Mary Beth Testifies by Andrew Vachss: Dog Stories

Mary Beth Testifies
by Andrew Vachss

I called the DA’s office. They told me Wolfe was on
trial, in Long Island City, Part L-3. Bureau chiefs don’t try cases. I
put it together. Threw on my lawyer suit and headed out to Queens.

When I walked in the courtroom, Mary Beth was already on the stand.
That’s the way Wolfe trained them: no prelims, no dancing—come
out throwing bombs, try and drop the other guy soon as you hear the bell.
Lola was leading the little girl through her testimony, her body language
suggesting she was pulling softly, coaxing the child out past her fear.
Bringing the monster into the light. Lola’s slim body was a gently
weaving wand in front of the little girl, pacing back and forth on her high
heels, blocking the defendant’s view of the witness box.

Sheba sat next to Mary Beth, the little girl’s hand on the old
wolf-shepherd’s head. The dog’s eyes followed Lola.

“Just one more question, Mary Beth. You told us what he did, what he
did to you. It went on a long time—how come you never told
anyone?”

“He said … he told me he’d make something bad happen to
Mommy. He said he’d made her get sick and die. He showed me… in the
paper where a little girl’s mother got sick and died. He said he did
that to her. Because the little girl told.”

“No further questions,” Lola said, sitting down as Mary Beth
brushed tears off her cheeks.

The defendant’s lawyer got to his feet. A fat, jowly man, his hair
was plastered to his scalp with sweat, carefully combed up and over his head
from one side to advertise his baldness.

“Your Honor, I again renew my objection to the presence of that
animal while the witness testifies. The Rulon decision clearly holds
that . . .”

The judge was a regal-looking woman, reddish-blonde hair cut stylishly
short, square shoulders, almost a military bearing. I’d seen her
before—she started out in Family Court, where they get closer to the
truth. Hard to tell her age, but her eyes were old. “Counselor,”
she said, “the court is familiar with the Rulon case. That
involved a witness who testified sitting on the lap of a social worker.
Surely it is not your position that the dog is signaling to the
witness?”

“No, Your Honor. But . . .”

“The court has already ruled, sir. You may have a continuing
objection, and your exception to my ruling. Ask your questions.”

Sheba watched the fat attorney like he was mutton in a three-piece
suit.

The questioning wasn’t much. The usual: Did she ever watch horror
movies? Ever see a porno tape on the VCR in her mother’s house? Have
bad dreams? Anybody tell her what to say?

Mary Beth answered the questions. Sometimes the judge had to tell her to
speak up a little bit, but she was getting through it. Patting Sheba,
drawing comfort and strength.

The defense attorney asked, “Do you know it’s a sin to tell a
lie, Mary Beth?”—stepping aside dramatically so the jury would
understand it was his client being lied about.

“I know it’s a sin,” the child said, calmly.
“I’m not lying.”

“She can’t see me!” the defendant hissed suddenly,
whispering for his lawyer’s ear but loud enough for everyone to hear.
“She can’t see without her glasses.”

Wolfe was on her feet and charging forward like they just rang the bell
for the last round and she needed a KO to pull it out. “Was that an
objection?” she snarled.

“Yes, that was an objection!” the defense attorney shouted,
scrambling to clean up the mess the molester made. “My client is being
denied his Sixth Amendment right to confrontation.”

“He doesn’t want confrontation, he wants terrorism. The law
says he gets to see and hear the witness—it doesn’t say anything
about her having to stare at the likes of him.”

“That’s enough,” the judge snapped. “Take the jury
out.”

The court officers hustled the jurors away as everyone sat in silence.
One of Wolfe’s people took Mary Beth and Sheba out a side door. The
judge turned to the lawyers.

“That will be just about enough, counselors. You both know better
than to make arguments like that in front of a jury. I don’t want to
hear a lot of rhetoric now. Mr. Simmons, have you any authority for the
proposition that the Sixth Amendment requires a witness to wear corrective
lenses?”

“Not specifically, Your Honor. But if she can’t even see
the witness, how can she identify him?”

“She already did that, counsel. On the prosecution’s direct
case, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. But she was wearing her glasses then.”

“What’s your point?”

“My client has rights.”

“None that have been abridged by this court. Now… that won’t
be necessary, Ms. Wolfe . . . I have already ruled. Bring the jury back
in.”

“Your Honor, in light of your ruling, I have no choice but to ask
for a mistrial.”

“On what grounds, counselor?”

“Prejudice, Your Honor. The jury heard what my client said. A
statement like that will poison their minds.”

“Are you claiming the prosecution caused your client’s
outburst, Mr. Simmons?”

“Well, yes . . . I mean, if they hadn’t. . .”

“Denied! Let’s go.”

Wolfe turned away from the bench to return to her seat. Caught my
eye.

The defense attorney stood up again. “Your Honor, may I have a few
minutes with my client before the jury comes back in?”

“No, counsel, you may not.”

“Your Honor, I ask for this time because I believe it might promote
a settlement of this matter.”

“There is no settlement,” Lola snapped out at him.
“It’s too damn late for that.”

“I don’t need your permission to plead to the indictment,”
the defense attorney shot back.

“Then do it. It’s a B felony, and we’re asking for the
max.”

“Your Honor, could we approach?”

The judge nodded. Wolfe and Lola came up on one side, the defense
attorney on the other. Couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally,
the defense attorney walked back to his table, began talking urgently to his
client, waving his arms.

I felt it coming.

The defense attorney stood up one last time. “Your Honor, my client
has authorized me to withdraw his plea of Not Guilty and to plead to the
indictment as charged. My client is a very ill man. Besides that, he wishes
to spare the young lady the trauma of cross-examination. I believe . .
.”

“Counselor, save your presentation for the dispositional phase of
these proceedings. If your client wants to change his plea, I will take his
allocution.”

They kept the jury out of the courtroom while the defendant admitted the
whole thing. His lawyer promised extensive psychiatric testimony to
explain the whole thing. Lola and Wolfe sat silently.

The judge discharged the jury, thanking them for their attention. I
watched their faces—the defense attorney had read them right—if
they had gotten their chance, his client was going down.

The defense attorney asked for bail to be continued. Lola pointed out the
defendant was now a convicted felon, facing mandatory imprisonment, with
great motivation to flee the jurisdiction.

The judge listened, asked the defense if there was any rebuttal. Listened
again. Then she revoked the defendant’s bail, slammed her gavel for
emphasis, and walked off the bench.

The fat defense attorney turned to Wolfe and Lola. “You just put a
very sick man in prison. I hope you’re pleased with
yourselves.”

Wolfe and Lola looked at the lawyer, blank expressions on their faces.
Then they slapped each other a loud high-five.

For Sheba, a warrior who fought blindness until the last battle closed her eyes.
If love would die along with death, this life wouldn’t be so
hard.

Excerpted from the novel Sacrifice by Andrew Vachss.