Lies of the Heart (28 page)

Katie eyes him warily. “I guess so.”

“But I’m not asking you to act or even pretend here. I just know that sometimes it might feel like all of this isn’t real anymore, and it’s easy to lose some of what actually happened and the natural emotions that go along with it due to this long process. And we have to find ways to get ourselves back into it—”

“I haven’t forgotten Nick once in this. I’ve never stepped outside of it, not once.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, pressing her arm again. “Of course you haven’t.”

“If I do this, then it will be real.”

“Look, Katie, I’ve counted on you for so much, and maybe it isn’t fair to ask you to really put yourself back in that moment.”

“I’ve been inside that gym every day since this trial began,” she says. “Every moment of every day since Nick died.”

“So—”

“So if it happens, it will be
real.
”

The CSI agent, a hefty bald man with a perfectly groomed goatee, blows air into the opening of two surgical gloves and snaps them onto his hands. He waits for Richard, who is in deep consultation with Detective Mason at the right side of the room. The two men talk quietly, surrounded by cardboard boxes marked LAPLANTE EVIDENCE.

“Mr. Bellamy?” Judge Hwang prompts.

Richard nods and accepts a small manila envelope from Detective Mason. He walks over to Agent Fortier, hands it off. “Do you recognize that envelope, Agent Fortier?”

“I do.”

“And would you identify it for us?”

“The label has my initials on it right here,” the agent says, pointing with a gloved finger, “and it reads that it contains a hair sample.”

Agent Fortier confirms that he was the one who collected it from the crime scene and then sent it to the Warwick Police Department, who in turn sent it to SBI for testing.

“Would you open it, please, and confirm that the label and contents match up?”

Agent Fortier tears open the top, pulls out a small plastic envelope that looks empty. Holds it up to the jurors, confirming that it is Jerry’s hair sample, taken from the scene.

Richard treks across the room and returns with envelope after envelope, a steady stream of evidence the CSI agent gathered at the scene. At first there isn’t much interest on the jurors’ faces: the agent pulls out a letter, another hair sample, the broken doorknob from the shed behind the Warwick Center. But even the jurors are able to read Richard’s movements now—when he strides purposefully across the room with a large envelope in his hands, they sit up straight, suddenly attentive.

Up until this point, Agent Fortier shook each envelope until the contents settled at the bottom, then carefully tore off the top. This time he pulls a knife out of his front pocket and snaps it: a long blade scissors out with a loud click. The heavy woman in the front row gasps, then flushes; she hides her embarrassed laugh behind her notepad. Agent Fortier shakes the envelope, slices the top open. He pulls out a rolled-up shirt.

“And what is that?”

“This is Nicholas Burrelli’s shirt.” He holds it up, and the cloth unfurls. Dark brown stains saturate the thick collar, bleed into the entire top half.

Katie’s eyes travel all over the shirt—the last piece of clothing Nick ever wore—and wraps her arms around herself.

“And is this shirt in the same shape today as when you took it into custody on May fifth?”

“Yes.”

“And was this in your exclusive care, custody, and control from the time you collected it until you turned it over to the Warwick Police Department?”

“Yes.”

The shirt still held high, he explains the staining process, the chemical investigation from SBI, the DNA testing. That the blood is Nick’s.

A few minutes later, there is only silence as Richard stands with Detective Mason near the boxes, consulting. The jurors stretch forward when Detective Mason hands Richard a medium-size envelope. Richard crinkles it inside his hands as he slowly makes his way across the room.

Agent Fortier slices open the envelope, pulls out a clear plastic bag. Inside, a small .22 revolver.

“Will you take it out of the plastic bag, sir?”

Agent Fortier pulls it out, holds up the small gun in both gloved hands.

It looks like a toy,
Richard had said earlier, outside the courtroom.
I don’t think it will have the punch we need. Maybe . . .

“Will you let the jurors get a better look?” Richard asks the agent.

Agent Fortier rises, holds up the gun. He walks past the jurors, and a few half rise out of their seats to see it. When he gets to the end of the row he turns slightly in Katie’s direction, and Katie half rises, too. She stares at the gun, and then her hands slowly come up to cover her mouth. She nods at Agent Fortier, sits down with a long, shaky exhale. Feels the jurors’ eyes on her, stares at her lap.

As she keeps her eyes trained on her folded hands, she wonders what Richard’s face looks like right now—what
his
reaction is. She wonders if what she just did was for him or if it was real. Wonders if, by the time the trial is over, she’ll be able to tell the difference.

Donna stays seated at the table for her questioning, her forearm touching Jerry’s. Jerry has a pencil in his hand, the pad in front of him, but his eyes seem to be fighting sleep; his lids droop, snap open, flutter again.

“Part of your job is to take photos of the crime scene?” she asks Agent Fortier.

“Yes.”

“Once you book and fingerprint a suspect, I understand that sometimes you also take additional photos. Can you explain this to the jurors?”

Agent Fortier turns to the jurors. “If the suspect has tattoos, or any distinguishing marks, we take photos of them and keep them on file.”

Donna glances at Jerry, pushes her arm into his before she rises. Jerry, well trained by now, pulls the pad in front of him and stares at it. But his lips begin to move slightly.

“And did you take any such photos of my client after his arrest?”

“I photographed some scars on his body.”

Donna picks up a folder on her desk, walks it over to Richard; he flips through the photos inside, nods at Donna, hands the folder back.

“Your Honor, the defense would like to admit Exhibits One through Nine.”

While the court reporter tags each photo, Donna checks on Jerry. She turns away immediately, touches her hair, fusses with the sleeve of her suit jacket. The jurors watch her nervous movements, their faces curious, but it isn’t the photos that provoke Donna into action. Back at the defense table, Jerry’s lips move faster, his face wrinkling up like he’s arguing with himself. A woman in the front row finally notices and scoots over to him. She talks softly to him, discreetly pulls something out of her pocket. Pours water into a small cup, hands the cup to him, and then places what Katie assumes is a pill in his palm.

Donna carries the stack to the overhead projector. She places the first one on the glass. The TV screen fills with a close shot of Jerry’s torso—three bumpy scars, about two inches long, stretch across his stomach in a neat row.

“What is this we’re looking at?”

“These are three scars on the defendant’s torso,” Agent Fortier says.

Donna removes the photo, places another one on the glass: a shot of Jerry’s leg, revealing six circular white indented scars.

“And this one?” she says in a soft voice.

“These are scars on his left calf.”

“These are burn marks on Jerry’s leg?”

“Objection. Agent Fortier isn’t a scar expert.”

“Sustained.”

“Okay,” Donna says, tapping the glass. “Did you ask Jerry how he got these marks?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled.”

“He said his mother burned him with a cigarette,” Agent Fortier says, “because he was bad.”

“Objection, Your Honor. I don’t see how scars from over thirty-seven years ago have anything at all to do with the murder of Nick Burrelli six months ago.”

“Overruled.”

One by one, Donna places the photographs on the glass, and Agent Fortier identifies them.

“Those are scars on the defendant’s ankles and feet. He said his mother made him stand in the kitchen sink while she poured boiling water into it.”

“That’s a photo I took of the defendant’s chest. He said his mother hit him with an extension cord.”

“And did he tell you why she hit him with an extension cord?” Donna asks.

“He said his mother told him he had to be punished. Because he had sinned.”

Donna pauses before she puts the last photo on the glass—she stares at it, flicks her eyes to Jerry, lips compressed in a grim line.

The TV screen fills with a close-up of Jerry’s back. There are sounds of distress from some of the jurors, who look away and then at the TV again. Katie eyes the long white crisscrossing lines that fill the expanse of Jerry’s back, at the dozens of pink divots in his flesh and the large arrow-shaped pink scar in between his shoulder blades.

Donna points to the pink divots. “These?”

“The defendant said his mother poured hot oil on him because God was angry with him.”

“And these?” Donna’s finger trails the white lines.

“Radio antennae,” Agent Fortier says, looking away for a moment.

“And this,” Donna asks, her finger trembling right above the arrow-shaped scar.

Agent Fortier shifts in his chair. “The defendant said his mother tied him facedown on the bed and put a hot iron on his back.”

Donna shakes her head, her fingers hovering over the photo as if she’s afraid to touch it. “Thank you, Agent Fortier.”

“Just a couple of questions on recross, Your Honor.”

“Go ahead.”

Richard rises, walks around the table, and smiles confidently at Agent Fortier. “You realize that this is a trial about Nick Burrelli, who was shot point-blank in the face just over six months ago?”

“I do.”

“And that the defendant’s mother isn’t on trial here?”

“Yes.”

“And according to the defendant, most of the scars are over thirty-seven years old?”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite a long time ago, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Thank you, sir.” Richard saunters back to the table, nodding with satisfaction. He stops, turns around. “Oh, one last question, Agent Fortier. Did the defendant say anything else about the scars all over his body?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what he said?”

“He said when someone does something bad, God wants them to be punished.”

Richard waits for the murmurs to die down. “And did Mr. LaPlante share with you what Nick Burrelli did that warranted
his
punishment?”

“Withdrawn.”