Chapter 25
The ten-minute recess was over.
Jack had no window into the witness’s private conversation with her lawyer. He’d taken Elliott into an empty jury room, where
it had taken all of thirty seconds for Jack to realize that his client was not about to break his silence, no matter how clear
Jack made it that he was only hurting himself. Jack returned to the courtroom with no additional ammunition.
Helena resumed her seat in the witness chair. Patricia Dubrow addressed the court.
“Your Honor, my client does not wish to assert her Fifth Amendment right at this time.”
“Very well,” the judge said. “Mr. Swyteck, you may proceed with cross-examination.”
Dubrow returned to her seat in the gallery. Additional spectators had crammed into the public seating since the break, which
was not surprising. It wasn’t every day that a judge read a witness her Miranda rights. Jack followed up appropriately.
“Ms. Pollard, before we broke for recess, I asked if the statement you gave to Detective Osborne on the night of your husband’s
death was accurate, and you answered, ‘not really.’ Do you wish to explain your answer?”
Helena swallowed hard. “I didn’t commit a crime. My statement wasn’t false. My words were just sugarcoated.”
Jack’s immediate impression was that Patricia Dubrow had done her job well over the break. But he tried not to sound skeptical.
“Which part of your statement to Detective Osborne was ‘sugarcoated’?”
“The part about what Owen said to me,” she said. “He didn’t ask me to come home and try to work things out. I was too embarrassed to tell the detective what he said verbatim.”
In a normal cross-examination, Jack would never ask a question to which he didn’t already know the answer. But having a client
who wouldn’t talk to him was not “normal.”
“What did your husband really say to you?” asked Jack. “No sugarcoating, please.”
Helena drew a breath, then answered. “He told me Austen was crying for his mommy like . . . like a sissy. He said, ‘Get over
here and make him stop.’”
It was a gift from the state’s star witness—and from her lawyer. Jack had to use it wisely. And carefully.
“Thank you, Ms. Pollard. I’d like to get a little more clarity on your state of mind when you received the call from your
husband. Let’s back up a bit, starting with that morning. You told Ms. Weller that you were frightened when you ran from the
house that morning, correct?”
“Yes. Very.”
“So frightened of your husband that you left without your son.”
“Yes. I regret that.”
Jack sensed she was leaving something out, perhaps hiding the real reason Owen had thrown her out without Austen. But his
safest strategy was to hew closely to her previous testimony. “Then our husband called you eleven hours later and told you
to come home because your son was acting up and wanted his mother, correct?”
She seemed appreciative of Jack’s characterization of the call, his omission of the word sissy.
“Yes.”
“Did that call make you any less fearful of your husband, Ms. Pollard?”
“No. If anything, it made me more afraid.”
It was the answer Jack had wanted. “So, when you got in your car and decided to drive home, you knew the anger you’d witnessed
that morning was still burning inside your husband, didn’t you?”
“Objection,” said Weller, rising.
“Overruled,” said the judge.
“I knew it was going to be—it could be a volatile situation.”
“Volatile and potentially dangerous, right?”
“Potentially.”
“In fact, you were expecting a confrontation with your husband, weren’t you, Ms. Pollard?”
The prosecutor objected but was again overruled.
“I didn’t know what to expect,” the witness said.
“Let’s be honest,” said Jack, tightening his figurative grip. “By the time the phone conversation with your husband ended—before
you even got in your car and started to drive back home—you decided that you were not going to leave that house again without
Austen.”
Another objection. “Overruled,” said the judge.
Helena was staring into the middle distance, silent.
“Ms. Pollard,” the judge said, “please answer the question.”
“It’s true,” she said softly. “I knew I was never, ever going to leave Austen behind again.” She took a deep breath, then
looked at the judge. “But I didn’t kill my husband. I just didn’t.”
Jack knew when to back away, when not to delve into the gruesome details of a crime scene. He also knew when it was time to
stop asking questions to which he didn’t know the answer. But there was more work to be done. He shifted gears—slightly.
“Do you know how to shoot a shotgun, Ms. Pollard?”
“I’ve shot one before.”
“You’re being modest, Ms. Pollard. You’re quite a good shot, aren’t you?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘good.’”
Jack went to his table and retrieved the next exhibit, which he shared with the prosecutor, the judge, and the witness.
“Your husband used to blog online about Second Amendment issues, did he not, Ms. Pollard?”
“Yes. He posted a few times a week.”
“I printed this post, which is publicly available,” said Jack.
“It’s a photograph of you holding a shotgun and wearing ear protection.
You’re standing in front of a sign that says, ‘Miami Skeet Shooting.’ The caption reads: ‘A perfect twenty-five target hits! Woo-hoo! Helena is the next Diana Vizzi!’”
Jack gave the witness a moment to review it, then asked, “Who is Diana Vizzi?”
“Ms. Vizzi is someone I admire,” she said.
“Why?”
“She was a talented dancer, a graduate of Juilliard. She later discovered that many of the same traits that made her a great
dancer—balance, a sense of timing, leg strength—made her one heck of a good skeet shooter. She made the U.S. Olympic team
for the Paris Olympics.”
“Is it fair to say that you and your husband shared a common interest in skeet shooting?”
“It was one of the places we were both happy.”
Jack took his time to set up the next question, trying to be delicate yet skillful. “Did you ever use the specific shotgun
that was found next to your husband’s body?”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor.
“Grounds?” the judge asked.
“It’s just obnoxious.”
“Overruled. The witness may answer.”
Helena leaned forward, closer to the microphone. “I’ve used it before.”
“You knew where that shotgun was kept in the house?”
“In the locked firearms cabinet, with our other guns.”
“You knew where the shells were kept, right?”
“Yes, of course. We have a child in the house. Owen and I knew exactly where everything was.”
“Both your husband and you knew where the key to the locked gun cabinet was kept, I assume?”
“Yes, of course.”
Jack paused to set up the next question. “Do you have any reason to believe my client, Mr. Stafford, knew where that key was
kept?”
She seemed to understand the importance of the point Jack was establishing, but there was only one answer. “No, I don’t.”
Jack took the score and moved on. “Now, Ms. Pollard, as a skeet shooter, you understand the force of a shotgun blast, right?
You appreciate its devastating power?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” she said.
“My apologies, Ms. Pollard. This isn’t an easy question to ask, but I must: Is it fair to say that you have enough experience
to know that if a shotgun is placed in one’s mouth and the trigger is pulled, there will be nothing left of the back of the
skull?”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor, groaning. “This is just unacceptable.”
The judge didn’t look pleased. “Mr. Swyteck, there had better be a point here.”
“I will make it quickly,” said Jack.
“Very quickly,” the judge said. “Ms. Pollard, you may answer.”
“I’ve never seen it happen,” said Helena. “But yes, the devastating effect of a shotgun blast at close range is rather self-evident.”
“Let me ask you one last question,” said Jack. “I want you to assume there is a victim who has suffered blunt trauma to the
back of the head. It could be a bruise from being hit with a frying pan, a fractured skull from a blow with a hammer, or just
about anything else imaginable. It doesn’t matter. Any kind of head wound that either knocks the victim unconscious or even
kills them. Here’s my question:
“A shotgun blast at close range, like the one suffered by your husband, would destroy all evidence of that trauma to the back
of the head, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Judge, I strongly object,” said the prosecutor.
“Ground?”
“It’s a question that should be answered only by a forensic medical expert or by Mr. Pollard’s killer. Putting a complete
hypothetical like this one to the victim’s widow is utterly obnoxious.”
The judge snarled. “That’s enough with the ‘obnoxious’ objections, Ms. Weller. It’s defense counsel’s job to establish reasonable
doubt.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Jack.
“Don’t thank me,” the judge snapped. “I didn’t say I liked the implication that the victim’s widow is the only one clever enough to cover her tracks with a shotgun blast and make a
murder look like a suicide. The objection is sustained. Do you have any further questions, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack had taken his shot—his best shot for a client who refused to contribute a word to his own defense.
“I have nothing further at this time,” said Jack. He returned to his seat, receiving no acknowledgment or reaction of any
kind from his client.
“Ms. Weller?” the judge asked. “Does the prosecution have any redirect?”
“Briefly, Your Honor,” she said, and she took her position before the witness. “Ms. Pollard, I know this is unpleasant, and
I’m sorry for everything you’ve been forced to go through.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said.
“No, it’s not,” the prosecutor said, shooting a quick glance in Jack’s direction. “Mr. Swyteck asked if you have any reason
to believe that his client knew where you and your husband kept the key to the gun cabinet. You said ‘no.’ Correct?”
“That was my answer.”
“Let me ask you this. If someone put a gun to your husband’s head and said, ‘Show me where the key is,’ do you think he’d show them?”
“Objection,” said Jack. “This witness is being asked to speculate how the decedent would respond to an improper hypothetical
situation.”
“Sustained.”
“Let’s try it this way,” said Weller. “Ms. Pollard, if someone put a gun to your head and said ‘write a suicide note in your own handwriting,’ would you do it?”
“Same objection,” said Jack.
The prosecutor pushed back. “Your Honor, the 911 recording from Mr. Pollard includes his statement that he was shot. I have more than a reasonable basis to posit a situation in which the decedent was forced at gunpoint—perhaps at gunshot—to open the gun cabinet and write his so-called suicide list.”
“Save it for closing argument,” said the judge. “The objection is sustained. Do you have any further questions for this witness?”
“Just a couple,” said Weller. “Ms. Pollard, did you have a gun with you or in your car when you returned home the night of
your husband’s death?”
It was the question that Jack had purposely not asked—and with good reason.
“No,” she answered.
“Do you hold a Florida concealed-carry permit that would even allow you to have a firearm in a car?”
“I do not.”
The prosecutor seemed satisfied that her points were made. “I have nothing further at this time, Your Honor.”
“All right, then,” the judge said. “Ms. Pollard, thank you very much. You are excused.”
Helena rose slowly and stepped down from the witness stand. She didn’t look at the defense or the prosecution as she passed
between the tables. Her lawyer met her on the other side of the swinging gate and escorted her down the center aisle to the
rear exit. Their heels clicked on the tile floor until the double doors closed behind them and they were gone.
The judge swung his gaze toward the prosecutor. “Does the State of Florida have another witness, Ms. Weller?”
“Yes, Your Honor. But I have a special request. Perhaps we could move to a smaller, more intimate courtroom with less of an
audience.”
Jack knew exactly what she meant. And he could scarcely believe what the prosecution was up to.
“What’s the basis for this request?” the judge asked.
“Your Honor, our next witness is a six-year-old child.”
Jack showed no reaction, but his client flinched. Jack took the nonverbal cue, leaned closer, and whispered into Elliott’s
ear.
“Now can we talk?”