“Objection, Your Honor, to counsel’s argumentative tone.”
“Overruled,” Judge Keppler says, making a face at the objection to the objection. To Jay, she says, “Defense counsel’s objection is sustained, but he is admonished to refer to the witness in a more respectful tone.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Jay can only imagine Ellie behind him, thoroughly enjoying herself, having found the one place on earth where her dad’s mouth actually gets him into trouble. Nichols, in a charcoal suit today, steps forward a few inches past the lectern, turning his back to Jay, as if he could block him out that way. Tonya shifts in her seat, adjusting the stiff neckline of her dress. Nichols asks her, “Did you try to reach Mr. Hathorne on the evening of November fifth?”
“Several times.”
“And?”
“He never answered his mobile phone or pager.”
Nichols glances back at his notes on the lectern, letting her words linger for a bit. Then, looking up, he asks her when she stopped working for the Hathorne camp. “After the girl went missing,” Tonya says, “Neal fired me.”
It’s a specious presentation of the facts, suggesting causality where none has been proved. But it isn’t worth the spotlight a verbal objection would put on it.
Jay stays in his chair.
“Do you know why you were fired, Ms. Hardaway?”
“For talking to a cop about Neal.”
Neal’s knee finds and nudges Jay’s beneath the table.
Jay nods without turning to look at his client.
He’ll handle it.
“You had discussed Mr. Hathorne’s sudden absence from contact with the campaign staff on Tuesday, November fifth, with Detective Moore?”
“Yes. He came into the office and asked about some of the staff, including Neal, and he asked questions about the schedule on the night of the fifth.”
“And how long after that were you let go from the campaign?”
“It was that afternoon.”
“I don’t have anything further, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Porter?”
“Ms. Hardaway,” Jay says as he stands. He walks to the lectern, slapping down his legal pad. “The Hathorne campaign has a strict policy regarding the chain of command when it comes to communicating on behalf of the organization, isn’t that right?” He looks up, staring at the witness.
“That’s right.”
“In fact, it’s in writing and known to all staff members that no one in the office is allowed to speak on behalf of the campaign, or distribute an in-house memorandum, such as a campaign schedule, to anyone, without going through Marcie Hall, the communications director, or Mr. Hathorne, the campaign manager, or the candidate himself, isn’t that correct, Ms. Hardaway?”
“Yes.”
“So it is a misconception and a false impression to give this jury to suggest that it was talking to law enforcement about Mr. Hathorne’s whereabouts that got you fired, when, really, you weren’t following the rules.”
Tonya shrugs. “I talked to a cop, I got fired.”
“Which would make a nice title of a country song maybe, but not necessarily the way it happened, is it?”
“Objection, Your Honor, argumentative,” Nichols says, standing again, hands on his trim, athletic hips. He actually turns and glances at Jay, a pointed look of gleeful anticipation on his face, a sibling awaiting the punishment of an eternal foe. “Sustained,” Judge Keppler says sternly. “Be careful here, Mr. Porter.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Jay turns to address the witness again. He knows he’s taking it out on her, the whole charade of this trial, his impatience with the slow drip of Isn’t it true? and Didn’t you? and with the yawning gulf between where they’re standing and the truth.
“Where are you working now, ma’am?”
Nichols is on his feet again. “Objection, beyond the scope of direct.”
“Her employment was the whole point of direct.”
“Overruled.”
Tonya looks at the judge, then the D.A., hesitating.
“That means you can answer,” Jay tells her.
Tonya sits up a little straighter. “I am currently the field director for the campaign to elect Sandra Wolcott.”
“Working for the opposition, huh?”
“It’s a job.”
“Might also suggest a lingering bitterness toward the Hathorne campaign, my client in particular,” Jay says, gesturing toward Neal, who glares at Tonya.
“Like I said, it’s a job.”
“Okay,” Jay says, turning to grab, from the corner of the defense table, a single sheet of paper labeled STATE’S EXHIBIT NO. 37. “Permission to approach, Your Honor.” Nichols immediately calls for a sidebar at the bench.
At her desk, Judge Keppler peers down at the exhibit, a single sheet of paper.
Nichols, standing next to the court reporter at the bench, says, “This is a murder trial, not a dissection of election politics. This has no business here.”
“This is part of the state’s evidence. It was in the girl’s purse.”
“He’s trying to prove something without laying any foundation for it.”
“I want to ask a simple question as relates to her employment with Hathorne. I’m not going to ask her to authenticate the document, just if she’s seen it before, in the course of her employment with the Hathorne campaign.”
“I’ll allow it,” Judge Keppler says.
Jay lays the BBDP flyer in front of the witness. As he walks back to the lectern, he sees Sam Hathorne leaning over the bar to whisper something to his grandson. “Have you seen this before, Ms. Hardaway?” he asks. She nods, says yes, and sets it on the corner of the wooden banister in front of her.
“Can you tell the jury what this is?”
Tonya sighs, pressing her lips together for a moment.
It’s clear this is an area she wasn’t expecting to get into.
“It’s a flyer, something that came to the campaign’s attention.”
“A flyer that was circulating around Pleasantville, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And why was this of significance to the campaign?”
“We all thought it was a stunt by one of the other campaigns.”