“Yes.”
“She asked for your help?”
Aronson’s voice is low, so low Abby can see the jurors leaning forward as they strain to hear. “She told me not to talk to him about it. That it would make it worse.”
Abby ignores this. “You told her you would get Sergeant Hollis counseling.”
“I did get him counseling. Anger management.”
“It didn’t work, did it?”
“Objection, calls for an expert opinion.”
“Sustained. Next question.”
“When my client called you in the early morning hours of October 14, asking you to remove Travis Hollis from their home, that was a highly unusual event, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“At the same time, given what you knew, you weren’t entirely surprised, were you?”
Aronson passes a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t think it would come to that.”
“Within two minutes, you were in your car, headed over to the Hollises’ house, within six minutes, you were inside the house itself because you sped and ran red lights to get there. That’s eight minutes, total, from getting the call to getting inside the house.”
“Yes.”
“You were concerned,” Abby repeats and lightly stresses the last word, “not just by what Mrs. Rivera Hollis told you, but by the nasty names Travis Hollis called his wife before he took the phone out of her hand and smashed it?”
Aronson holds her gaze. “Yes.”
“You did not make a call to any law enforcement officer under your command, though, until you arrived at the scene, did you?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t think to call 911 until you were inside the house, did you?”
“No.”
“You were hoping you could handle the situation yourself, weren’t you?”
Aronson clenches his jaw. “Listen, I have dealt with more than fifty domestic disturbance calls over my career. Never did I call in any help until I assessed the situation myself. Not one ended up like this. If I had known—”
Abby cuts him off, “You let eight minutes go by before you called anyone for backup. A lot can happen in eight minutes, can’t it, Captain?”
“Objection, vague.”
“A domestic confrontation, that you knew was escalating, it can turn dangerous, even deadly, in eight minutes?”
“I didn’t know she was going to kill him,” Aronson says. His eyes are hard now, glittering.
“What you knew,” Abby responds pleasantly, “was that my teenage client and her infant daughter were alone in a house with an angry drunk more than twice her size who had just called her a stupid cunt and smashed the phone.”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“I was concerned, like I said, counselor.”
“Concerned,” Abby repeats. She smiles. “Mrs. Rivera Hollis was so fortunate to have the benefit of your judgment and advice.”
“Your Honor—”
“Withdrawn.” Abby nods at Dars. “I’m done.”
“Redirect?” Dars inquires.
Shauna, not answering, strides to the podium. She has started talking before Abby has managed to sit down.
“I’ll keep this brief,” she says. “Did the defendant ever discuss with you the possibility of getting a restraining order, or leaving her husband, or filing for divorce?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Objection,” Abby says, “she’s asking the witness to speculate.”
“Do you know?” Dars asks Aronson.
Aronson turns to Dars. “I asked her that myself, so yes.”
“Overruled.”
“When you asked the defendant why, if she was so afraid, she wasn’t pursuing any of these remedies, what did she say?”
“She said Sergeant Hollis would never let her go. That he would never let the baby go. That it was till death do us part, like in their marriage vows.”
“What else did the defendant tell you?”
Abby feels an acrid taste in her mouth and a growing sense of dread. While she had her twenty minutes with Luz, Shauna had her twenty minutes with Aronson. There is a danger coming at her from this witness that she won’t be able to control because she hasn’t had enough time to figure out what it is. What terrible thing had Luz not told her because Abby had not thought to draw it out? Just answer the questions I ask you.
She stands, wobbling slightly. “The question is vague, Your Honor.”
“Rephrase, Ms. Gooden.”
Shauna says, “What else did the defendant tell you about Sergeant Hollis?”
“She said that the only way to get away from him would be to kill him.”
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
9:07 p.m.
Office of the Federal Public Defender
Los Angeles, California
“Hello, Abby.”
The voice comes out of the dark, and it is all she can do not to scream. Files fly from her hands and hit the floor in the seconds it takes before the motion sensor flicks on, washing her office in fluorescence.
Jonathan is seated in her office chair, rocking back slightly, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“Jesus Christ.” Abby sags against the wall for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from her body. She stares at her best friend, trying to summon up anger, but she’s too exhausted and her voice comes out flat. “Get out of my chair.”
Jonathan comes over to her side of the room as she bends down to pick up the files.
“I’d offer to help but—”
“You’ll make it worse.”
He smiles. “I figured you’d say that.”
The piles reassembled, she moves ostentatiously around him to drop them on her desk, which is its usual disorganized mess. Stacks of other files in no particular order, unopened mail toppling the inbox that Cherise, Abby’s secretary, insists on keeping there in the hopes that Abby will one day be shamed by it. Abby sits down in her faux leather chair, heart still hammering, and stares at Jonathan across the desk.
“Sorry to startle you,” Jonathan says. “But, no returned calls or texts for two days now? I needed some way to get your attention. Are you holding a grudge from—” He waves a hand.
“No, you were right. It was a horrible idea.” She leans back in her chair for a moment and closes her eyes. “But I’m in trial, remember?”
“Yes,” he says, “about that.”
“What about it?”
“Come on, now, Abby. It’s me.”
She opens her eyes, stares back at him blankly, not a muscle twitching in her face.
He smiles. “Your lawyer.”
“Ah, so this is a privileged conversation.” Abby is careful to keep her tone neutral. The last thing she wants to do is talk
