“Does the physical evidence tell youwhythe stabbing occurred?”
“No,” Dr. Wallace confirmed.
“It does not tell you what the defendant was thinking. Is that correct?”
“That is correct.”
“And it does not establish whether the force used was necessary, excessive, or justified. Correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“The victim sustained multiple stab wounds to the back?”
“Yes.”
“Including wounds delivered after the first incapacitating injury?”
“Possibly,” Dr. Wallace answered.
“And repeated stab wounds to the back can also be consistent with an intentional homicidal assault. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Dr. Wallace. No further questions.”
By the time Rosalind called her third witness, the frustration was written all over her.
Her jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle working beneath her skin. She moved with sharp, jerky motions as she gathered her files, her earlier grace replaced by somethingharder, more brittle. She wasn’t taking notes anymore; hadn’t been for the last ten minutes of redirect. Her pen sat abandoned on the prosecution table.
I watched her eyes scan the jury box, and I saw the moment she realized what I already knew: they didn’t believe her. Not really. Tony’s narrative had taken root. The jury had seen the evidence through his lens now. A protective brother, not a jealous killer. Her redirect had been technically sound, but it felt like she was trying to convince them of something they’d already rejected.
Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stood, and there was no warmth in her expression anymore. The calculated smile was gone. This was a woman who’d expected to win, and the trial was slipping through her fingers.
“The State calls Mrs. Diane Fletcher.”
Mrs. Fletcher was Alan’s neighbor. A woman in her sixties with carefully styled hair and a floral dress. She looked nervous as she took the stand.
Rosalind’s smile was warm, reassuring.
“Mrs. Fletcher, can you please tell the jury where you live?”
“I live at 1249 Oakwood Drive. Right next door to Alan Sanders’ house.”
“And were you home on the night of March 4th?”
“Yes. I was watching TV in my living room.”
“Did you hear anything unusual that night?”
“Yes. Around 3:00 in the morning, I heard voices. Angry voices.”
“Could you tell what they were saying?”
“No. But they were loud. Shouting.”
“Could you identify who was shouting?”
Mrs. Fletcher hesitated. “No. I couldn’t make out the words.”