“Yes,” said Rebecca. She paused and bowed her head. “I felt sick when Mr. Cartwright threatened my husband with the words ‘I will still kill you.’” She slowly raised her head and looked at the jury, as Fletcher made a further note.
“And once the debate was over your husband returned home to West Hartford?”
“Yes, I had prepared a light supper for him which we had in the kitchen, because he sometimes forgets.” She paused again. “I’m so sorry, forgot, to take a break from his arduous schedule to eat.”
“Do you recall anything in particular about that supper?”
“Yes, I went over my notes with him, as I felt strongly about some of the issues that had been raised during the debate.” Fletcher turned the page and made another note. “In fact, it was over supper that I learned Mr. Cartwright had accused him of setting up the last question.”
“How did you react to such a suggestion?”
“I was appalled that anyone could think Ralph might have been involved in such underhanded tactics. However I remained convinced that the public would not be taken in by Mr. Cartwright’s false accusations, and that his petulant outburst would only increase my husband’s chances of winning the election the following day.”
“And after supper did you both go to bed?”
“No, Ralph always found it difficult to sleep after appearing on television.” She turned to face the jury again. “He told me that the adrenalin would go on pumping for several hours, and in any case, he wanted to put some finishing touches to his acceptance speech, so I went to bed while he settled down to work in his study.” Fletcher added a further note to his script.
“And what time was that?”
“Just before midnight.”
“And after you had fallen asleep, what was the next thing you remember?”
“Being woken by a shot, and not being certain if it was real or just part of a dream. I turned on the light and checked the time by the clock on my bedside table. It was just after two o’clock, and I remember being surprised that Ralph still hadn’t come to bed. Then I thought I heard voices, so I walked over to the door and opened it slightly. That was when I first heard someone shouting at Ralph. I was horrified when I realized it was Nat Cartwright. He was screaming at the top of his voice, and once again threatening to kill my husband. I crept out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs and that was when I heard the second shot. A moment later Mr. Cartwright came running out of the study, continued on down the corridor, opened the front door and disappeared into the night.”
“Did you chase after him?”
“No, I was terrified.”
Fletcher scribbled yet another note as Rebecca continued. “I ran downstairs, and straight into Ralph’s study, fearing the worst. The first thing I saw was my husband on the far side of the room slumped in the corner, blood trickling from his mouth, so I immediately picked up the phone on his desk and called Chief Culver at home.”
Fletcher turned yet another page and continued writing furiously. “I’m afraid I woke him, but the chief said he would come over as quickly as possible and that I was to touch nothing.”
“What did you do next?”
“I suddenly felt cold and sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor. The next thing I remember was a police siren in the distance and a few moments later someone came running through the front door. The policeman knelt down by my side and introduced himself as Detective Petrowski. One of his officers made me a cup of coffee and then he asked me to describe what had happened. I told him all I could remember, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very coherent. I recall pointing to Ralph’s study.”
“Can you remember what happened next?”
“Yes, a few minutes later I heard another siren, and then the chief walked in. Mr. Culver spent a long time with Detective Petrowski in my husband’s study, and then returned and asked me to go over my story once again. He didn’t stay for very long after that, but I did see him in deep conversation with the detective before he left. It wasn’t until the following morning that I discovered that Mr. Cartwright had been arrested and charged with the murder of my husband.” Rebecca burst into tears.
“Right on cue,” said Fletcher as the chief prosecutor removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it over to Mrs. Elliot. “I wonder how long they took rehearsing that?” he added as he turned his attention to the jury and noticed that a woman in the second row was also quietly crying.
“I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, Mrs. Elliot.” Ebden paused. “Perhaps you would like me to ask the court for an adjournment so you have a little time to compose yourself?”
Fletcher would have objected, but he already knew what her answer would be, because they were so obviously sticking to a well-worn script.
“No, I’ll be fine,” said Rebecca, “and in any case I’d rather get it over with.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Elliot,” Ebden looked up toward the judge, “I have no more questions for this witness, your honor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ebden,” said the judge. “Your witness, Mr. Davenport.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Fletcher removed a stopwatch from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He then slowly rose from his place. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom boring into the back of his head. How could he even consider questioning this helpless, saintly woman? He walked over to the stand and didn’t speak for some time. “I will try not to detain you for longer than is necessary, Mrs. Elliot, remembering the ordeal you have already been put through.” Fletcher spoke softly. “But I must ask you one or two questions, as it is my client who is facing the death penalty, based almost solely on your testimony.”
“Yes, of course,” Rebecca replied, trying to sound brave as she wiped away the last tear.
“You told the court, Mrs. Elliot, that you had a very fulfilling relationship with your husband.”