Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller (33 page)

If I'm so divided, if I loathe her as much as I do, how can I do my best? But that's what it means to be a lawyer.

The
morning
papers
headlined
the
previous
day's
events in court: WITNESS IN DR. OTT'S MURDER TRIAL DETAILS ACCUSED'S THREAT AGAINST VICTIM. Under that was a photograph of Johnnie Faye leaving the courtroom with her lawyers. Chic in her gray shantung suit, she was beaming at the camera as if the jury had just rendered a verdict of not guilty.

The night before, in his apartment at Ravendale, Warren had watched the news on the local CBS affiliate. Then he switched over to Channel 26 for the independent news, catching the end of the trial report. Smiling again, Johnnie Faye's head was slightly bowed, as if in modest victory. The expression on his own face, as he brushed past the reporters' microphones, was one of stolid acceptance. Rick was no more sanguine. We both look like we took it up the
culo,
he thought. And we did.

Voice-over, Charm said coolly: "The prosecution, led by Assistant District Attorney Robert Altschuler, will continue presenting its case tomorrow, and then the defense will have its day in court, or as many days as it needs. Johnnie Faye Boudreau's chief counsel, Warren Blackburn, still has refused to comment on whether or not his client will testify—" Her face appeared against the familiar skyline backdrop. Looking well, Warren thought. "But attorneys around the courthouse say that Johnnie Faye Boudreau must take the stand if her plea is self-defense. We'll have an up-to-date report tomorrow at five o'clock on Independent Action News…"

At eleven o'clock Pedro and Armando thrust open the door; Warren had given them his spare key. They'd hung around the mission since late afternoon, Pedro reported. The man they knew as Jim hadn't showed up. They were hungry. What was to eat?

Warren said, "Look in the fridge, or run around the corner to the chicken place." He handed Pedro a twenty-dollar bill. "And tomorrow, do me a favor and go to the mission in the morning. Stay there until midnight. Later, if you have to.
Find
this guy. Call me in the late afternoon and leave a message on my machine — I want to know if anything's happening."

"No buses after midnight," Pedro explained.

"Take a taxi back. I'll pay for it."

The apartment was a mess. The ashtrays were full. There were dishes in the sink, wet towels crumpled on the bathroom floor, two empty six-packs of Carta Blanca on the coffee table and a pile of videotapes atop the TV.

"And keep this fucking place clean," Warren growled.

He left for Maria Hahn's condo.

===OO=OOO=OO===

"The State of Texas calls José Hurtado."

Warren consulted his copy of the witness list and the state's required order of proof, where three Hispanic names appeared next to the mailing address of the Hacienda restaurant. Hurtado was the maitre d' and another one, Daniel Villareal, the waiter. The third, Luis Sanchez, was no doubt one of the musicians.

Hurtado set the scene for the jury: a candlelight dinner, mariachi music, an arguing couple, and frozen margaritas. Many margaritas. Four margaritas before dinner, at the bar. Six more during dinner. He produced the check and Altschuler had it entered into evidence.

"Strong drinks, would you say?" the prosecutor asked.

"A margarita is strong. It is not meant for a child."

"Pass the witness."

"No questions," Warren said.

Luis Sanchez took the oath and settled into the wooden chair. He was not one of the two musicians Warren had talked to on his visit to the Hacienda. He was a thin, grave, pockmarked man of forty. I missed this one, Warren realized grimly. Shit happens.

Sanchez, as it turned out, was the barman. He remembered Dr. Ott, who seemed already drunk when he walked into the restaurant and consumed three of the four margaritas the barman had served. The doctor and the lady with him had argued. She had cursed at the doctor.

"Do you remember what words she used?" Altschuler asked.

"I cannot repeat them here."

"You can, Mr. Sanchez. It's allowed. We're all adults, this is a court of law, and we want the truth."

"'Cocksucker,'" the barman said. "'Stupid fucking son of a bitch.'"

"Is that all?" Altschuler asked mildly.

"She kept saying to the man, "You lied to me.' She was very angry."

"Lied about what? Did she say?"

"I didn't hear."

"And were you abusive to him?"
Warren had asked Johnnie Faye.
"No, I just shut up and listened."

His turn came. He was not at all prepared, but the course was clear. "Mr. Sanchez," Warren asked, "were you the only barman at the bar that evening when Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau were waiting for a table?"

"Yes."

"Are you an experienced barman?"

"Yes." Sanchez smiled for the first time.

"You know how to mix all those fancy drinks? Frozen margaritas, whiskey sours, piña coladas, and so forth?"

"Of course," Sanchez said, raising his chin a little.

"How many people were at the bar, let's say between nine and nine-thirty, when Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau were there?"

"Many people. Ten, twelve. I cannot remember exactly."

"You mixed and served every different drink for those ten or twelve people?"

"Of course."

"You're really able to do that?"

"Of course."

"And you have to move back and forth between your different customers, don't you, to take new orders and mix drinks?"

"Yes."

"So you weren't watching Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau all the time, were you?"

"No."

"Do you listen to all your customers' private conversations?"

"Of course not."

"You're too busy, isn't that true?"

"That is true."

"And you certainly weren't listening to Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau
all
the time they talked, isn't that true?"

"Yes, that is true."

"However, you did hear an argument between them?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't hear every single word of that argument, did you?"

"I cannot say. The bar is noisy."

"So that if Dr. Ott had cursed at Ms. Boudreau, or insulted her before she cursed at him, you might not have heard it — isn't that a fact?"

"That is possible," Sanchez said.

"Have you heard many arguments at your bar in your long experience as barman?"

"Many."

"Did you ever hear one person argue with himself or herself?"

"I don't understand."

"Strike the question. How many people does it take to argue?"

"Two," Sanchez said.

"No further questions."

Daniel Villareal, the table waiter, took the stand. He had served six margaritas at the table, he told Altschuler: three to the gentleman and three to the lady. The lady had ordered them. The lady, he noticed, only drank one of hers. She pushed the others across the table to the gentleman.

"And he drank them?"

"I didn't see him drinking all of them, but all the empty glasses were in front of him."

"What did the lady drink during all that time?"

"A lot of water. I had to fill her glass twice."

Warren looked at the jury and for the first time understood how clever Altschuler had been in selecting them. The women jurors all had a certain prim look. They would assume that seven or eight margaritas would put a man under the table, at least make his head reel. Certainly render him incapable of halting the exit through an eighteen-foot-wide vestibule of a woman ten years younger, a hundred pounds lighter, and in control of her faculties.

Johnnie Faye's face at the defense table was as wooden as the plank on which she rested her elbows. Rick whispered in Warren's ear, "We're getting killed. Don't do any cross on this guy either. It'll only get worse."

"I've got to try," Warren said.

He asked the waiter, "Please describe Dr. Ott."

"A big man. Lot of hair, going gray. Red cheeks."

"Did he tip well?"

"Oh, yes."

"Then you had waited on him before?"

"Yes."

"He always drank a lot, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever fall down or stumble?"

"No."

"Did he become incoherent? Did he talk in a way that you couldn't understand him?"

"No."

"Have you noticed that big men who are regular heavy drinkers have a greater capacity for alcohol than is normal?"

"Objection," Altschuler interrupted. "Calls for an opinion."

"Sustained."

"No further questions," Warren said.

Altschuler called the last witness for the state: Harry T. Morse. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a beaked nose, Morse identified himself as the assistant manager of Western America, a pistol and rifle practice range seven miles north of the city. They also sold guns and ammunition.

Morse carried a bundle of papers wrapped in rubber bands, and Warren wondered what they were.

"Do you see anyone in this courtroom who ever came to Western America, Mr. Morse? Besides myself to interview you, that is."

"Yes, two people. That woman in the gray suit is one — the woman sitting over there." He pointed to Johnnie Faye Boudreau. "And the judge is the other."

Judge Bingham clapped a hand to his lined brown forehead. He carried a .38 Saturday Night Special in his waistband. He had been threatened several times by convicted felons, and someone had once pulled a knife on him in front of his church.

"Never mind the judge," Altschuler said, smiling. "We'll concentrate on the lady in the gray suit. Why are you so sure it's she whom you saw at Western America?"

"Object as to relevance," Warren said desperately. He remembered asking Johnnie Faye if she had ever practiced with the pistol.
"Once, five years ago, when I bought it. I don't even think I hit the target more than two or three times."
He had a feeling that was about to be contradicted.

"Overruled. You can answer, sir."

"Good-looking lady," Morse said. "Kind of memorable."

Morse said that he had seen her practice at least twice at the pistol firing range.

"Did you observe what kind of pistol she used?"

"She had three. A .32-caliber Diamondback Colt, an ivory-handled Colt .45, and what looked like a .22-caliber semiautomatic."

Warren's heart beat a little faster in his breast. He leaned forward intently, resisting the urge to look at Johnnie Faye.

"Three?"
Altschuler's mouth gaped in feigned surprise.

"Yes, sir."

"How are you able to identify those three guns so positively, Mr. Morse?"

"She laid them down on the counter when she registered to shoot. I noticed them. We don't get that many ladies, and I never saw one bring three pistols before."

"When did all this take place?"

"The first time, maybe a year or so ago. The last time, not so long ago."

"Can you be more specific about the last time?"

"Wish I could. April or May's my best guess."

"Don't guess. Think about it. When was the last time?"

"Late April. Maybe early May."

Johnnie Faye pushed a note at Warren.
Do something!!

Without taking his eyes from the jury, he wrote under her words:
Nothing to do
—
yet.

Altschuler said, "Mr. Morse, do you have your registration sheets for the last eighteen months with you today in court? I'm referring to the names and addresses the people give to you when they come to practice at Western America.

Morse offered the thick bundle of papers wrapped in rubber bands, and they were entered into evidence for the state.

"Have you and I studied those registration sheets together, Mr. Morse? On two separate occasions?"

"Sure have," Morse said.

"Does the name Johnnie Faye Boudreau appear anywhere on those sheets?"

"No, sir. And we looked hard for it."

"Can you account for that, Mr. Morse?"

"Well, I saw her sign in each time. So she must have used a fake name."

Warren objected as to relevance; he was overruled.

"Just a few more questions, Mr. Morse, and then you can go back to Western America." Altschuler walked over to the jury box, where, one hand on the railing, he paused for dramatic effect. "Did you ever watch the lady in the gray suit — the lady sitting over there, who is the defendant in this murder case — shoot with her three pistols at the targets on your range?"

"Both times. I was interested."

"And what did you observe?"

"She hit that bull's-eye a lot. Almost always hit the target."

"Was she equally skilled with each weapon?"

"She had trouble with the .45. It has a lot of kick. It's an army weapon."

"You saw her fire the semiautomatic .22?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't semiautomatic. Probably had the sear filed down. You pull the trigger and don't let go, it goes right on shooting."

"In your opinion, based on your eyewitness expert observation, was she comfortable with that .22? Did it look like she was aware of its automatic capability?"

"She was aware. She looked comfortable, like she knew what she was doing. Bang bang bang. Like it was fun."

"Pass the witness," Altschuler said, glaring at Johnnie Faye Boudreau.

Hopeless, Warren thought. He had a client who never told him the truth. But he strode forward with confidence into the well of the courtroom, halting a fair distance before Harry T. Morse.

"Sir. You just said that Ms. Boudreau fired the pistol like it was fun. You did say that, didn't you?"

"I may have."

"Did you or didn't you? I can have the record read back to you if you're confused."

"I said it," Morse replied, glowering a little. "I'm not confused."

"What's your definition of fun, sir?"

"Having a good time, I guess."

"Do you equate having a good time with serious intent?"

"Not usually."

Warren glanced at the jury. Their faces were like stone.