Luz stares at her blankly. “Why would I disapprove?”
Because you think I’m a bad mother. Abby opens her mouth to say the words and closes it as Luz says, “You came back for me, right?”
Abby feels her throat close up and swallows again, hard, against the sudden ache in her throat.
“Mr. Estrada told me that there are certain things about my case that wouldn’t help you in the fight,” Luz goes on. “Some things that would be better off with just him and me knowing.” She looks down at Cristina, smoothing the dark hair on her head. “I trust him,” she says. “But, he said in the end you would see what is best. That you would understand the situation. He told me to trust you. So if you want to know those things now, I will tell you. Do you want to know?”
What Abby wouldn’t give right now for ten more minutes. Fifteen. To think. To digest. To plan. But no, Luz is waiting for her and the clocking is ticking. Slowly, Abby shakes her head. “Just answer the questions I ask you.”
Now back in front of the jury, Abby makes sure to smile and exude calm.
“Good morning, Captain Aronson.”
“Good morning, counsel.”
“You told the jury that when you asked my client if there was someone you could call for her—a friend—that she said no?”
“That’s correct.”
“But there was someone—there had been someone she was calling all along, right?”
Abby sees a flash of fear in Aronson’s eyes, but he inclines his head politely. “I’m not understanding your question.”
“Mrs. Rivera Hollis had been calling you to confide the problems she was having with her husband.”
Shauna stands, and without looking at her, Abby holds out her hand, five fingers spread. “I haven’t asked my question.” She turns back to Aronson. “Would records from your cell phone show calls between you and Mrs. Rivera Hollis in the months leading up to the night of Sergeant Hollis’s death?”
Shauna is speaking now, objections flying every which way. Assumes facts not in evidence, badgering, speculation.
“Overruled.” Dars, leaning forward in his leather chair, is clearly keen to get the story himself. “Did you talk to the defendant on the phone about her husband on other occasions?”
“I—Yes.” Aronson has paled visibly and his hands, which had been resting on his lap, now grip each other.
“How many times?” Dars has now apparently decided to take over the questioning.
“I’m not—I’m not sure.”
“Alright, ballpark then. More than ten?”
“I—Yes.”
Dars raises his eyebrows and nods at Abby, her signal to resume. The courtroom has gone very quiet, the row of reporters leaning forward like greyhounds at the starting line; the jurors, to a person, staring fixedly at Aronson.
Abby picks up Luz’s note. “You also met with my client, alone, on several occasions?”
“Sidebar, Your Honor.” Shauna isn’t yelling, but in the stillness of the courtroom her voice clangs.
Dars beckons them forward as he steps down, joining Abby, Will, and Shauna in a tight circle around the court reporter.
“This is trial by ambush,” Shauna says, visibly struggling to keep her voice at a whisper. “Those cell phone records and witness statements should have been turned over weeks ago.”
“We don’t have cell phone records or witness statements,” Abby says.
“I imagine not.” Dars crosses his arms, the sleeves of his black robe closing like drapes. “No need, is there, Ms. Rosenberg, when you can bluff, knowing your client has already told you everything.”
More like a client who tells me nothing until the last possible moment on instructions from yet another lawyer trying to seize control of this case. And had she known, Abby damn sure would have gotten those records as corroboration knowing she would never have to turn them over on a hostile witness. She can’t help but look over at Will, who is determinedly not meeting her gaze.
Shauna isn’t giving up. “She can’t hide behind the attorney-client privilege to make baseless insinuations of some kind of—of improper sexual relationship.”
Dars looks at Abby like she’s delivered an unexpected present. “Is that what you’re doing?”
Abby keeps her eyes on Dars. “I’m not insinuating anything. What matters are the communications between my client and Captain Aronson about Sergeant Hollis.”
“And that’s hearsay,” Shauna says.
“I’m not offering it for the truth. It goes to my client’s state of mind.”
“Her state of mind weeks or months before she killed her husband—how is that relevant—”
“You’ve made it relevant,” Abby snaps. “You’ve argued from the beginning that this was premeditated—”
But Dars has heard enough. “The government’s objection is overruled.”
“Your Honor—” Shauna starts.
Dars wags a stubby finger in Shauna’s face. Bad girl. “This is your mess, counsel. How in God’s name you failed to ask your own witness these questions yourself is beyond my comprehension. Now step back.”
When everyone has resumed their places, Dars says, “Ms. Rosenberg, please continue.”
“Did you meet with Mrs. Rivera Hollis alone?”
“Yes.” Aronson looks like someone who has just been told he has brain cancer after complaining of a mild headache: his eyes are glazed with shock and his voice is flat. From now on, Abby hopes, he will go blindly wherever she leads him.
“Captain, you described Sergeant Hollis to the jury as a quote ‘gentle giant’?”
Aronson blinks. “I—Yes.”
“That’s not how Mrs. Rivera Hollis described him to you, was it?”
“No.”
“She told you when he got drunk she became afraid of him?”
“It wasn’t a lot of times.”
“That’s not my question,” Abby says, keeping her voice polite. Oh, look, you spilled your milk. “Do you need me to repeat it?”
“I—No. I mean, yes, that’s what she said.”
“My client was afraid because when Sergeant Hollis became drunk he hit her and kicked her?”
“Yes.”
“My client was afraid because when Sergeant Hollis became drunk he would get on top of her and the only way she could get him off her was
