A Stranger in the Kingdom (48 page)

But today Zachariah Barrows was not to be sidetracked for long. And if there was ever any doubt in anyone's mind about the boozing old prosecutor's native cunning, that doubt was removed by his opening speech—if in fact it was
his
speech.

“As I see it, ladies and gentlemen,” he read, “the case before you is a clear one, though by no means an easy one to sit on. An especially brutal murder has been committed in our county. The victim, a simple and innocent young woman, was killed senselessly and savagely, in a town where no murder of any kind has taken place in recent history.”

What about Ordney Gilson's untimely demise? I thought. Wasn't he murdered? Or did he just hang
himself
in the elm tree on the common?

“A good town,” Zack continued. “A town where people come and go safely, leave their keys in their vehicles while they shop, and don't for the most part bother to lock their doors at night. A place where hunting and fishing are the main sports and high school soccer is the most violent activity.

“Kingdom County,” Zack continued, “has the reputation as a place where things are done in old-fashioned ways. Neighbors still take pains to be neighbors. Friendships last a lifetime. And”—gesturing at the big Seth Thomas wall clock—“even the time is an hour behind the rest of the country.

“Nonetheless, this wonderful and special place is not immune from all of the horrors of our era. We have a railroad here. We have a U.S. highway. Tramps drift through. Travelers of all kinds between Montreal and Boston pass through: outsiders, most of whom, though they may live at a faster pace than we do, are basically no different from you and me. But unfortunately, there are exceptions. For with a total lack of involvement from any native of Kingdom County, a heinous crime has been committed here, a crime in which both the victim and the accused perpetrator came from far away, leaving those of us who have always lived here, and will continue to live here, with the unpleasant but necessary work of picking up the pieces and determining what happened and how and why, and meting out justice. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we the prosecution are here to help you do.

“Toward that end, we will prove not only beyond any reasonable doubt, but beyond the slightest doubt at all, that the defendant, Walter Andrews, knew the victim well before the murder took place. Further, we will prove that Walter Andrews murdered Claire LaRiviere, shooting her brutally and repeatedly with his own gun. We will produce photographs of the mutilated victim, along with highly qualified medical testimony.

“Now, folks, I must warn you in advance that some of the photographs you're going to be asked to look at here today are extraordinarily gruesome. Nonetheless, you must examine them closely and thoroughly, however repulsive you may find them, in order to form an accurate opinion of the nature of the crime and discharge your own sworn duty.

“We will produce the murder weapon. We will show that it came from the defendant's house and that it belonged to the defendant.

“We will show, moreover, that there are discrepancies in many public statements that have been made by the defendant, who has a history of compulsive and sudden violence in this community—where, in less than six months, he has broken a man's jaw in an encounter having all the earmarks of a back-alley brawl and been involved in a shoot-out in the village streets with the same gun he used to murder Claire LaRiviere.

“What was this volatile and violent-minded man's motive for murdering an innocent girl? you may well wonder. We will answer that question by producing a witness whose testimony will establish as clear and compelling a motive as any I have ever encountered. I will warn you in advance that the defense will undoubtedly argue that his client was somehow mysteriously framed for the murder. But we will show that no one had the slightest motive to frame him and, moreover, that he was the
only
person in Kingdom County with a motive to murder Claire LaRiviere. Finally, we will produce an unimpeachable final witness who will offer testimony that will dispel all remaining doubt of the defendant's guilt.

“I appreciate your patience, ladies and gentlemen. I'll ask for just a moment's more of it. A short while ago, Judge Allen made it clear that one issue is totally irrelevant in this trial. That is the issue of race. That the defendant happens to be a Negro has absolutely no bearing on the matter at hand and, as the judge has stressed, must have no bearing on your ultimate determination. The issue here is whether Walter Andrews did or did not murder Claire LaRiviere. Nothing else. You cannot and must not allow yourselves to be swayed by sympathy for him any more than you could allow yourselves to be swayed by bias against him. The fact that he happens to belong to a minority people is absolutely immaterial, period. Thank you very much.”

But instead of sitting down, Zack held up his index finger to indicate that he wasn't quite finished. “At this point, your honor, I'd like to introduce my colleague and associate who'll be assisting me with the prosecution of this case—Mr. Sigurd Moulton.”

Zack made a gracious motion toward the stranger at the prosecutor's table, who made the very slightest bow. “Mr. Moulton is a former county prosecutor with extensive experience in first-degree murder cases and currently a partner of the law firm of Moulton, Greaves, and Greaves, of Montpelier.”

I grabbed my father's arm in alarm but no doubt he had known from the moment the stranger walked into the courtroom. Sigurd Moulton was the hotshot “Most Peculiar” prosecutor my cousin Resolvèd had impersonated this past spring at his own trial—the man rumored to be the best lawyer in the state, who had lost only one case in his career, and that to Charlie, in the Ordney Gilson murder trial!

My brother was on his feet like a shot. “Objection!” he roared. “Attorney Barrows was elected by the voters of Kingdom County to prosecute his own cases. That he believes himself fully competent to do so is indicated by the fact that he's running for the same office again this fall. Hiring outside help to do what he's paid for is a highly questionable way to spend taxpayers' money.”

Sigurd Moulton stood up. “Your honor,” he said in a voice as dry as the pages of the oldest books in the courthouse law library, “I'm gratified to inform my esteemed colleague Mr. Kinneson that Attorney Barrows is paying my retainer out of private funds. The taxpayers' trust is quite secure.”

“Is this true, Mr. Barrows?” the judge said loudly.

“Yes. I've hired Mr. Moulton from private funds.”

“Your honor,” Charlie said, “I'd like to ask Mr. Barrows right here and now why he didn't apply to the Vermont attorney general's office for assistance if he didn't feel competent to prosecute this case himself.”

“Mr. Barrows?”

“Well,” Zack sputtered. “I—I did. But the Most Peculiar bureaucracy, in its infinite wisdom, didn't see fit to provide that assistance.”

“Judge Allen,” Charlie said angrily, “my client and I, and the taxpayers of this county, including the members of the jury, have every right to know what's going on here. Why does Kingdom County need to be represented or assisted by a downcountry law firm? What are these mysterious ‘private funds' the prosecutor claims he's using to pay Mr. Moulton's fee? Where did they come from? I want to know who's financing the prosecution of this case—the people of Kingdom County, or somebody else? If it's somebody else, I want to know who.”

For the first time since we'd come in, my father was writing fast. Sigurd Moulton, in the meantime, took a fat tan-colored book out of his briefcase, stood up and said, “With permission, your honor, I'd like to read from the Vermont statute pertaining to the prosecution of cases in county courts.”

Looking as though he'd just lost a state-record brook trout, Judge Allen rapped his forefinger on the bench. “There'll be a short recess while I meet in chambers with counsel for the defense and prosecution.”

“All rise, please,” Farlow Blake said.

When we sat down again, my father turned to me. “Your brother,” he said in the general buzzing, “was always a pretty fair first-pitch hitter.”

I was amazed. It was the first time I had heard my father compliment Charlie for anything in a long, long time! Reverend Andrews swung around in his seat at the defense table. “I'd say he knocked the first pitch of the game clean over the centerfield fence.”

Dad shook his head. “More like a sharp single up the middle. I very much doubt that there's any law on the Vermont books to prevent Zack Barrows from hiring anybody he wants to as long as he doesn't use county funds to do it.”

My father was right. When the lawyers came out of the judge's chamber ten minutes later, I could tell from my brother's expression that Sigurd Moulton, whatever his exact role might be, was going to be with us for the duration of the trial.

Judge Allen tapped on the bench. “Let the record show that nothing in any Vermont statute prevents a county prosecutor from seeking qualified outside legal assistance at his own expense. I find myself obliged to overrule the defense's objection and will only remind the jury that their decision must be based on the merits of the case and the preponderance of the evidence rather than upon the reputation or expertise of the respective lawyers.”

Sigurd Moulton rose again. With the slightest smile he said in that paper-dry voice, “Thank you for the prompt ruling, your honor. I will add only that while it may be unusual for prosecutors in this area to engage in specialized legal assistance, it certainly is far from uncommon elsewhere, particularly in first-degree murder trials.”

Judge Allen leaned forward. “Mr. Moulton, you are not in a position to add
anything
to my ruling, which is sufficient unto itself. I will also warn you that I won't have any impromptu speechifying in this courtroom. Kindly confine any remarks you feel moved to make to the case at hand, sir.”

From my angle, it appeared as though Moulton's miniscule smile widened momentarily. “I stand corrected, your honor. Except to reiterate that race must not be an issue in this case, a point with which my youthful colleague Mr. Kinneson would, I'm sure, be the first to agree, I have nothing more to add at this time.”

“Defense may make its opening statement,” Judge Allen said tersely.

Charlie stood up. “Except to request that Mr. Moulton refrain from telling the jury what his youthful colleague would or wouldn't be the first to agree with, I'll defer my opening statement until later on.”

Charlie sat back down. Deferring his opening statement was his prerogative, of course. But I'd assumed that my brother would outline his argument ahead of time. I'd been looking forward to hearing him speak and I was disappointed.

Zack's first witness was Mason White. At first Mason seemed nervous and “sirred” Zack Barrows to a fare-thee-well, but within a couple of minutes he was perfectly at home again, telling how Claire LaRiviere had come to Kingdom County in late June with the Paris Revue show at the Kingdom Fair and how she had slipped through his fingers during his celebrated raid; landed at Resolvèd Kinneson's; ran off to Reverend Andrews', where she had stayed for more than a month, then turned up missing two days after the sesquicentennial celebration and been found dead in the old granite quarry by the Dog Cart Man and a minor.

“Who is this so-called Dog Cart Man, sheriff?” Zack asked.

“Well, he's a more or less harmless old duffer that floats around the countryside painting pictures on the sides of barns and sheds and such. He lugs his gear in a cart pulled by half a dozen or so old mutts. That's why they call him the Dog Cart Man.”

“Did you consider this Dog Cart Man a suspect at any time during your investigation?”

“Not really. It never came out that he'd hurt anyone in his comings and goings. Like I say, he's the one that discovered the body. Or his dogs did, rather, and the minor. It was after five o'clock in the P. of M. of August eighth when the office phone rang, but I quite often work late and—”

“Sheriff,” Zack interrupted, “did you make a positive identification of the victim at the quarry site where her body was found?”

“What was left of her, I did. After the blackbirds and such got done. It was that French prostitute that come with the fair, all right.”

“Objection, your honor. There isn't the slightest evidence that Claire LaRiviere was ever a prostitute, and to characterize her as such is misleading and irresponsible.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard Sheriff White's previous statement, and it will be stricken from the record.”

“All right, Sheriff. Now tell me. Do you recognize this gun?”

Zack took a revolver out of a big manila envelope on his table and handed it to Mason.

The sheriff nodded. “Yes, sir, I certainly do recognize it. This would be the gun that was found when we drained the quarry a couple days after the victim was discovered out there. It's a .38 revolver, of the kind carried by Royal Canadian Air Force officers!”

A murmur ran through the room, but Zack cut it off. “Can you tell us who it belongs to?”

“Yes, I can, sir. According to the serial number, it belongs to one Walter Andrews. It was issued to him by the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1943, and apparently he just kept it when he retired from the service—not that a lot of them don't, you understand. Fact is, though, he should have declared it to the customs when he entered this country over in New York State last April. But for some reason he didn't.”

“Objection, your honor!” Charlie said angrily. “Unless Reverend Andrews was specifically asked at the border, he was under no obligation to declare his gun.”

“Sustained,” the judge said.

In the meantime, Sigurd Moulton wrote something on a yellow legal tablet and handed it to Zack. “So you aren't denying that the gun belongs to Walter Andrews, Charlie?” Zack said.