Page 69 of Courtroom Drama
“And the police questioned you, didn’t they? About the ingredients of that smoothie, of those in the days leading up to Mr. Kitsch’s death?” Durrant Hammerstead looks to the jury, indicating this as an important point.
“Yes, they did.”
“What did they find?”
“They found no evidence of anything wrong with that smoothie. Or any of the others.”
But she had fully cleaned up any remnants,I think, the devil’s advocate in me piping up.
“Was this the last thing Joe consumed before he died?”
Ms. Pembrooke shifts in her seat. “I believe so, but I can’t be certain. I wasn’t with him every minute after. Or before, for that matter.”
“So, Joe came downstairs at approximately seven forty-five, kissed Margot and the kids goodbye. They left shortly after, and then it was just you and Joe.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Did Margot have a smoothie that morning?”
“No. She was rushed. She was dropping the kids off and heading straight to Alizay DuPont’s home to prepare for her event.”
There’s an uptick of pens to paper at the mention of anotherAuthentic Momscast member.
“And you made his smoothie after Margot had left the home?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So, just to be clear, Margot was gone from the home about seven forty-five a.m. and did not return until alerted of Joe’s death over three hours later.”
“Yes, that is correct.” Ms. Pembrooke looks to Margot again, and again they exchange a charged look.
Durrant Hammerstead verifies, per the garage cameras at the Kitsch home, that Margot did indeed leave the house with the kids at 7:48 a.m. He then walks to the defense table, reviews a sheet of paper, and gives Ms. Pembrooke his attention again. “There’s a record of a call from you to Margot at eight thirty-two that morning of Joe’s death. It lasted twelve minutes. What was that call about?”
The details of the smoothie. The call. I can’t help but feel like Durrant Hammerstead is making the prosecution’s case for them. I have to believe he knows what he’s doing. Maybe it’s a tactic—address straight on the questionable parts of Ms. Pembrooke’s testimony to show there’s nothing to hide. It’s risky, I concede.
“I had an errand to run for Margot. Saks packed two different-sized shoes into her bag a few days before, and she wanted me to go back that week to collect the correct pair. I called to ask where the shoes were because I couldn’t find them in her closet. I meant to go that day.”
“Simple enough,” Durrant Hammerstead says, addressing the jury. “Ms. Pembrooke, who in the Kitsch home uses eye drops?”
Ms. Pembrooke glances at the defense table so quickly it could be taken as an eye spasm rather than a peek in Margot’s direction.
“Both Mr. and Mrs. Kitsch on occasion. Margot tends to use them before public events or photo shoots, which she attends fairly often. It was always an item on our ‘in stock’ list—things I ensured we had extras of on hand, that we never ran out of.”
Durrant Hammerstead nods. “Joe’s mother, Jackie Kitsch, testified to finding three eye-drop bottles hidden in the back of a teddy bear nanny-cam in Emblem’s room. What can you tell us about this?”
Ms. Pembrooke flips a flimsy wrist in the air in the most dismissive manner I’ve seen from her. “Emblem is always collecting and hiding random household items in her room. I once found one of Margot’s Louboutin shoeboxes under Emblem’s bed. When I opened it, thinking it might be holding a pair of Margot’s shoes, I found it crammed full of restaurant condiments: salt and pepper packets, raw sugar, even individual jam pouches and mini ketchup and sriracha bottles. She’s a bit of a hoarder, that one.”
Juror number eleven behind me huffs, amused.
Satisfied, Durrant Hammerstead ends his time with the witness.
D.A. Stern cross-examines, having been tapping his pen wildly against his knee as he awaited his turn. He leads with asking Ms. Pembrooke why a call about the location of a pair of shoes might take twelve whole minutes. “Seems a long call to simply ask where a shoebox is?” D.A. Stern presses. They go back and forth on it to no clear outcome.
Twelve minutesisa long call. I strain to picture a call to ask about shoes taking twelve minutes. Instead, my mind redirects to a panicked Ms. Pembrooke calling Margot. Margot having to calm her down to see their murderous plan through. I attempt to swallow the growing mound that feels like compacted sawdust in my throat.
Eventually, the D.A. moves on. “Ms. Pembrooke, how long would you say one eye-drop bottle might last, before it be thrown out?”
She juts her shoulders into the air. “I don’t know, a month or two.”
