Broken (27 page)

Simon jumped up. “Objection! Leading.”

“Overruled.”

Anna Mae looked at the floor and mumbled. Judge Wittier leaned down from his seat, saying gently, “Young lady, you’ll have to speak a little louder. Now tell the jury what your mother said to you that day.”

Anna Mae took a deep breath and looked directly at Ivan, who had not missed the empathy in the judge’s voice.

“Becky—my mother…she told me that when she was fifteen, that Walter raped her. The man I thought was my uncle was really my father.”

The room was silent as Hammerstein reiterated his client’s last statement. “So at the age of nineteen you finally learned that, not only was Walter Lipinski your father, but when your mother was only fifteen, he had raped her.”

“Yes. And now the police think...” Her face reddened. Tears welled up, spilling over her cheeks. Struggling to stay in control, she choked out the words, “I didn’t—I couldn’t have—I would never...”

Hammerstein handed her a handkerchief, then looked at his watch. It was eleven forty-five. He wanted Anna Mae’s testimony to continue until the end of the day. That way it would stay with the jury throughout the weekend. The last thing he needed was for Tom Simon to attack her on a Friday, leaving the jury two full days to digest the damage. He could request a recess but the judge would know he was stalling. He had to make a move. He had to prolong Anna Mae’s testimony.

He waited for a few moments while Anna Mae wiped her eyes and blew her nose. When she appeared to be somewhat composed, he tried to signal her with a look to indicate that she should request a recess. But she didn’t understand.

Finally he relented: “Your Honor, if it please the court, may Miss McBride take a break?”

Anna Mae roughly wiped away the remaining tears. “I don’t need a break.”

Ivan gritted his teeth.
Damn it, girl! Don’t you get it?
But how could she? What did she know about courtroom strategy and the propensities of juries? Now, with a recess clearly out of the question, Ivan continued, “And so, when your mother, Becky McBride, finally told you the truth about your father, what did you do?”

“I left.”

“And where did you go when you left your mother’s house?”

For a moment, Anna Mae just stared at the floor. When she finally looked up, she was calm—too calm—too composed. It was as though she was outside of herself, watching, totally detached and unemotional as she recounted her trip home. Hammerstein hoped the jury would not misjudge its meaning.

It took her a good five minutes to arrive at the crucial moment. Then her entire demeanor changed. She grew pale, ashen, forcefully twisting Ivan’s handkerchief with both hands. Her voice raised an octave higher, bordering on hysteria as she continued, “…and then I heard a loud noise. I went downstairs thinking Uncle Walter was awake.”

She had a distant look in her eyes and seemed to have stopped breathing.

“And then what happened?” Hammerstein prompted, hoping she wouldn’t break. “What did you see when you went downstairs?”

Anna Mae looked up and said calmly, “I don’t remember what I saw. A few weeks ago Dr. Rhukov hypnotized me, trying to help me remember. I went into hysterics. They had to pin me down and give me a sedative. I didn’t remember then and I still can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

She looked at the judge, at her lawyer, and finally at the jury. Then with heartfelt sincerity, she added, “I wish to God I could remember.”

Ivan’s words echoed in Anna Mae’s mind as she walked back to the witness stand:
Don’t let him get to you. Just answer yes or no. Don’t volunteer anything. His jawbone isn’t connected to his brain.

She hadn’t been able to eat lunch and felt weak as she lowered herself into the heavy, straight-back chair. At the prosecution table, Tom Simon was making an elaborate display of organizing his notes. She looked across the room at Ivan. He gave her a thumbs up.

“Counselor,” said Judge Wittier nodding at Tom Simon. “Your witness.”

Simon remained in his seat, his notes now in a neat little stack. He looked at Anna Mae and asked, “How many times have you gone over it?”

“Excuse me?”

“That story…what was it? Oh yes—memory loss. How many times have you gone over that story?”

“You mean about the day Walter was…was...”

“Murdered,” he said. “How many times?”

“Never,” said Anna Mae.

Tom Simon stood up, straightened his tie, and walked to the other side of the prosecution’s table. He leaned against it and folded his arms. “Do you mean to tell me that you never went over your story with your lawyer?”

“No.”

“Excuse my ignorance,” said Simon, unfolding his arms and stepping forward, “but it’s customary for an attorney to review—go over—rehearse…his witness’s testimony.”

“Is that a question?” asked Anna Mae.

Laughter rippled through the courtroom,

“Do you mean to tell me that you and Mr. Hammerstein did not go over what you were going to say when you took the witness stand?”

“No, we didn’t,” she said. “There wasn’t time.”

“Are you telling me that from October 14, 1970 until now, there wasn’t time to rehearse an alibi?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Would you care to re-word that Simon?”

“How many times in the past four months have you gone over your testimony?”

“None.”

Simon took a deep breath. “You did not go over your testimony with your lawyer?”

“You heard what she said,” snapped the judge. “Now get on with it.”

Simon walked around in a little circle shaking his head, then stopped to study Anna Mae with narrowed eyes. “In your testimony,” he asked, “you said that when you were about three years old, your cousin Stanley was sleeping under the bed. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did that little boy grow up to be the same young man who died from the pills you gave him?”

Anna Mae felt the blood rush to her face as Hammerstein flew out of his chair. In three seconds, both lawyers were standing before the bench. As the jurors murmured among themselves, Anna Mae’s stomach twisted itself into a painful knot. Ivan was furious, but Anna Mae couldn’t hear the combative whispers between the judge and the two lawyers. The heated discussion seemed to go on forever. Anna Mae jumped when a loud bang of the gavel marked its conclusion.

Ivan Hammerstein, somewhat appeased, took long strides back to the defense table, where he pushed back his unbuttoned jacket and stood with his hands on his hips. Tom Simon removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Clearly agitated, Simon said to the judge, “Your Honor, will you please ask Mr. Hammerstein to sit down.”

Hammerstein didn’t budge.

“Your Honor!” Simon repeated, “Tell him to sit down!”

“Sit down,” said the judge.

Hammerstein took his time settling into his chair behind the defense table.

Judge Wittier gave lengthy instructions to the jury to completely disregard the prosecutor’s last question. He then said to Simon, “Are you ready to proceed?”

Simon turned his back to Hammerstein’s glare, cleared his throat, and looked at Anna Mae. “Did you hate your Uncle Walter?”

“No,” said Anna Mae.

“Do you mean to tell me, after having testified that as far back as you can remember, the man you knew as your uncle was knocking you around…do you want this jury to believe that you liked him?”

Ivan had warned her, answer simply and honestly. Don’t let Simon twist your words. “No, I didn’t like him,” she said. “But I didn’t hate him either.”

Shaking his head, Simon flaunted exasperation. When he was confident that the jury caught his demonstration, he said, “Let’s go back to June 28, 1968. There was a funeral was there not?”

The pain returned to Anna Mae’s stomach. Was that Stanley’s funeral he was talking about? Is he going back there again?

“I repeat,” said Simon an octave higher, “Do you remember the funeral of a family member back in sixty-eight?”

“Yes,” said Anna Mae, wiping her sweaty hands on her dress. She looked hard at Tom Simon, studying him—his eyes—the way he moved. Something about the prosecutor was familiar. Or was it her imagination?

“And after the funeral,” Simon continued, “can you tell the court what happened.”

“My Uncle Walter—that was when I still thought he was my uncle. He was drunk again. He attacked the whole family.”

“And who do you mean by the family?”

“Aunt Sarah, David and me.”

“And what do you mean by attacked?”

“He beat us up. He broke David’s arm.”

“You remember that, do you?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me,” said Simon glancing at the jury, “I didn’t quite hear your answer. Did you say you remembered it?”

“Yes.”

The prosecutor stood perfectly still, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips, centering his attention on the now wary schoolteacher. “Didn’t you tell this court that you never remembered when Walter was drunk and abusive?”

Hammerstein slid down in his seat and groaned.

“I didn’t actually remember it...”

“But you just said you did. Isn’t that what you said?”

“What I meant was...”

“You just said Walter attacked the whole family—that you remember it.”

“It was two weeks...”

“And David had a broken arm?”

“Yes, but I...”

“And you remember that happening...”

“Yes. I mean no! It was two weeks...”

“And you remember Walter being arrested...”

“Objection!” Hammerstein jumped up and sprinted halfway to the bench. “He’s badgering the witness! He won’t let her finish a sentence.”

“Sustained. Mr. Simon, let the witness answer the questions.”

Ivan Hammerstein went back to his seat. He had warned her not to let Simon confuse her. Why had she said she remembered? Why didn’t she think before she answered?

Simon stepped closer, blocking her view of the defense table. “You remembered that after the funeral Walter attacked his wife, Sarah, his son, David and you. Was he was arrested for that?”

“Objection. He’s leading the witness!”

“Overruled,” said the judge who looked over his half glasses at Anna Mae, the skepticism evident on his face.

Anna Mae breathed deeply. Then without a question having been asked she said in a loud voice, “It was two weeks later that I found out what happened that night.”

“But that’s not what you said two minutes ago,” Simon snapped. “Will the court stenographer please go back and find Anna Mae’s first answer to that same question.”

The stenographer ran the roll of shorthand paper through her fingers until she found the question.

Witness: “He beat us up. David had a broken arm.”

Prosecutor: “You remember that, do you?”

Witness: “Yes.”

Tom Simon strolled over to the jury and leaned an elbow on the railing. Singling out the steelworker, he asked, “The defendant said she remembered, didn’t she?”

“Objection!” said Hammerstein.

“Sustained,” said Judge Wittier. “Mr. Simon, address your questions to the witness, not the jury.”

Simon nodded and walked away from the jury box. “Now which is it?” he asked, his hands spread theatrically. “Miss McBride, do you, or do you not remember? Can you keep your story straight?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

“You’re trying to confuse me,” Anna Mae blurted out. “I didn’t remember the actual beating. When I woke up two weeks later...”

“We don’t need any explanation,” interrupted Simon. “Just answer yes or no. Did you remember?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled.”

“NO!”

“But you said you did!”

Anna Mae leaned forward in the witness chair. “I didn’t know what Walter did that night until two weeks later. Two weeks! Two weeks went by before I learned what had happened. I didn’t remember it! David and Aunt Sarah told me what happened.”

Simon ignored her reply and quickly switched his focus. “Isn’t it true that you hated your uncle—your father—Walter Lipinski. The victim in this brutal murder?”

Hammerstein was on his feet. “Objection. That question was already asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

Anna Mae barely heard Ivan or the judge. Her breathing had become shallow. She felt smothered, pressured, backed into a corner, and the familiar fear of an oncoming panic attack.
Please God, don’t let it happen. Not here. Not now.

“Miss McBride,” Simon asked, “Was there any affection at all between you and the victim—the man you believed to be your uncle?”

She tried to focus but couldn’t see him clearly.

“Will you please answer my question?”

The scene before her was shifting. Simon’s image was now in shadow. She saw a light behind Simon—a figure?
Is that you? From my dream? Are you here to help me?
The figure began to radiate. Anna Mae scanned the courtroom. No one else sees her! She breathed deeply and grew calmer.

The prosecutor’s voice shattered the vision. “Miss McBride! Are you listening? Was there any...”

Anna Mae looked directly into Tom Simon’s eyes. But she didn’t reply.

He quickly switched his line of questioning. “Do you remember going to your mother’s house last October 14th?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember your mother telling you that Walter Lipinski was your father?”

“Yes.”

“You were enraged, weren’t you?”

“No.”

“You weren’t? Were you happy to hear that Walter was your father?”

“No.”

“Of course you weren’t happy. You were furious, weren’t you?”

“No. I wasn’t furious.”

“But didn’t discovering that the man who had been abusing you since you were a toddler—didn’t that make you so furious that you walked out without even saying goodbye?”

“No, I...”

“You didn’t walk out?”

“I was not! I was...”

“Weren’t you so preoccupied with what you were going to do that you forgot to pay your bus fare?”

“Yes. But…”

“Didn’t the bus driver have to call...”

“Objection! Badgering!”

“Sustained.”

Anna Mae watched Simon walk back and forth in increasingly agitated strides, stopping finally with his back to the jury. “After you learned that Walter was your father, weren’t you so immersed in planning your revenge that you failed to hear your friend, Jeremiah, call you from across a very narrow street? Isn’t that true?”

“No.”

“Oh? You heard him? You heard Jeremiah, or JD as you call him. Aare you saying you did hear him?”

“No, I didn’t hear him, but it wasn’t because...”

“You were upset, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it true that you were so upset by what you just learned that you didn’t even hear...”

“Objection!” Hammerstein was on his feet. “She answered the question!” He turned to Simon, “Damn you! Quit badgering my client.”

“The objection is sustained,” said Judge Wittier. “However, this is my courtroom and if a litigant is to be reprimanded, I’ll be the one to do it. Mr. Simon, stop badgering the witness.”

Tom Simon stepped closer to Anna Mae, unbuttoned his jacket, put his hands into his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. In a low, sinister voice, he said, “Last October 14th, after you left your mother’s house, just what did you intend to do when you got home?”

“I don’t know,” said Anna Mae, feeling her breathing quicken.

“You planned to go home and kill Walter, didn’t you?”

“Objection! Move to strike!”

“Overruled.”

“Isn’t it true that in the time it took you to get from your mother’s house in Pittsburgh, to your own house in the valley…isn’t it true that you made up your mind that you would get the ax from the shed and go after your uncle? And weren’t you depending on him being so drunk you could...”

“Objection! Your Honor,” shouted Hammerstein, “The prosecutor’s writing his own scenario.”

“Sustained,” bellowed the Judge to a bang of his gavel. “Be careful, counselor.”