Page 124 of The First Gentleman
CHAPTER 120
A TV camera is set up on the courthouse steps and a reporter is broadcasting live.
“It’s not every day that the spouse of the president of the United States gets called to the witness stand to defend himself in a murder trial,” the reporter says.
“In fact, it’s never happened before in American history.”
Courthouse security is the tightest it’s been yet.
Outside, demonstrators are acting out the conflict of the trial.
A couple of state troopers are called in to break up a fight between members of the pro-Cole and anti-Cole camps.
As I pass through the security checkpoints, I’m thinking about what Daryna told me.
Who authorized the removal of the case files?
Why is the Mob involved?
Could there really be a covert movement to use Cole Wright as a tool to oust his wife from the White House?
I don’t know when I’ll next hear from Daryna, but I hope it’s soon.
After Judge Dow calls the court to order, he turns to the defense table.
“Ms. Hardy, is the defense ready to proceed?”
Hardy stands up.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
It’s happening.
I can feel the electricity crackle all around me.
“The defense calls Cole Wright.”
The defendant walks to the witness stand.
The First Gentleman is wearing a navy-blue suit, well tailored to ensure that no bulge from his ankle monitor is visible.
Cole stands in front of the clerk, raises his right hand, and swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Will he?
He takes his seat and smooths his tie.
Tess Hardy walks over to the lectern.
She’s wearing a red skirt suit and a white blouse.
Together, she and Cole present a unified vision in red, white, and blue.
Can’t be coincidental.
“Good morning, Mr. Wright.”
“Good morning.”
Confident.
Polite.
Hardy has drawn the toughest legal assignment there is.
A celebrity client and murder suspect testifying on his own behalf.
“Mr. Wright, twenty years ago, you became a professional football player, is that correct?”
“Yes. I played tight end for the New England Patriots.”
As if anybody in the room doesn’t know that.
It’s like Paul McCartney saying he used to sing with the Beatles.
“And you considered yourself a competitive athlete?”
“Definitely. I played for three seasons. You don’t survive in the NFL without being competitive. If you’re not competitive, you don’t win.”
“Mr. Wright, were you an aggressive player?”
“Again, in football, you don’t succeed without being aggressive. It’s part of the culture. It’s part of the game. You hit people. You knock them down. You run over them. They do the same to you. It’s a contact sport.”
“A brutal sport.”
“It can be.”
I see a couple of the men on the jury nodding.
“So much so that you tore your quadriceps tendon and patellar tendon playing it, correct?”
“Among other injuries, yes.”
The stoic wounded warrior.
It’s a good image for Cole, and Hardy knows it.
“Mr. Wright, you sat here in court a day ago when Mr. Bastinelli showed a photograph of you at the Patriots facility in Foxborough, correct?”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
Perfect delivery.
Sincere. Regretful.
“And you heard testimony from Mr. Donovan, the photographer, that the person in the photograph you appear to be choking was an assistant equipment manager named Timmy Gervin.”
“Yes, that was Timmy. And no, I wasn’t choking him.”
“Thank you for the clarification. Now, Mr. Wright, I’m going to put up that picture again. And I’d like you to explain to the jury in your own words what everybody in this courtroom is probably asking themselves: What in heaven’s name was going on?”
She clicks the controller and the photo appears on the screen.
Bold move. Instead of working to erase that image from the jury’s mind, she’s emphasizing it.
Cole doesn’t need to look at the screen.
He turns directly to the jury box.
Hardy must have told him to make direct eye contact.
Act like you have nothing to hide.
“That picture was taken at night after a practice,” says Cole.
“We were leaving the next day for a Sunday game against the Atlanta Falcons. They’d beaten us badly the last time we played them, and it was getting close to the playoffs, so we were fired up—the whole team. We wanted revenge, payback. That was our mood.”
“And what would a cheerleader have to do with that?”
Cole looks at Hardy, then turns right back to the jury.
“Well, the head cheerleader of the Falcons at the time was a young woman named Lucy Carson. She was also the niece of the owner of the Falcons. A couple days earlier, she had appeared on a morning sports show talking smack about the Pats and how she expected us to choke—”
Hardy interrupts.
“Can you explain what choke in this context would mean?”
“To an athlete, choking means getting nervous, making mistakes, blowing opportunities, and so forth.”
“And do professional cheerleaders typically criticize opposing teams?”
“No, not usually,” says Cole.
“But in Lucy’s case, maybe because she was related to the owner, she engaged in a lot of trash talk.”
“And was the whole team aware of Ms. Carson’s comments?”
“Definitely. We all talked about it during practice that day. It gave us an extra… incentive.”
“And what happened after practice, when you went to the training area of Gillette Stadium?”
“The first thing we saw was Timmy dressed up in a cheerleader outfit and a wig. You can’t see it, but there’s a big Falcons logo taped to his chest.”
“What was your reaction?”
“Everyone thought it was hysterical.”
“Did you know who Mr. Gervin was trying to portray?”
“Yes. I assumed that he’d overheard us talking about Lucy Carson, so he dressed up as a Falcons cheerleader to make fun of her.”
“And what did you do next, Mr. Wright?”
“I walked over and made a show of putting my hands around Timmy’s neck, just to make the other guys laugh.”
“Did you say anything?”
“I can’t remember exactly, but I think I made a joke like ‘Who’s choking now?’”
A murmur from the gallery.
Dow shoots a look that way but doesn’t bang his gavel.
“Were you angry at Mr. Gervin?” asks Hardy.
“Of course not. We were just messing around.”
“And were you actually choking him?”
“No. I was barely touching him. It lasted for about two seconds. And, unfortunately, that’s when Mr. Donovan snapped the picture.”
“Mr. Wright, what are your thoughts as you look at that photograph today?”
Cole sighs heavily.
“I’m embarrassed by it. It’s sexist. It’s disrespectful. It’s inappropriate. I wish it hadn’t happened.”
“No further questions.”
As a lawyer, I take my hat off to Tess Hardy.
I’m staring at Cole Wright, the man who I’m convinced has done terrible things, and she’s almost making me like the guy.