Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller (34 page)

"You do have people who come to Western America just to have a good time, don't you?"

"Sure."

"You wouldn't characterize your customers as potential murderers, would you?"

"Hell, no," Morse said.

"You wouldn't characterize Judge Dwight Bingham as a potential murderer, just because he goes to your firing range to practice with his pistol?"

"Absolutely not," Morse said. "The people have a right to bear arms. Says so in the Constitution. Can't bear arms safely unless you know how to use them."

"Thank you, Mr. Morse. No more questions."

Altschuler stood and said gravely, yet with an air of triumph: "The state rests its case."

===OO=OOO=OO===

The clouds were low-lying, the sky elephant-gray. A tornado danced along the western regions of the county. At five o'clock Warren and Rick ducked into a small Greek restaurant near the courthouse, where Warren ordered a Greek salad and an espresso. He had not eaten lunch and he was hungry. Rick drank a double scotch on the rocks.

"Look, here's the problem," Rick said. "Despite all the shit that got thrown at us today, our case hinges on whether or not the jury will believe the dragon lady when she gets up there to testify. She says Clyde threatened her life, and now it turns out she threatened
his
life. She says she was drunk and had no way to get out of the house — the restaurant people say she was sober and kept shoving drinks across the table at Clyde, and Tommy Ruiz swears you could have driven a Mack truck on either side of the good drunken doctor through that hallway. She says Clyde was coming at her with the poker — the medical examiner claims he was shot standing still. Worse, Kulik says there should be palm prints. Then this last guy gets up there and paints Miss Corpus Christi as a cross between Annie Oakley and a moll from Murder Incorporated. And we still haven't got to that funny little business of the poker winding up on the wrong side of the sofa. What I'm saying is, the black widow is headed for life in the penitentiary. If we want to win this case, you have to talk to her. You
do
want to win it, don't you?"

Warren had no idea how to answer with any full measure of truth. Rick was an energetic man who always did his best. And yet he was no moralist. A younger lawyer in his office had once asked him, "Do your clients call you Rick or Mr. Levine?" Rick had replied, "Depends on the size of the fee. If it's high enough, they can call me asshole."

In the restaurant Warren put down his espresso and asked, "Do you remember when we first started out? When we passed the bar and took the oath? Do you remember how we felt?"

"I was scared," Rick said.

"So was I, but that's not what I mean. I felt I was on the side of the angels, a regular little Don Quixote. We were going to help people and have a good life at the same time. Be proud. We used to talk about the philosophy of justice, remember? I felt I was going to do so much. You did too."

"Yes," Rick said, "I remember that."

"And now we deal with scumbags, we help scumbags stay out of jail. Because it pays. Because it's a job."

"Your client, this Hector, doesn't sound like a scumbag—"

"He's not. He tried to rob a Circle K with an unloaded gun, but he's a decent man. Of course, I thought that about Virgil Freer. I'm older now. Maybe I make better distinctions."

"That's the answer." Rick nodded sagely. "Grow older. Make better distinctions."

Warren said, "I wish that I owned a shoe store like my grandfather. The worst you can do is pinch someone's bunions."

"No, you don't wish that. You love what you do, just like me, even when you hate it. Keeps you off the streets. You just wish life was simple black and white. But it's not. Never will be." Rick allowed himself the whisper of a sigh. "I know what you mean, but if you think about it too much, you go nuts. Do your job, enjoy your life. Like they say, this isn't a dress rehearsal. It's all we've got. Don't go nuts on me, boychik."

Warren nodded, trying in his mind to separate the concepts of what was ethical, what was practical, and what a man needed to do in order to preserve sanity and self-respect.

"Let me remind you of something," Rick said. "A lawyer's client in trial can't be guilty until a jury says so. Guilt is a technical, legal concept. A lawyer says to his client, 'I'm instructing you to tell the truth. But you testify however you think you should.'"

Warren still said nothing; his mind still churned.

"Jesus Christ!" Rick, in alarm, watched Warren's face reflect his thoughts. "You're not going to sell her down the river, are you?"

"No. I want to win. I'll talk to her."

"Then get her ready." Rick raised an eyebrow. He said quietly, "There are ways."

"I know there are."

"You want me to handle it?"

Warren shook his head emphatically. "I said I'll do it."

===OO=OOO=OO===

On his way to the jail to see Hector again, the pillar of rain beat mercilessly on Warren's head. He kept thinking of Harry T. Morse, who had casually mentioned that he had seen Johnnie Faye fire the gun that had killed Dan Ho Trunh. For a moment Warren had been thrilled, could think of nothing else. But if he brought Morse into Parker's court to try to identify the Diamond-back Colt, at some point he would have to admit his own knowledge. He could not do that.

"This can't be happening," he said aloud, in the rain. "This is fucking
insane."

Later, from Maria's bedroom, he called his apartment for messages. Pedro picked up the telephone.

"What the hell are you doing there?" Warren said angrily. "It's not even ten o'clock!"

"Take it easy,
patrón
."

The mission had been closed since early morning, Pedro explained. Full of
policia.
Late last night some bum was shot to death in the toilet. Blown away, man. No one knew why. Two other men sitting in the open stalls saw it happen, had even seen the man who killed him. Another bum, they thought, but they didn't know him, had never seen him before. The cops had been asking questions of everybody all day.

Warren drew in a deep breath. He listened to the rain, still slapping against the roof and pouring through its gutters. He heard far-off thunder. He asked, "It wasn't Jim, was it?"

"No," Pedro said, "I tole you, they never seen him before."

"I mean the man who was shot and killed."

That wasn't Jim either. Pedro had thought of that. Lot of people knew Jim and no one had seen him for days. Might have left town. He did that sometimes, one guy said. Went south toward the border, had a common-law wife down there. No one knew which town.

"Did this guy you spoke to know Jim's last name?" Warren asked.

"Jus' his nickname. They all call him Jim Dandy. Suppose to mean something, but I doan know what."

They promised to go back the next day, if the cops were gone. "And your wife call you here, little time ago," Pedro said, with an understanding leer in his voice. "Say for you to call her."

"My wife? Are you sure? Did she give her name?"

"No, she just say, 'Ask him to call his wife.'"

Warren hung up. Another murder. Too much death, too many lies. A man wasn't meant to deal with this shit all his life. He was meant to plant his seed and mow his lawn and work at something that gave him pleasure. Wondering if that would ever happen, he walked into the living room, where Maria was watching television. He wondered also what Charm had wanted, then realized he didn't care.

The
rain
ended,
the
storm
veered
northward,
and
on
Thursday morning the city sweltered under the pressure of ninety-degree wet air. It pressed a clammy hand against Warren's forehead. Sweat slid down his cheeks. Rick waited for him on the fifth floor of the courthouse outside the walnut-paneled halls of the 342nd.

"Did you talk to her?"

"Not yet," Warren said impatiently. "But I will. Give me a break, will you?"

Cool air blew. The sweat dried slowly, leaving a sticky film on his face and the small of his back. His jockey shorts surrounded him like a coat of mail.

The first witness Warren called for the defense was Dr. George Swayze, the intern who had treated Johnnie Faye the previous December at Hermann Hospital. In a clear voice Swayze read a copy of his diagnosis and treatment for the broken cheekbone, and then, under questioning, said, "She told me that her boyfriend had done it to her."

"Did she describe the boyfriend?" Warren asked.

"She said he was a big man. And he'd been drinking."

On cross, Altschuler asked the doctor, "Did she say which of her several boyfriends had hit her?"

Warren objected to
several boyfriends
.

"Please rephrase, Mr. Bob," the judge said.

When Altschuler did, the doctor answered, "No, she never named the man."

The next witness was Cathy Lewis, former waitress at the Grand Hotel. Rick had finally tracked her down through the Department of Motor Vehicles; he took her on direct examination. Over Altschuler's constant objections that they were trying Johnnie Faye Boudreau for murder and not Dr. Clyde Ott for past indiscretions, Cathy Lewis told the tale of her affair with Clyde, and his swatting her in the mouth "with his big hairy paw," so loosening three front teeth that she had to have them replaced.

Cathy Lewis said that Clyde had paid the dentist's bill, and had also given her $25,000 in cash.

"For what?" Rick asked.

"Kiss-off money, and so I'd shut up."

Bob Altschuler said to the judge, "Your honor, I'd like to approach the witness. I'd like to see her teeth close up."

When he looked into her open mouth, he said, "They look terrific! Would you do me a favor and go over to the jury box and show each and every one of the jurors what a fine job that dentist did?"

Red-faced, Cathy Lewis did as she was asked. When she was again seated in the witness chair, Altschuler asked, "Do you have a receipt for that $25,000 in cash that Dr. Ott supposedly gave you, Ms. Lewis?"

"No, sir."

"So we have to take your word for it, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"You've been a cocktail waitress for most of your adult life, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ever do it topless?"

"For a while."

"Ever go to bed with men for money?"

"Not really," she said, before Rick had a chance to spring up and shout an objection. Altschuler's booming laugh echoed in the big courtroom.

"You never fired a gun at Dr. Ott, did you?"

"No."

"Do you carry a gun?"

"No."

He passed the witness. On redirect, Rick got her to say that a few of the men she had slept with, including Clyde, had given her gifts, paid some bills. Sometimes the gifts were cash. But there was no direct equation between the gifts and sex.

A witness on cross-examination, Warren had long ago realized, is like the target in a knife-throwing act, except in the courtroom the one who throws the knives is a stranger.

"That Altschuler is some clown," Rick said during lunch. "He treats this like a circus."

"It is," Warren said.

After lunch Warren put on a man who owned a gun store in southwest Houston. Qualifying as a weapons expert, the witness was shown the old .22-caliber pistol that had ended Clyde Ott's life. Difficult to handle, he said, in the sense that continued pressure on the trigger could do a great deal of damage. Yes, you could fire it without cocking the action, although it would fire more quickly if you cocked it. And yes, of course you could fire single rounds from it if you immediately released the trigger after each round.

The last two witnesses of the day were former patients of Dr. Clyde Ott. Before the first could be sworn in, Altschuler sprang from his chair to demand an offer of proof: a debate without the jury present. "The only possible reason these two women can be here," he complained, "is to cast slurs on a dead man. But a dead man's not on trial!"

The judge called both lawyers to the bench for sidebar. Warren argued quietly that it was a major issue before the jury whether or not Clyde Ott was violent.

"Are these women going to say he beat them up?" Altschuler demanded.

"We'll find that out, won't we?" the judge said. "I'll allow them to testify, Warren, as long as you stick to what's relevant. We'll take the objections as they come, Bob."

Patricia Gurian — a shapely blond woman of forty, married, a social worker — took the stand. Normally, she said, she would see a gynecologist twice a year for checkups. On her second visit to Dr. Ott, the nurse left the room to take a telephone call. Dr. Ott began to fondle Mrs. Gurian's clitoris, asked if it was sensitive.

"Objection!" Altschuler yelled. "It's not only irrelevant, it's prurient!"

Warren said, "Your honor, it's a line of questioning leading to show the character of Dr. Ott relative to the defendant. It also explains what happens next. Absolutely necessary."

The judge sighed. "All right, but get to it quickly."

Did Mrs. Gurian think Dr. Ott was out of line?

"Absolutely," she said.

Had it ever happened with a previous gynecologist?

"Never."

Warren moved close to the jury box, and stood next to one of the prim woman jurors in the first row. "What did you do when that happened, Mrs. Gurian?"

"I decided to leave."

"Did Dr. Ott try to stop you?"

"Yes, he did."

"How?"

"He blocked my path. Put his hands on my arms."

"Were you frightened?"

"Not really, I knew I could call for the nurse. And I had Mace in my handbag."

"Did he strike you?"

"No."

"Did he threaten you physically?"

"No."

"Pass the witness," Warren said.

"Sidebar!" Altschuler cried, and drew Warren with him to the bench for another private conference. "Judge," he gasped, "that was crazy! The woman didn't claim violence! So where's the relevance?"