Fatal Vision (92 page)

There was a pause, as Jeffrey MacDonald, apparently once again overcome by emotion, lapsed into silence. Bernie Segal walked slowly toward a table on which lay a number of items which had been introduced into evidence.

"Dr. MacDonald," he said, "I want to show you the four instruments that we have come to hear so much about during this trial: the club, the bent-bladed knife, the straight knife, the icepick.

"I want you to look at those weapons, please, and I want you to now hear me and respond, if you will, to what the indictment has said."

Segal began to read. "In the First Count, it is charged: That on or about the 17th day of February, 1970, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, upon lands acquired for the use of the United States and under the exclusive jurisdiction thereof, and within the Eastern District of North Carolina, Jeffrey R. MacDonald, with premeditation and malice aforethought, murdered Colette S. MacDonald by means of striking her with a club and stabbing her, in violation of the provisions of Title 18, United States Code, Section 1111.' "

Segal stared at Jeffrey MacDonald.
^‘
‘
Did you stab your wife? Did you club your wife?"

"I did not."

^‘
‘
With those or any other weapons?" "I never struck Colette."

"Dr. MacDonald, I want to read to you the Second Count of the same indictment, and again ask you the same question. In that count it is charged: 'That on or about the 17th day of February, 1970, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, upon lands acquired for the use of the United States and under the exclusive jurisdiction thereof, and within the Eastern District of North Carolina, Jeffrey R. MacDonald, with premeditation and malice aforethought, murdered Kimberly K. MacDonald, by means of striking her with a club and stabbing her, in violation of the provisions of Title 18, Un
ited States Code, Section 1111.
"

Again Segal stared at MacDonald. "Is that true?"

"It is not true. I never harmed Kimberly."

"I will read you, Dr. MacDonald, the Third Count of the indictment, and ask you to respond again. 'That on or about the 17th day of February, 1970, at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, upon lands acquired for the use of the United States and under the exclusive jurisdiction thereof, and within the Eastern District of North Carolina, Jeffrey R. MacDonald, with premeditation and malice aforethought, murdered Kristen J. MacDonald by means of stabbing her, in violation of the provisions of Title 18, United States Code, Section 1111.' "

For the third time, the lawyer's eyes met those of his client. "Is that true, Dr. MacDonald?"

"It is not true."

Taking a deep breath, Segal approached the witness stand and handed Jeffrey MacDonald a piece of paper. "Finally, Dr. MacDonald, I would like for you to share with us all a letter addressed to you dated August the 26th, 1969, from your wife in Patchogue, Long Island, to you at Columbus, Georgia. If you would be good enough to read that to us, sir."

In a halting, stumbling voice, MacDonald began to read the last letter Colette had ever written him. "Sunday night. Darling Jeff, what a difference a day makes—or even a few minutes— especially when you take me from the . . ." His sobbing temporarily prevented him from continuing.
"...
nadir of despair and return me to that happy full of love and life feeling. Thank you sweetheart, you really know how to handle me.

"In case you're getting ready to jump out of an airplane and need a little material for pleasant daydreaming, here are a few of my favorites: (1) Remember the night you came to Skidmore in the snow for 'Happy Pappy Weekend' and stayed in the Rip Van Dam, the fashionable watering place of the New York jet set. (2) The night we came home from Paul and Kathy's and we decided to have something to eat in the city and we went to Manana after walking around a bit. This is one of my favorites because I think we were definitely on the same wavelength that night. (3) When you were in the Infirmary at Princeton because you had dropped the weights on your chest, you wrote me an abstract story entitled "The Cool Guy and the Warm Girl.' Do you remember that at all? I do. It was beautiful. (4) New Year's Eve this year—what could top that for a feeling of togetherness! (5)
Cutting up onions and peppers together and planning for our giant Champagne Brunch—and then, of course, the brunch itself.
(6)
The first time you came to Skidmore and the picnic we had in the woods. Four kisses. Colette."

With trembling hands, Jeffrey MacDonald lowered the letter to his lap. He looked five years older than he had five hours earlier. He began to sob loudly, and, as he did, Bernie Segal's own eyes filled with tears. Three members of the jury were weeping openly and the sound of sniffling and sobbing could be heard from all portions of the courtroom, except the right front row, where Freddy and Mildred Kassab sat, dry-eyed, staring unflinchingly at MacDonald. The extended pause in the proceedings was punctuated by Freddy Kassab's short, sardonic laugh.

Then Judge Dupree declared a recess until the morning.

In approaching the question of how to conduct his cross-examination, Jim Blackburn kept one principle uppermost in mind: he did not want the trial—and eventual jury deliberation—to turn into a referendum on whether Jeffrey MacDonald was or was not a good guy, on whether he had contributed more or less to society than had Freddy Kassab.

It had been a careful analysis of the physical evidence and the physical evidence alone which had persuaded Blackburn, when he first was assigned to the case, that MacDonald was guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. And if that evidence—all of which he had managed to introduce, and most of which, despite Bernie Segal's attempts to taint and dilute it, still seemed to him to stand strong and true—had been sufficient to convince him that this case could be won, then that physical evidence, all by itself, ought to be enough to convince a jury.

The more that the jury's attention wandered from it, the more likelihood there might be that reasonable doubt might creep in. So, in the end, after many nights of lying awake next to his own wife, with his own son, Jeffrey, and infant daughter in nearby rooms, Jim Blackburn decided that when the moment for cross-examination came he would not attempt a character assassination. He was not seeking to convict MacDonald of perjury, or adultery, or of having told lies to Freddy Kassab: he was seeking to convict him of murder.

Despite all warnings—and even with his entire future hanging in the balance—Jeffrey MacDonald was unable to control the caustic, bitter strain that ran so deep within him. Even Jim
Blackburn's softest, most inoffensive questions—and Blackburn's manner, in contrast to Victor Woerheide's booming intimidation of five years earlier sometimes bordered on the almost deferential— met with a cutting, acerbic response. This prickly, touchy, hostile witness—so easily irritated, so quick to flash to the point of anger—bore little resemblance to the broken, saddened, grieving survivor who had brought tears to the jurors' eyes the day before. Despite having had nine and a half years to prepare for the occasion, MacDonald seemingly could not prevent himself from adopting the one mode of behavior likely to do him most harm.

"Now I take it this is the pajama top you wore to bed that night?" Jim Blackburn asked, holding up the garment—torn and punctured, its bloodstains now faded to a rusty brown.

"I only have your say-so."

'is it not the pajama top that you wore?"

"I have no knowledge."

"Have you ever seen it before?"

"Sure."

"Were you ever shown this pajama top by the grand jury?" "I believe I was."

"Were you asked then whether or not this was the same one?"

"I was asked questions similar to yours just now."

"Well, were you ever asked whether or not this was the pajama top that you wore that night?"

"I am sure I was. I don't recall the question, but it must have been asked of me sometime."

"Well, I wasn't there. What was your answer then?"

"Assuming, you know, the normal chain of custody, that is probably my pajama top."

"I take it when you went to bed the night of the 16th and wore this blue pajama top, it was not ripped?"

"I don't believe so."

"Certainly not in this condition?"

"No."

"Was there any blood on it when you went to bed that night?"

"Not that I know of."

"Were any puncture holes in it?"

"Not that I know of."

"Do you know where it was ripped?"

"No."

"Did you rip it?" "I may have."

"Did you ever hear any ripping sounds?" "No, I do not recall ever hearing a ripping sound." "How did these holes get in this pajama top?" "From the assailants."

"Where was it when it got holes in it from the assailants?" -"My recollection is that it had to have been around my wrists."

"What were you doing with it?" "I was fending off blows—trying to get my hands out." "You don't know whether it was torn at that time?" "I have no idea."

"You don't know whether it was pulled over your head?" "I do not."

"But you were using this around your wrists or hands to fend off the blows of the intruders, is that correct?" "That's correct." "Was it between your hands?"

"Part of it must have been between my hands because my hands were not touching each other."

"And all forty-eight puncture holes got in here, in this pajama top, at that time?"

"That's what I would have to presume, yes."

"Can you tell us why those are circular, round holes and not tearing holes?"

"Can I
tell
you
that?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was fending off blows that were coming straight at me, and I was pushing out against them. I see no reason why the fabric should be torn and not have circular holes. It was not at all like the demonstration that you showed the jury."

"Doctor MacDonald, you did not receive any icepick wounds in your hands or wrists or lower parts of your arms, did you?"

"None that I recall. Why I did not I cannot say."

"Now, when you say you took the pajama off of your wrists and threw it down, you don't recall where you threw it?"

"That is correct."

"You did not hear any ripping sounds at that time. Is that correct?"

"Mr. Blackburn, I was not listening for ripping sounds. I saw my wife covered with blood."

"I understand that, and I appreciate that. What I am asking is, did you hear any ripping sounds?"

"No," MacDonald said, with a very definite edge to his voice, "I do not recall hearing ripping sounds."

"You saw the knife in your wife's chest, right?"

"That is correct."

"And you pulled it out, right?"

"That is correct."

"Did you wipe the knife off?"

"I have absolutely no remembrance of that."

"Do you know whether the knife was bloody when you pulled it out of your wife's chest?"

"I have absolutely no remembrance. I saw it in my wife's chest and I took it out."

"So it could have been bloody or it could not have been bloody?"

"Well, I would assume that having been in her chest it was bloody."

"Well, how was it that no blood or very little blood was found on the knife?" "I have no idea."

"Doctor MacDonald, can you tell me, sir, how two threads— two threads microscopically identical to threads in your pajama top—got on the club outside the door of the utility room area, when you stated that you never went outside that house?"

"I cannot."

"Did Colette bleed on your pajama top before it was torn?" "Not to my knowledge."

"Did you struggle with Colette and did she tear your pajama top in the V-neck part of it?" "She did not."

"Did you struggle with Colette in the pajama top?" "I never struggled with Colette." "Did you wear your surgical gloves that night?" "I did not."