Tell Me No Secrets (32 page)

“You don’t have to do that.”

“As soon as you’re dressed, I want you to pack a suitcase. You’re moving into my apartment until this whole thing gets straightened out.”

“Don, I can’t move into your apartment.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is where I live. Because all my things are here. Because of Fred. Because … I just can’t.”

“Bring your things. Bring Fred. Bring whatever,
whoever
, you want. Separate bedrooms,” he told her. “I won’t come anywhere near you, Jess, if that’s the way you want it. I just want you safe.”

“I know you do. And I love you for it. But I just can’t,” she said.

“Okay, then, at the very least, I want that lock replaced,” he told her, obviously recognizing there was nothing to be gained by continuing the argument. “I want a dead bolt and a chain installed.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll arrange for it this morning.”

“Don, you don’t have to arrange everything. I can do it.”

“Really? When? When you’re in court? How about while you’re cross-examining Terry Wales?”

“Later. When I get home.”

“Not later. This morning. I’ll have my secretary come over, stay with the locksmith.”

“Is this the same secretary who’s bringing me my underwear?”

“Things are a little slow at the office.”

“Sure they are.”

“Lastly,” he continued, “I want you to consider a bodyguard.”

“A what? For whom?”

“For Santa Claus. Who do you think, Jess? For you!”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Someone just broke into your apartment and slashed your underwear, probably the same someone who destroyed your car and sent you urine-soaked letters in the mail. And, you don’t think you need protection?”

“I can’t be guarded twenty-four hours a day indefinitely. What kind of life is that?”

“All right, then I’m hiring a detective to keep tabs on Rick Ferguson.”

“What? Wait a minute, I’m having trouble keeping track here. Can you do that? Is it ethical? Hiring a detective to spy on your own client?”

“I almost hired one after your car was destroyed. I should have, damnit, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Anyway, if he’s innocent, he has nothing to worry about.”

“That’s my line.”

“Jess, I love you. I’m not going to take a chance on anything happening to you.”

“But won’t it be expensive, hiring a detective?” she asked, steering the conversation away from the personal.

“Consider it my Christmas present. Will you do that for me?” he asked, and Jess marveled at how he could make it sound as if she’d be doing him the favor by accepting his generous offer.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he told her solemnly. “If it is Rick Ferguson who’s been harassing you, then client or no client, I’ll shoot the bastard myself.”

“C
ould you state your full name for the jury, please?”

“Terrence Matthew Wales.”

Jess rose from her seat behind the prosecutor’s table and approached the witness stand, eyes fastened on the defendant. Terry Wales stared back steadily, even respectfully. His hands were folded in his lap, his posture bent slightly forward, as if he didn’t want to miss a word she might say. The impression he created, in his dark gray suit which curiously complemented her own, was that of a man who had tried all his life to do the right thing, that he was as sorry and surprised as anyone for the way things had worked out.

“You live at Twenty-four twenty-seven Kinzie Street in Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve lived there for six years?”

“That’s correct.”

“And before that you lived at Sixteen Vernon Park Place?”

He nodded.

“I’m afraid the court stenographer requires a yes or no, Mr. Wales.”

“Yes,” he said quickly.

“Why did you move?” Jess asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why did you move?” Jess repeated.

Terry Wales shrugged. “Why does anybody move?”

Jess smiled, kept her voice light. “I’m not interested in why anybody moves, Mr. Wales. I’m interested in why
you
moved.”

“We needed a bigger house.”

“You needed more space? More bedrooms?”

Terry Wales coughed into the palm of his hand. “When we moved to the house on Vernon Park Place, we only had one child. By the time we moved to Kinzie, we had two.”

“Yes, you already stated your wife was in it hurry to have children. Tell me, Mr. Wales, how many bedrooms did the house on Vernon Park Place have?”

“Three.”

“And the house on Kinzie Street?”

“Three,” he said quietly.

“Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, the same number of bedrooms. Then I guess it was the house in general that was bigger.”

“Yes.”

“It was three square feet bigger,” Jess told him matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“The house on Kinzie Street was three square feet bigger than the house on Vernon Park Place. Approximately this
size,” she explained, pacing out a three-foot square in front of the jury.

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hal Bristol called from his seat at the defense table. “Relevance?”

“I’m getting to that, Your Honor.”

“Get there fast,” Judge Harris instructed.

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Wales, that the reason you left your house on Vernon Park Place was because of repeated complaints about your conduct by your neighbors to the police?” Jess asked quickly, her adrenaline pumping.

“No, that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it true that the neighbors reported you to the police on several occasions because they feared for your wife’s safety?”

“We had one neighbor who called the police every time I played the stereo too loud.”

“Which just happened to coincide with every time you beat your wife,” Jess stated, looking at the jury.

“Objection!” Hal Bristol was on his feet.

“Sustained.”

“The police were called to your house on Vernon Park Place the night of August third, 1984,” Jess began, reading from her notes, though she knew the dates by heart, “the night of September seventh, 1984, and again the nights of November twenty-second, 1984, and January fourth, 1985. Is that correct?”

“I don’t remember the exact dates.”

“It’s all on file, Mr. Wales. Do you dispute any of it?”

He shook his head, then answered, looking toward the court stenographer. “No.”

“On each of those occasions when the police were called,
your wife showed obvious signs of having been beaten. Once she even had to be hospitalized.”

“I’ve already testified that our fights often got out of hand, that I’m not proud of my part in them.”

“Out of hand?” Jess said. “More like out of
fist
. Your fist.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

Jess walked to the prosecutor’s table, exchanged one police report for another. “This report states that on the night of January fourth, 1985, the night your wife was hospitalized, Nina Wales had bruises to over forty percent of her body and was bleeding internally, that her nose and two ribs were broken, and that both eyes were blackened. You, on the other hand, had several scratch marks on your face, and one large bruise on your shin. That doesn’t sound like a very fair fight, Mr. Wales.”

“Objection, Your Honor. Is there a question here?”

“Isn’t it true that your wife had recently given birth to your second child?”

“Yes.”

“A litte girl?”

“Rebecca, yes.”

“How old was she on the night of January fourth, 1985?”

Terry Wales hesitated.

“Surely you remember your daughter’s birthday, Mr. Wales,” Jess prodded.

“She was born on December second.”

“December second, 1984? Just four weeks before the fight that put your wife in the hospital?”

“That’s right.”

“So, that would mean that all those other attacks …”

“Objection!”

“All those other
incidents,”
Jess corrected, “August third, 1984, September seventh, 1984, November twenty-second, 1984, they all occurred while your wife was pregnant. Is that correct?”

Terry Wales dropped his head toward his chest. “Yes,” he whispered. “But it isn’t as one-sided as you make it out to be.”

“Oh, I know that, Mr. Wales,” Jess told him. “Who among us could forget that bruise on your shin?”

Hal Bristol was on his feet again, his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “Objection, Your Honor.”

“Withdrawn,” Jess said, retrieving yet another police report from Neil Strayhorn’s outstretched hand, then returning to the witness stand. “Jumping ahead a few years, if we could, to the night of February twenty-fifth, 1988, you put your wife in the hospital again, didn’t you?”

“My wife had gone out and left the kids alone. When she came back home, it was obvious to me she’d been drinking. Something inside me just snapped.”

“No, Mr. Wales, it was something in your wife that got snapped,” Jess immediately corrected. “Specifically her right wrist.”

“She’d left the kids alone. God knows what could have happened to them.”

“Are there any witnesses to the fact that she left the kids alone, Mr. Wales?” Jess asked.

“I came home and found them.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“So we have only your word that your wife went out and left the children by themselves?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know why we wouldn’t believe you,” Jess stated, bracing herself for the objection she knew would follow.

“Ms. Koster,” Judge Harris warned, “can we please skip the sarcasm and get on with it.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Jess said, smoothing her skirt, suddenly reminded of the new underwear Don’s secretary had brought over just prior to the start of court. The events of the morning, of the day before, crowded into her mind. The discovery of Connie’s body, the break-in at her apartment, the destruction of her underwear, all swirled in her brain, fueled her anger, propelled the words out of her mouth. “What about the nights of October seventeenth, 1990, March fourteenth, 1991, November tenth, 1991, January twentieth, 1992?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Hal Bristol said. “The witness has already admitted his part in these domestic disputes.”

“Overruled. The witness will answer the question.”

“The police were called to your house on each of those occasions, Mr. Wales,” Jess reminded him. “Do you remember that?”

“I don’t remember specific dates.”

“And your wife ended up in the hospital on two of these occasions.”

“I believe we both ended up in the hospital.”

“Yes, I see that on the night of November tenth, 1991, you were treated at St. Luke’s for a bloody nose and then released. Your wife, on the other hand, stayed on till morning. I guess she just needed a good night’s sleep.”

“Ms. Koster …” Judge Harris warned.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Wales, you told the jury that the reason for most of these fights was because you were provoked.”

“That’s right.”

“It doesn’t take much to provoke you, does it, Mr. Wales?”

“Objection.”

“I’ll rephrase that, Your Honor. Would you say you have a quick temper, Mr. Wales?”

“These last few years have been difficult ones in the retail business. They took their toll. On occasion, I was unable to control my temper.”

“On many occasions, it would, seem. Including long before we entered into these tough economic times. I mean, 1984 and 1985 were pretty good years, businesswise, weren’t they?”

“Businesswise, yes.”

“l see you posted record commissions those years, Mr. Wales,” Jess stated, again exchanging one piece of paper for another.

“I worked very hard.”

“I’m sure you did. And you were amply rewarded. And yet, police records show you beat your wife. So it would appear that your temper really didn’t have anything to do with how well you were doing at work. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Terry Wales took several seconds before answering. “No matter how well I was doing, it wasn’t enough for Nina. She was constantly complaining that I wasn’t making enough money, even before the recession hit. These last few years have been hell.”

“Your income took a substantial drop?”

“Yes.”

“And your wife resented the fact there was less money coming in?”

“Very much.”

“I see. How exactly did your drop in income affect the household, Mr. Wales?”

“Well, the same way everybody else has been affected, I guess,” Terry Wales answered carefully, glancing at his attorney. “We had to cut down on entertaining, eating out, buying clothes. Stuff like that.”

“Stuff that affected your wife,” Jess stated.

“That affected all of us.”

“How did it affect you, Mr. Wales?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Objection. The witness has already answered the question.”

“Get to the point here, Ms. Koster,” Judge Harris advised.

“You were the sole supporter of your family, isn’t that right? I mean, you made quite a point earlier of telling us that it was your wife who insisted she give up her job.”

“She wanted to stay home with the children. I respected that decision.”

“So, the only money Nina Wales had access to was the money that you gave her.”

“As far as I know.”

“How much money did you give her every week, Mr. Wales?”

“As much as she needed.”

“About how much was that?”

“I’m not sure. Enough for groceries and other essentials.”

“Fifty dollars? A hundred? Two hundred?”

“Closer to a hundred.”

“A hundred dollars a week for groceries and other essentials for a family of four. Your wife must have been a very careful shopper.”

“We had no choice. There was simply no money to spare.”

“You belong to the Eden Rock Golf Club, do you not, Mr. Wales?”

A slight pause. “Yes.”

“How much are the yearly dues?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Would you like me to tell you?”

“I think they’re just slightly over a thousand dollars,” he answered quickly.

“Eleven hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact. Did you give that up?”

“No.”

“And the Elmwood Gun Cub. You’re a member there as well, aren’t you?”