Page 138 of Precise Justice

“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.”

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