"Mr. Bernstein, I'll ask you to review the document I've handed you, marked defense exhibit fifty-nine. Please explain to the jury what this document is." I walk back to the podium and wait while the witness looks at the paper.
"It is a change of beneficiary form from Cindy's life insurance policy." Squirming in his seat, he sweats profusely. The paper shakes slightly in his hand. He seems overly irritated at my question—which is just fine with me.
"And can you tell me whose name appears as the new primary beneficiary?" I ask calmly, almost sweetly.
"Mine, but I did not change this. Cindy did."
"So, it's your testimony that you did not write your name on this form?" I say.
"That's correct."
"Have you ever seen this form, prior to me handing it to you?"
A smug smile crosses his face, and I know he thinks I'm losing this battle. "No, I had no idea that Cindy did this."
I smile back at him and then face the judge. "At this time, Your Honor, I would like to publish defense exhibit fifty-nine alongside the State's previously admitted exhibit seventeen."
Matt exhales loudly. "No objection, Your Honor."
"Mr. Bernstein, you previously testified that State's exhibit seventeen is a note from you to the victim, Cindy Onstad. Do you recall that testimony?"
"Yes." He grabs tissues from the box next to him and mops his forehead.
I could not have asked for a better performance for the jury, and I gather he has no idea how much he's conveying through his body language alone. He's hostile and nervous. Considering his name is on that beneficiary form, he's starting to also look as if he's hiding something.
I lean over to Lisa and instruct her to display both exhibits on the large screen. The jury looks at the split screen images of the card and the change form.
"I direct your attention to your signature on the card and then to the name written on the line next to Primary Beneficiary on the form." I use my red laser pointer and circle each area, leaving bright red ghost circles that draw the jury's attention. "You wrote your name on both of these, correct?"
"No!" He takes a deep breath. "I mean, I wrote on the card but not the insurance form." His voice elevates and shakes. He's edgy and exasperated, and that just adds fuel to my bonfire examination.
"It's your testimony that this is not your handwriting?" My voice has an edge of incredulity to it. I use the pointer to make several red circles around Ralph Bernstein's name on the change form.
"It's not my handwriting." His hand comes down on the arm of his chair with a loud thud.
A couple of the jury members startle.
Perfect!
"I'm sorry, Mr. Bernstein, but this signature here"—I circle his name on the card—"is not the same handwriting as the name written here?" The light leaves a glowing wake of red as I circle widely on the screen.
"Objection, Your Honor." Matt stands, addressing the court, as I knew he would. "Asked and answered."
But we both know I've already made my point, and the jury's eyes are still on the two names in identical handwriting.
"Sustained," Judge Riley states. "Move on, Miss Tate."
"Yes, Your Honor. The defense has no further questions for this witness."
Matt storms past me to the podium, clearly irritated, as I take my seat.
"Remove those exhibits," he bellows, and points to the split-screen projection that remains in the jury's view.
Internally, I chuckle. He’s playing right into my hands.
He takes a deep breath, and begins his attempt at rehabilitation. "Mr. Bernstein, did you have any knowledge that Cindy Onstad changed her policy and listed you as the primary beneficiary?"
"No, I did not." Bernstein's face is a dark red, and he appears almost angrier than Matt.
"Have you collected or attempted to collect on this policy?" Matt continues, calming down slightly, probably in an attempt to calm the witness, as well.
"No, I have not," is the emphatic response.
"Nothing further, Your Honor." Matt takes his seat.
The jury follows him closely with their gazes.
"Any rebuttal, Miss Tate?" Judge Riley directs toward me.
"No, Your Honor."
"The witness is excused. Call your next witness, Miss Tate."
I sit for a moment, considering whether to call Tony to the stand. This could be a brilliant move that leads to acquittal, or the reason he's convicted.
I rise slowly. The courtroom is eerily silent. "The defense rests, Your Honor."
Loud gasps break the silence. I glance at the jury to gauge their reaction to Tony not testifying. Not one of them is looking at us. All twelve sets of eyes are on the judge.
Judge Riley swivels in his chair and addresses the jury, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the close of the evidentiary portion of this case. Both the State and the defense have provided all the evidence they intend to submit for your consideration. Both sides will now have an opportunity to present a summation of their cases before we turn the case over to you for deliberation and a verdict. Since closing arguments can potentially be lengthy and it's already past mid-afternoon, I will recess for today and we will reconvene in the morning."
After further admonitions to the members of the jury to refrain from discussing the case among themselves until after closing arguments have concluded, we stand, and they leave the courtroom.
"Counsel, we'll meet in chambers in fifteen minutes to begin going over jury instructions," Judge Riley states.
He bangs his gavel, and I turn to find Jack in the gallery. Searching his face, I look for confirmation that I made the right decision by ending our case without putting Tony on the stand. He winks and makes his way toward me. A faucet turns on in my body, and some of the tension begins to flow out of me.
He finally comes through the gate and stands next to me at the defense table.
"Okay?" I ask quietly.
"Just what I would've done, Kylie. Are you comfortable with arguing the jury instructions? They're very important, you know." He places his hand on my upper arm and offers support, but his expression is stern.
I feel like a child getting advice from my father. That's exactly what Jack means to me. He stepped into that parental role and provides me with so much more than just a job. He supports me, mentors me, lectures me, but most of all, he loves me.
"You're the daughter he dreamed of having," his wife, Annabelle, told me at the annual Christmas party.
It made my heart swell and a lump form in my throat. My parents didn't guide me through life. In fact, I was responsible for my father and his wellbeing for most of my teenage years, up until his death. Jack is the only actual father figure I've ever had, and I thank my lucky stars for him every day.
"I'm good on jury instructions," I say.
"And closing?" he asks, cocking up an eyebrow.
"I have a basic closing outline, but I’ll need to rework it tonight. It'll be ready tomorrow. I'm not concerned about it. I know what I want to say."
"Opening and closing statements have never been an issue with you. It's second nature, which is great. Allows you to focus on other things." He looks around. "Okay, the firm has been getting lots of calls for you at the office—people wanting interviews. I've been able to put them off, but you are a hot commodity right now. I'm giving you space since this is your first time, and I will continue to do so, but you'll need to talk to some of these folks after the verdict. Understand?"
I nod and try to muster a modicum of excitement, but I hate the circus the press creates, and I loathe being a part of the machine that makes my job more difficult than it needs to be. The press exists, it seems, to glamorize and exploit victims and defendants, without a care for the implications involved in releasing information to the public or creating unwarranted presumptions of guilt that are difficult to overcome.
Jack looks over his shoulders to the back of the courtroom. The media is camped outside the doors in the hallway.
"I'll go calm the vultures. You concentrate on wrapping this up and bringing home a win."
"I will. Thanks, Jack." I want to give him a hug, but I know it's wholly inappropriate in the current setting. After this is over, I'll make the trek to Jack and Annabelle's for dinner—this time, with Alex.
Thinking of Alex reminds me to turn on my cell phone and check messages. I'm expecting a missed call or text from him. He's probably wondering what's going on and what my plans are for the night.
Nothing.
I walk into the hallway behind the courtroom and place a call to Alex. I'm a little apprehensive I've somehow hurt his feelings by not keeping him updated.
"Hey, baby." Alex's voice puts me at ease immediately and brings a huge smile to my face.
I love the way he sounds when we're happy, and I marvel at how two simple words coming from him seem to bring order to my chaotic existence at present.
"Hey, we're recessed, but I have to meet with Matt and the judge to go over jury instructions. It shouldn't be more than an hour, if that. Then, I'll be done here."
"I was able to catch some of the trial on TV this afternoon. I'm guessing you pulled a stunner, judging by the chatter on the news. The pundits are going nuts."
My heart beats a little faster, and my smile turns into an all-out grin. He sounds so excited. It's such a kick and a boost to my ego that he's so interested in my career.
"Are you headed to the office after your meeting with the judge?" His voice is still so positive. He's doing his best to be supportive, which makes my heart swell even more.
"I think I'll come home, work on my closing there, if you can be my sounding board?"
Dead silence fills the line, and my brain instantly goes to a dark place. Maybe he made other plans with someone else.
"Of course, I'd love to help you." There is a bit of wonderment to his voice.
An incredible sense of guilt and shame pervades me, and I feel horrible for jumping to such a grim assumption. He didn't help matters when he made up that stupid story about being with someone else, but other than that one instance—when he was upset and drunk—he has always made me feel as if I am the center of his universe. Why do I expect the worst, when he only gives me the best?
So much to learn about each other.
"Okay, I'll call you when we've wrapped up here." I pause for a second. "Thanks, Alex."
"For what?"
A lump forms in my throat and I swallow hard over it. "For putting up with this mess. It's almost over."
"I'm working on it." His voice is low and husky.
"I know," I whisper, trying to keep my emotions under control, "and I really appreciate it. I have to go. I'll call soon."
"Bye, baby."
I press End and place the phone to my heart.