Page 121 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 117

Rockingham County Courthouse, New Hampshire

T he next morning, Ron Reynolds whispers to me as I pass him going into court, “I hear the deputy AG has a bombshell.”

I’m still trying to absorb the one Teresa Bonanno dropped on me yesterday.

Had Suzanne really been pregnant with Tony Romero’s baby?

Despite her newfound sobriety, Teresa had admitted to lying before.

And I’m not sure if I can trust her.

The court clerk’s voice breaks into my thoughts.

“All rise!”

Judge Walter Dow enters and sits down behind the bench.

“Be seated.” He shuffles some papers, then looks at Bastinelli.

“Is the State ready to proceed?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Dow lowers his glasses and looks out over the courtroom.

“I am going to caution the gallery, as I have before, that I will not tolerate any expressions of approval or disapproval or outbursts of any kind. If you can’t control yourself, the bailiffs will eject you.”

Whatever the prosecution has, it must be pretty juicy.

Dow waves his hand at Hugh Bastinelli.

“Go ahead, Counselor.”

“The State calls Mr. Craig Donovan.”

A nervous-looking guy in a corduroy jacket walks through the doors and the clerk swears him in.

It takes Bastinelli only a minute or two to establish the man’s credentials.

Donovan, now in his sixties, is a retired professional photographer who spent many years working for the Patriots.

He took pictures of the cheerleaders and the players, including Suzanne Bonanno and Cole Wright.

Why is he here? What does he know?

“Mr. Donovan, do you see Cole Wright in the courtroom today?”

“I do.”

“Can you point him out for the jury, please?”

Donovan points to Cole Wright sitting at the defense table.

“Let the record show that the witness has identified the defendant.” Bastinelli continues.

“Mr. Donovan, was there an occasion before an Atlanta Falcons road game when you observed the Patriots players in the training area of Gillette Stadium?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And were you taking photographs of that occasion?”

“Not on assignment. I just happened to be passing through the facility on my way to my car. I always had my camera with me, so I took a few shots.”

“Were these photographs meant for publication or publicity?”

“No, that wasn’t part of my job. Just some candids.”

“So you never got front-office approval to make these pictures public?”

“No. I never showed them to anybody.”

“And the picture I’m about to show the jury has been in your possession since you took it, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Nobody else saw it until you brought it to the attorney general’s office, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s your testimony that the image is authentic? It has not been Photoshopped, cropped, or manipulated in any way?”

“It has not.”

Bastinelli picks up the controller.

“Your Honor, State’s exhibit thirty-eight.”

Hardy jumps to her feet.

“Your Honor, I again object to the introduction of this evidence as inflammatory, prejudicial, and not probative!”

“Noted, Ms. Hardy. And overruled. Proceed, Mr. Bastinelli.”

Bastinelli takes a step closer to the witness.

“Mr. Donovan, is this one of the pictures you took at that event?”

He clicks the controller and a color photo appears on the screen.

Everybody gasps. Jurors.

Spectators in the gallery.

Me.

Dow raps his gavel.

“Order!”

I cannot believe what I’m seeing.

I’m looking at a blond cheerleader from the rear.

She’s leaning backward.

Cole Wright is in front of her, arms extended, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

His hands are around the cheerleader’s neck.

Another gavel from the bench.

“I said order!”

Bastinelli points to the picture.

“Mr. Donovan, do you see Cole Wright in that photograph?”

“Yes, he’s the one in the blue sweatshirt in the lower right.”

“The man with his hands around the cheerleader’s throat.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Donovan, did you believe that you were photographing an assault in progress?”

“No, sir. Mr. Wright was just fooling around.”

“Fooling around.” Bastinelli looks at the jury.

“Or do you think maybe he was working out some aggressions?”

“Objection!” Hardy practically jumps across the table.

Bastinelli glances at her.

“I’ll withdraw the question.” He walks slowly back to the prosecution table and sits down.

“Your witness.”

Hardy is out of her chair like a shot.

I would be too.

“Mr. Donovan, we haven’t met. I’m Tess Hardy, Mr. Wright’s defense counsel.”

“I know,” says Donovan.

“I’ve seen you on TV.”

“Then you probably know why I objected to Mr. Bastinelli showing that picture, don’t you?”

“I don’t think I—”

“Because it’s totally misleading.”

“Objection!” shouts Bastinelli.

“Counsel is testifying.”

“Sustained,” says Dow.

“Ms. Hardy, frame a question if you have one.”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do.” She takes a few steps toward the screen and taps the image of the cheerleader.

“Mr. Donovan, from this angle, the jury is not able to see the face of the individual in the cheerleader’s uniform. Were you able to identify that individual as you took the picture?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And who was it? Tell the jury whose backside we’re looking at here.”

“It’s Timmy Gervin.”

The gallery erupts in nervous laughter but quiets when the judge glares.

I can see Bastinelli’s red face from here.

I feel his pain and embarrassment.

So much for the “bombshell” the reporters were predicting.

“And who’s Timmy Gervin?” Hardy continues.

“He was an assistant equipment manager for the Patriots.”

“Can you tell me why a male equipment manager would dress himself up as a cheerleader?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it started. He was just playing around, I guess.”

“Playing around. I see. And did Mr. Gervin make a habit of dressing in a cheerleader’s uniform?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Did it look like Mr. Gervin was being injured in any way?”

“No. I remember he was laughing the whole time.”

“So whatever was going on here, he seemed to be in on the joke?”

“Seemed that way, yes.”

“So you knew, when you produced this picture, that it showed a bunch of male coworkers just playing around?”

I can tell what Hardy’s doing.

The jury can’t unsee that image.

All she can do is try to disarm it.

When your client is on trial for murder, the last thing you want the jury to remember is a picture of him pretending to kill somebody.

“I did know.”

“So why bring it forward now, Mr. Donovan? Why did you feel compelled to rush it to the attorney general’s office?”

“I heard trial coverage about Cole Wright strangling Suzanne Bonanno and I didn’t want anybody to think I was hiding something.”

Hardy steps toward the bench.

“Your Honor, move to strike! This witness is not a medical or forensics expert!”

“Sustained.” Dow looks at the jury.

“The jury will disregard the witness’s last response.”

Hardy collects herself before asking her next question.

“Mr. Donovan. A photograph captures one instant in time, isn’t that right?”

“One split second, that’s right.”

“And you’ve admitted that you don’t really know what led up to this picture, right?”

“Not really.”

“Meaning no?”

“That’s right. I don’t know what came before.”

“But from what you witnessed, it seemed a harmless joke, right?”

“I think so, yes.”

“No further questions.”

Bastinelli stands up and buttons his jacket.

“Your Honor, the State rests.”

His strategy is clear.

That picture is exactly what he wants the jury to remember.