“Mr. Hoffman, I’m fining you eight hundred dollars. If you’d prepared your client, this could have been avoided. Bailiff!”
After Candace Martin had been escorted from the room, the judge called for order, and when the room had quieted into an expectant hush, he asked the jury to ignore the interruption.
He reminded the jurors that they were charged with weighing the evidence, not the commotion, and that they were to draw no conclusions based on his decision to remove the defendant.
Then he said, “Mr. Hoffman, present your witness.”
Hoffman’s expression was neutral as the eleven-year-old daughter of Candace and Dennis Martin stood by the stand, was sworn in by the clerk, and took the chair inside the witness box. She had to struggle to get into it, and her feet didn’t quite touch the floor.
The judge turned toward the dark-haired girl in the flowered dress and blue cardigan, holding a matching handbag on her lap. He asked, “Ms. Martin, do you know the difference between a lie and the truth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I said that I’m the president of the United States, would that be a lie or the truth?”
“It would be a lie, of course.”
“Do you believe in God?”
Caitlin nodded.
“You have to say either yes or no. The clerk is typing what you say.”
“Yes. I do. Believe in God.”
“Okay. You understand that you have promised on God’s word to tell the truth?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Good. Thank you. Mr. Hoffman, please proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Caitlin — okay if I call you Caitlin?”
“Sure, Mr. Hoffman.”
Hoffman smiled. He had a nice smile. Nothing bad about it.
“Caitlin, I have to ask you some questions about the night your father was killed, okay?”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Were you in the house when your father was shot?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who shot him?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell the judge and the jury what you know.”
“I did it,” Caitlin Martin said. Her eyes darted to the judge and then back to her mother’s attorney. “I killed my father. I had no choice.”
Chapter 92
THE GALLERY EXPLODED in an uproar.
Jurors leaned forward, making remarks to one another, while reporters reached for their PDAs. Hoffman stood in the center of the well, his expression frozen, as if he’d just fired a gun himself.