“Objection, hearsay,” Jay says. “She can’t testify to what her husband knows.” It was sloppy phrasing on the D.A.’s part, but for whatever it’s worth, Jay got in the fact that Maxine and Mitchell might have two wildly different stores of knowledge of what happened to Alicia Nowell. It was a tiny crack in the state’s presentation, but he’ll take it. “Sustained,” Judge Keppler says, not looking up.
“Do you know what happened to your daughter between the time she left your home Tuesday, November fifth, and the day her body was discovered?”
“I don’t know anything, no,” she says softly.
“Do you have any idea what she was doing in Pleasantville?”
A sigh into the microphone, and then, “No.”
The last question was Nichols doubling down on statements he’d made during his opening this morning, promising the jury that the state’s was a straightforward, commonsense case: the defendant met the girl; the defendant flirted with the girl; the defendant gave the girl his phone number; the defendant pursued the girl; the defendant met the girl on a street corner in Pleasantville; the defendant was the last person seen with the girl; and, most important, he lied about all of the above. “Defense counsel is going to put on a show for you folks,” he said. “Political espionage, corruption, and election tampering, and I ask you good people of Harris County what in the world that has to do with the price of tea in China?” Jay has yet to meet a young lawyer south of Kansas who doesn’t put on his best Atticus Finch every time he stands in front of a jury, who doesn’t speak in an overly folksy manner, as if he’d dropped years of sophisticated law schooling and legal prolixity like bread crumbs on his way to the courthouse, leaving a trail to find his way back once the audience is gone.
“It’s all smoke, people, subterfuge,” Nichols said. “A way to distract you from the fact that his client has no alibi for the time in question, that his client lied to law enforcement about knowing the victim. It’s cheap and, make no mistake, it’s a trick, and it speaks to the very cynicism that defense counsel will try to make you believe is the reason we’re all here. Politics. Gamesmanship. When the truth is, a young woman is dead, and that is the reason we’re all here. The defense will try very hard to present to you that Alicia Nowell was working for Sandra Lynn Wolcott, a candidate for mayor and the current district attorney for this county. But there is no evidence that supports this. I know that. He knows that. And soon you will know it too,” he had ended, trying to get out ahead of anything Jay might present during trial. Jay, who frankly wasn’t sure he would present any defense testimony at all–and was still unsure as to whether he could bank on A.G. being present in the courthouse at the needed time–had given the shortest opening statement of his career. “Well, as long as we’re on the subject of no evidence,” he said, “let’s start with the fact that there isn’t a single piece of physical evidence that ties Neal Hathorne to the murder of Alicia Nowell. In fact, we could pretty much start and stop there. There is no way any man could do what was done to her without leaving a trace of himself behind. But what you did not hear in Mr. Nichols’s opening, and what you won’t hear during this entire trial, is any physical evidence to show that my client did this horrible crime. No blood, no hair, no DNA of any kind.” He spoke, total, for less than ten minutes.
“I have nothing further, Your Honor,” Nichols says to Keppler.
“Mr. Porter,” she says.
Jay stands, passing Nichols on his way to the lectern.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Robicheaux.”
She nods, but doesn’t utter a greeting.
“Did you know your daughter was interested in politics, ma’am?”
“I don’t believe she was, no.”
“Are you aware that in the spring of this year, your daughter attended a candidate forum at Jones High School, where she was a senior?”
“I am now, yes. I believe it was a mandatory thing.”
“It wasn’t, actually,” Jay says. “Alicia elected to attend that event, along with other students interested in volunteering; were you aware of that?”
Maxine shakes her head.
The judge has to remind her to speak up for the court reporter.
She clears her throat, leaning toward the microphone. “No.”
“At this candidate forum, are you aware that all three major candidates for mayor in this election sent representatives to the high school?”
“Objection, beyond the scope of direct,” Nichols says, standing.
He’s late, Jay thinks, but right.
Keppler looks at the defense table. “Mr. Porter?”
“The state asked the witness if she knew why her daughter was in Pleasantville on election night–”
“And I believe she said no.”
“I am, with the court’s permission and in as few steps as possible, trying to broaden our understanding of her knowledge of her daughter’s activities.”
“The objection, as to that question, is sustained.”
Jay looks down at his notepad on the lectern, stalling.
The pages in front of him are completely blank.
By habit, he usually maintains a separate legal pad for the questioning of each individual witness, but without the chance to interview the Robicheauxs prior to trial, he was at a loss as to how to prepare, or what Maxine might say.
He clears his throat. “Mrs. Robicheaux, your daughter’s personal effects were discovered a day before her body was found, is that correct?”
Maxine sighs, closing her eyes briefly. “Yes.”
“They found her purse, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And inside there was a wallet and a pager.”
“I didn’t buy her that,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He glances at the jury.
In the front row, one of the white jurors, a woman, nods approvingly.
“There was also a campaign flyer in her purse, was there not?”
“It was some kind of flyer they said, yes.”
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Nichols says, the chair creaking as he comes to his feet. “I’m going to have to object to this whole line of questioning as hearsay. Where is she getting this information from, from what the police told her?”
“They showed it to me, her purse,” Maxine says, looking up at the judge.
“Overruled.”