Evidently, a lot of people in the courtroom had read the morning paper, or seen the news on television. When Hardy called Nancy to the stand, the reaction was audible.
She was sitting in the first gallery row, next to Dr. Lightner, directly behind Hardy and Jennifer, and she stood stiffly, the way a person would be expected to stand with taped and broken ribs. She still had the bandage over her nose, her eyes black and swollen.
Reporters were snapping photos as she inched painfully toward the center aisle. Villars was not having this – she had allowed cameras inside the courtroom up to this time, so long as their use was unobtrusive, but this action crossed her line.
She rapped her gavel. "That's enough pictures. All of you sit down. As of this moment I'm forbidding cameras in this courtroom. Anybody who's got one can leave now. Bailiffs, make sure that they do."
The bailiffs moved up to the rail. In the ensuing hubbub, as reporters either left with their own cameras or gave them to assistants to remove, Nancy DiStephano made it through the rail, stopping at the defense table. Jennifer reached over and the two women held hands briefly, wordlessly. Her mother straightened up and forced herself to the front of the courtroom to be sworn in.
Hardy assumed his position about ten feet in front of the witness box. "Mrs. DiStephano, what is your relationship to the defendant?"
"I'm her mother."
Apparently not everyone had known what the earlier commotion surrounding this witness was about because this admission caused another ripple of sound across the back of the courtroom. Villars didn't act so Hardy had to wait for it to subside.
"Mrs. DiStephano, may I call you Nancy?"
"Sure."
Hardy reasoned that his best odds were to face it head-on. "For the jury's benefit, Nancy, I wonder if you could tell us about your injuries?"
Powell jumped up. "Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant."
Amazingly, Villars asked for an argument before her ruling. "Mr. Hardy?"
"Your Honor, Mrs. Witt grew up in her mother's home. The person she has become was formed there. The jury should be aware of this environment."
Villars said she would allow the line of questioning. Hardy thanked her.
It seemed to him that he and the judge had – perhaps by osmosis – reached some accord. It might be the more relaxed rule governing admissibility in this phase of the trial, but he sensed it was something more.
Hardy approached the witness stand. "Nancy, you've recently been released from the hospital, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Would you tell us the extent of your injuries?"
Nancy described the broken ribs, broken nose, the kidney damage that caused her to urinate blood, the bruises on her breasts, torso, thighs.
"And how did you sustain these injuries?"
"My husband beat me up."
The courtroom was rapt, silent.
"Your husband, Phil DiStephano, the natural father of the defendant?"
"Yes."
"And was this the first time he'd beaten you?"
Talking about it, Nancy was starting to withdraw, to hunch her shoulders, the way her daughter did. Or was it more the other way around? She shook her head and Villars leaned over, speaking quietly. "You'll have to answer with words, please."
"No," Nancy said, "it wasn't the first time."
To give her a moment, Hardy stepped toward the jury box, turned to look at his client – Jennifer was frowning, not liking this. Hardy came back to Nancy. "Did your husband beat you often?"
The witness shook her head, then, remembering, said, "yes."
"How long has it been since your daughter, the defendant, moved out of the house?"
"About ten years."
"And before she moved out, did you suffer these beatings at the hands of her father?"
"Yes… it's always been there. Phil would drink too much and get mad about something and hit me."
"And did this ever happen in Jennifer's sight?"
"Yes."
"Did he ever hit your daughter?"
She shook her head. "No. He threatened a couple of times but I wouldn't let him. I got between them. He loved her." Tears had begun to show on her cheeks. "He just lost control."
"He just lost control," Hardy repeated. Taking a few steps again toward the jury, he continued: "In your opinion, Nancy, did this pattern of your husband beating you have any obvious effect on Jennifer's behavior?"
Nancy was toughing it out, letting the tears come. But, as Jennifer did, she spoke clearly through them. "We didn't talk about it afterward."
This wasn't the answer to the question, but it moved toward it. "You didn't talk about what?"
"They just happened and then they went away and everything went back to being the same."
"You denied that this was happening? The family denied it?"
"Yes. We just pretended."
"And Jennifer?"
"She got more and more quiet. And then she moved out."
"You'd say she became withdrawn, moody, mistrustful?" This was leading her all over the meadow, but he was allowed to do it in this phase and it would, he hoped, go a long way to explain to the jury Jennifer's apparent callousness in the face of the authority of the court.
"Yes." Nancy looked over at her daughter. "She was such a sweet little girl. She was my baby girl…"
Although she was maintaining her composure, Nancy's emotion lay over her like a blanket – her face was blotching with tears. Villars leaned over again. "Mrs. DiStephano? Would you like to take break?"
They were moving on.
"Nancy, did your daughter ever talk about how she felt about Matt?"
"Matt was her life."
"Matt was her life." He took in the jury, then went back to the witness. "She loved her son?"
"Completely. Oh, God, yes."
"Did you ever see any sign at all that she ever mistreated him, abused him, anything like that?"
"No, nothing. If anything, I thought she was a little overprotective. Maybe she spoiled him more than I would have. But I understand where that came from."
"And where was that?"
"Well, what she'd seen. Her father and me. Larry was the same way, overprotective. They just didn't want anything bad to happen to Matt."
This was good. It put Larry and Jennifer on the same side. Back at the defense table, Jennifer was staring straight ahead, crying without a sound.
"Nancy," Hardy said abruptly, "could your daughter have killed Matt, her son, even by mistake?" He held his breath, waiting.
She shook her head. "No. If she did, even by accident like you say, she would have killed herself."
Powell got up slowly. He knew this was emotional testimony and he didn't want to appear callous himself, but he felt he had to object to the speculation. Villars sustained him.
But Hardy at least had what he wanted. He went on to his last prepared questions, and to the answer he expected but that he believed was genuine. "What are your feelings for your daughter now?"
"I love her," she said. "She's all I have left."
Powell knew he had his work cut out for him, especially since Villars had denied a recess before his cross. Here was an emotionally charged, physically abused woman, and his job was to discredit her, take her apart. If he was going to be effective, it had to be a slow dance.
He smiled, breaking the ice. He had no doubt that she remembered him from the previous night in the homicide detail, but he had no choice – he couldn't come out swinging. He was going to be her friend, just clarifying a few little things. Her shoulders were forward, hunched, defensive, but she gave him a tentative smile. It was a start.
Mrs. DiStephano, you and your late husband also have a son, don't you?"
This, from out of left field, put her off balance. "Yes. Tom."
"And was Tom ever the victim of your husband's abuse?"
"Phil hit Tom a few times when he was younger, but it was more like just spankings. He never hurt him."
"And how are the two men now? Are they close?"
Hardy stood up. "Your Honor, if it please the court, Mr. Powell knows full well that Mr. DiStephano is deceased."
It was casual, and Hardy's phrasing of the objection side-stepped the overt admission tha Nancy had killed him, if anyone didn't already know. Powell gestured apologetically. "Did Tom ever witness your husband beating you?"
"Yes."
"Just like Jennifer did?"
"Yes. I mean until later."
"What happened later?"
"Well, later, when Tom got older, he'd, like, he tried to protect me. So Phil would make sure Tom wasn't around."
"But that wasn't the case with Jennifer?"
"I'm sorry. What wasn't?"
"Your late husband, Phil, would hit you even if Jennifer was around?"
"Sometimes."
"And she didn't try to stop it?"
"She couldn't stop my husband. I couldn't…" She stopped, realizing that finally she had done just that. "He was too strong. Jennifer just hid, I think."
"So Jennifer hid and watched her father beat you up without trying to help you in any way. But your son Tom tried to step in. How do you feel about your son now?"
"Tom? He's a good boy."
"You love him?"
"Of course. He's my son."
"And of course mothers love their sons."
"Yes."
Powell let that sink in. "And yet you testified that Jennifer was all you had left?"
Nancy glanced in panic around the room, then looked at Hardy. He nodded. It was okay. She was doing fine.
"That was just a figure of speech," she said. "She's the only daughter I have left."
"And are you very close to her?"
"Yes. Very close."
"You're very close. I see. Can you tell the jury roughly how many times, in the past year before your daughter was arrested, that you visited her at her house?"
Hardy put a hand to his forehead. The trap was going to spring here. Jennifer had her hand on his arm.
Nancy hesitated, sitting back now for the first time. Seconds crept by.
"Mrs. DiStephano," Villars prodded, "please answer the question."
Powell waited some more. He wasn't pressing – it was an obvious and simple question, hanging in the room. No one, least of all Nancy, was apt to have forgotten it. "Not last year," she said at last.
"You didn't visit your daughter's home during the last year?"
"No."
"Not at all?"
"No."
Powell did a three-sixty, his expressive face showing every nuance of his deep surprise. "Well, how about the year before that?"
Nancy started to sound a little snappish. "No, we didn't see them very much. Larry was… Larry didn't want us to."
"Larry didn't want you to." Powell, sparing Nancy's feelings, a good guy, tried to find a way out for her. "Then, with your very close relationship, you and Jennifer must have spoken on the phone quite a lot?"
She looked down. "She was very busy."
"Your daughter was busy. Did she have a job?"
"I had a job, I have a job."
"Which left nights and weekends, is that right?"
Hardy stood up. "Your Honor, this is badgering."
"Overruled."
Powell asked again. "Just approximately, Mrs. DiStephano, how often did you and your daughter speak?"
Nancy kept her eyes down.
"Every week? Once a month?"
"She always called on my birthday. I always called on hers."
Powell let the words speak for themselves. He nodded, then walked back to the prosecution table. "I'd like to explore one last point – you've told us, Mrs. DiStephano, that Matt was Jennifer's life, that she even spoiled him. I wonder if you could be more specific."
Again, the eyes came to Hardy, pleading for help. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, if you didn't see much of Jennifer and Matt, which you've just told us, how do you know how she felt about him or how she treated him?"
"Well, when he was younger, when he was a baby-"
"Matt was Jennifer's life then?"
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Yes."
Powell was still trying to seem gentle, generous. He came close to the witness box, speaking softly. "Mrs. DiStephano, I just don't see how you can know. Please help me here."
Nancy sat quietly for an hour's worth of fifteen seconds. Finally Hardy stood and asked if a question had been asked. Powell gave it some more time, then sighed, saying he supposed not. Mrs. DiStephano could sit down.