A Handy Death (24 page)

Judge Waxler interrupted, peering coldly at the man in the witness box. “I should like to warn the witness,” he said, “that he is under oath. And I do not look on perjury kindly. You have already perjured yourself in saying you saw the defendant many times at Attica. One more example and you will be bound over as soon as you finish testifying. Now, answer the questions and answer them honestly. You may proceed, Mr. Ross.”

Ross nodded and returned to Coughlin. “So, where did you see Billy pitch ‘
many
times'?”

Coughlin looked as if he were going to be stubborn about it. His skinny hands wrapped up in each other; they looked like a bundle of twine. “All right,” he said at last, “so I saw the kid pitch up in Glens Falls. What's your point?”

“At the time you were a reporter on the Glens Falls
Herald
, weren't you?”

“That's right. Is that a crime, too?”

Judge Waxler's gavel descended. “Mr. Coughlin, I shall not warn you again!”

Ross continued, unperturbed. “How many years were you a reporter on the Glens Falls paper?”

“Twenty-five years,” Coughlin said sullenly.

“You were retired from the paper?”

“That's right.”

“On a pension?”

Coughlin scowled. “That's my business.”

Ross said. “It might be ours. I have an affidavit here signed by the then-publisher, James Kimberly, stating that you retired May 14, 1964, on a pension amounting to sixty percent of your top salary. So how broke could you have been a mere two months later?”

Varick came to his feet, his voice weary.

“Really, Your Honor, the prosecution fails to see—”

“Overruled,” Judge Waxler said, before Varick could continue. He was watching the pale witness with narrowed eyes, a look of speculation in them. “Proceed, Mr. Ross, but try to connect fairly soon.”

“I intend to, Your Honor,” Ross said, and turned back to the witness. “Mr. Coughlin, let me put it that my last question was rhetorical. Let's move on. While you were living and working in Glens Falls—the year 1942, to be exact—were you engaged to marry?”

Coughlin's face was gray. His eyes came up, dark holes in his gaunt face.

“Is that another rhetorical question?”

“No,” Ross said quietly.

“In that case the answer is, no.”

“Do you know a Mrs. Gendreau?”

Coughlin frowned at the change in direction. “Sure. She was my landlady at that time.”

Varick came to his feet, shaking his head. “Your Honor, how far astray is Defense Counsel going to be allowed to take us? Now we're involved in the love affairs of a reporter eight or nine years ago. Really, Your Honor …” He allowed his voice to trail away.

Judge Waxler looked at Ross. “Mr. Ross?”

“Your Honor,” Ross said, “I will connect up at this moment. I have an affidavit from this Mrs. Gendreau, as well as from Mr. Kimberly, stating that the witness was engaged to be married to a Miss Mary Emerich, the defendant's mother. I intend to prove that this is an important fact in this trial.”

There was a stirring in the courtroom and a sharp gasp from the defense table. Billy Dupaul unconsciously started to rise, but Steve Sadler clamped a thin but strong hand on his knee. Billy subsided, his face white. Ross turned from the judge to face the witness, purposely keeping his back to his client.

“Well, Mr. Coughlin?”

Coughlin's color was that of damp ashes: he looked faint. “It—it wasn't anything official.”

“Still, what happened to that engagement?”

“She changed her mind, that's all.”

“Oh. Still,” Ross went on, bending toward the witness a bit, while Judge Waxler watched closely, “in later years romance didn't evade you so cruelly, did it?”

“I don't know what you mean …”

“I mean that you were later married, were you not?”

Coughlin swallowed. He looked around, seeking some place to escape, and then came back to stare at Ross as if partially hypnotized. “I—I—”

“What's the matter, Mr. Coughlin? Is there anything wrong with being married?”

“No. I—”

“Could you tell us the name of the lucky lady?” Ross went on, boring in.

“Her name—?”

“Was it a woman named Grace Melisi?”

Coughlin merely stared at him.

“I have here,” Ross said, moving to the defense table and picking up a paper, “a certified copy of a marriage certificate dated February 6, 1952, in Albany, New York, which states that on that day Jerome Coughlin married Grace Melisi.”

Varick jumped up again. His attitude was that of a long-suffering man who feels he must try once more to make people understand a relatively simple problem.

“Your Honor,” he said, “in all fairness, the court stated before that it would entertain a motion to strike if the testimony became irrelevant or remote. Your Honor, I have never heard testimony quite so remote, quite so unrelated to the case under consideration. The People, Your Honor, therefore do object, and do move to strike.”

Judge Waxler frowned. He looked down from the bench.

“Mr. Ross,” he said, “I must admit there is much justification in what the District Attorney has said. I have allowed you extra latitude, since I felt the defendant was not getting fully effective assistance of counsel earlier in this trial. However, we are certainly far afield from the indictment. You said you were about to connect this up, but if so, when?”

“Very soon, Your Honor. It is true that we've gone all around the barn to get where we are, but it was necessary. If you will bear with me a very short time, we shall soon be there.”

“Make it soon,” Judge Waxler said warningly. “You may proceed.”

Ross turned to Coughlin. “Were you married to Grace Melisi?”

Coughlin's voice was almost inaudible. “Yes.”

“Were you living with her on July 20,1964?”

“Yes.”

“At 562 West Twenty-eighth Street?”

“Yes.”

“Then what was the necessity of taking an additional apartment, in her name alone, at 453 West Sixtieth Street, the same apartment building where Raymond Neeley lived? Especially when you were—as you put it—so broke?”

There was an excited buzzing from the audience. Judge Waxler banged his gavel once; the noise instantly subsided. The spectators were as interested in the drama before them as the participants.

Ross leaned forward. “Well, Mr. Coughlin?”

Coughlin looked around like a trapped animal. “She—she was leaving me for Ray Neeley.”

“So instead of moving in with him, she rented another apartment next door to him? Very moral, but a bit hard to believe.”

Coughlin gave a cry, a wounded bleat. “Damn it! She
was
leaving me!”

“I believe you,” Ross said in the quiet of the courtroom. “And that's when you decided to get rid of Raymond Neeley, wasn't it?”

There was an instant buzz again, as quickly cut off. Coughlin shook his head.

“No …”

“You loved Grace Melisi, didn't you?”

“She was Grace Coughlin …”

“But you loved her, didn't you?”

“Yes, damn it, I loved her!”

“She's dead now, you know.”

“I know.” Coughlin's eyes begged for understanding. “That's why I was trying to get some money from you, to get away, maybe to start over again some place.” He shook his head. “I wouldn't really have testified against the kid …”

“You started out to,” Ross said coldly. “Let's move on. When did you get the idea of the swindle scheme?”

“I never had anything to do with any swindle scheme!”

“You mean it was just your wife's idea?” Ross leaned toward him. “By the way, where did your wife meet Raymond Neeley?”

Coughlin's jaw hardened. “In a bar. She was always meeting people in bars.”

“And you claim the swindle scheme was Neeley's?”

“That's right,” Coughlin said, his dark eyes reliving the past. “Grace said Neeley came up with this scheme, that it was just a business arrangement she had with Neeley, but I knew better. She said it was a chance to stick the kid and pick up some loot. She said the kid could spare the dough after signing with the Mets for all that loot. And she knew I never liked the kid, but she never knew why—” He stopped suddenly.

“And why didn't you like the kid, as you call him?” Ross asked quietly.

Coughlin stared at him, not really seeing him, his face gathering itself into a mask of hate. He was no longer in the courtroom; his mind was back in the past completely.

“He should have been my kid, that's why!” he said harshly.

“So you set him up—”

“The kid was nothing,” Coughlin said with a sneer. “Christ, can't you see that?”

“You mean it was Neeley you set up?”

A crafty look came into Coughlin's eyes. “Like I was dumb, or something! Grace and Neeley cook up this scheme, but Grace tells me they need a gun. Neeley could have gotten hold of a dozen guns if he wanted, but they wanted to stick me if anything went wrong. I knew that. But I knew where the kid's twenty-two was; he talked about it around the Mets enough, so when I got a chance to grab it during the signing, I did. Everyone was so looped I could have walked out with the bed …” He grinned. “Smart, huh?”

“Smart,” Ross agreed. Everyone in the courtroom was holding his breath, not wishing to break the spell Coughlin was in. Coughlin looked at Ross, as if recognizing him for the first time.

“I pulled a dummy in your office that second time, didn't I? I knew it as soon as I said it. I heard that tape your secretary was transcribing, and I said, ‘That's Billy, isn't it?' or something dumb like that. Just because I heard the name ‘Marshall,' I goofed.” He stared at Ross almost anxiously. “You caught that, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Ross said softly.

“I figured you would.” There was an unaccountable touch of satisfaction in the thin man's voice, as if to demonstrate that losing wasn't so bad when one lost to a good opponent. “But I'll bet you never figured out how I got Billy to go over to the Mountain Top Bar, did you?” Coughlin laughed, enjoying himself. “Simple! I knew he wasn't Dupaul's kid any more than he was mine. I gave Jim Marshall fifty bucks to needle Billy with that bit of news, to get him started, and then I just followed the kid. When he hit this place on Lexington, I figured he was juiced up enough, so I simply handed some barfly five bucks to give Billy a message he was wanted at the Mountain Top right away. I figured as bombed as he was, he'd never remember. And he never did.”

“And that's how you got Neeley, eh?”

“Well, hell—he was stealing my wife, wasn't he?” Coughlin made it sound as if he considered it an ample excuse. “And he got shot in the commission of a crime, didn't he? If he hadn't been trying to steal money from the kid, he'd never have gotten scratched. And that's the truth.” He looked at Ross earnestly. “You could defend me on that basis, couldn't you, Counselor?”

“I'm afraid not,” Ross said. “What about Jim Marshall?”

“Oh, him?”

“Yes, him,” Ross said.

“Well,” Coughlin said reasonably, “after I heard that part of the tape in your office, I could imagine what the kid was talking about. And I knew you'd get up to Glens Falls and put Marshall through the wringer, so I had to get there first to kill him, didn't I? I knew if you leaned on him hard enough he'd break and tell you all about the fifty bucks I gave him.…”

He looked up, suddenly, startled by his own words.

“But, then,
I
just told you, didn't I …?”

And he started to giggle.

And, Ross thought, even Al Hogan could probably get this one off on a charge of complete insanity.…

CHAPTER

17

The long table in Hank Ross's conference room was well laden with the varied bottles and glasses necessary for a victory celebration, but the atmosphere was anything but cheerful. The only one drinking seriously was Mike Gunner-son; Charley Quirt held a glass in his hands but he was not touching it. Sharon and Steve were sipping soft drinks, Ross had foregone his usual beer, and Billy Dupaul had also refused anything. “I never had the habit, and you sure don't pick it up at Attica,” he had said. He sat, his face a mask, his feelings under tight control, staring at Charley Quirt as if seeing the man for the first time. His face was pale; his hands were tightly clasped in his lap.

Ross attempted to cheer things up.

“We ought to call this case The Handy Death,” he said conversationally. “If Raymond Neeley had
lived
, Billy, you would have remained in prison. The fact that he
died
as a result of your having shot him was what led to your release. An odd case, helped immeasurably by Louis G. Gorman, long may he wave.” He glanced at Charley Quirt. “And not particularly helped by your mystery.”

“I know what you mean. You're wondering what changed my attitude in eight years.” Quirt was addressing Ross, his voice quiet, ashamed, but he kept his eyes fixed on the glass in his hands rather than risk raising them and facing his newly acknowledged son. Seen together, the resemblance between the two large blue-eyed men was not particularly striking; knowing the relationship, one would not be surprised, but Ross did not feel it exceptional. He waited patiently for the other man to continue; Quirt twisted his glass in his hands and went on.

“Clara was alive eight years ago, that's the difference. Clara—my wife—watched a lot of Mets' baseball when Billy was first scouted. I was against his coming with the Mets, dead against it, and it had nothing to do with ability. But I was overruled. I was sure one look at Billy and Clara would
know
. It must have been my imagination, because nobody at the club ever noticed, but I was sure Clara would. She was sharp, and well, she'd had suspicions of affairs before—but what the hell! I was in the Army, then, but Clara couldn't see it that way. And she knew I'd been up near Glens Falls in 1944—I was in a VA hospital in Saratoga and I met Mary Emerich at a dance there—and as I say, Clara was not only suspicious, she was sharp.”