Naked Justice (54 page)

As it happened, Bullock did very little hollering. He had plenty of compelling evidence to wield, and he reintroduced every bit of it.

“I’m reminded of a story my father told me once,” Bullock began. He leaned his hands against the rail and edged toward the jurors. “Seemed a married man had been out all night, drinking and carousing and carrying on, and he didn’t get back until the wee hours of the morning. He knew his wife would be angry, so he took off his shoes and tiptoed into the kitchen. To his surprise, he found his wife was already up and sitting at the kitchen table, with a very angry expression on her face.

“ ‘Where have you been?’ she asked.

“ ‘Well,’ he said, thinking quickly, ‘I woke early this morning, so I thought I’d go out for a jog.’

“His wife stared back at him. ‘I woke several times during the night,’ she said. ‘You were never there.’

“ ‘Well,’ he said, thinking at lightning speed, ‘I didn’t come to bed because I knew you were already asleep and I didn’t want to wake you.’

“ ‘I dead bolted the doors last night,’ his wife replied. ‘You were never inside.’

“ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I didn’t want to disturb you, so I slept outside in the hammock.’

“His wife shook her head. ‘I sold the hammock last week at a garage sale.’

“The man took a deep breath, folded his arms, and said, ‘That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.’ ”

Bullock pushed himself away from the railing. “For some reason, I kept thinking of that story the whole time the defense put on its case. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. That was more or less the main theme of the entire defense. Wallace Barrett has his little story about how he was conveniently not at the scene of the crime at the exact time of the murder, even though he was seen there throughout the afternoon. It’s illogical. It’s preposterously contrived. It conflicts with the evidence. But that’s his story, and he’s sticking to it.”

Bullock sauntered into the center of the courtroom, gesturing toward the defense table. “They would have you forget all about the mountain of evidence we have laid before you, all of which points to one man. Wallace Barrett. They have even attempted to tarnish the reputation of one of the leading citizens of this community in their desperate attempt to break the strong arm of justice. They want you to forget everything, but I want you to remember everything—
all
the facts,
all
the evidence.”

Bullock then proceeded to catalogue in detail the considerable evidence the prosecution had put before the jury. He covered it all—the eye- and ear-witnesses to Barrett’s violent episodes and his threats—Cynthia Taylor, Dr. Fisher, the man at the ice-cream shop. And perhaps most poignantly, Karen Gleason, the little girl who had the misfortune to hear her eight-year-old playmate being murdered on the other end of the phone.

And then he started on the forensic evidence. Ben could see the jurors’ eyes dart, their heads nod, as he reminded them of some of the most compelling, seemingly unrefutable points. The blood traces—could anyone deny that Wallace Barrett’s blood was on his wife’s body? DNA blood typing might not be precise, but the odds against that blood coming from anyone else were enormous. And then there was the skin sample found under his wife’s fingernail, the sample that DNA testing proved had almost certainly come from Barrett. How could he possibly explain that? And then, of course, there was the devastating testimony of the coroner—that Caroline Barrett was pregnant at the time of her death, a two-month-old fetus who had died with her.

“In the light of such overwhelming evidence,” Bullock said, “how can you possibly be misled by a few trivial inconsistencies, by some unconvincing speculations about cameras and e-mail and a secret rendezvous in the park? Ladies and gentlemen, conspiracy theories are always appealing. It’s more comforting to believe that great acts of evil are committed by vast unseen forces than to believe that one man—a husband and father—could be so evil, so cruel. We would rather believe in unknown bogeymen than believe in a real-life monster who could kill his own wife, his own children. But that’s what happened.”

He walked to the easel and retrieved the three enlargements. “I could try to melodramatize the horror of the crime that this man committed. I could go on and on, I could rant and rave. But what would be the point? A picture is worth a thousand words. And ladies and gentlemen, these pictures say it all.”

Wordlessly, he held up the exhibits: first the enlargement of the crime-scene shot of Caroline Barrett, soaked with blood and draped over a dining room chair, then the picture of Annabelle Barrett, lying mummy-like on her bed, then Alysha Barrett, lying dead in a bathtub awash in blood.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in a voice barely more than a whisper, “I ask you to do your duty as responsible citizens and jurors. I ask you to find Wallace Barrett guilty of first-degree murder.
Please
.”

He folded up the exhibits and returned to his seat.

Judge Hart gave Ben the nod, and he took his place before the jury. How could he follow a presentation like that one?

Slowly Ben made eye contact with each of the jurors. “This is not a game. It is not a contest. It is not a duel between Mr. Bullock and me. It is not a horse race, where you try to bet on the winner. And it is not a circus, media or otherwise. This is a murder trial. A man is on trial, and make no mistake, the action you take today will irrevocably change the course of his life, and the lives of others, for all time. In your entire lives, you may never again do anything as important as what you do today. I do not want to make your job any harder than it already is. But given the gravity of the situation, you must be certain that you have considered all the facts. You must be certain that you have considered all the evidence. And you must be certain that you are right.”

Ben pressed his hands together. “What is it the prosecution would have you believe? First, that Wallace Barrett, successful athlete, businessman, and politician, is really a heartless, twisted, violent man with a temper he can’t control. Well, I don’t doubt that Wallace has a temper. We all do. He’s probably even lost it once or twice. I know I have. In fact, I’ve lost my temper once or twice since this trial began.” The jury smiled appreciatively. “But, ladies and gentlemen, this crime required far more than a temper. This crime required a callous, cold-hearted disregard for human life, even children. Have you heard or seen anything that suggested that this man was capable of destroying his entire family? I don’t think so.

“And even assuming that he could commit this crime, why would he? Just because he got mad one day? Because he was jealous? Because they had an argument at an ice-cream parlor? I find that impossible to believe. This man loved his children. You can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He wouldn’t hurt them for any reason, much less a trivial one. The prosecution would have you believe he was furious because his wife was pregnant, a fact he didn’t even know, because being pregnant would make her ugly. Is that credible? He loved his children, and he has always wanted a son. They’d been trying to have another child for years. Bizarrely enough, the prosecution would twist what should have been a blessed event into a motive for murder. Does that even make sense?”

Ben nodded toward the prosecution table. “Now, Mr. Bullock has made much of the fact that Wallace Barrett told you he was at home the afternoon of the murders, but left after an argument and was gone when the murders took place. Isn’t that convenient? they say. Well, I say, convenient for whom? For Wallace? Or for the man who had been stalking his family, the man who we know was in the neighborhood watching, waiting for his opportunity. When he saw Wallace Barrett leave the home, right after a noisy argument, he saw the chance he had been waiting for, not only to commit the murders, but to guarantee that Wallace would be blamed. That was part of the plan, after all. They didn’t just want him dead. They wanted him to suffer. They wanted him destroyed.”

Ben gestured toward the prosecution exhibits, still leaning against the central podium. “The prosecution has made much of the forensic evidence in this case, because that’s really all they have. But let’s face it. It’s all circumstantial. At best, some of it proves that Wallace Barrett was at his home the day of the murders, a fact he has never denied. None of it proves that he was the one who killed his wife and children. Moreover, you’ve heard from the lips of the prosecution’s own witnesses how tainted the crime scene was. Dozens of people tramped through that house, touching things, leaving tracks, covering others. These shoddy police procedures call into question the credibility of any evidence taken from the crime scene. And ask yourselves this: If proper procedures had been followed, what other evidence might have been discovered? Evidence pointing to Buck Conners, perhaps? Or even Councilman Bailey Whitman?

“The prosecution has suggested that this trail of evidence pointing to the city council is speculative and unconvincing. Can you say the same? It doesn’t matter, actually, because that is not the question the judge will put before you. The important question is: Can you say that this evidence does not create a reasonable doubt in your mind? You’ve seen the evidence. Buck Conners admitted he was in the neighborhood at the time of the murders. He admitted that he worked with Councilman Whitman. He admitted their secret rendezvous at a secluded park in the middle of the night. Then he clammed up— because he didn’t want to incriminate himself.

“What about Councilman Whitman himself? He admitted hiring Conners, he admitted meeting him in the park, he admitted Conners was in Barrett’s neighborhood. He gave you some cock-and-bull story about a marketing brochure. Ask yourselves this: If that’s true, where’s the brochure? It’s been weeks since the murders took place. Shouldn’t it be done by now? The truth is there was never any brochure. There was only this—a cold-blooded plan to eliminate a political opponent, engineered by a man who has admitted that he hated Barrett, admitted that he has hated Barrett for years. Now that, ladies and gentlemen, is a motive you can believe.

“The proof of the pudding is in the documents. Whitman took the Fifth—so as not to incriminate himself—but he couldn’t deny the truth spelled out by his own e-mail messages. Those messages prove he was plotting with Conners, prove he met Conners on the street where Barrett lived. If there is any doubt whatsoever in your mind about the complicity of Conners and Whitman, ask yourselves this question: What did he mean when he asked Buck Conners on the day of the murder—‘Did you get the nigger?’ What did he mean? What else
could
he have meant?”

Ben lowered his hands and took a step back from the jury box. “Ultimately, you do not have to determine who committed this crime. You do not even have to determine whether you think the defendant committed this crime. The question before you as jurors is simply this: Is there a reasonable doubt? Regardless of what you think likely or probable—is there a reasonable doubt? Given all that you have seen, all the lies and deceit, sloppy police work and Fifth Amendment cover-ups and secret e-mail messages that drip with hatred, can you honestly say that there is no reasonable doubt? And if you cannot, if you are willing to admit that there is a reasonable doubt, then, as the judge will instruct you, you have only one choice. You must find the defendant not guilty. If you are not absolutely certain, if there is a reasonable doubt in your minds, you must agree with what Wallace Barrett said the day he was indicted for this horrible crime. He said that this monstrous crime made him sick at heart. But he was absolutely not guilty.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to follow the facts, follow the evidence, follow the judge’s instructions, and follow your hearts. This man would not commit this crime. He could not commit this crime. I ask you to return a verdict of not guilty.”

Bullock’s rebuttal was brief, to everyone’s relief. He did not attempt to rehash the whole trial, nor did he directly refute anything Ben had said in his closing. Instead, he approached the jurors holding a smashed picture frame in a plastic evidence bag.

“Like I mentioned before,” he said quietly, “a picture is worth a thousand words. Here’s one more picture I wanted to show you.” He held it up so the jury could see. “This is the smashed framed photograph of Caroline Barrett found at the scene of the crime. It must’ve been smashed by the murderer. Certainly, neither Wallace Barrett nor any other defense witness has ever suggested otherwise.”

He paused, took a deep breath. “Ask yourselves this question, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Would a hit man have any reason to smash Caroline’s picture? Would Councilman Whitman have any reason to smash her picture? Would anyone—other than
him
?” Bullock whirled around and pointed directly at Wallace Barrett. “Only one man would have smashed her picture. The man who hated her, the man who was so overcome by jealousy and rage that he lashed out and destroyed everything in sight. Forget these fairy tales and contrived fantasies. We all know who killed the Barrett family. We all know!
He’s sitting right over there!
”

Bullock turned back around and closed his eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, do the right thing. Find this man guilty. Not because you have to. Certainly not because you want to. Because he is.”

When Bullock took his seat, the courtroom was still, but for the barely audible whirring of cameras and the soft intake of breath. The trial, everyone realized, was finally over. All except for the final act.

After closings, all that was left was the part of the trial that Ben hated most. Waiting. Judge Hart calmly and deliberately read the instructions to the jury. It was one of those irrational, unfathomable eccentricities of the jury system that the instructions—which basically told the jury what was important and what they should be listening for—were read only after all the evidence was completed. The sun was just beginning to set when the bailiff escorted the jury into the deliberation room.

Ben sat in the courtroom with Wallace Barrett while Christina and Jones made a run to Coney Island for dinner. It was a tradition of sorts for the lawyers to go into the judge’s chambers while the jury deliberated and to swap war stories, but Ben wasn’t in the mood. And he thought Wallace might prefer to have some company.