A Time for Mercy (Jake Brigance #3) - John Grisham Page 0,192

prepares his witnesses. What’s the point, Mr. Dyer?”

“Mr. Dyer?”

“I’m just probing, Your Honor. It is a cross-examination and I’m allowed some latitude here.”

“If relevant, Your Honor,” Jake said.

“Overruled. Continue.”

Dyer asked, “Could I see your notes there, Ms. Gamble?”

Written materials used for reference by witnesses were fair game, and the instant Dyer saw her glance at her notes he knew he would get them. In a moment, though, he would wish he had ignored them.

She held them up, as if to offer them to the prosecutor, who asked, “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

“Sure.”

He took a single sheet of paper and unfolded it. Jake let the mystery of its contents hang in the air for a few seconds, then jumped to his feet. “If it pleases the Court, we’ll be happy to stipulate and admit Kiera’s notes into evidence. We even have copies here for the jurors to look at.” He waved some papers.

The notes, written in her own hand and in her own words, were Libby’s idea. She had seen the ruse before in a rape case in Missouri. At the direction of the defense lawyer, the victim had prepared little reminders to help her through the ordeal of testifying. A hard-charging D.A. had demanded to see her notes, and it had been a fatal mistake.

Kiera’s written accounts of the five rapes were far more graphic than her testimony. She wrote of the pain, fear, her body, his, the horror, blood, and the ever-increasing thoughts of suicide. They were numbered, Rapes 1 through 5.

Once Dyer held the sheet of paper, and glanced at its contents, he realized his blunder. He handed it back, quickly, and said, “Thank you, Ms. Gamble.”

Jake, still standing, said, “Hang on, Judge. At this point the jury has the right to know about the notes. The State has put them into question.”

Dyer said, “The State has the right to be curious, Judge. This is a cross-examination.”

Jake said, “Of course it is. Your Honor, Mr. Dyer went after the notes because he was fishing and trying to prove that this witness has been coached by me and told how to testify. He thought he had caught us when he saw the notes. Now, though, he’s backing down. The notes are in play, Your Honor, and the jury has the right to see them.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Mr. Dyer. You asked to see them. It doesn’t seem fair to keep them away from the jury.”

“I disagree, Your Honor,” Dyer said in desperation, but could offer no reason.

Jake, still waving copies, said, “I submit the notes into evidence, Your Honor. Let’s not keep this from the jury.”

“Enough, Mr. Brigance. Just wait your turn.”

After the fourth rape, Kiera had written: “I’m getting used to the pain, it goes away after a couple of days. But I haven’t had a period in two months and I’m often dizzy in the morning. If I’m pregnant he’ll kill me. And probably Mom and Drew too. It’s better if I die. I read a story about a teenager who cut her wrists with razor blades. That’s what I’ll do. Where to find them?”

Reeling, Lowell Dyer asked for a moment to confer with Musgrove. They whispered, both shaking their heads as if they had no earthly idea what to do next. Dyer had to do something, though, in order to discredit a sympathetic witness, and salvage a disastrous cross, and somehow save his case. He managed to nod at Musgrove, as if one of the two had hit the nail on the head. He stepped to the podium and gave her another drippy smile.

“Now, Ms. Gamble, you say you were sexually assaulted by Mr. Kofer on a number of occasions.”

“No sir. I said I was raped by Stuart Kofer,” she said with ice. Another response scripted by Libby and Portia.

“But you never told anyone?”

“No sir. There was no one to tell.”

“You were enduring these terrible attacks, yet you never sought help?”

“From who?”

“What about law enforcement? The police?”

Jake’s heart froze at the question. He was stunned by it, but prepared, as was his witness. With perfect timing and diction, Kiera looked at Dyer and said, “Sir, I was being raped by the police.”

Dyer’s shoulders sagged as his mouth dropped open and he searched for a snappy retort. None arrived, nothing but warm air rushing over a parched tongue. He was suddenly mortified at the prospect of serving up another fat pitch that might land in the upper deck with the others. So he