he-was-alive line of questioning.

"On September twenty-first," she answered, the hint of a smile playing over her lips. Ben saw Rebecca focus in on the witness, as curious as he was about the strange reaction of the grieving widow.

"You mean on the twenty-second, don't you?" Knight said, flipping through a stack of police reports in front of him.

"Objection," Rebecca said. "Asked and answered."

"Overruled," Feldman said. "The witness may answer to clarify any confusion."

Deborah smiled at the judge, then turned back to Knight. "No, Mr. Knight, I mean the twenty-first."

"But you previously told Detective Robinson, the lead detective on the case, that you last saw him on the twenty-second, didn't you?"

"Objection," Rebecca said. "He's impeaching his own witness."

"Sustained."

Knight paused, glared at Rebecca then back at his notes, flipped the page of his question list, then continued. "Okay, the twenty-first. Where were you when you saw him?"

"At my house."

"You mean you and your husband's house, right Mrs. Broussard?" Knight corrected.

"No, Mr. Knight. I mean my house. The house is, and always has been, solely in my name."

Ben was smiling now, noticing that members of the jury were mesmerized by her demeanor and at least one of the men on the jury was smiling and nodding his head. She certainly wasn't playing the grieving widow part very well.

"Okay, Mrs. Broussard, you last saw your husband at your house on the twenty-first. Was he alive at that point?"

She snorted. "You could say that, Mr. Knight. But if you want clarification, you may want to ask the floozie he was busy undressing."

Ben almost laughed aloud, and several members of the jury were choking back laughs while several others turned to Knight to catch his reaction.

"Silence," Judge Feldman thundered, quieting the loud murmuring from the gallery. Silence achieved, he turned to Knight and, suppressing a grin, said, "Please continue, Mr. Knight."

Knight swallowed, then flicked off a series of questions with his pen. Finally reaching one he liked, he asked, "Okay, after the twenty-first, when you last saw your husband . . . uh . . . with another . . . when was the next time you saw him?"

"At about ten thirty on the twenty-third, lying in the middle of the floor of his den about five feet from where I'd last seen him two days before."

"And what was his condition at that time?"

Deborah raised her eyebrows. "Why, he was dead, of course."

Knight looked at the witness, unsure whether to continue. After a moment, he said, "No further questions of this witness, your Honor."

With that, Knight flipped the 3-ring binder holding his questions shut, tucked it under his arm, and strode back to counsel's table.

"Ms. Lyons," Judge Feldman said, finishing his notes as he spoke, "does the defense have any questions of Mrs. Broussard?"

"We do, your Honor," Rebecca said, rising to her feet and walking to the jury box. Unlike Knight, who'd remained locked to the podium in the middle of the court well, Rebecca leaned against the jury box. Ben saw every juror's eyes turn to her, waiting for her first question.

"Ms. Broussard," Rebecca said once every eye had settled on her, "I'd like to take this opportunity to express my condolences at the loss of your husband." Deborah nodded. "I'm sure this is very difficult for you," Rebecca continued.

Deborah snorted. "I'm getting through it pretty well, actually."

Several of the women jurors, including all three single women, smiled at the comment. Good riddance to Alain Broussard, Ben knew they were thinking.

"Ms. Broussard, I just have a few questions if you don't mind." Deborah nodded. "You said the last time you saw your husband, he was with another woman?"

"Yes, another in a long line of them."

Ben looked at Knight, who was glaring at the witness. His first witness was already a disaster for the State; she'd turned the entire jury against the victim and painted him as a slimeball of the first order.

"Did you know this woman?"

"No, I hadn't seen this one before."

"What did she look like?"

Deborah pondered this for a moment. "Like most of the rest, I suppose."

"Most of the rest in his 'long line of women?'"

"Yes," Deborah said. "Mid-twenties to mid-thirties, slim, blonde hair. Pretty."

Rebecca swept her arm at Jennifer, and Ben saw his wife tense at the attention of every juror's eyes upon her.

"Like Mrs. Bradford?"

"Oh yes," Deborah said, "a lot like Mrs. Bradford."

"And what was this woman he was with, on the twenty-first, what was her demeanor?"

"Objection," Knight said, rising to his feet. "Relevance."

"Ms. Lyons?"

"They opened the door on direct, your Honor. I think we're allowed to explore this avenue more fully, particularly given the full extent of the testimony so far and the nature of the affirmative defense we've raised in our pleadings."

Judge Feldman nodded. "Overruled. The witness will please answer the question."

"What was the woman's demeanor?" asked Deborah. Rebecca nodded. "She was crying."

"Your husband was undressing her and she was crying?"

"Objection," Knight thundered.

"Overruled," Judge Feldman shot back.

"Yes. She appeared very reluctant. She was crying, telling him this wasn't right, . . . ."

"Objection. Hearsay."

"Doesn't go to the truth of the matter asserted," Rebecca shot back. "Only goes to indicate demeanor of the woman."

"Correct. The objection is overruled," Judge Feldman said. Turning to Deborah, he said, "She was crying and telling him it wasn't right. Anything else?"

"Yes, your Honor, she was just limp. You know, like she was a zombie. She wasn't helping him, just arms at her side, crying him and asking him to stop."

"And what did you do, Mrs. Broussard?" Rebecca asked.

"I told her to come with me."

"Did she?"

"She wouldn't. I told her she didn't have to do anything she didn't want to, but she just sat there. I told Alain to leave her be, but he just smirked and told me she was more than willing. That this was a little game they played from time to time. He said I should hang around to see how fun it could be."

"Did you call the police?"

Deborah dropped her eyes. "No. I offered to, but the woman begged me not to. She said she'd be fine."

Rebecca tapped her knuckles on the jury rail. "Thank you for your honesty, Ms. Broussard." Turning to the bench, she said, "I have no further questions of this witness, your Honor."

Judge Feldman nodded and turned to Knight. "Mr. Knight? Any re-direct?"

Knight cleared his throat and stood. "No, your Honor."

"Then the witness is excused. Mrs. Broussard, please do not discuss your testimony with any of the other witnesses who are in the hallway. Do you understand?"

Deborah nodded. "I won't, your Honor."

"Thank you." Turning to Knight, Judge Feldman said, "The State may call its next witness."

Knight called Dr. Anthony Iatrolla, the Lake County Coroner. Ben nearly fell asleep during the dry testimony about causes of death, penetrating force, and so on and so on. Even the pictures weren't very interesting. They showed Broussard curled face down in a pool of blood, some photos of scratch marks on his neck and penis, and a few showed close-ups of the fatal stab wound, a tiny slice an inch or so long into his rib cage just to the right of his sternum.

On cross-examination, Rebecca focused first on the time of death. Dr. Iatrolla had estimated death at between seven and ten that evening. Sure, he'd admitted, it could have been earlier, and it certainly could have been later. The home was equipped with a computerized thermostat that automatically changed temperatures in the house, lowering the temperature when people would normally be absent and raising it when they would be home. Given the fluctuations attendant with such temperature changes, most notably how long the home took to heat up or cool down, could skew the time either way. In any event, rigor mortis had not yet set in when the coroner arrived, so he was comfortable with the time frame.

Just as she returned to counsel table, her cross-examination apparently concluded, Rebecca stopped and turned.

"By the way," she said, "this was an artery that was severed I believe you said?"

"Yes," Dr. Iatrolla said. "The aorta, as a matter of fact."

"And those bleed a lot, right?"

"Yes."

"And that blood flow is instant and spastic, right? I mean, once it's pierced, the blood flow is immediate and in great quantity, right?"

"Yes," he said.

"Thanks, Doctor," she said, sitting. "No further questions."

Next to the stand was Detective Robinson, who had been seated throughout the trial at counsel table with Knight. He talked about arriving at the scene at midnight, securing the crime scene, questioning Deborah Broussard, and learning about the home's surveillance capabilities.

"Surveillance capabilities?" Knight asked.

Robinson cleared his throat. "Yes sir. The home has perimeter fencing and an electronic gate. There are cameras on the gate that record every entry and exit every time the gate is either touched–something to do with interference in the electrical signal–or when the gate is activated."

"And did you view the footage?"

Robinson nodded. "It showed a dark BMW 325 entering at seven twenty-three and exiting at seven fifty-two."

"Could you tell the color of the BMW?" Knight asked.

"No, sir, the camera only shoots black and white."

"Did you get a license plate?"

"No," Robinson said, clearing his throat. "The plates were covered, front and back, with what appeared to be mud or dirt. We couldn't make out a number."

"Your Honor," Rebecca said, standing. "At this point, we're going to object under the best evidence rule. If they have the tape, they should produce it and let us all draw our own conclusions rather than let the witness merely describe his observations."

Judge Feldman turned to Knight. "Mr. Knight, do you have the tape?"

Knight glared at Rebecca. "We do, your Honor. But it would be a waste of time–of everyone's time–to have to sit and watch the whole thing."

"Ms. Lyons?" Judge Feldman asked.

She shrugged. "My client's facing life in prison, your Honor. Surely Mr. Knight, or any members of the jury, for that matter, will not begrudge thirty minutes of their time to watch the tape on which the witness's entire investigation seems to have turned."

Ben saw several members of the jury nod with appreciation.

Judge Feldman directed Knight to lay the foundation for the tape, which he did through Detective Robinson's testimony. Then, everyone spent the next thirty minutes watching the tape.

After recessing for lunch, Knight resumed his questioning of Detective Robinson.

"What did this tape signify to you?" Knight asked Robinson.

"Well, it looked like someone in a dark BMW, license plate unknown, entered the gates at about seven thirty and left about a half hour later. It also looked like that person was a blonde female. And finally, it looked like the driver's side car door made contact with the gate as it pulled out."

Knight nodded. He then led Robinson to further details of the investigation that night. Robinson had a conversation with Deborah about any friends of theirs with BMW 325s, particularly those with blonde hair. The only names she could come up with were Susan Flowers and Jennifer Bradford, two of Alain's co-workers she had met at company parties in the past. When he couldn't reach either by phone, he drove to the Flowers residence. No one was present, and there was no BMW in the driveway. Next, he drove to the Bradford residence, where he eventually located Jennifer's red BMW 325 with a long scratch on the driver's side door.

"Was there any residue on the car door from whatever it struck?"

Robinson shook his head. "No sir. The scratch appeared to have been buffed out."

"Did the scratch appear to be recent?"

"Objection," Rebecca said. "He's not qualified as an auto expert, so he can't testify to the age of the damage to the auto."

"I'll re-phrase the question," Knight said before the judge could rule.

"Detective," he said, "could you describe the scratch in more detail?"

"Sure. It was about two feet long and to the metal." Turning to Jennifer at her table, he continued. "The metal was shiny without a spot of rust."

"And Detective, did your search of the Bradford residence turn up any other evidence?"

"It did," he said. "We found a blouse with blood stains on it."

Knight turned and picked up a clear plastic bag holding a white cotton blouse. "Is this that blouse?"

He handed the bag to Detective Robinson, who made a great show of carefully inspecting the bag.

"It is," Robinson finally confirmed, handing the bag back to Knight.

"Your Honor, I'd like to have what has previously been marked as State's Exhibit Number thirty-four for identification be admitted into evidence as State's Exhibit Number Thirty-Four."

"No objection," Rebecca said.

"There being no objection, State's Exhibit Number Thirty-Four will be admitted."

"I have no further questions of the witness at this time," Knight said.

Rebecca stood and strode to the table holding the exhibits thus far admitted. She picked up the blouse and walked back to Detective Robinson.

"You testified there was blood on this blouse, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, taking the blouse.

"You were present when the coroner, Dr. Iatrolla, testified, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you heard him testify that the victim was killed when his aorta was severed, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you heard him say that arterial punctures bleed fast and furious, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Rebecca jerked her head at the blouse in Robinson's hands. "What color is that blouse?"

"White."

"Show me the blood on this blouse," she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the jury box.

The jurors leaned forward and watched Robinson pull the blouse from he bag, unfolding it after he had done so.

"It's right her, ma'am," he said, pointing to a spot on the lower right section of the front of the blouse. The judge set the record about the location of the spot to which Robinson was pointing, then Rebecca continued.

"That's it?" she said. "She's charged with stabbing someone and piercing the aorta, and you're showing me a spot of blood that's, what, maybe the size of my thumb?"

"That's all there is, ma'am. Maybe Mrs. Bradford got out of the way before it started spurting."

"Your Honor," Rebecca said, wheeling to face the judge.

"The witness will please refrain from such comments, understood?" Robinson nodded. "And the jury will disregard that statement."

"All right, Detective, let me ask you, how many homicides have you investigated in your career?"

"Thirty-four," he said.

"And how many cases of any kind–homicides, car accidents, suicides, and so on–have had with arterial punctures?"

Robinson thought for a minute. "Couple of dozen, I suppose."