A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [191]
Susan Dirks, in her cross-examination, asked why Robbie had been allowed to break a girl’s arm when the teachers were looking on. “That sounds like negligence to me,” Dirks said quickly, before Rafferty protested.
“How many teachers were watching while the girl’s arm was broken?”
“Three.”
“Three teachers standing by while a girl broke her arm on the jungle gym?”
Later Dirks said, “In your testimony you spoke about the cognitive abilities of Robbie Mackessy at three years of age. Do you have your Doctorate in Psychology?”
“No, I don’t, but I—”
“Do you have, at the very least, a Master’s in Social Work?”
“No, but I—”
“A degree in education, Mrs. Gildner, hardly qualifies you to speak with authority about childhood psychology. Isn’t it true that it is normal for a three-year-old to lie to get out of trouble?”
“Yes, but I said—”
“You said that he had a pattern of lying, Mrs. Gildner, and yet you’ve only mentioned one incident.”
“I—I remember that he had a pattern of lying, but now, with the years passing, and all the children I see, I can’t tell you more about that. I mean, children lie about little things, about toys and food, so that for me to bring back a specific—”
“You don’t remember other incidents?”
“Well, I—I know they happened, but like I said—”
When we were leaving the courtroom after her testimony Rafferty whispered to me, “Don’t look so glum.”
“She was a disaster,” I said.
“No, no she wasn’t at all. The jury will remember how mild she was, and that Dirks preyed upon her. They’ll remember that Robbie broke a kid’s arm when he was three.”
“Did he really do that?”
Rafferty’s chin shot down to his chest and he looked severely up at me over his glasses.
“I don’t think the boy is as bad as you’ve made him out to be,” I said. “I’m not sure it happened like that.”
He drew me to him as we walked down the hall. “This is stressful,” he said. He was still whispering but his hold was firm; the pressure from his fingertips on my arm was almost painful. “You have to understand that I would never put a witness on to lie. Never. And it’s not going to do you much good at this juncture to start feeling sorry for Robbie. It’s admirable but beside the point right about now. Go get yourself a drink and let’s keep calm.”
I heard Dyshett, heard her loud and clear, her voice nearly strong enough to make my own tongue move. She was saying, “I’d walk down the street lookin’ at ch’you, Mr. Raff-er-ty, thinkin’ you was a smart-ass lawyer, but you nothin’ but some kind of pop-eyed, mangy half-breed dog, rippin’ that boy limb from limb, chewin’ him up, spittin’ him out, and then you expect us to study what’s all over the floor and say, ‘Yes sir, that pile of shit is a boy.’ ”
That first afternoon Rafferty called James “Grinder” Perkins. He worked as an office manager at the Oscar Mayer plant in Madison, overseeing those who process beef and pork into hot dogs. He was a fine-boned man, not much taller than Mrs. Mackessy. He had expensive-looking hair, layered and conditioned and blown dry, and blue wire-rimmed glasses. No one around Prairie Center, except Dan, wore skinny ties and designer glasses. Shortly after he took the stand the judge summoned Rafferty and Dirks into his chamber. Howard and I waited out in the hall. He was trying to study his vehicle registration handbook so that he might soon advance to Team Captain, and I looked out the window wondering about the girls across the street in the jail. Rafferty had expected that the judge would ask for an offer of proof that his witness was not collateral to the case, that the witness would provide relevant information. Howard was unable to stop jiggling his foot, what for him could pass as hysterics. I had to say his name three or four times before he looked away from his manual. “I just wonder,” he said after a while, “I just wonder what makes Rafferty think the judge is going to take our side.”
“Judge Peterson