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Dear DiaryMay 30

I am skipping lunch today, too upset to eat. I have you Dear Diary, with me, so I decided to use a small conference room in the courtroom to make this entry. I hope that will make me feel better.

I was totally embarrassed by yesterday’s and this morning’s testimony. The judge allowed the prosecution to put a woman on the stand and read parts of you, Dear Diary, to the jury. I tried to act calm about it. Marc, Jennifer and Maddy all said I did. I’m not so sure.

She read every entry where I was angry and complaining about being transgendered. Worse, there were mentions of violence against the people who did it to me. She also read every passage in which I wrote about the blackouts. Marc made her read about other things that could have affected my anger.

Marc believes this afternoon will be worse to sit through than this morning. The prosecutors are going to put on their psychiatrist expert. I met with him twice, one hour each time. The best way to describe him is that he is an arrogant prick. I think he had made up his mind before we met that I was guilty, that I was lying about the blackouts and I murdered all of these people.

I hate to think what he is going to say.

Judge Foster was back on the bench at 1:02. The first thing he did was call the lawyers up to the bench.

“Do you have any more witnesses after these two?” Foster asked Hughes and Raines.

“No, your Honor. We’re wrapping it up with this.”

“Okay, then here it is. Because it’s Friday we’re staying as late as we have to. Understood?” Foster said moving his eyes across all of them.

“Yes, your Honor,” they all said in agreement.

“Good, let’s go.”

What the judge meant, at least in part, was the question, how much do you want to piss off the jury? To drag this out is to do so at your peril.

Thomas Hughes waited until the courtroom was settled and Foster gave him the green light.

“If it please the court, the state calls Professor Dr. Lowell MacArthur.”

A tall, must have been six foot five inches, handsome, distinguished looking man, stood up from the front row. He had wavy, salt and pepper hair, a perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee wearing a two-thousand dollar three piece suit while also wearing an air of dignity and professionalism.

Foster’s clerk swore him in and he took the stand. The first thing Hughes did was to have him state his name and current employment .

“My name is Lowell MacArthur. I am an M.D. specializing in psychiatry. Currently, I am a professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins School of Medicine in Baltimore, Maryland.”

Having been given a copy of the man’s Curriculum Vitae, Marc stood to make a suggestion.

“Your Honor, if I may,” Marc began. “In the interest of saving everyone some time, the defense has received a copy of the witnesses Curriculum Vitae. We will stipulate to his qualifications as an expert in the field of psychiatry.”

The last thing Marc wanted to do was to listen for the next hour while Hughes read the entire thing into the record. Hughes, hiding his anger, was totally against this.

“Your honor,” Hughes stood to dissent, “we believe it is important for the jury to be told this, firsthand, from the witness himself…”

Marc, still standing, “Since it’s Friday afternoon, your Honor, to help move things along, I’ll have copies made for all twelve jurors and the alternates.”

Judge Foster knew exactly what the two lawyers were up to. He did not care to listen to the three page CV being read either.

Siding with Marc, he said, “I agree, but I don’t think we need individual copies. Mr. Hughes, mark it and put it into evidence.”

“Yes, your Honor,” a chastened Hughes said.

Without the CV to awe the jury, Hughes was left with MacArthur’s time spent with Robbie. MacArthur had been given the session notes of Dr. Lorraine Butler, a local psychiatrist. She had been counseling Robbie for months. Their sessions totaled over twenty hours.

MacArther was also given a video made by Joan Stevens, Robbie’s trans mentor and Professor Camille Bethany. Professor Bethany, with Dr. Butler’s okay, had three hours with Robbie.

The conclusions that Lorraine Butler and Professor Bethany came to was the same. Robbie was telling the truth. She had blackouts not induced by the trauma of the murders. Both had the same opinion. The blackouts were legitimate. It would be extremely unlikely that Robbie would commit five murders and have five blackouts. It was also highly unlikely that anyone else would either.

Having spent less than two hours with Robbie, but in his words, having extensively reviewed everything, the professor came to the opposite conclusion. Robbie was lying. She was pulling a scam or, she did the murders and had real blackouts from them.

“To be clear, Professor,” Hughes said wrapping up his direct exam, “Roberta Craig-Powell, in your opinion, is committing a clever fraud and that she did these murders and is either lying about the blackouts or the blackouts are real, brought on by the trauma of committing these murders? In your opinion as an expert psychiatric witness?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Judge Foster called a break before Marc began his cross examination. Maddy’s bladder was about to burst, causing her to hurry out. While in the Ladies Room, Maddy’s phone buzzed. She had received a text.

Found them both. They will help. I’ll call later.

It was from Tony Carvelli and the them that he found was very good news.

“Professor MacArthur,” Marc said, beginning his cross examination. “Help me be clear about something. Setting aside the possibility that Robbie Craig is pulling off a scam, I want to be sure about the trauma causing the blackouts.

“Isn’t it true, as you testified, that Doctors Butler, a psychiatrist, and Camille Bethany, a psychology professor at a prestigious major university, Northwestern…”

“Objection, these women have not been established as experts your Honor,” Hughes stood to argue.

“I’m not saying they are. If you’ll allow me to continue, the court will understand why I mention them,” Marc replied.

“Overruled. Get there.”

“You used their records, their video and their opinions when you prepared your own opinion, did you not?”

“Yes, I reviewed them. ”

“And you came to the same conclusion they did, that is, if the blackouts we heard about from a reading of Robbie’s diary were real, they were caused by a trauma?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“As a highly qualified psychiatrist and expert witness, would you characterize this as being cognitively, mentally impaired? Diminished?”

“Objection,” Hughes practically yelled and almost jumped out of his chair.

“Your Honor, we must insist on a brief conference in chambers,” Hughes said.

Judge Foster looked at the clock and said, “Fifteen minutes.”

He then looked at the lawyers and said, “Let’s go. George, you too,” he said to his court reporter.

Back in chambers, before Hughes or anyone else could say anything, Judge Foster held up a hand to stop them.

“I want this on the record,” Foster said.

The lawyers took their normal seats in front of the big desk and George announced he was ready.

“One at a time, Mr. Hughes,” Foster said.

“He’s trying to plead insanity without pleading insanity. He’s trying to tell the jury that ‘my client didn’t do it, but if you think she did, the blackout proved she was insane and therefore not guilty.’ He can’t have it both ways.”

“Seems like it. You that clever, Mr. Kadella?” Foster asked Marc.

“I’m sure I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Marc said. “I’m just following up to make sure the jury understands what his expert is getting at, your Honor.”

“Seems he’s practically winking at you now,” an angry and getting angrier Thomas Hughes said.

“Seems to me, you opened the door for this,” Judge Foster told Hughes. “And he may be trying to wink and nod at the jury giving them a diminished capacity case to conclude. But,” Foster now looked at Marc and said, “I’m sure he won’t use any language like that in closing. And, we’re not going to ask this witness any more questions about it. ”

“He hasn’t answered yet,” Marc said. “There’s an objection to deal with.”

Foster thought for a moment before saying, “I’m gonna overrule the objection. The witness will answer your question. Then we’ll move on.”

Back in the courtroom Foster announced his ruling and ordered MacArthur to answer. Much to Marc’s delight, MacArthur had to have the question repeated.

George read from his recording, “As a highly qualified psychiatrist and expert witness, would you characterize this as being cognitively, mentally impaired? Diminished?”

MacArthur hesitated, realizing if he said no, most of his testimony would make him look like a fool. Quietly he said, “Yes.”

“I’m sorry professor, I didn’t hear your answer,” Marc said.

“Yes,” he repeated much louder.

Marc picked up a single page document. Looked it over then looked up at the professor.

“Professor MacArthur, I have in my hands a single page document. I believe I have your pay and expenses for being here today. United Airline, first class, round trip, eight hundred and eighty three dollars. Is that correct?”

“I wouldn’t know,” MacArthur answered.

“Someone else bought the ticket for you?”

“Yes, that’s correct. But, I didn’t…”

“Yes, is the correct answer, Professor. Moving on.

“Three nights for a suite in a downtown five-star hotel at twelve-hundred dollars per night. Correct?”

“If you say so. I wouldn’t know, I did not book the reservation.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Um, yes, okay.”

“Meals, housekeeping and a limousine service to and from court, approximately another fifteen hundred. Sound about right?”

“Objection, your honor,” Hughes stood and said, trying to stop it. “The witness has stated he does not know the specifics… ”

“These items he has to sign for,” Marc said. He looked at Hughes and said, “I can put a witness on the stand to verify it. Would you like that?”

“Speak to me, Mr. Kadella,” Judge Foster said. “Overruled. Move along.”

“Your fees for testifying, five thousand dollars is that accurate and paid by the taxpayers.”

“It’s for my time,” MacArthur said.

“Really? If you weren’t here doing this, what else would you be doing with that same time that would pay you five thousand dollars over and above your professor’s salary?”

“It’s um hard to say. There could be, you know, several options,” MacArthur almost babbled.

Marc started to say something to question that then said, “I’ll let that go.”

Marc picked up three copies of an 8 x 11 photo, stood and asked, “May I approach the witness, your Honor?”

“You may.”

On his way to the witness stand he handed a copy to Hughes and one to Judge Foster. The third he handed to MacArthur. When MacArthur saw what it was his eyes widened and he glanced around the courtroom.

“Professor MacArthur I’m showing you a photo marked for identification as defense exhibit one,” Marc said. At the same time, using her laptop, Jennifer displayed the photo on the TV monitors.

“Do you recognize it?”

“Yes, um, it appears to be a copy of my wedding photograph.”

“That’s you next to the bride, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been married to Melinda, your wife in the photo, thirty-two years?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“She was a beautiful bride, didn’t you think?”

“Still is.”

“Good, I’m happy for her. The man standing next to you, in the tuxedo, he was your best man?”

“Yes, my younger brother, Gilbert. ”

“And the man standing next to your brother, the first groomsman. Who is he?”

“Let’s see, um, I’m trying to remember.”

“It’s Phillip Friedman, professor. An old friend and classmate of yours, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d call him an old friend…”

“He’s your first groomsman, where did you get the other five? Out of a homeless camp?”

“Your Honor, objection…”

While suppressing a smile, Judge Foster said, “Tone it down and watch the sarcasm, Mr. Kadella.”

“My apologies your Honor,” Marc said.

“Professor Phillip Friedman one of the victims of this trial was a long-time, very good friend of yours, wasn’t he? Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“In fact, your youngest son is named Phillip, yes or no?”

“Yes,” MacArthur answered.

“Move to admit defense one,” Marc said handing this to the clerk.

“So ordered.”

“I have nothing further,” Marc said then returned to his table.

“Redirect,” Foster told Hughes.

For the next fifteen minutes Hughes tried to rehabilitate the damage Marc had done. He managed to smooth over the pay and perks. He tried to make the jury believe that being a good friend of Friedman did not mean he was biased. He did not

do a very good job of it.

By now it was past 4:30 and the final witness, the one Marc knew would be last, waited for another twenty minutes while Foster ordered a break.

“The state calls the Reverend Gary Gimble, your Honor,” Hughes declared in a loud and clear voice making sure everyone knew they were calling a minister.

The deputy at the exit door retrieved Gimble from the hallway and led him inside. He made his way up to the witness stand, was sworn and seated. The courtroom was quiet as a tomb anticipating what this man could bring.

Hughes went through the usual preliminaries to introduce him to the jury and courtroom. Satisfied that he would be credible, Hughes went right to it. Friday, he wanted the impactful statement to be the last thing the jury heard before the weekend.

“I was the minister who conducted the funeral service for Priscilla Craig-Powell,” Gimble answered to the question of why he was here.

“Did anything occur after the ceremony at the gravesite that was out of the ordinary that caught your attention?” Hughes asked.

“Yes, I was with several of the attendees, the usual thing, handshaking and making small talk with them. Not far from us, no more than ten or twelve feet, the defendant, Robbie Craig-Powell and his father were talking about money. Specifically life insurance that Blake Craig had coming. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but they were so close I could hear them clearly.”

“Was anything said that specifically caught your attention?”

“Yes, I heard Robbie say, and I’m trying to be as accurate as possible, she said, ‘You’re going to be rich, Dad. Maybe we should have killed her years ago.’ I’m certain those were her exact words.”

These words caused enough of a stir that Foster had to use his gavel to quiet things down.

“Then what happened?” Hughes asked.

“I looked at them and Blake saw me and knew I heard this. He took Robbie’s arm and they hurried away.”

“Did you call the police and tell them?”

“Yes, I did. Two detectives came to the Rectory and took my statement.”

“Nothing further,” Hughes said.

“Reverend, in fact it took you almost three weeks to call the police, didn’t it?” Marc jumped right on him and asked.

“Well, yes, because . . .”

“Yes or no, Reverend.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Because you knew Robbie didn’t really mean it. You believed he was joking didn’t you? Again, yes or no.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You talked yourself into because you thought it might be true not because you really believed it was true and you certainly didn’t know it was true, isn’t that what happened? Why you waited three weeks?”

“Yes, it is,” Gimble admitted.

“And you’re still not sure, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Nothing further,” Marc said concluding his cross examination.

“Mr. Hughes?” Foster asked.

“Reverend Gimble, you came forward because you knew it was a matter for the authorities to determine what to do with what you heard . . .”

“Objection asked and answered and leading the witness,” Marc said.

“Sustained,” Foster ruled.

“Do you believe the statement now?” Hughes asked then immediately regretted it.

“I don’t know for sure,” a confused Reverend Gimble barely muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Marc quickly said. “I didn’t hear the witnesses answer.”

“No, I don’t know for sure,” Gimble said adding the word no to make it even worse.

“Nothing further, your Honor,” Hughes said almost in exasperation.

The state’s last witness, the one they wanted to make the most impact especially with the weekend coming up, the last thing the jury would hear from them, just blew up in their faces.

The prosecution rested and Foster adjourned.

As the courtroom was emptying for the weekend, Philo Anson came through the gate to Marc. “Hey, counselor. You did a pretty good job on their expert and the good reverend,” Philo told Marc.

“Stick around Philo. This trial starts Monday morning,” Marc replied.