“It seemed like they fought at night, mostly,” Lambertsen answered.
“Could you make out anything they said during these fights?”
“Objection, hearsay,” Bennie said, half rising. Her side hurt but she ignored it. “The question is vague, irrelevant, and assumes facts not in evidence. There’s been no proof that these voices belonged to the defendant or to Mr. Della Porta.”
“You may want to rephrase that, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Guthrie said after a moment, which Bennie regarded as a small victory.
Hilliard paused to act exasperated. “Without telling the jury what the words were, Mrs. Lambertsen, could you make out who was speaking?”
“Only sometimes, when they really yelled. I tried not to listen, I didn’t want to invade their privacy. I just heard voices shouting at each other.”
“In general, again without telling us the words, whose voice was generally louder during these fights, the defendant’s or Detective Della Porta’s?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Bennie said, half rising again.
Hilliard held up a hand, flashing a large class ring of garnet and gold. “I’ll rephrase. Mrs. Lambertsen, when you heard arguing coming from the apartment shared by the defendant and Detective Della Porta, whose voice was generally louder, the woman’s or the man’s?”
Bennie objected on the same grounds but Judge Guthrie denied it. Mrs. Lambertsen testified, “The woman’s voice was usually louder.”
“Thank you,” Hilliard said. “Now, going back to the night of May nineteenth, how long did the argument last?”
“Fifteen minutes, at the most.”
“Do you recall what happened after the argument?”
“I heard a noise. Sometimes after they argue I hear a door slam. This time it was a gunshot.”
Two of the jurors looked at each other and several stiffened in their seats. Hilliard paused to let it register. “What did you do after you heard the gunshot?” he asked.
“I went to the door to see what was going on. I have one of those chains on the door, so I left it on and peeked out.”
“Wait a minute, why did you go to the door, Mrs. Lambertsen?” Hilliard asked, apparently spontaneously, and Bennie reflected that the question demonstrated why he was such a good lawyer. Hilliard asked witnesses the questions that would occur to jurors, reinforcing his logical nature and aligning him with the jury.
“I’m not sure exactly,” Lambertsen admitted. “The gunshot came from next door, but I couldn’t go next door, so I went to my door and opened it a little. Just to see what was going on. Like, a crack.”
“What did you see when you went to the door?”
“I saw Alice, Alice Connolly, running by. She ran right by my door.”
The jury shifted, though Connolly remained still. Bennie willed herself to stay calm. She’d known this testimony was coming. It would only get worse, as each of the neighbors corroborated. Hilliard looked grave. “Mrs. Lambertsen, how did the defendant appear to you as she ran by?” he asked.
“Worried, scared, kind of in a panic. Like you’d look after a fight, but worse.”
The jurors listened to every word, caught up in the story. Bennie wished she could break it up with an objection, but it would cost her more in credibility than she’d gain. She glanced uneasily over her shoulder at the gallery, which looked rapt. Directly behind her sat Mike and Ike, solid as fence posts at either end of the front row. No cops watched from the back row, where Lenihan had sat. It was hard to believe he was there only yesterday, watching her. Bennie flashed on him falling in horror over the wall and found herself wondering when his funeral would be. She knew just how his family would feel, picking out the casket. Sick. Horrified. Dazed.
“Mrs. Lambertsen, after you saw Alice Connolly run by, what did you do?”
“I called 911 and told them what I had seen, and the police came.”
Hilliard continued by eliciting the details of the 911 call and found an excuse to take Lambertsen again through the gunshot and Connolly’s running down the street, to emphasize it to the jury. It was a slam-dunk direct examination of an appealing and critical witness.
Bennie rose to her feet, wincing from hidden injuries and knowing that she had to attack Lambertsen’s testimony without attacking the witness. And she had to do it without getting bollixed up by what had happened last night. Near-death experiences didn’t make for productive workdays.
But she couldn’t think about that now.
68
Bennie stood beside the podium and addressed the young mother. “Mrs. Lambertsen, thinking back to the night of May nineteenth, you say you heard arguing, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear male and female voices arguing, or did you just hear voices raised in argument?”
Lambertsen thought a minute. “I guess I just heard voices.”
Bennie sighed inwardly, with relief. Funny thing about the truth. It enabled a lawyer to ask a question she didn’t know the answer to, because she knew what the answer had to be. “Now, Ms. Lambertsen, there came a time when you saw Alice Connolly running down the street. Do you remember what she was wearing?”
“Uh, no.”
“Do you remember what type of shirt she had on?”
“I didn’t notice, or if I did, I don’t remember.”
“And you didn’t see what she was wearing on the bottom, jeans or shorts, did you?”
“No.”
“Was she carrying anything?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t notice that either.”
Bennie nodded. No white plastic bag? She had almost made the point and sensed not to push it. “Now, you testified you were trying to put your baby down at seven forty-five that night, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. It was always a fight then, it still is. She doesn’t want to miss anything.” Mrs. Lambertsen smiled, as did the young mother in the front row. It was a warm moment, and Bennie decided to prolong it. There was precious little warmth in the world, of late.
“Mrs. Lambertsen, how old was your baby on May nineteenth of last year?”
“About two months old. She was born on March twenty-third, so she was a newborn.”
“And what is her name, by the way?” Bennie asked, to loosen up the witness, who obviously welcomed talking about her child. Bennie’s only point of reference was her dog and she could talk golden retrievers for hours.
“Molly’s her name.”
“Okay, Molly. You were with Molly. Now, what time was it when you heard the gunshot?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“You know that how?”
“I looked at the clock. Molly hadn’t napped that afternoon and she needed to go down. On days like that, you have an eye on the clock.”
“Now, when did you look at the clock, in relation to when you heard the gunshot?”
Lambertsen thought a minute, pursing lips lipsticked a light, feminine pink. “I looked at the clock right after I heard the gunshot.”
Bennie paused. It was a crucial point. She had to prove that more time had elapsed between the sound of the gunshot and when Lambertsen saw Connolly running past her door. If Bennie’s theory was true, whoever shot Della Porta had gotten out just before Connolly arrived home. “What kind of clock do you have? Is it digital?”
“No, it’s a small, round one on the oven front. You know those?”
“Sure. So you have to read it, like the old days?”
The witness smiled. “Yes.”
“Mrs. Lambertsen, what did you do after you looked at the clock?”
