The Guilty Plea (35 page)

“We were in touch sometimes,” he said.

Greene put his head down and wrote out his notes. A vague answer like this made a witness look as if he had something to hide.

“You set up an anonymous e-mail account for you and Samantha, didn’t you?”

Without waiting, DiPaulo walked to his table, opened a file folder, and took out some papers. He dropped two of them in front of Jennifer Raglan, approached the registrar and gave him two copies for the judge, and gave copies to the court reporter before he made his way back to the witness-box. He stood square in front of Wyler and handed him one page.

“The company’s called
bigstring.com.
This is their Web site. It says, ‘BigString Corporation has created a revolutionary new e-mail service that allows users to control their sent e-mail.’ And farther down, let me see, yes: ‘BigString gives you the advantage of private e-mail and secure e-mail.’”

Wyler didn’t even look at it.

“In other words, untraceable,” DiPaulo said.

Wyler remained mute.

“That’s correct, isn’t it?”

Wyler nodded.

“Your Honor, can the record please reflect that the witness acknowledged this by nodding his head?”

“Okay,” Norville said.

DiPaulo put the second sheet of paper in front of Wyler. “And you used
covercalling.com
to hide your phone calls.” He read, “‘
Covercalling.com
makes changing your caller ID simple.’ This is how you disguised your calls to Samantha.” He wasn’t even asking a question. He was stating a fact.

Wyler stared off into space, afraid to look out into the courtroom, where his family was seated.

Greene started taking notes again, but his mind was racing. After Samantha Wyler’s arrest he had had Daniel Kennicott go through her BlackBerry and laptop and all her other phone records. Nothing was recorded as being to or from her brother-in-law.

Wyler finally spoke. “We e-mailed each other. I like computers. That’s what I do for our company. I can follow food prices all over the world. With BlackBerrys I’m in touch with my brothers—I mean, well, now, my brother—all the time.”

A rambling answer like this was typical of a witness trying to change the focus of attention. Greene glanced at Raglan. She was putting on a brave face, looking straight ahead. But he knew she was churning up inside. DiPaulo had fooled her by putting on a big act and pretending he didn’t want her to call Jason Wyler as a witness. And she’d fallen for it.

“If I told you there were one thousand and forty-nine e-mails between yourself and my client over a seventy-two-month period, you wouldn’t dispute that number, would you, sir?” DiPaulo spoke with no notes. It gave his words added authority.

“That’s possible.” It was as good as saying yes.

“And you were never out of touch for more than ten days. Sound right?”

“I guess so. Samantha liked to talk too.”

“And she did research for you, didn’t she?”

“Samantha took an interest in my disease. She’s smart. Was always looking for new treatments, new medications.”

Sitting beside Greene, Raglan wrote a note on a piece of paper and slid it to him under her palm so the jury wouldn’t notice. “Fuck,” it said. “Ted really conned me. When should I object?”

Greene glanced at the jury. Their eyes were glued to the witness-box. “Don’t,” he wrote back. “Will look like you’re protecting him. Makes it worse.” He slid the note under her elbow.

Raglan glanced down and gave a quick nod.

“I’m not suggesting there was anything improper about you having contact with your sister-in-law,” DiPaulo said. “Just the opposite. You were supportive of each other. Kept in touch even after the separation.”

“We did.”

DiPaulo took a deep breath. “You had nicknames for each other. She called you B.B., which stood for Big Brain, and you called her B.N., which stood for Big Nerd.”

Wyler’s head bobbed. There was something about a courtroom, a kind of alchemy that sent people back into their minds, their pasts. You could see it happening now. As hard as Wyler was trying to stay in his angry present, he was slipping into memories.

“People misjudged Sam because she was nice-looking.” Wyler’s voice was surprisingly loud. “They didn’t want her to be smart.”

Wyler’s hand slipped off one of his canes and he began to waver.
He grabbed the railing. A small shudder had gone through the court, the shifting of the tectonic plates of this trial, knocking him and in turn the whole prosecution off balance. He held up one of his canes defiantly. “She didn’t see these, like everyone else. She listened, I mean really listened. I thought she was a real friend.”

Judge Norville glared at DiPaulo, then at Raglan. Her look said, “Where are you going with this, Mr. DiPaulo, and when are you going to object, Ms. Raglan?” The courtroom was dead silent.

“One moment, please. I think those are all my questions,” DiPaulo said.

Wyler was clearly embarrassed. Now that his secret was out, he’d be a tougher witness.

DiPaulo went behind his counsel table, bent down, and whispered into Samantha’s ear, careful to put his body between his client and the jury. From his angle, Greene saw Samantha nod. She glanced up at the witness stand. Wyler didn’t look back at her. It occurred to Greene that this was probably the last time in their lives these two people would ever see each other.

Samantha slipped a piece of paper to DiPaulo. He read it and patted her shoulder.

“Mr. Wyler.” DiPaulo looked down at the note. “I want to thank you for your courage and your honesty today.” His voice sounded stilted. Not his usual smooth and confident delivery. It was obvious he was reading the words of his silent client.

He bent over, about to sit down. Samantha, who rarely moved a muscle in court, shot out her hand and pointed to the note again. She was insisting that he read something else.

DiPaulo cleared his throat and tagged at his robes. “Ah, one more thing.”

Samantha looked at the witness stand. This time Wyler looked back at her. Their eyes met for the first time.

“Thanks for your courage and honesty not only today, but always,” DiPaulo said.

Wyler held himself erect and nodded at Samantha.

DiPaulo fluttered his hands in the air. “Sir, with these robes, and all the formality in this courtroom, sometimes we forget that a trial is really about people.” His voice was confident again. Back in rhythm
now. “I’m sure everyone here understands that this has been most difficult for you and your family.”

Greene was certain that Wyler didn’t hear a word of DiPaulo’s last off-the-cuff remarks. Instead, he was staring transfixed at the woman who was probably the best friend he’d ever had.

“As its first witness, the defense calls Ms. Samantha Wyler.” Ted DiPaulo fingered his thick notepad, which was filled with thirty-six pages of questions he planned to ask. His strategy was to get it all out in his examination in chief of Samantha—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Make it so the prosecution had nothing left to cross-examine her on.

While Wyler was being sworn as a witness, DiPaulo could feel the jury’s hostility toward her. And their fascination. They’d been staring at Samantha since the first day of the trial and the only words she’d ever said were “not guilty.”

The trick with every witness was to let them be their true selves. Warts and all. The jury would never like Samantha. At best, he could make them understand who she was, and in that context they might believe her.

He started by asking her about growing up in Cobalt, discovering her father dead at the service station, the scholarship to the University of Toronto. He moved on to her job at the bank, Nathan’s recruiting her to Wyler Foods, meeting Terrance, getting married, having a baby, opening their own store.

“Would you call your marriage a success or a failure?” DiPaulo asked. She looked down, placing her hands together, the way they’d rehearsed it. “The success was Simon. The failure was both of ours. Perhaps more mine. After our son was born I was working all the time at the new store. Not paying enough attention.”

DiPaulo waited until after the morning coffee break to start asking about Brandon Legacy. “Ms. Wyler, we’ve heard from the young man who lived next door.”

“Brandon.” As they’d practiced it, she crossed her arms in front of her. “I was at his house that night, it’s true. And he was right—the intimacy only happened occasionally. But that’s no excuse.”

They’d spent a lot of time coming up with the right word to describe the sex. “Intimacy” fit the bill.

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t have let it happen. But I blame myself, one hundred percent. I felt more like a mentor than a—a … I don’t know what else to say about it.”

Wyler had hit the right balance between shame and bashfulness. They’d chosen the word “happen.” A good passive verb that made it sound as if sex with a teenager were a natural event, like a sudden thunderstorm, which mere mortals were hopeless to prevent.

“Let’s talk about your anger. Those e-mails and voice mails.” DiPaulo painstakingly played each voice mail and read out every e-mail. It took so long it became boring.

When he was done, Wyler uncurled her arms and put her hands to her side, to signal how defenseless she was to control her own emotions. “I admit it. There were days when the anger would overtake me. I’d write. I’d call. It was stupid. I don’t have an excuse to offer. They’re very embarrassing. I wanted some contact with my husband. Not to hurt him. But to be in touch.”

“Husband.” That was the word DiPaulo wanted. Let the jury see her as the woman left alone. Lonely but not murderous. They’d decided she’d keep her wedding ring on.

He filled in the rest of the morning with Wyler telling the jury about being with Brandon on the Sunday evening, playing video games, and then getting the e-mail from “her husband” saying that he’d accept her offer.

Samantha was unflinching in her self-criticism and hour by hour the atmosphere in the courtroom changed.

“What did you see when you walked into the house?” DiPaulo asked as his first question after the lunch break. This was the one part he’d been careful not to over-rehearse. It was critical that her testimony be authentic. Spontaneous. Juries knew when a witness was reading from a script.

Her eyes fluttered over DiPaulo’s head, seeming to look nowhere. “It was like that day my father was killed in our service station. The
hydraulic lift broke. I was the one who found him. It was the same thing when I saw Terry on our kitchen floor. The exact same.”

A tear rolled down her cheek.

“My whole body tightened up.” It was taking all of Samantha’s effort to hold her head erect. More tears were falling but she ignored them.

Judge Norville proffered a box of tissues. “Would you like one?”

Wyler shook her head. She wiped the tears off with the back of her hand, as if she were shooing off pesky mosquitoes.

“I rushed upstairs to see Simon. I was crying. I thought my life was over. I was in shock. I wrapped up the knife and took it with me. And then I walked. A few hours later I was at the door of my family lawyer’s office and it was the morning. I don’t even know how I got there. That’s what I remember.”

DiPaulo hadn’t scripted his questions for this part. There was great value in moments of high drama in court to let them have a life of their own. Be confident, he told himself. Use your instincts.

He looked at the clock. It was 3:30. If he stopped now, Norville would break for twenty minutes and then Raglan would be squeezed. She could start her cross-examination at the end of the day or risk letting the jury go home with Wyler’s good performance as the last thing on their minds.

On the stand, Samantha looked vulnerable. Determined. This is as good as it’s going to get, his inner voice told him. “Your Honor, those are my questions.” He turned to Raglan before he sat down. “Your witness,” he said.

Norville looked at the clock. “We’ll take our afternoon recess.” She rose from her chair.

Jennifer Raglan shot to her feet. “Excuse me, Your Honor.”

“Yes?” Norville looked cross.

“If it please the court, I’d ask for a small indulgence. As you have probably noticed, my officer in charge, Detective Greene, hasn’t been with me since we came back into court after lunch.”

DiPaulo looked at the Crown’s table. He’d been so concentrated on Samantha he hadn’t even seen that Greene wasn’t there. Where’d he gone?

“He’ll be back in the morning,” Raglan said. “I’d prefer to start my cross-examination at that time.”

Norville raised her hands in objection. “Ms. Raglan. You’re experienced counsel. The jury is here and I don’t want to waste valuable court time.”

“Your Honor, this trial has moved along quickly.” Raglan was standing her ground.

“Mr. DiPaulo, what do you say to this?” Norville asked.

He didn’t know what Raglan and Greene were planning, but if he forced the issue, she’d insist that the jury be removed, then say to the judge something like “An issue came up when the defendant was testifying this morning, and Detective Greene is out investigating it. I can’t and won’t start until he reports back to me tonight.”

Norville would have to grant Raglan the adjournment. It would focus the jury on her upcoming cross-examination. Besides, jurors always liked leaving court early. Best to take the high road and score some brownie points at the same time.

“Your Honor, I really shouldn’t editorialize,” DiPaulo said, “but I suppose that since my client was such an impressive witness my friend might need some extra time to prepare her cross-examination.”

A few members of the jury chuckled. “The jury will disregard Mr. DiPaulo’s editorial comment,” Norville said with a snicker. “I appreciate seeing courtesy between counsel. Ms. Raglan is correct, we have all been working hard. We will start tomorrow morning at ten.”

Tomorrow morning at ten, DiPaulo thought, looking at his client alone in the witness-box. It was like watching his children walk out into the world. He’d done everything he could for Samantha Wyler. Now she was on her own against the formidable skill of Jennifer Raglan. Add to that Ari Greene. Where had the detective gone? What had he found?