MR. TRUSSARDI, JUST A FEW more questions.”
It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re finishing up our examination in chief. We’ve been through all the big stuff, how he loved his wife, how they were looking forward to a child, how he was sailing at the time of her death.
The defense case is almost in. So far, so good. The waitress, Sandra Day, said what she had to say Wednesday afternoon. Cy toyed with her for an hour or so, filling out the day. He gave Ollie Semple a rougher ride on Thursday, but Ollie held his own.
“Sure, I was a little tipsy, but I know what I saw,” he responded to Cy’s probing. “I remember Vincent’s jacket. He left it on my boat once last spring when I took him out . . . Sure, he was my friend—is my friend—but I would never lie, not even for a friend. I know what I saw.”
Vincent Trussardi has thus far proved a good witness—calm, straightforward, addressing the jury eloquently. All to script.
“Let me take you back to the night of the murder, Mr. Trussardi,” I say. “You came home and found your wife, called the police. How long did it take for the police to get there?”
“About ten minutes.”
“And during those ten minutes, what were you doing?”
“I was in shock. I sat on the sofa, sobbing.”
“Did you get up at any point?
“Yes, I went out to the terrace.”
“Tell the jury, did you see anyone on the terrace, talk to anyone?”
Vincent Trussardi’s eyes briefly close. “It was a terrible night. A storm had blown up out of nowhere.”
“Please answer the question, Mr. Trussardi.”
“The boy was there,” he says, opening his eyes.
“What boy, Mr. Trussardi?”
“The boy she brought to the house once. He used to come around after the night she invited him in. The gardener would see him, lurking in the woods, staring at the house. He seemed to have a fixation on Laura.”
“Did you talk to the boy on the terrace that night, Mr. Trussardi?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about it.”
The jury leans forward, all attention.
“I told him to go away. That he didn’t belong there, not now.”
“And what did the boy say?”
“He said, ‘All the police around—she’s dead, isn’t she?’ I told him yes, and then he began ranting, and I heard him scream, ‘I killed her!’ ”
I hear a low gasp from the jury box. My eye catches Damon at the back, ashen faced.
“Order,” Moulton chides.
“Who was that boy, Mr. Trussardi?”
“It was Damon Cheskey, the boy who testified here. He looked different then—skinny, long hair matted—but it was him.”
“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Kenge.”
Cy sits very still. Justice Moulton reads his shock and decides to rescue him. “Three forty,” he announces. “Court will reconvene at ten o’clock Monday for cross-examination.”
For once, the timing is in our favor. All weekend for the jurors to ponder the possibility that Damon killed Laura. We gather up our papers and head out.