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“MR. DAVIS,” THE JUDGE said, “You may make your opening statements.”
“Permission to display the painting, Your Honor?”
“Permission granted.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Davis turned first to face the Jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Assistant District Attorney Braxton Davis, and I am here on behalf of the State of Oregon.” He went to the opposite wall, picked a folded easel up off the floor, and then set it up. Next, he placed a recently painted portrait of Mrs. Lockhart on an easel and adjusted it so the jury could see her.
Jackie had to look between several heads to get a look at the beautiful painting. Mrs. Lockhart had a smile on her face as though she was the happiest woman in the world. Her becoming white hair stood out on the progressively light to dark shades of burnt umber in the background, and the modest dress she had on perfectly matched the color of her blue eyes. It was hard to imagine someone had intentionally silenced such a vibrant looking woman.
“Permission to approach the jury?” Davis asked, after he made sure the painting was secure on the stand.
“Permission granted.”
“That’s odd,” said Michael. “The victim’s children look surprised to see the portrait, and Kaydence quickly looked away. I wonder why? See now, if that was a picture of my murdered mother and I hadn’t seen it before, I would have had a very strong reaction, maybe even chocked up a little. Not these four. Something is very wrong with these four people.”
His limp was hardly noticeable when the attorney for the people took his time, rather than hurried to stand at the end of the jury box, so they could get a good look at the portrait. He intentionally turned so he was also facing the spectators. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, meet Mrs. Amelia Ann Lockhart. She was a woman of wealth, of good standing in the community, a patron of the arts, and she was well known for her generosity to the poor. That was before her life abruptly ended on the night of June 10th, 2012.
The State of Oregon’s case is simple. Mark Barrett, the man seated at the defense table, is the dumbest criminal known to man. He...”
“Your Honor,” Livingston protested as he started to stand up.
Davis looked shocked at the interruption and paused for a moment before he said, “Very well, I withdraw the statement.”
“Talk about smooth,” said Carl. “He got the jury to smile first thing. The men will admire him and the women will be in love by the time this trial is over.”
The DA scratched an eyebrow and waited a moment more before he turned back to the jury. “The state will prove Mark Barrett did willfully and intentionally take the life of Mrs. Amelia Anne Lockhart. She was sixty-seven years old.
Mr. Barrett did it for money – ten-thousand dollars, to be exact. He got a gun, went to her house, killed her, and then stole a few very valuable pieces of jewelry. I am amazed that he took so little, and you will be too. In a house filled with irreplaceable valuables, he could have walked out a millionaire. Instead, all he took was five pieces of jewelry. A professional would have known better. A dumb criminal would not.”
“Your Honor,” Livingston loudly moaned, half rising out of his seat again.
Again, the judge looked over the top of his glasses at the DA. “I agree, Counselor. Mr. Davis, please refrain from using the word ‘dumb’.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Let’s see, where was I, Oh yes, Mrs. Amelia Lockhart went to sleep the night of June 9th and never woke up. The housekeeper found her three days later. She had been shot once in the head. Thankfully, Mrs. Lockhart died instantly and did not suffer.
Mark Barrett thought he could get away with it, but he left some very incriminating evidence behind. In this trial, you will hear what that evidence is, and from that, you will know for certain the only possible verdict you can render is – guilty. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to be here.” Braxton Davis nodded to the woman seated at the end of the twelve member jury box, and then went back to his table.
“Yep,” Michael said, “that’s what they say about Davis’ style. He makes friends with the jury by addressing each in turn throughout a trial. He is famous for taking good care of his jury too. Telling them Mrs. Lockhart did not suffer eased both the jury and the spectators. Very smooth, that one. If the jury likes you, they’ll come down on your side.”
Jackie could hear what was said in court well enough, but she needed to be closer to the front if she wanted to observe the subject of their search. She wrote the word ‘details’ on her pad and tipped it up so her team could see it through the camera in her medallion.
“You’ll have to be more specific, boss,” said Michael. “I’ll tell you this though. Those four are a real work of art...the children, I mean. They are decked out like they’re going to a garden party instead of a trial. Their clothes and jewelry look expensive, and unless I’m mistaken, even the men got recent manicures.”
The man seated next to Jackie seemed interested in what she was writing, so she wrote down some of the details the DA had cited. Her nosey neighbor turned away.
“Jackie, Michael is hogging all the attention again. The charges are serious stuff. If they convict him for felony theft, it’s a $375,000 fine. He should have upped his price...by a lot. For aggravated murder, which means he got paid to kill her, he could get death, life without parole, or life with parole after 30 years. Any way you look at it, he’s done in this life.”
“If they convict him,” Michael added.
As soon as the DA sat down, the judge asked, “Mr. Livingston, does the defense have an opening statement?”
“I do, Your Honor.” Steve Livingston stood up, asked permission to approach the jury and smiled when it was granted. Just as handsome as his client, Livingston stood five foot ten and had a touch of gray on the sides of his neatly trimmed hair. Instead of standing at the end of the jury box, he ignored the spectators and stood directly in front of the jury.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we have taken you away from your home, your friends, and your family, and we are grateful for the attention you are willing to give to this matter.
You are here to determine whether or not my client, Mr. Mark Barrett, killed Mrs. Amelia Lockhart. However, it is important to remember that the burden of proof rests with the People. If they can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, then even if you suspect he might have done it, you must set him free. All we ask is that you assume my client is innocent until proven guilty.” With that, Stephen Livingston went back to his table and sat down.
“Short and sweet,” said Carl. “I like this guy, even if he is representing a dumb criminal.”
“Mr. Davis,” the judge said, “you may call your first witness.”
Davis walked to the lectern and laid several pages of typewritten notes on top. “The People call Chris Cooper.”
In the back of the courtroom, the bailiff opened the door, stuck his head out and yelled, “Mr. Chris Cooper?” A few seconds later, a man entered the room, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what Mr. Cooper did for a living. He wore a light blue shirt, dark blue pants, a matching jacket with the post office logo on the front, and a baseball type cap, which he quickly removed when he entered.
The Court Clerk stood up and as soon as he came through the little gate and approached the witness box, she said, “Please raise your right hand. Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth?”
“I do,” said Cooper.
“You may be seated.”
The postman seemed a little nervous as he ran his fingers through his light brown hair, and waited to be questioned.
The DA didn’t make him wait long. “For the record, please tell us your full name and occupation.”
“My name is Christopher A. Cooper, and I deliver mail for the United States Post Office here in Portland.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper, is 4415 Redwood Blvd. on your mail delivery route?”
“It is.”
“Do you know who lives at that address?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lockhart,” the witness paused briefly, “or at least she used to live there before she died.”
“To your knowledge, has the post office received any kind of notice concerning mail being delivered to the house since Mrs. Lockhart was murdered?”
“You mean like a change of address? No, I haven’t seen one.”
“Thank you. Previous to Mrs. Lockhart’s untimely death, how long had you been delivering mail to that address?”
The postman paused to think before he gave his answer. “About three and a half, maybe four years.”
“Did you know Mrs. Lockhart personally?”
The postman briefly lowered his eyes. “We talked several times when I came to deliver her mail, but no more personally than that.”
“Do you know most of the people on your route well?” Davis asked.
“Fairly well, all except one couple that just moved in. I haven’t seen them yet, but they take their mail in each day.”
“Mr. Cooper, do you recognize anyone in this courtroom?”
“I do. I’ve seen that guy over there before.”
“Could you point him out for the jury?”
The postman extended his index finger and pointed. “He’s right there.”
The DA turned to the jury just to make certain they were paying attention. “Let the record show that Mr. Cooper is pointing to the defendant, Mark Barrett.”
“So noted,” said the judge.
“Mr. Cooper, did you see Mr. Barrett more than once?”
“No, just that once.”
“I see. When was it that you saw Mr. Barrett?”
“I believe it was the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered.”
“Where did you see Mr. Barrett?”
“He was walking down the street in front of Mrs. Lockhart’s house. At first, I thought he was lost, so I asked if he needed directions. He just smiled and kept going.”
“What made you think he needed directions?” Davis asked.
“Well, he seemed to be looking for Mrs. Lockhart’s address. Some people have big numbers on the side of their house near the door, and some even put them on the door. There are numbers on Mrs. Lockhart’s house, but they are smaller than most.”
“How can you be sure this is the man you saw?”
“I am careful about such things, and I’m good at remembering faces. People steal from mailboxes, so I pay close attention to strangers on my route. That’s the man I saw, all right.”
“Can you tell us what the man you saw was wearing?”
“Not exactly, I looked at his face mostly, but I remember his blue slip-on tennis shoes. Not too many people wear blue ones. Most are white.”
“What color of blue would you say his shoes were?”
“Turquoise.”
Davis moved to the side, clasped his hands together and leaned one arm on the lectern. “I draw your attention to the three days between June 9th, the night Mrs. Lockhart was murdered, and June 12th, when her body was discovered. Did you notice anything odd about Mrs. Lockhart’s mail during that time?”
“I sure did. She usually came out to get the mail from me. Sweet lady, sweetest woman in the world. She has a box attached to the outside of the house near the front door and that’s what was odd.”
“Could you be more specific? What was odd?” Davis asked.
“Well, for three days she didn’t come out, and she didn’t pick up her mail.”
“Were you worried about it?”
“Not worried, exactly,” Cooper answered. “I just supposed she’d gone somewhere and forgot to send in a no-delivery notice. She’d never forgotten that before, but I figured she was getting on in years.”
“By the way, do you recognize this portrait as the Mrs. Lockhart we are talking about?”
Cooper turned to look at the picture and loudly exhaled, “Yes, sir, that is Mrs. Lockhart.”
“Where is her mail now?”
“At the post office. I had it held so it wouldn’t pile up after I read about the murder. I was just sick about it.”
Davis looked amazed. “You mean no one has come to pick up her mail?”
“No sir, it’s all in a box just waiting for someone to claim it.”
“What normally happens to mail when someone dies?” Davis asked.
“Normally, someone in the family shows the post office some kind of proof of relationship, and then has the mail forwarded to their own address. Sometimes, no one claims the mail and it is returned to the sender, only I’d hate to return her mail. No sweeter woman ever walked the earth than Mrs. Lockhart. If I send all that mail back...it’d be like admitting she was truly gone.” Cooper bowed his head.
Davis waited for the witness to compose himself. “To your knowledge, was Mrs. Lockhart receiving any threatening letters?”
“No sir, just the usual bills and magazines. She never did get personal letters that I recall, except maybe the kind of envelopes invitations come in. But then, most people don’t get regular mail now that they have email.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper, I have no further questions.” Davis picked up his papers and went back to his table.
Judge Blackwell removed his glasses and started to clean them with a tissue. “Do you have any questions for this witness, Mr. Livingston?”
“May I have a moment, Your Honor?” Livingston asked.
“Very well, but make it quick.”
“Jackie,” said Michael, “I can’t wait till you see the look on Slone Lockhart’s face when the mailman said her mail was at the post office. He exchanged surprised looks with his brother. I wonder what those two are up to.”
Carl grabbed a pop can off the coffee table, downed the last of the liquid and then set his computer aside. “You want another pop, pop?”
“Pop?” Michael gasped. “You’re older than me.”
“Not by much.”
Jackie ignored them and took a long look at the people seated on down her row. It was obvious some were taking notes and she suspected they were reporters. Two teenage boys, one with an orange Mohawk and one with dreadlocks, looked like they’d wandered into the room by mistake.
“Somebody’s precious baby boy,” the man next to her whispered as he followed her gaze.
Jackie nodded and turned away. Several people on the opposite side of the courtroom changed positions in their seats. They looked uncomfortable and she didn’t blame them. The longer she sat, the harder the pew felt. She uncrossed her legs and sat up a little straighter. It didn’t help much.
*
LIVINGSTON FINISHED consulting his notes, and then went to stand behind the lectern. “Thank you, Your Honor. Hello, Mr. Cooper.”
“Hello.”
“You testified that you believe you saw Mr. Barrett the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered, is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you recall the exact day you think you saw him?”
“Not the exact day, but I’m sure it was the week before Mrs. Lockhart was killed.”
“Mr. Cooper, if you don’t know the exact day you saw him, is it possible it was two weeks, or even a week and a half earlier?”
“I don’t think so, but maybe.”
“Thank you. To your knowledge, has any of the mail on your route ever been stolen?”
“Not that I know of.”
Livingston looked thoughtful when he asked, “Did anyone report missing mail the week you say you saw the defendant?”
“I didn’t hear of any missing mail.”
“But if mail was missing, you would have heard about it?”
“I believe so.”
“Thank you.” Livingston checked his notes again. “Mr. Cooper, isn’t it true that you didn’t get a real good look at the man you say you saw the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered?”
“No, I got a good look at him. I just didn’t pay attention to what he was wearing.”
“Yet, you did not see him committing a crime, did you?”
“No, I didn’t see him do anything. He just smiled and walked away.”
“Is it normal for a man thinking of committing a crime to smile as...”
Davis quickly interrupted, “Objection, calls for speculation, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
Livingston took what sounded like a frustrated breath and then continued, “Mr. Cooper, do you know how many turquoise slip-on shoes are sold in this country each year?”
“I have no idea.”
“Thank you, I have no further questions.”
The judge looked at the DA. “Mr. Davis, redirect?”
Davis rose up. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Cooper, you are excused,” said Judge Blackwell. He waited until the witness left the room before he said, “Gentlemen, it is nearly ten thirty. Let’s take a break and reconvene at ten forty-five. Members of the jury, you are reminded not to discuss the case with anyone.” Judge Blackwell stood up and headed for his private door.
“All rise until the judge and jury have left the room,” the bailiff ordered.
As the spectators began to leave, Jackie stood up and moved out of the way so others could leave the pew she was sitting in. She took special note of the man sitting next to her, so she could avoid him in the future. He was just a little too nosey for her taste.
Some people stayed in their seats or stood up just to stretch their legs, and she was about to sit back down when Michael said, “Jackie, that blonde walking toward you is the defendant’s wife. She doesn’t look real happy to be here. In fact, she got upset when the DA put the picture of the victim up. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry.”
As soon as Holly Barrett walked past, Jackie followed her out of the courtroom. She watched Holly hurry down the hall, disappear around the corner, and then decided to follow her. By the time Jackie made her way through the crowd and turned the corner, Holly was already sitting on a bench against the wall, staring aimlessly at a small garden through a large picture window.
“May I sit beside you?” Jackie asked.
“It’s a free country...for most of us,” Holly muttered.
“Thank you.” Jackie sat down and admired the garden herself for a moment. At length, she glanced at the slumping woman beside her. “You look exhausted?”
“What?” Holly asked.
“You look tired, Mrs. Barrett.”
Holly looked away. “Oh, You would too, if you’d just flown in from Salt Lake and then couldn’t sleep all night.”
“Well, maybe getting the first day over with will let you rest better tonight.”
“I hope so.” Holly turned to look Jackie in the eye. “Are you a reporter?”
“No. My name is Jackie Harlan and I’m just here to watch the trial.”
“You don’t hate me? Everyone else in this town does.”
“I am not from around here. In fact, I haven’t been to Portland in years.”
“I’m not from around here either. We’d only lived here a few months before he...” Holly sighed. “He moved us here because he was offered a better job.”
“Was it a better job?”
“I guess it was, He didn’t talk about it much. All I know is he put in a lot of long hours after work. At least that’s what he said he was doing.”
Jackie hesitantly asked, “He wasn’t working?”
Holly turned her whole body so she could look Jackie in the eye again. “Haven’t you read the newspapers? Everyone knows he has...or had a mistress. I doubt she will have anything to do with him now either.”
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure you knew.”
“Oh, I know alright. I suspected it long ago and the DA is right – I married a stupid man.” She lightly bit her lower lip. “Then again, only a stupid woman would have married him. Everyone tried to tell me he was dishonest, but would I listen? No, I was in love.” She paused for a long moment before she said, “Funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“How love can die like that. I wouldn’t have believed that was possible either, at least not for me.”
“I believe it,” Carl whispered. He almost made Jackie smile. For a moment, she forgot Michael and Carl could hear every word.
“Mark made more money here,” Holly continued, “but he didn’t think about how much more it would cost to live here. We were always broke. When he got arrested, we didn’t have enough saved to pay the mortgage.”
“What did you do?” Jackie asked.
“I hoped they would let him out on bail so he could keep working, but they said he was a flight risk. I didn’t really want him to come home anyway.”
“Getting someone out on bail costs money too.”
“I know, but his parents would have come up with bail money.”
“Wouldn’t they help you pay the mortgage?”
Holly rolled her eyes, “Haven’t you heard? This whole mess is my fault.”
“Oh, I see.”
“I had to go on welfare, which I truly hated. After my picture was printed in the paper, people looked at me as though I killed her. You can’t imagine what it’s like to have to buy groceries with food stamps, and have everyone watch to see what you buy. The reporters are the worst. They followed me everywhere, even when I had the girls with me. There should be laws against that.”
“Yes, there should.”
“Mark’s attorney had to ask the court to order them to stay away from the house, but that didn’t stop them. They just parked on the other side of the street, until the neighbors complained.”
“You have no family?”
“I do, but they live in Salt Lake. Mr. Livingston, that Mark’s attorney, said if the kids and I didn’t stay, it would make Mark look guilty. Thing is, I couldn’t pay the mortgage, so we had to go somewhere.”
“Is he guilty?”
Holly fiddled with the strap of the small purse she had in her lap. “Are you sure you’re not a reporter?”
Jackie smiled. “I swear I am not a reporter. I own my own business, and we stay away from the press too, as much as possible.”
“Well, if you are a reporter, and you don’t print anything I say until after the trial, I guess it is okay to tell you. My husband is as guilty as sin. He refused to take a lie detector test and that tells me everything I need to know.”
“He wasn’t home with you that night?”
“He didn’t come home all night. The next morning, he was there when I woke up and he had a fire going in the fireplace. I usually had to beg him to light a fire, so I knew something was up. It’s a good thing the court can’t make me testify against him.”
“It’s a federal law, I think.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. What kind of business do you own?”
Jackie looked at her watch and smiled. “It’s time to go back in. We can talk later if you like.”
“Will you sit by me? I have no one in Portland I can talk to, and I could use a friend just now.”
“I would like that,” said Jackie.
It was just what the detective team was hoping for. The closer Jackie could sit to the person they suspected was the object of their search, the better. She followed Holly back into the courtroom and continued to follow her to the front pew. A man and a woman were already there and looked annoyed when they spotted Jackie.
“She’s with me,” said Holly. She let Jackie go in first, and then sat down beside her. “Mark’s parents,” she whispered.
Jackie didn’t pay any attention to either of them. Instead, she watched the victim’s four children retake their seats behind the prosecution table, where Braxton Davis was busy working on his laptop. This time, the DA had a woman assistant with him, and when Jackie looked behind her, the courtroom was filling up fast.
“We are missing a few Lockhart spouses, I notice,” Carl said. “I wonder why they’re not interested in seeing the man who killed their mother-in-law get the death penalty.”
“I spotted at least a dozen reporters with iPads while you were out of the room,” said Michael. “Looks like they were afraid to give up their seats. At least three of them are sending out live tweets. I hope they don’t pay any attention to you, Jackie. Don’t give anyone your last name, okay?”
For years, the team had been careful not to get their pictures taken and Jackie hadn’t actually thought about the chance she was taking. Being associated with the defendant’s wife truly might draw undo attention to her, but it couldn’t be helped. It was the only way to get close enough to the front. Fortunately, none of the reporters was taking pictures inside the courtroom. Outside might be a different matter, however.
Once more, she leaned forward a little and turned her attention to the victim’s four children seated directly across the aisle from Holly. They sat in the order of their birth, with the oldest at the end nearest Jackie and the youngest at the other end. Their individual expressions said nothing of what was going on in their minds, nor did they speak to each other. Michael was right. They seemed aloof and so unmoved by the circumstances of their mother’s death that rumors of the children having her killed didn’t seem that remote after all.
*
PUBLIC DEFENDER LIVINGSTON was also busy at his table. He didn’t appear to be finished before the bailiff s brought the defendant in, and the court clerk and recorder resumed their places, but he stood up to greet the defendant.
Mark Barrett nodded to his parents and then smiled and winked at his wife before he sat down. Holly did not return his smile, but it didn’t seem to bother Mark.
Before now, Jackie hadn’t paid too much attention to the man sitting beside her, but when she glanced down, she noticed Mark’s father was toying with a wedding band that was too loose. Jackie guessed he had lost weight since his son’s arrest and felt sorry for him. His wife looked glad to see her son, just as any mother would who worried about the conditions and the dangers inmates faced in jail.
Michael started to speak, stopped, and took another swallow of his soft drink. “In case you hadn’t guessed, you are sitting next to Mr. Mark Barrett the second. The defendant is actually Mark Barrett the third. Barrett the elder probably knows he has a stupid son. I know I would have guessed by now. The Barretts do pretty well according to a Salt Lake newspaper. He’s in real estate and she’s a teacher. Mark the third is their only child.”
“All rise,” said the bailiff, as Judge Blackwell came back in and took his seat.
“You may be seated. Are we ready to continue, Counselors?” the judge asked.
Just as Steve Livingston stood up, a man came to the fence behind him, and handed the attorney a note. “May I have a moment?” Livingston asked. He opened the note, read it, and then quickly rifled through some papers on his table.
“Mr. Livingston, we are waiting,” said the judge.
“Sorry, Your Honor.” Livingston finally found what he was looking for and looked up. “At this time, the defense asks for a mistrial,” Livingston said.
The judge raised an eyebrow. “On what grounds, Councilor?”
“It has come to my attention that two of the jury members are cousins.” Livingston searched his list of jurors for two of the names. “Juror number six and number eleven.”
As if he was expecting it, Davis begrudgingly got to his feet. “Your Honor, there is no law against relatives being on the same jury.”
“Well, there should be,” Livingston argued.
“Mr. Livingston,” said the judge, “why would this be a concern?”
“You know how families are. One cousin might agree with the other just to keep from causing strife in the family.”
“Your Honor,” Davis argued, “we can’t base decisions on what might someday, maybe happen in the future, and I see no reason to make an issue of it.”
“I agree,” said Judge Blackwell. “Motion for dismissal is denied. Anything else?” The judge watched each man shake his head and then said to the bailiff, “You may bring the jury back in.”
Everyone waited and watched as the twelve jurors and two alternates returned.
“Juror number six and number eleven don’t look anything alike,” said Michael.
“I don’t look like my cousins either,” said Carl.
“You have cousins? In all these years, you never said anything about any cousins.”
“That’s because I’m afraid you’ll try to marry one of them,” Carl shot back.
“Mr. Davis,” said Judge Blackwell, “you may call your next witness.”
“The People call Mrs. Jane Bridges to the stand.”
Everyone in the courtroom turned to watch as an elderly woman entered from the back of the courtroom. She needed a cane to walk, and after the clerk swore her in, the bailiff took the elderly woman’s arm and helped her up the step to the witness box. She plopped down in the seat and then hung her cane on the bannister in front of her. She wore a light pink dress with a white collar and a pillbox hat that she most likely bought in the sixties. Her hair was white, she wore just a touch too much rouge, and when she realized everyone was looking at her, she bashfully smiled.
“Please state and your name and occupation.”
“My name is Jane Bridges. I am retired.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Bridges, how old are you?” the DA asked.
“Ninety-three.”
“Really? You do not look that old.”
She slightly blushed. “Thank you.”
“Oh brother,” Carl whispered, “Talk about flattery.”
”Yes, but it made the jury smile,” said Michael.
Davis continued, “Mrs. Bridges, you live directly across the street from the Lockhart residence. Is that correct?”
“I do.”
“Do you recognize the woman in this portrait?”
The elderly woman looked at the painting with a touch of sadness in her eyes. “Yes, that is Mrs. Lockhart. She brought the painting over to show me when it was finished. What a beautiful portrait, and it looks so like her. It doesn’t look much like her now, I suppose, not with a bullet in her head.”
Davis quickly moved on before his witness got upset. “Mrs. Bridges, please think back to June 5th, 2012. Do you recall seeing someone come out of Mrs. Lockhart’s house early that morning?”
“I do. It was a man.”
“About what time was that?”
“It was just after three-thirty in the morning. My rheumatism woke me up and when that happens, there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep. I got up, took some aspirin, and sat in my chair a while.”
“Would that be the chair in your bedroom?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And is your chair positioned so that you can look across the street at Mrs. Lockhart’s property?”
“It is.”
Davis turned, looked directly at juror number ten, and then quickly looked away. “Have you ever seen a man come out of her house at that time of the morning before?”
“No, but then I usually sleep all night.”
“Did you think seeing someone come out of her house was odd?”
“Sure I did.”
“Did you go across the street to see if Mrs. Lockhart was alright?”
Jane Bridges gave the DA an exasperated look. “No, sir, I am too old to go out at night in the dark. I might fall and break my neck.”
“I understand. Did you call the police?”
“Yes I did, and they came right away. An officer drove down the street shining a light on Mrs. Lockhart’s house, but by then, the man was gone.”
“Mrs. Bridges, did the officer go inside Mrs. Lockhart’s house?”
“Not that I saw. I suppose he didn’t want to wake her up.”
“Was the man you saw leaving the house carrying anything?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Did you fall asleep after the officer left?”
“Right in my chair, too.” As if she just remembered there was an audience, Mrs. Bridges looked around when she heard a woman giggle.
“Did you see Mrs. Lockhart the next day?”
“Well, when I woke up, Mrs. Lockhart was in her yard fussing with her flowers, so I supposed everything was alright.”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Lockhart about what you saw?”
“Yes, but not that day. It was a day or two later when she came to see how I was getting on. She generally came once or twice a week. I asked her about it, but she said...”
Livingston hopped to his feet. “Hearsay, Your Honor.”
“Withdrawn,” Davis quickly said.
“What does hearsay mean?” the elderly Jane Bridges wanted to know.
Davis smiled to comfort her. “It means I messed up and asked my question the wrong way.”
“That’s okay, it happens to all of us.” Mrs. Bridges managed to make more than one person on the jury chuckle, and most of the spectators smiled, but she didn’t seem to notice this time.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges. Now, without telling us what she said, did Mrs. Lockhart seem concerned about a stranger being in her house?”
“No, she shook it off as if it were nothing to worry over.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor.” The DA removed his papers from the lectern and returned to his table.
“Mr. Livingston, do you have any questions for this witness,” the judge asked.
Stephen Livingston stood up, but he didn’t go to the lectern. “I do, Your Honor.”
“You may proceed.”
“Mrs. Bridges, thank you for coming to talk to us today.”
“You’re welcome. What is your name?”
“I am Steve Livingston. Now...”
She pointed a crooked finger at the DA. “Are you friends with the other guy?”
Livingston smiled, “Most of the time.”
“Okay, then you can talk to me.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.” Livingston couldn’t help but smile too, and then he walked to the lectern. “Mrs. Bridges, you said it was a man you saw coming out of Mrs. Lockhart’s house? Wasn’t it dark?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mrs. Lockhart’s house sits on the corner of the block, is that correct?”
“Yes, it does.”
“And is there a street lamp on that corner?”
“What?”
Livingston realized he was talking too fast, and intentionally slowed his speech. “Is there a street lamp on that corner?”
“Usually, but the blasted thing keeps going out. I complain, but the city never can fix it right. I’ve been complaining since we bought the house in 1956.”
“Do you recall if the street lamp was on that night?”
“Not specifically... not that night.”
“I see. Mrs. Bridges, did you recognize the man you saw that night?”
“No, it was too dark.”
“Would you know him again if you saw him?”
She paused to consider something. “I bet the streetlight was out that night. Of course, Mrs. Lockhart’s porch light wasn’t on either, and she always left it on. It was on the next night, as I recall.” She thoughtfully put a finger on the side of her cheek. “That’s right, her outside light was on the next night. I remember, because knowing it was turned on made me fall asleep easier.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges,” said Livingston. “That is very helpful. I wonder, could the person you saw have been a woman dressed like a man?”
“It could have been. I can’t tell one from the other these days, even on TV.”
“Could the person you saw have been one of Mrs. Lockhart’s children?”
“Yes, but that’s not likely. They rarely came around, even in the daytime.”
“Thank you,” said Livingston. “Now, Mrs. Bridges, have you ever heard one of Mrs. Lockhart’s children threaten her or her husband?”
Davis leapt out of his chair, “Objection, no foundation. Move to strike, Your Honor.”
Judge Blackwell nodded. “Sustained. The jury shall disregard the last question.”
Confused, Mrs. Bridges answered the question anyway. “Not since that big blow up with Mr. Lockhart before he passed away. There was yelling and screaming that day, the likes of which I have never seen before or since.”
“Move to strike,” Davis said, although he said it a lot softer than he had previously so he wouldn’t upset the witness.
“So moved,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Mrs. Bridges asked the judge.
Judge Blackwell calmly explained, “It’s just a point of law, Mrs. Bridges. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Oh, good.”
“Anything else, Mr. Livingston?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor. Mrs. Bridges, have you ever met any of Mrs. Lockhart’s children?”
“Oh, my yes. When they were youngsters, they came over to play all the time, but they stopped coming some years ago. Children grow up, you know.”
Again, Livingston smiled. “Aside from the person you saw coming out of Mrs. Lockhart’s house the morning of June 5th, did you see anything else suspicious?”
“Not until they found poor Mrs. Lockhart’s body. She was murdered, they tell me. After that, there were policemen and reporters everywhere, even on my lawn. Now, there’s just those prison guards.”
“Do you mean the guards the Museum sent to protect the house?” Livingston asked.
“Is that who they are? I’m not complaining, mind you. I like them watching the neighborhood. I was scared after she got killed.”
“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Davis.” Livingston went back to his table, but he didn’t sit down quickly.
“Redirect, Mr. Davis?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Davis walked back to the lectern, noticed Livingston was still standing and wrinkled his brow. Even then, the defense attorney didn’t sit, so he turned his attention back to the witness. “Mrs. Bridges, when did Mr. Lockhart die?”
“Objection, relevance,” Livingston said.
“Overruled. You may answer the question, Mrs. Bridges,” the judge said as he watched Livingston reluctantly sit down.
“I don’t remember when he died exactly,” the witness answered.
“If you had to guess, how many years ago do you suppose it was?” Davis asked.
Livingston again objected, “Calls for a conclusion, Your Honor.”
“It calls for a guess,” Davis shot back.
“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Davis.”
“Mrs. Bridges, did Mr. Lockhart die a long time ago?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Five years, ten perhaps?”
Instead of watching the witness, Jackie kept her eye on Livingston. He started to rise up and it looked like he was going to object again, but thought better of it and sat back down.
“Ten, I guess,” Mrs. Bridges answered.
“Do you happen to know how Mr. Lockhart died?”
“He had cancer something awful. He died in the hospital, I believe.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges. I have nothing further.”
The judge waited to see if the defense attorney had any more questions, and when he didn’t stand back up, the judge said, “The witness is excused.”
It was almost painful watching Mrs. Bridges stand up, even with the Bailiff’s help. He handed the cane to her, but just in case, he wrapped her other hand around his arm and walked her back down the aisle.
“That was nice of the bailiff,” said Michael. “I never want to get that old, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Don’t worry,” Carl said, “we talked it over and we intend to push you off a cliff long before that.”
Michael gave his coworker and friend a revolted look. “That’s comforting.”
Surrounded by people who had no idea why, Jackie covered her mouth to hide her smile.
The judge consulted his watch and then said, “You may call your next witness, Mr. Davis.”
“The People call Officer Cole Wynham to the stand.”
The bailiff opened the back door, called for the officer and then waited.
“Here’s something about what we already suspected” Michael said. “An article online confirms that Mrs. Lockhart’s children are contesting the will. Looks like she left most of her estate to a museum, which explains why there are guards around the victim’s house.”
“Sure would be nice to know who hired Barrett,” Carl said. “I’m betting it’s one of the kids, especially now that they’re contesting the will. Hey, Jackie, mind if we do a little extra snooping?”
Jackie looked at the camera in the front of the courtroom, slowly turned her head to one side and then to the other, as if she was trying to pop her neck.
“That’s a no, I don’t mind,” Michael decided. “Good, that’ll give us something to do while you’re off lounging around in the courtroom.”
A police officer in full uniform entered the courtroom, just as he no doubt had countless times before. He appeared confident, held up his right hand, promised to tell the truth, and then sat in the witness box.
Assistant District Attorney Davis quickly got started in the usual way of asking for his full name and occupation. Then he asked, “Officer Wynham, how long have you been a member of the Portland Police Bureau?”
“Eight years.”
“Does your position on the police force include responding to 911 calls?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you receive a dispatch for a welfare check at the home of Mrs. Amelia Lockhart during the early morning hours of Friday June 5, 2012?”
“I did.”
“About what time was that?”
“Around three-thirty a.m.”
“And did you respond?” Davis asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do?”
“I drove to the address and turned my spotlight on the house.”
“Did you see anyone outside of Mrs. Lockhart’s house?”
The officer shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Did you look all the way around the house, even in the alley?”
“Yes, sir. We try not to wake the neighbors, but I wanted to make sure Mrs. Lockhart was okay.”
“At some point, did you enter Mrs. Lockhart’s house?”
“No, sir.”
“What did you do next?”
“I asked for Mrs. Lockhart’s phone number from dispatch and called her.”
“Did she answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did she appear to be upset or harmed?”
“No, sir, she appeared sleepy. I asked her to come downstairs and make certain the door was locked.”
“What did you do then?”
“I stood outside her front door. The lights came on downstairs, and then Mrs. Lockhart came to the door and turned her outside light on. I made certain she was okay, and waited until I could hear her lock the front door after she closed it. Then I went back to the police cruiser.”
“Did you wait until after all the lights inside the house went out again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you do anything else that night concerning that specific 911 call?”
“Yes, sir, I turned off my headlights and drove around the house again, and then checked the neighborhood for anything suspicious.”
“And did you see anything?”
Officer Wynham again shook his head. “No, sir, everything looked normal.”
“When you got back to the station, did you file a report?”
“I did.”
Davis walked to the evidence table and picked up a piece of paper. “People’s exhibit A, Your Honor. Permission to approach the witness?”
“Granted.”
Davis handed the paper to the witness. “Officer Wynham, is this the report you filed.”
Cole Wynham looked it over, handed it back, and then said, “It is.”
Davis handed the report to the Court Clerk, and went back to the lectern to consult his notes.
Judge Blackwell gave him a moment and then asked, “Any more questions, Councilor?”
“No, Your Honor.” Davis returned to his table just as the defense attorney got to his feet.
