to tell the story that she swore she would never tell, to reveal the weaknesses in her husband that she would never reveal, to right the wrong that she had concluded she would never right.
I take her through a brief discussion about who she is, where she works, and who she had been married to, just enough to establish her as a good and decent, hardworking woman, who certainly would be credible to a jury. Then I lead her to that night, and how Julie met and followed the group back to the house. She is telling the secret that her husband kept for his entire adult life, a secret which caused him to end that life.
“Mike said she wanted to swim, and to drink, and maybe to tease,” Betty said. “But that wasn't what they wanted. They wanted to have sex with her. It would cap off an incredible evening in the big city, one they could tell their friends about for months to come.”
She starts to falter, so I'm forced to prod her. “But it didn't happen that way, did it?” It's a leading question, but Wallace doesn't object.
She shakes her head sadly. “No. They became too forward for her, groping her, and she wasn't too drunk to put a stop to it. She got angry at them, then got out of the pool and started to walk to her car. But I guess the alcohol had increased their courage and decreased their intelligence, so they chased after her and pulled her back. They weren't going to let her spoil their night, not after it had gone that far.”
Betty takes a deep breath, drawing in the strength to continue. “She lashed out, kicking and screaming and scratching two of them. This got them angry, and they attacked her. She screamed and fought, but they were too powerful for her, too far out of control.”
Betty is verbally staggering, having trouble keeping her own emotions in check. “Tell the rest,” I say very gently. “It's time for the truth to come out.”
She nods. “They gang-raped her, taking turns holding her down, paying no attention to her screams. Finally she broke away and ran, but in her panic she slipped and fell on the wet surface near the pool, smashing her head into a cement table. She was unconscious and bleeding, and they didn't know if she was alive or dead. Then one of them …”
“Go on, Betty …” I say.
“One of them … I don't know who, pushed her into the pool with his foot. She went under the water and stayed there.”
The jury and everyone else within the sound of Betty Anthony's voice is spellbound by her story. Even Hatchet seems mesmerized by her as she weaves the tale she has protected for so long.
I look in the gallery and see that Victor has left the courtroom; that's okay, he'll read all about it tomorrow. All that is left now is for me to wrap up Betty's testimony.
“Mrs. Anthony, did you ever have occasion to meet Denise McGregor, the woman whose murder has caused all of us to be here today?”
“Yes. She came to see me.”
“Why did she do that?”
“She told me that she was a reporter, doing a story about a murder that she believed was committed many years earlier. She told me that the victim was her mother.”
“Go on, please.”
“She knew quite a bit about it, about my husband's involvement, and about one other man who was part of the group.”
“Did she say who that was?”
“She did … Victor Markham. I already knew that.”
A rumble goes through the courtroom, which Hatchet quiets with his gavel.
“Thank you, Mrs. Anthony,” I say. “Your witness.”
Wallace dreads this cross-examination, but must go through with it. He gets Betty to admit that she has kept this information a secret all these years, implying that this means what she has to say is somehow suspect. He also brings out that she has no physical evidence of the crime, only the word of her late husband. He does a very professional job in a very difficult situation.
On redirect, I introduce my father's photograph as evidence. It tends to corroborate her testimony by placing the conspirators together with Julie's car. Clearly, though, it does not show any conclusive proof of their guilt.
When I go back to the defense table, Willie leans over to ask if we've already won. He thinks they're going to come over and cut his handcuffs off, and he can go home.