hanging off the hook.” Edward is doing a good job, he's been rehearsed well.
“What did you do next?” asks Wallace.
“I got real worried … panicky … and I started looking around. I went out into the hall, and I saw that the exit to the alley was right there. So I went out there, and … and … I saw her.”
Edward acts as if he is trying to keep his emotions intact as he relives what happened. “It was the most horrible moment of my life.”
Wallace gives him a few seconds to compose himself; I can use the time to get over my nausea.
“What happened next?”
“Well, I went to her … I touched her to see if she was breathing, but she wasn't. So I went back into the bar and called 911, and then I called my father. And then I told the bartender, and we just waited for everyone to get there.”
Wallace turns Edward over to me. I don't want to do too much with him, because I'm going to call him during the defense case. I just want to put some doubts in the jury's mind, and maybe take away this image of Edward as the grieving near-widower.
I start off on his relationship with Denise.
“Mr. Markham, what is Denise McGregor's father's first name?”
He's surprised by the question. “I … I don't remember.”
“How about her mother's name?”
“I don't know … it's been a long time. I don't think her parents lived near here.”
“Have you seen them since the funeral?”
“No, I don't believe so.”
“Did you see them
“No, I was very upset, sedated … I've felt guilty ever since about not going, but I was in no condition-”
“You didn't go to Denise McGregor's funeral?” I'm so shocked, you could knock me over with a legal brief.
“No, I just told you, I-”
I cut him off. “Do you know what Denise was working on at the time of her death?”
“No. I know it was a story.”
“Yes, Mr. Markham, that's what she wrote. Stories.” My voice is dripping with disdain. “But you don't know which one she was working on?”
“No.”
“Do you have a favorite story that she ever wrote?”
“Not really. She was a terrific writer. All of her work was great, but she didn't talk about it very much.”
“Tell us about any one of her stories.”
Edward looks stricken, so Wallace objects. “This is not going anywhere remotely relevant.”
“Your Honor,” I respond, “Mr. Wallace took the witness through a soap opera about how close he and the victim were, how he was about to propose. I believe he referred to their relationship as intense. If that was relevant, certainly my demonstrating that it is nonsense is equally relevant.”
“We
Hatchet admonishes Edward. “The witness will only speak to answer questions posed by the attorneys.”
Edward is chastened. “Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Let's move it along, Mr. Carpenter,” says Hatchet.
“Yes, Your Honor.” I have a little more fun with this area of questioning, and then move on to the night of the murder.
“Was there a great deal of blood near her body when you found her?”
“Yes, it was everywhere.”
“And when you touched her skin, was it cold?”
“No, not really. But I could tell it was terrible … that she was dead. She wasn't breathing.”
“How did you know she wasn't breathing?” I ask.
“I put my hand on her chest … here.” He puts his hand on his sternum, so as to demonstrate. “It wasn't moving at all.”
I nod and walk over to the defense table. Kevin hands me a piece of paper, which I bring over to the court clerk. I introduce it as a defense exhibit and then hand a copy of it to Edward.
“Mr. Markham, this is a police report regarding the night of the murder. Can you read the second paragraph from the bottom out loud for the jury?”
Edward locates the paragraph and begins to read. “Markham's clothing, including shirt, sweater, pants, shoes, and socks, was examined and was found to be free of any traces of blood.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Could you please tell the jury how you managed to walk through the pools of blood surrounding the victim, then put your hands on her skin and chest, and not get any of her blood on you?”
A flash of worry crosses his face, which is strange, because the same lack of blood that is causing his credibility to be questioned provides him a clear defense against being the murderer himself. There is no way he could have stabbed Denise to death in the manner this was done and not have blood on him.
“I don't know … I guess I was just very careful. I've always been really squeamish about blood, so I probably avoided it. Everything was happening so fast.”
“What was happening fast?”
“You know, I found the body, called the police and my father … it just seemed like a dream.”
I nod as if he has just cleared up everything. “A dream where you don't dirty your clothes.”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
“No further questions, Your Honor,” I say. “But the defense reserves the right to recall this witness in our case in chief.”
Based on the look on Edward's face, I don't think he's looking forward to being recalled.
BETTY ANTHONYLIVES IN A SMALL GARDEN apartment in Lyndhurst. There are maybe five hundred units in the complex, and if any one is different from any other, it is a very subtle difference. Since I have only an address and not an apartment number, I have absolutely no idea in which specific apartment she lives.
I stop five or six of her neighbors, none of whom has heard of her. I'm forced to go to the rental office, where I wait as the lone agent preaches to an elderly couple the benefits of the tram that goes directly from the apartment complex to the supermarket. This is clearly
Finally, the agent looks up Betty's apartment number, and I go there. Betty obviously takes care of her small slice of this earth with loving care; there is a small flower garden in front that looks like it is a very pampered piece of real estate. Betty is not in, and I'm trying to decide whether to wait when I finally catch a break. Her next-door neighbor comes home, and tells me that Betty would still be at Carlton's Department Store, where she sells lingerie.
The lingerie department is on the third floor of Carlton's, and is clearly not a place for males. Female customers look at me as if I am an alien visitor, while a few smile a condescending “isn't that cute, he's buying something for his wife” smile.
The first thing I notice about the place are the mannequins, dressed in flimsy, sexy bras and panties. They are incredibly shapely; if I were a woman concerned about my figure I would throw out all the diet books and find out what they feed these mannequins.
I can't speak for other males, but the hardest thing for me in these situations is knowing who works for the store and who doesn't. Customers and salespeople look exactly alike. I try three people before I hit on an actual storeperson. I ask her if she can help me.
“Unless you want to try something on.”
My guess is that she's used that joke on the last five hundred males that she's encountered in this department, so I smile a semi-appreciative smile, and ask if she knows where Betty Anthony is. She does.
“Betty! Customer!”
Betty is standing at the cash register, finishing a sale, and she motions that she'll just be a minute. I nod that
