Chapter 24 #2
Again, Jack noticed that distant, almost vacant look in her eyes. He sensed that Helena didn’t want to talk about it. But
she did.
“Austen and I stopped by Owen’s office one weekend after Thanksgiving. We were planning to go as a family to see The Nutcracker. Austen was excited, and he started doing what children do when they’re about to see a performance like that. He started
dancing.”
“Your son was dancing ballet in his father’s office, at his place of work?” asked the prosecutor.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“How did Owen react?”
Helena swallowed hard. “Owen said something horrible to Austen.”
The judge intervened, an act of mercy. “Let’s leave it right there, Ms. Weller. You don’t have to ask what was said. The court
gets the point.”
The prosecutor was like a dog with a bone. “Just to be clear, Ms. Pollard: You told Mr. Stafford about this, correct? You
made him aware of the ‘horrible’ thing your husband said to Austen?”
“Yes. And I begged him not to say anything to Owen. I told him Owen would probably fire him and get a restraining order from
the court to stop him from volunteering at the conservatory and talking to Austen there—which is a violation of the terms
of the closed adoption.”
“Thank you,” said the prosecutor. “Did you have any further communication with the defendant about your husband’s position
on an open adoption or the way Owen treated your son?”
“Not directly. But I was in the room when Owen spoke to Elliott on the phone. In our house.”
“When did this call happen?”
“It was on the day Owen died. In the morning.”
The prosecutor retrieved an exhibit from the table and handed it up to the judge. “Your Honor, I’m offering into evidence
a copy of the defendant’s cell phone records showing an incoming call from the Pollards’ landline telephone number on the
morning of his death.”
“No objection,” said Jack. Except for the fact that my client didn’t bother to tell me about this, he thought.
“Received,” said the judge.
“Ms. Pollard, who initiated the call on your landline, you or your husband?”
“Owen didn’t know Elliott’s number. So, he told me to dial for him.”
“Was your husband angry?”
“He was beyond angry.”
“Were you angry?”
“No. I was . . . scared.”
“What were you scared of?”
Helena hesitated, as if trying not to start at the beginning, trying not to relive every moment. “So much to be scared of.
But what triggered the call to Elliott was that Owen had discovered all the things that I had warned Elliott not to tell him.
He confronted me about it.”
“What do you mean by ‘all the things’?”
“That he and Austen had gotten to know each other at the conservatory. That Elliott used to be Elle. And that Elliott wanted
an open adoption.”
“Do you know how your husband learned all that?”
“I don’t. I can only assume that—”
“Don’t assume anything,” the judge said. “Tell us only what you know.”
Helena collected herself. “I don’t know how Owen found out.”
“That’s fine,” said the prosecutor, and Jack understood why she didn’t push further. It was obvious enough that Elliott had
spoken to Owen.
“Were you a party to the phone conversation between your husband and the defendant?” Weller asked.
“Not exactly. But it was very short, and I heard what Owen said to him.”
“What did your husband say?”
The witness didn’t answer. The prosecutor asked again, this time in a firmer voice. “Ms. Pollard, what did your husband say
to the defendant?”
She took a breath. “He said, ‘Stay away from my son, you freak.’”
Jack checked his client, but there was no reaction—neither to the witness’s answer nor the prosecutor’s smugness.
“Then what happened?”
“The call ended. Owen told me to get out.”
“Your husband told you to leave the house?”
“Yes,” she said into her lap. “And not come back. So, I left.”
“Did he tell you to leave with or without Austen?”
“Without. He said he was keeping Austen. And that I obviously didn’t know how to raise a boy.”
“Did you leave without your son?”
The question touched a nerve, and even from his seat, Jack could intuit the range of emotions on display—shame, guilt, regret.
“Yes,” she said in a weak voice. “I went to my mother’s house. Alone.”
The prosecutor stepped away from the lectern, returned to the table, and took a seat. “Your Honor, I have no further questions
at this time,” she said.
The judge looked at Jack. “Any cross-examination, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack rose. His trial instincts told him that he could elicit helpful testimony from Helena, but the risk was almost prohibitive
without input from his client.
“Your Honor, I would like to request a ten-minute recess.”
The prosecutor chuckled to herself. “For what, Judge? To consult with a client who refuses to speak to his lawyer?”
She was grandstanding for the media, and Jack could only hope that the judge would rise above it.
“Ten minutes is all I ask, Your Honor.”
The judge groused, and it seemed that he was on the prosecutor’s same wavelength. “Counsel, I don’t grant recesses because
lawyers are unprepared. If the witness needs a break, I’ll grant one. Ms. Pollard, do you need a break?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Then we’re all fine,” said the judge. “Mr. Swyteck, please proceed.”
It was a cheap shot to accuse a lawyer of being unprepared when his client refused to speak to him, but Jack shook it off.
A stillness fell over the courtroom as Jack approached. Helena had managed to calm her nerves during the prosecutor’s examination,
but the tension had resurfaced for the anticipated grilling by counsel for an accused murderer. Helena didn’t seem to know
where to fix her gaze—until, again, it settled back on Patricia Dubrow.
“Ms. Pollard, my apologies in advance,” said Jack, beginning in a gentle tone. “But I need to take you back to the night of
your husband’s death.”
“I understand,” she said.
Jack retrieved an exhibit from a folder. “I have a copy of the police report from that night, which was presented as evidence
to the grand jury. The report is by MDPD Detective Osborne, who was at the scene. Do you recall speaking to Detective Osborne
that night?”
“Yes.”
“According to the report, you told Detective Osborne that you were at your mother’s house in Fort Lauderdale when, at approximately
seven p.m., you received a call on your cell phone from Owen. The report goes on to say: ‘Mrs. Pollard stated that her husband
asked her to ‘please come home and talk things out.’” Jack put the report aside, then asked the witness, “Do you recall making
that statement to Detective Osborne?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Was that a true statement when you made it?”
The witness didn’t answer, which threw Jack. It wasn’t a trick question. It was simply standard practice to ask if a statement
to police was true when made. The judge looked down from the bench, his tone more stern than usual when addressing a witness.
“Mrs. Pollard, there is a question pending. Was your statement true when you made it?”
She glanced at the judge, then looked away. “Not really.”
The prosecutor rose, apparently even more surprised than Jack. “Your Honor, it would appear that the witness is confused.”
“It’s not confusion that I’m hearing,” the judge said, and then he addressed the witness directly.
“Mrs. Pollard, making a false statement to the police is a crime. If you believe you may have committed a crime, you have
the right to remain silent,” he said, but before he could finish reading the witness her full Miranda rights, Patricia Dubrow
rose and spoke from the gallery.
“Your Honor, I am Ms. Pollard’s attorney. I realize this is highly unorthodox, but I would request an opportunity to speak
with my client.”
“Is there any objection?” asked the judge. Neither lawyer voiced one.
“This court is in recess for ten minutes,” he said, punctuating the courtroom confusion with the pistol-shot crack of his
gavel.