admonished her, “Please just answer the question, Mrs. Tupton.”
Score one for our side.
Patterson took the letter back and replaced it on the clerk’s desk. He shuffled some note cards, found what he wanted, and asked, “Did there come a time when Mr. Tupton had a meeting with Mr. Florio?”
“Yes, they had lunch one day to discuss Peter’s opposition to Mr. Florio’s planned project in the Everglades.”
“And when did this occur?”
“Sometime in July. About two weeks before Peter’s death.”
Oh brother. Here it comes, the stock option, or what Patterson will call a bribe, if he gets the chance. I was leaning forward in my heavy walnut chair.
“What transpired at this meet—”
“Objection!” I was on my feet in world-record time. “Unless it is established that Mrs. Tupton was present, the question is improper.”
Judge Boulton didn’t even look at Patterson before ruling. “Sustained.”
Score two for our side.
“Did Mr. Florio offer your husband anything at this meeting?”
“Objection, leading.” I was still standing, moving closer to the bench, as if my voice would reach the judge’s ears quicker.
“Sustained.”
On a roll now. Hey, I’m getting good at this.
“Did your husband tell you what transpired—”
“Objection, hearsay.”
“Sustained.”
Patterson paused and riffled through more of his note cards. There was no way he could get what he wanted into evidence. Apparently, there were no witnesses to the meeting, no documents that would reflect the conversation. Other than making me look a little frantic to keep out some evidence, Patterson had dug a dry well.
Patterson cleared his throat. “Now, Mrs. Tupton, did there come a time that your husband went to the Florio house for a party?”
“Yes, Sunday, August ninth.”
“Did you go along?”
“No. I was volunteering at the hospital that day.”
Ouch. She probably discovered a cure for cancer during her lunch break.
“Mrs. Tupton, do you miss your husband?”
I didn’t need to hear the answers. Direct examination is pre-ordained. I could write the script. Every day. The house is so empty without him.
Her eyes glistened. “So very much. Everywhere I look, in his study, in his workshop, there are so many reminders of him.”
“Why did your husband go to the home of a man who was threatening to sue him?”
Because my husband was a saint. He’d try to talk the devil out of his pitchfork.
“Because Peter was always willing to talk. He believed that he could reason with Mr. Florio. He took along photographs and a videotape of the animal life in the Everglades. All the studies about the aquifer, the water table, everything.”
“Was your husband a drinker?”
No, unless you count when he offered a toast to Mother Teresa at a charity dinner.
“No, sir. Once in a while, he’d have a glass of wine with dinner, that’s all.”
“When is the last time you spoke to your husband?”
Before he left for the party, and I left to scrub the floors of the ICU, he gave me a kiss and told me how much I meant to him.
“When he called me at the hospital from the Florios’ house.”
Huh?
I had taken her deposition, and she never mentioned a phone call. Of course, I hadn’t asked…
“And what did your husband say to you?”
“He—”
“Objection! Hearsay, Your Honor.” No way I was going to get sandbagged.
With a look of pure tranquility, H.T. Patterson turned to the judge. “May we approach the bench, Your Honor?”
Dixie Lee Boulton waved us up. The court reporter, a dazed-looking young woman who chewed gum relentlessly, brought her little machine to the side of the bench away from the jury. The judge leaned our way, both of us straining to get close. “What is it, Mr. Patterson?” the judge whispered. “Sure sounds like hearsay to me.”
“Once the question’s answered, Your Honor, it’s going to fall right into the excited utterance exception of Section Ninety-point-eight-oh-three,
Score one for our side.
Patterson took the letter back and replaced it on the clerk’s desk. He shuffled some note cards, found what he wanted, and asked, “Did there come a time when Mr. Tupton had a meeting with Mr. Florio?”
“Yes, they had lunch one day to discuss Peter’s opposition to Mr. Florio’s planned project in the Everglades.”
“And when did this occur?”
“Sometime in July. About two weeks before Peter’s death.”
Oh brother. Here it comes, the stock option, or what Patterson will call a bribe, if he gets the chance. I was leaning forward in my heavy walnut chair.
“What transpired at this meet—”
“Objection!” I was on my feet in world-record time. “Unless it is established that Mrs. Tupton was present, the question is improper.”
Judge Boulton didn’t even look at Patterson before ruling. “Sustained.”
Score two for our side.
“Did Mr. Florio offer your husband anything at this meeting?”
“Objection, leading.” I was still standing, moving closer to the bench, as if my voice would reach the judge’s ears quicker.
“Sustained.”
On a roll now. Hey, I’m getting good at this.
“Did your husband tell you what transpired—”
“Objection, hearsay.”
“Sustained.”
Patterson paused and riffled through more of his note cards. There was no way he could get what he wanted into evidence. Apparently, there were no witnesses to the meeting, no documents that would reflect the conversation. Other than making me look a little frantic to keep out some evidence, Patterson had dug a dry well.
Patterson cleared his throat. “Now, Mrs. Tupton, did there come a time that your husband went to the Florio house for a party?”
“Yes, Sunday, August ninth.”
“Did you go along?”
“No. I was volunteering at the hospital that day.”
Ouch. She probably discovered a cure for cancer during her lunch break.
“Mrs. Tupton, do you miss your husband?”
I didn’t need to hear the answers. Direct examination is pre-ordained. I could write the script. Every day. The house is so empty without him.
Her eyes glistened. “So very much. Everywhere I look, in his study, in his workshop, there are so many reminders of him.”
“Why did your husband go to the home of a man who was threatening to sue him?”
Because my husband was a saint. He’d try to talk the devil out of his pitchfork.
“Because Peter was always willing to talk. He believed that he could reason with Mr. Florio. He took along photographs and a videotape of the animal life in the Everglades. All the studies about the aquifer, the water table, everything.”
“Was your husband a drinker?”
No, unless you count when he offered a toast to Mother Teresa at a charity dinner.
“No, sir. Once in a while, he’d have a glass of wine with dinner, that’s all.”
“When is the last time you spoke to your husband?”
Before he left for the party, and I left to scrub the floors of the ICU, he gave me a kiss and told me how much I meant to him.
“When he called me at the hospital from the Florios’ house.”
Huh?
I had taken her deposition, and she never mentioned a phone call. Of course, I hadn’t asked…
“And what did your husband say to you?”
“He—”
“Objection! Hearsay, Your Honor.” No way I was going to get sandbagged.
With a look of pure tranquility, H.T. Patterson turned to the judge. “May we approach the bench, Your Honor?”
Dixie Lee Boulton waved us up. The court reporter, a dazed-looking young woman who chewed gum relentlessly, brought her little machine to the side of the bench away from the jury. The judge leaned our way, both of us straining to get close. “What is it, Mr. Patterson?” the judge whispered. “Sure sounds like hearsay to me.”
“Once the question’s answered, Your Honor, it’s going to fall right into the excited utterance exception of Section Ninety-point-eight-oh-three,
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