Chapter 44
Jack approached the witness slowly, each step forward a choreographed show of confidence and control.
At the first hearing, Helena had looked frightened. This time she appeared ready to fight from the opening bell, primed to
rebuff a polite expression of sympathy or even a simple “Good morning.” Jack skipped the formalities and went straight to
work.
“Ms. Pollard, did you speak with Ms. Weller between the end of yesterday’s hearing and your testimony today?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard. “Did I, personally? No.”
Jack pointed to Patricia Dubrow in the gallery. “How about your lawyer? Did she speak with Ms. Weller?”
The prosecutor rose. “Your Honor, I will stipulate that I met with Ms. Dubrow yesterday afternoon. Anything this witness knows
about that conversation would have been communicated to her through her attorney and is therefore privileged. Can we move
on, please?”
The judge nodded. “Yes, this does seem like a fruitless start to a cross-examination. Mr. Swyteck, is there some point you’re
trying to make here?”
“It just seems odd to me, Your Honor.”
“What seems odd?”
“Ms. Weller began her examination of this witness by expressing her condolences for the loss of her husband. But she ended
by establishing that Ms. Pollard was scared to death of him—so scared that she ran from the house, forgot to grab her purse,
and left her gun behind. That’s odd, Judge. A presentation as well staged and choreographed as this one usually has more thematic
consistency to it.”
A ripple of laughter coursed through the gallery.
“Objection!” Weller said angrily.
A crack of Judge Garrison’s gavel restored order. “The objection is sustained. Mr. Swyteck, please. Do you have any actual
questions for this witness?”
“I do, Your Honor,” said Jack, and he turned to face the witness.
“Ms. Pollard, on the night of your husband’s death, you spoke to MDPD Detective Osborne in your home, did you not?”
“I did.”
Jack marked an exhibit. “Ms. Pollard, I’m handing you a copy of the statement Detective Osborne took from you that evening.
Could you please point out where it mentions the argument you had with your husband on the morning of his death?”
She read it to herself, then looked up. “It’s not in there.”
“It’s not in there because you didn’t tell him about the argument with your husband that morning, did you?”
“No. That didn’t come up.”
“You didn’t tell him that you rushed out of the house so fast that you left your purse behind with the gun inside, did you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t tell him that your gun had no serial number, did you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Let’s be honest, Ms. Pollard. You didn’t mention those things because you feared they would cast suspicion on you. Am I right?”
“No. I—at the time, I didn’t think it was important.”
Jack took a step closer, figuratively tightening his grasp on the witness. “But it was important, wasn’t it?”
“Objection, argumentative.”
“I’ll rephrase,” said Jack. “Ms. Pollard, the argument that morning was not the first time you and your husband argued over
how to raise your son, was it?”
“No. It was ongoing.”
“Ongoing and escalating over time. A fair statement?”
“Fair, I suppose.”
“And the morning you ran from the house—that wasn’t the first time your husband acted in a way that made you fear for your
own safety, was it?”
“It depends on what you mean by ‘safety.’”
“Let’s cut to the chase, Ms. Pollard. The truth is, you were keeping a secret from your husband, weren’t you?”
She bristled at the accusation, but she didn’t deny it. “Excuse me?”
“You created a social media campaign for your son Austen.”
“Oh, that,” she said, as if relieved to concede that much. “Yes.”
“You put images of your six-year-old dancer in leotards on social media for public consumption, and you didn’t tell your husband.
Isn’t that true?”
Helena seemed to be looking past Jack, into the gallery behind him, as if to seek reassurance from her lawyer. Then she answered.
“I was trying to help Austen.”
“Your social media campaign didn’t turn out to be so ‘helpful,’ did it, Ms. Pollard?”
She struggled for words. “It—yes, there were some problems.”
“Serious problems, right? As it turned out, most of your son’s social media followers were grown men. Some were known pedophiles.”
Helena became defensive, her hands balling into tight fists on her lap. “That was bad. Really bad.”
“You feared Owen would find out, didn’t you?”
“You need to understand. Owen was not a bad person. He was in a bad place.”
“And while he was in such a bad place, you were afraid of what he might do when he found out. So afraid that you started carrying that gun in your purse. True?”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“Let’s be clear about whose idea it was,” said Jack. “C. J. Vandermeer gave you that gun, didn’t he?”
Again, Helena’s gaze drifted beyond Jack, in the direction of her lawyer, and then she answered. “Yes. CJ gave me the gun.
For protection.”
“Protection from your husband, correct?”
“That’s what he told me, yes.”
“Mr. Vandermeer feared that your husband would physically hurt you if he found out that grown men—sexual predators—were looking
at pictures of his son online. Right?”
“Objection,” said the prosecutor. “Mr. Vandermeer is not on trial here.”
“Overruled,” the judge said quickly, barely taking the time to think about it. “The witness may answer.”
Another nervous glance to somewhere beyond Jack, and then she answered: “CJ was afraid for both of us—him and me.”
“Afraid for both of you because he helped with the social media campaign, didn’t he, Ms. Pollard?”
“Yes. But you’re missing the point.”
She was in obvious discomfort, but so far, she’d admitted the truth of everything CJ had said, which fueled Jack’s confidence.
His cadence quickened, her answers irrelevant, his questions mere assertions of fact in rapid-fire delivery.
“CJ was afraid because—as he told you—Owen would be furious if he found out the two of you were doing this together, behind
his back.”
“Yes—I mean no.”
“Because your husband and Mr. Vandermeer despised each other. True?”
“They did, but that wasn’t the issue.”
“Because Mr. Vandermeer ponied up the money that made it possible for you to adopt Austen from my client.”
“Yes, but—”
“Because Owen wished he’d never adopted your son.”
“No!”
“Because—”
“Because we were having an affair! All right? That’s why CJ was afraid of what Owen might do!”
Jack heard a gasp from behind—the first sound from Elliott in weeks—and the courtroom seemed to gasp along with him. Jack stood frozen before the witness, who appeared stunned by her own words. The admission was more than he had hoped for. Far more.
Patricia Dubrow rose from her seat in the first row of the gallery.
“Your Honor, as counsel for the witness, I would request a brief recess.”
Jack needed to capitalize on his momentum. “Your Honor, rather than recess, I ask the court to dismiss the witness and immediately
take up my client’s renewed request for pretrial release.”
“The State of Florida joins in Mr. Swyteck’s request,” said Weller, “except to add that the court should immediately deny the defendant’s request for release.”
The judge addressed the witness. “Ms. Pollard, you may step down.”
Helena rose and walked quickly toward her lawyer. A handful of reporters jumped from their seats and followed them to the
rear exit and into the lobby. No one else moved.
“Ms. Weller,” the judge said, “the law requires this court to release Mr. Stafford on bail unless the prosecution can establish
a strong presumption of guilt. In light of what we’ve just heard, tell me: What is left of your case?”