The Guilty Plea (16 page)

Justice Norville?

MINUSES

Bad divorce

No criminal record—but recent contacts with police—angry e-mails and voice mails to Terrance. Very bad.

Motive

• Family court trial slated for the next day

• Jealousy—the new, famous girlfriend

• Anger—e-mails and voice mails—see above

• Child custody?

No alibi. She made no statement—i.e., she had motive AND opportunity

Justice Norville?

DiPaulo sat with his notes. Let the time pass, his mind drift. Then he used his own little secret code to guess his possibility of success. He never wrote out a number, for fear that somehow his clients might see it. Instead, he used the election years of American presidents in the twentieth century. He played with his pen for a few seconds, and wrote “FDR II.” Roosevelt was elected to his second term in 1936. That sounded about right—there was about a 36 percent chance, one in three, of getting Samantha out.

Then he had a thought. He pulled out the four-color glossy photos of Terrance Wyler’s bloodied body on the kitchen floor. The multiple slashes in his white shirt were like lightning bolts across his chest. DiPaulo crossed out “FDR II” and wrote in “Herbert Hoover.”

Hoover won the election in 1928. That was closer. There is about a one in four chance, he thought, if I’m lucky. Just the kind of challenge he relished.

“The first witness for the Crown will be Ms. Arceli Ocaya,” Crown Attorney Jennifer Raglan said, standing tall at the long wooden counsel table she shared with Detective Ari Greene.

Judge Norville nodded from the chair up on her dais. She made a show of opening a red book and writing some notes on the first page. The large wood-paneled courtroom was packed. Most of the first two rows were taken up by the press, and behind them were a sea of spectators and a few lawyers in gowns who’d drifted in to watch.

The Wyler family sat in a specially reserved row of seats directly behind Raglan and as far away as possible from the defense table and Samantha. Raglan had met with them yesterday afternoon, and like most families of the deceased, they were upset and anxious. The oldest brother, Nathan, and the father were the most boisterous.

“You’re telling me there’s even a chance she could get bail?” Nathan demanded.

“Ridiculous.” The father’s face was red with anger. “Why’s this taking so long?”

For people like the Wylers, who lived in a world of instant decision making and rapid results, the lumbering criminal justice system frustrated the hell out of them. Mr. Wyler senior had seemed particularly agitated.

This morning, Mr. and Mrs. Wyler looked tense, Nathan was a case study in fury about to boil over and Jason, the disabled son, held his head high in defiance.

Raglan watched the nanny approach the witness stand. A small woman, about five feet tall, she moved haltingly. Last week Raglan had
brought Ocaya here and walked her through the courtroom so she wouldn’t feel too awkward today. Still, it was clear from her uncertain gait that she was intimidated by the august surroundings and the crush of onlookers.

Smiling down at her, Norville greeted Ocaya as if they were old friends newly reunited. “Come right up and sit here beside me.” She patted the side of her desk next to her.

Ocaya sat in the tall witness-box and practically disappeared. Damn, Raglan thought. During their little tour yesterday she hadn’t had Ocaya try sitting down. Mistake.

Norville frowned. “You may stand if you like.”

“Is it permitted?” Ocaya asked.

“Certainly.” Norville glared at Raglan, her smile replaced by a scowl that said “Jennifer, why the hell didn’t you bring this poor woman into court before today so she could see what it was like?”

Great way to start, Raglan thought. The court registrar, who sat directly below the judge, was a wiry, balding man who always had a crossword or a sudoku puzzle tucked under his notebook. He swore the nanny in as a witness.

“Ms. Ocaya, good morning,” Raglan said.

“Good morning.” Ocaya looked terrified.

“You remember last week, when I brought you here to show you around the courtroom?” Raglan shot the judge a sideways glance.

“Yes.” Ocaya’s voice was weak. “You were very kind.”

“Was that the first time you had ever been in a court of law?” Raglan made a point of not using contractions when questioning Ocaya.

“I have never been in any trouble in my life,” she said. “I have done everything for immigration, and more community hours than requested to bring my family to Canada.”

Raglan smiled. No matter how many times you go over things beforehand, when an inexperienced witness hits the stand, all the insecurities are there to see, clear as day. In Ocaya’s case, it all made her more believable. I wish I’d saved this for the trial, Raglan thought.

“You know all that is required is that you tell us the truth,” Raglan said. “Can you do that?”

“Of course.”

For the next half hour she led Ocaya through her evidence: how
she came to the country as part of the nanny program, how Mr. and Mrs. Wyler hired her when Simon was born, how she’d become close with the boy, how she stayed with Mr. Wyler when the couple split up.

“Tell us about Mrs. Wyler,” Raglan asked.

“When she moved away from the house, I saw her at the pickups and drop-offs for Simon.”

Raglan waited for Ocaya to say more. In the witness interview they’d had last week, the nanny had gone into great detail about how Samantha Wyler was unpredictable, angry, and sometimes nearly out of control. But now she was freezing up. A woman like Ocaya wouldn’t want to speak ill of someone in public, especially with Samantha Wyler sitting right across the courtroom from her.

The rules of evidence didn’t allow Raglan to ask her own witness leading questions. She’d have to coax the story out. Moving from behind the counsel table, she strolled up to the witness-box. She crossed her arms comfortably. “How about Simon. Is he a good boy?”

“Oh, yes.” Ocaya’s shoulders relaxed as she talked about a safer topic.

“And was he close to his father?”

Ocaya looked down at her hands and gulped for air, her emotion real. All she could do was nod.

“Arceli,” Raglan said, putting her hand on the top of the witness stand. “In court you cannot just nod. You need to answer with words. I know it is tough.”

“Yes. They were so close.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. “Mr. Wyler was a good father.”

“What about Simon’s mother?” she asked. “Was she close with her son?”

Ocaya glanced at Samantha Wyler. “No.” She looked away. The bitterness palpable. Believable.

“Why do you say that?”

“The mother was busy. With her job, then the business. Mr. Wyler worked hard too, but he had time for Simon.” Ocaya’s voice had found its steel.

“I see,” Raglan said.

“Mrs. Wyler had a bad temper. She would yell at the child. Grab him by the arm.”

“Did you see that?”

“One time, yes I did.” Ocaya thrust her chin out.

There was the sound of a chair moving behind Raglan. “Your Honor, I must object,” Ted DiPaulo said in his smoothest voice. Raglan turned to see that he was up on his feet, his tall frame dominating his half of the courtroom. He had on his most charming smile.

“This is a criminal court, not a family court,” DiPaulo said. “My client is a thirty-five-year-old mother who’s never been charged with a criminal offense. She doesn’t drive, so I can’t make a big deal about the fact that she has a perfect driving record. Mrs. Wyler’s not on trial for occasionally disciplining her own child. My friend knows this is totally irrelevant.”

In Canadian courts, no matter how vicious the arguments were between them, competing lawyers always referred to each other as “friends.”

Raglan saw Norville nod at DiPaulo. With only a few words he’d emphasized his strongest argument—that his client was a mother with a clean record. Even made a casual joke about her not driving. His confident tone was meant to intimidate the judge into thinking he was absolutely right about the law, which he wasn’t. Raglan was close to the line with her questions, but nowhere as far over as DiPaulo made it sound.

“Your Honor.” Raglan cranked up her voice. “The accused is charged with first-degree murder, not shoplifting. At a bail hearing, character evidence such as this is both admissible and relevant. My friend neglects to mention that in the last weeks of the victim’s life, his client, the accused, sent her husband a series of nasty e-mails and left him numerous angry voice mails.”