hurry.
The testimony about Stacy that Hawpe elicits from his witnesses is no more impressive than in the first trial. He starts with two neighbors and two people from Stacy’s gym. All speak highly of her, though it is only the last woman, Susan Castro, who describes herself as Stacy’s “dear friend.” She had not described herself in that way during her testimony in the first trial, so unless she’s been attending a lot of seances, she’s been influenced by the publicity surrounding this one.
My questions for the first three witnesses are perfunctory, designed to elicit that they really didn’t know what was going on in Stacy’s life, that they were shocked by her death, and that they knew and liked Richard.
I decide to go further with Susan Castro, since I may need to point out later in the trial that Stacy deliberately avoided having any “dear friends,” because she was living a lie. I also do it for the childish reason that I don’t like Ms. Castro; she is essentially making this friendship up to draw attention to herself. The fact that Richard’s life is on the line is clearly not her first priority.
“You and Stacy Harriman were dear friends?” I ask.
“Yes, we certainly were,” she says.
“What does it mean to you to be ‘dear friends’ with someone?”
She seems taken aback by the question but then says, “I suppose it’s a willingness to share innermost feelings, to confide in a person and have them confide in you. To provide and receive comfort and support.”
“I see. Let’s go through a list of innermost feelings that your dear friend Stacy may have confided in you. Where was she born?”
Castro looks stumped by the first toughie of a question. “I’m not sure; I believe Kansas… or Wisconsin.”
I nod sympathetically. “I always get those two confused myself. How many siblings did she have?”
“I’m not sure; she didn’t mention any.”
“Where did she go to college?”
“Objection, Your Honor, relevance.”
“Your Honor,” I say, “Mr. Hawpe took the witness through a speech about how close she and the defendant were. I have every right to demonstrate that her testimony was completely misleading in that regard.”
Judge Gordon overrules the objection, but instead of telling me which college Stacy attended, she says, “We didn’t talk about those kind of things.”
“Right, you talked about more intimate, innermost stuff. Was she ever married before?”
“I think so… maybe not.”
“Got it. Previous marital history-yes and no.” I have a little more fun with this and then let her off the stand. Hawpe calls Gale Chaplin, the neighbor I had visited in her house to discuss her testimony in the first trial.
Chaplin’s recounting is once again damaging. She talks about Stacy’s admitting that she and Richard were having problems, and her concern about his temper. She comes off as credible because she makes no claims of great friendship. In fact, she says that she was surprised that Stacy confided in her at all.
Chaplin’s testimony is troubling to me on two levels. Most important is the negative impact it can have on the jury. But I’m also puzzled about why Stacy would have had this conversation with someone who was not a close friend. Why make your whole life a secret and then pour things out to a relative stranger?
In my cross I press Chaplin on the level of friendship she and Stacy had, as a way of diminishing the credibility that Stacy would have opened up like that. I’m not very effective, because Chaplin openly and repeatedly admits that they weren’t close.
“Did Stacy tell you where she was from?” I ask.
Chaplin nods. “Outside of Minneapolis, which is not far from where I’m from as well.”
“So you two discussed your hometowns, maybe common friends and experiences?”
“No, she didn’t seem to want to talk about that at all,” Chaplin says, consistent with what she told me at her house.
I brought this up in case I am able to bring before the jury that Stacy’s background was fabricated. Her reluctance to talk about her supposed hometown will fit in well with that.
It’s a small point, the only kind I seem to make these days.
* * * * *
WEEKENDS ESSENTIALLY DO not exist during a trial.
While court is closed, I still treat Saturday and Sunday as full workdays, unless, of course, it’s an NFL Sunday and the Giants are playing.
Since this is a non-NFL Saturday, I’m reading and rereading my case files within a few minutes of returning from the morning walk with Tara. It’s weird, because he was here only a short time, but the house seems empty without Reggie. Even Tara seems depressed about it.
But I have to force myself to focus. The trial is going to kick into a higher gear on Monday, and even though I feel that I’m ready for it, there are different levels of “ready.”
Kevin calls at about eleven o’clock from Minneapolis. He gets right to the point. “She never lived here, Andy.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
He hesitates. “You’ll have to speak a little louder; since the landing I’ve lost most of the hearing in my left ear.”
I yell, “THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULD HOLD THE PHONE TO YOUR RIGHT EAR!”
It’s not the answer Kevin was looking for; he was hoping I’d ask sympathetic questions about his sinus issues. When it’s obvious I won’t, he gets down to business.
“I went to the home address listed. It’s a garden apartment complex, and the specific apartment has been lived in by a married couple for thirty-one years. Neither they nor the superintendent of the complex ever heard of Stacy Harriman, and they didn’t recognize her picture.”
“How many people did you ask?”
“At least two dozen,” he says. “All people who have been here for years. She never lived at this address, Andy.”
“What else did you find out?”
“She never went to the high school, either. No teachers ever heard of her, and she’s not listed in the yearbook.”
“But she has a transcript,” I say.
“The school administration wouldn’t talk to me about it; they said the records are confidential.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“That’s what I told them, but they weren’t impressed. But the bottom line is that unless she was invisible while she was here, then her background is faked.”
“Have you got documentation?” I ask, knowing that he must.
Kevin confirms that he has a folder full of documents and sworn declarations that we can use in court as evidence for what he has found out, if we get the opportunity. “Andy, I never thought I’d say this, but I think Reggie was right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Richard is innocent.”
“Absolutely. And you should get back here fast so we can figure out how to get him out of prison,” I say.
“I’m on a two o’clock flight.”
“Take care of that ear. And keep an eye on your nose and mouth; everything’s connected.”
“Wise-ass,” he snarls, and hangs up.
It doesn’t pay to be concerned about people.
I hang up and call Sam Willis, who says that he had just been ready to call me. Sam presents more of the same; the further he digs into Stacy’s background, the more obvious it is that her real history has been completely concealed.
“And this isn’t run-of-the-mill stuff, Andy. “We’re talking driver’s license, voter registration card, passport, social security number-all issued in fantasyland.”
