One
From the defendant’s chair, Nelson Stewart watched the twelve jurors – six male, six female – file back into the courtroom, their different heels clacking against the wooden floorboards at odd intervals, creating an ominous march that reverberated across the courtroom like an anthem. Despite none of them even glancing in his direction, as each juror took their respective seats back inside the box, Nelson tried his best to read his fate in their blank expressions.
For the past six days, those twelve jurors had listened to every account… every word… every detail that had been exposed to them by the prosecution, the defense, and all the thirteen witnesses that had been called to testify.
For the past six days, as the trial slowly unraveled, Nelson observed as those twelve jurors kept on sporadically gazing his way, searching his expressions, his body language for any signs of guilt – uncomfortably shifting on his chair, fidgeting, anxious scratching of the hands, dry swallowing, excessive blinking… anything that could give up his game – but Nelson had followed Tenor Bryant, his defense attorney’s, instructions to perfection.
‘Nelson,’ Bryant had said during their last pre-trial meeting, seven days ago. ‘I need you to listen to me very carefully because this is very important. Once this thing starts tomorrow, I want you to show no emotions at all… and I meannothing. I’ve been doingthis for long enough to know that every expression you make, every reaction you show, will be interpreted against you, not in your favor, regardless of how truthful those expressions and reactions really are. If you cry, even a single tear, they’ll think you’re faking it. If you smile, they’ll say that you’re not taking this seriously. If you fidget, they’ll think it’s because you’re guilty. In a trial, they won’t only be listening to the words that’ll be said by everyone. They’ll be looking at you… all the time… and they’ll be doing so very carefully, especially the judge, Rebecca Reeves, who can be an absolute bitch when presiding over cases that deal directly with violence against women, but most important of all – as the prosecution puts their case forward… as you listen to what some of the witnesses will say against you, no matter how much of a lie you think they are telling, youcannotshow any signs of anger – no outbursts, no fists against the table, no grinding of the teeth… nothing. If you show any anger whatsoever, it will bury our case.’
From day one, just like Bryant had asked him to, Nelson Stewart had sat at the defendant’s table as still as a potted plant, giving absolutely nothing away, until three days ago, when his wife, Samantha Stewart, took the stand to give evidence for the prosecution, as their first key witness.
Nelson hadn’t seen Sam in nine weeks, since he was arrested for allegedly severely beating her up and leaving her handcuffed to the pipework inside their bathroom, while he went out to his weekly poker game with the boys.
As Sam entered the courtroom, Nelson was shocked. She looked tired and frail, having seemingly aged several years in just over two months. Her weight had plummeted, her skin seemed sallow and dry, and her hair looked bristled and uncared for, something that Nelson had never seen in two years of marriage. Despite all that, her astonishing beauty still managed to somehow shine through.
When Sam took the witness stand, she almost immediately began crying, as she gave the court a thorough account of how quickly their marriage had become completely toxic. Under the watchful eyes and attentive ears of everyone inside courtroom one, Samantha Stewart, with the help of several photograph exhibits provided by the prosecution, all of them Polaroids, explained that to her, the fairytale of a perfect marriage had lasted just a little over three months. That was when everything started to change – their rows got louder and more heated… their nights apart more common… and Nelson’s temper gradually more aggressive, until the night that he finally snapped and slapped her across the face for the very first time.
Sam went on to detail how, throughout the next nineteen months, the beatings that she received from her husband became more and more frequent and increasingly more violent, until the point at which she’d become terrified for her life. She told the court that the night that her husband was arrested hadn’t been the first time that she’d been handcuffed to the bathroom pipework in their house in Woburn, Massachusetts. No, the shackling to the pipework had happened several times before, and that was why she had hidden a pre-paid cellphone inside the towel drawer in the bathroom.
After Nelson locked the door behind him, leaving Sam bleeding, bruised, and cuffed under the sink, she waited for five minutes to make sure that he wasn’t coming back. Once she was sure that her husband was really gone, Samantha Stewart reached for the hidden cellphone and finally called the police.
The prosecution, knowing fully well how effective this was in a trial, petitioned the recorded 911 call so that it could be played in court. They wanted the jury to hear the desperation in Samantha Stewart’s voice.
(Female emergency operator)‘911, what’s your emergency?’
(Sam’s voice came through in a whisper.) ‘I… I’m beingheld prisoner in my house by my husband. He’s… a very violent man. I’m… really scared.’
‘What’s your name, darling?’
‘Samantha… Samantha Stewart… Sam.’
‘What’s your husband’s name, Sam?’
‘It’s Nelson Stewart.’
‘Sam, are you whispering because you are in danger? Is your husband in the house with you at the moment?’
(Still in a whisper) ‘No. He went out, but I don’t know how long he’ll be gone for. Please help me. I’m so scared.’ Emotion started to strangle Sam’s already weak voice. ‘I am chained to the pipes in the bathroom. I can’t get out.’
‘You are “chained” to the pipework inside your bathroom?’There was a tone of disbelief in the operator’s voice.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your address, Sam?’
As Sam dictated her address, the court could hear the sound of hurried keyboard clicks coming from the other end of the line.
‘Sam, are you hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘How bad are you hurt? Are you bleeding? Have you sustained any life-threatening injuries?’
‘No. I’m not bleeding anymore. I’m just bruised. My lip and eye are swollen.’
‘OK, Sam, officers are on their way to you now, but I’ll stay on the line with you until they get there, in case your husband comes back. The officers are less than three minutes from your house.’
‘I… I can’t get to the door. And they won’t be able to hear me. I’m chained in the bathroom inside our room, right at the back of the house.’
