schedule.”
Hilliard sat down heavily as Bennie sent up a prayer of thanks. “Mrs. Lambertsen, the question was, when was the last time that day that Molly had slept?”
“She had been awake since her morning nap. She woke up at about six in the morning, then went right back to sleep. She woke up at about ten-thirty, in those days. She didn’t even take an afternoon nap, or if she did it lasted like an hour.”
“So on May nineteenth, she was up from about ten-thirty in the morning until when she eventually went to sleep, is that right?”
“Right.”
“Take us back a bit, to the day before May nineteenth. You said Molly was two months old at the time. If you can recall, what was her schedule then?”
Hilliard sighed audibly, but refrained from making an objection. His cranky growl got him the interruption he wanted anyway.
“Oh, God. It was hell, sheer hell,” Mrs. Lambertsen said, rolling her eyes. “She would start fussing late in the day, when she was really too tired to stay awake. She would fall asleep at about nine o’clock, then wake up at about midnight. We’d watch Jay Leno together.”
“If you remember, did Molly go right back to sleep after the Jay Leno show on the night of May eighteenth?”
“She never went right back to sleep,” Mrs. Lambertsen shot back, so flatly that the jurors laughed. “She always wanted to play after she’d nursed. She was happy, well fed, and had my attention.”
“When was the next time Molly did go back to sleep, the night of May eighteenth?”
“She didn’t go back down at all. We were both up all night.”
Bennie couldn’t imagine it. She thought of her mother’s devotion, with a pang of fresh grief. She paused a minute and hoped the jurors attributed it to her next question. “Mrs. Lambertsen, had you napped that day, on May nineteenth?”
“Not since the morning. I always napped when Molly napped or I wouldn’t have survived her first year. Somebody in my playgroup told me to do that and it was good advice.”
“So in the night before May nineteenth, you had a total of three hours sleep?”
“Yes.”
Bennie thought about how she felt without a good night’s sleep for a week. “Doesn’t sleep deprivation affect your concentration?”
“For sure. I’m one of those people who need a lot of sleep, nine hours a night. Once I took Molly to the doctor, she had an ear infection, and I couldn’t remember whether the doctor told me to put drops in her ears or mouth. Another time I bought diapers and left them on the counter.”
The jurors smiled, and Bennie waited before her next question. “Did you ever think you read something, and read it wrong?” she asked.
“Objection!” Hilliard said as he rose and reached for his crutches. He knew where Bennie was going and it wasn’t baby talk anymore. He slipped strong forearms into the aluminum handles of his crutches. “The question calls for speculation and is vague. I think this entire line of questioning is totally irrelevant and a waste of the Court’s time.”
Judge Guthrie was caught cleaning his reading glasses. “I think not, Mr. Hilliard,” he ruled, and Hilliard took his seat heavily.
Bennie glanced at the judge, thankful. If Judge Guthrie had been ruling against her yesterday, he was playing fair today. Too bad she almost had to get killed to get his attention. “Mrs. Lambertsen,” she said, “you may answer the question.”
“I guess I remember reading the directions on the bottle over and over. Even out loud.”
“Thinking back to the night of May nineteenth, recall that you’re trying to get Molly to calm down, you’re working on three hours of sleep and you hear a gunshot. Then you run to the door, come back, and read the clock. How can you be sure you read the clock right?”
Lambertsen looked away, apparently reconsidering. “I think I did.”
“You’re sure your perceptions were correct that night, even though you were working on three hours’ sleep?”
“I am.”
Bennie slipped her hands into her pockets. Maybe she was pushing it, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to know what had happened that night. “But other perceptions of yours were off that night, weren’t they, Mrs. Lambertsen?”
“Like what?” the witness asked thoughtfully, and Bennie could feel the jurors faces as they turned toward her. If she could come through, she sensed they’d shift to her side. Bennie felt it like an undertow tugging at her ankles, threatening to drown her if she didn’t swim hard.
“Well, Mrs. Lambertsen, when you looked out your front door, you didn’t perceive what Alice Connolly was wearing for a shirt, did you?”
“Uh, no.”
“And you didn’t perceive what Alice Connolly was wearing on the bottom, jeans or shorts, did you?”
“Well, no,” she answered, a tremor of doubt in her tone, and Bennie felt the tide begin to turn. Mrs. Lambertsen was an intelligent, reasonable person, bending over backward to be honest in her testimony. In Bennie’s experience, they made the worst witnesses ever.
“So isn’t it possible, Mrs. Lambertsen, given how tired you were and all that was going on, that you’re not exactly sure what the clock said when you read it? Police records show you didn’t call 911 until 8:07.”
Mrs. Lambertsen straightened in her chair. Bennie held her breath, and Hilliard his objection. Judge Guthrie craned his neck over his papers as the silence lengthened. The jury focused completely on the young mother, waiting for her answer.
Finally Mrs. Lambertsen said, “I guess I can’t really be sure if it said eight o’clock.”
Bennie’s body sagged suddenly with the release of tension. “I have no further questions,” she said, and returned to her chair behind counsel table.
“Your Honor, I have redirect,” Hilliard said, rising and holding up a finger, but Bennie relaxed in her chair. She knew he couldn’t erase Lambertsen’s testimony.
Connolly leaned over and tapped Bennie’s sleeve. “Way to go, counselor. There’s not many lawyers who could kill a cop, then kick ass in court the next day.”
Bennie’s face flushed with shame. She looked over, stung, but Connolly had turned away, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
69
It was the lunch break at trial, and Bennie faced Connolly in the courthouse interview room. Bennie was so angry she couldn’t feel her assorted aches and pains. “How did you know about Lenihan?” she demanded.
“How could I not know?”
“You’re incarcerated, for one thing.”
“That never stopped me before. Impressed?”
Bennie folded her arms. “Who are you in contact with on the outside? Is it Bullock?”
“Relax.” Connolly sat back and smiled. Her wrists lay handcuffed in her lap, incongruous with her suit and pearls. “One of the guards showed me the newspaper. I told you the cops were behind it. Lenihan, McShea, Reston, they’re all out to get me. Now do you think I’m telling the truth?”
“About them, yes.”
“So you know I’m innocent.”
“You didn’t kill Della Porta. We’ll leave it at that. Did you know Lenihan or not?”
“No, I told you that.”
“You never heard anyone mention him? He almost killed me last night. What’s his connection to you, or
