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