Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller (44 page)

I said, “I would like to place this in evidence, Your Honor, and then have my witness examine it.”

Connie blanched. She looked at Muriel, waiting for an objection, but now none was forthcoming. There were no grounds for one, and Muriel, like the court, was waiting.

Connie blew out her breath and said quietly, “Wait. I remember now. It was registered. I did have a permit, of course. I wouldn’t carry a pistol illegally.”

“And now that you remember that you had a permit for the weapon,” I said, waving the piece of paper at her, “does that jog your memory to remember what kind of pistol it was, Mrs. Zide?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Objection!” Muriel barked.

“She’s answered!” I barked back.

“And the objection is overruled,” the judge said.

I raised my voice but tried to be calming, composed. “Would you be kind enough to tell us, Mrs. Zide, what kind of pistol it was?”

“A Smith and Wesson Chief Special.”

“Do you recall the caliber?”

She hesitated, and the muscles of her face seemed to sag. I waved the paper in my hand slightly. She said, “I believe it was a thirty- eight-caliber.”

“And it fit in your purse?”

“It was only a little gun.”

“With a two-inch barrel?”

“That’s possible. It was small.”

“May it please the court,” I said, “that this document in my hand be marked defendant’s ‘A’ for identification?”

I walked to the bench and handed the cream-colored piece of paper up to Judge Fleming. He stared at it in puzzlement, blinked a few times behind his tortoiseshell spectacles, then cocked a shaggy white eyebrow.

“Mr. Jaffe, this paper is your sworn affidavit that Mrs. Zide told you she carried a pistol in her handbag. It’s not a registration permit to carry that pistol.”

“I never said it was, Your Honor.”

“Damn you!” Connie cried at me, before Muriel could intervene.

It was all I needed. “Your Honor, this witness is demonstrably hostile! And this witness
has
been evasive. I can’t get her to be responsive other than by frightening her or by asking her leading questions. I don’t want to frighten her—that’s not fair. I renew my motion to cross-examine.”

Muriel said angrily, “That business with the affidavit was sheer trickery! There’s no basis for the renewal of the motion!”

“Why?” the judge inquired. “He didn’t make any statements that it was other than an affidavit. He even showed it to us. Who did he trick? Or whom? There’s no jury. You’re too smart to be tricked. And the witness had her memory refreshed.”

“It’s cheap, Your Honor!”

“Flashy, maybe. Not what I’d call cheap. Kind of like a Rolex as opposed to a Timex. I’m going to grant his motion to cross-examine.” He turned back to me and wagged a crooked finger. “No more stunts, though, Counselor. We’ve been entertained, but once is enough. Just ask proper questions.”

“Yes, sir!” I said, as if he were a general and I were a lieutenant. “May we have a ten-minute break, Your Honor?” Muriel said sharply.

Connie came back to the witness stand. Her anger had waned. Her eyes were clear and her gaze steady, as if she had been through something and had triumphed over it. The buzz in the courtroom subsided, and I began again.

“Mrs. Zide … you’ve been in this courtroom during previous testimony, haven’t you?”

“Yes, you’ve seen me here.”

“On Monday, you heard the testimony of your son?”

“Yes.”

“And this morning, the testimony of Mr. Stanzi, the ballistics expert?”

“Yes.”

“And also, this morning, you heard Terence O’Rourke, your former security guard?”

“Yes.”

“You heard certain contradictions between what those last three witnesses swore to and what you and your son said here in this courtroom under oath, didn’t you?”

“Contradictions?”

“Disagreements as to facts, if you will.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. There were some differences of opinion, but that’s natural, isn’t it? We’re talking about events that occurred many years ago.”

“What were those differences of opinion, as you call them?”

“I was generalizing. I don’t recall offhand.”

“Do you recall Mr. O’Rourke saying that on the night of your husband’s murder there was a single shot, and then, a minute or two later, three more shots?”

“Yes, I believe he did say that.”

“But thirteen years ago you swore under oath”—I glanced down at my notes and lifted a sheet of paper from the table—”that ‘there were three, four, five shots.’ Is that correct?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

I kept looking at the sheet of paper in my hand. “And didn’t you say, just two days ago, in your testimony here in this court: ‘The shots came one after the other. Then I rushed out to the terrace.’ Didn’t you say that under oath, Mrs. Zide?”

She had been bluffed and hurt once; she wouldn’t allow it to happen twice. That was where her calmness came from. “I don’t recall saying that on Monday, Mr. Jaffe. I did say there were a total of three or four shots, and of course I said I rushed out to the terrace. But that’s all I recall saying.”

“Is it your testimony
now,
Mrs. Zide, that the shots did
not
come one after another?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’ll put it another way. Was Mr. O’Rourke telling the truth when he said there was a single shot, and then, a minute or two later, three more shots?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed. “It was so long ago.”

I handed her the piece of paper in my hand. “Would you identify this, please, Mrs. Zide?”

She stared at it for a moment. “It seems to be part of a trial transcript.”

“And the date, as notarized by the court clerk?”

“It says April 14, 1979.”

“And who is asking the questions?”

“I believe you were,” Connie said softly.

“And who is testifying?”

“I was.”

“That testimony took place in this same courtroom in which we sit today, did it not?”

“Yes.”

“When you testified here in April of 1979, a man was on trial for his life, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“Before a jury of his peers?”

“Yes.”

“The same man who sits next to me today?” I laid my hand on Darryl’s hot shoulder.

“Yes.”

“You identified this man as the one who shot your husband, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“And at that trial in April of 1979, there was a judge sitting on the bench, as Judge Fleming sits today, wasn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Cloaked in black?”

“Yes.”

“Symbolizing the gravity of the occasion and the majesty of our law?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

I frowned. “You weren’t sure that the trial of a man for murder was a grave occasion?”

“I’m sorry—yes, I was sure.”

“And on that occasion, before you testified, the clerk of the court asked you to raise your hand to God and swear to tell the truth, did she not?”

“Yes.”

“And did you tell the truth to that other judge and that jury?” “Yes.”

“Read what you were asked and what you told them, Mrs. Zide, if you please. The part marked in yellow ink.”

She read:

“Q: You heard the shots?

“A: Yes, there were three, or maybe even four. Shots, I mean. They came one after the other. I ran outside.”

I said now, “You still stand by that statement, that the shots ‘came one after the other’?”

A trickle of sweat appeared at Connie’s temple. “Yes,” she murmured.

“Mrs. Zide,” I said, “did you, back then, identify this man sitting beside me as the murderer of your husband?”

“Yes.”

“How did you do that?”

“I don’t recall.”

“You don’t recall?”

"I mean, I did it because the police arrested him, I think . .. and they showed me photographs … and I knew him. He was the man who shot my husband, and he had worked for us. A handyman. He cleaned up after the dogs. I was told that he had a criminal record, that he was violent—”

“Who told you that he had a criminal record and was violent?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Did Sergeant Floyd Nickerson tell you that?”

“He may have. I don’t recall.”

“Did your son tell you that?”

“I don’t recall!” Her voice rose shrilly. “Can’t you understand what I’m saying? Don’t you believe me?”

Muriel sprang to her feet. “Your Honor, may we have a break so that the witness can compose herself?”

“I’m going to object to that,” I said forcefully. “We’re in the midst of a line of questioning. If opposing counsel has any objection to that line, let her state it. Otherwise, I ask the court’s permission to continue. Time is limited, and by the court itself.”

Judge Fleming thought it over. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.

“Is this your last witness?” he asked me.

In a sense Neil was more vulnerable, but I decided to roll the dice and stay with Connie.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“We don’t need a break,” the judge said. “Keep going.”

Connie moaned softly.

“Mrs. Zide,” I resumed, “let’s get back to what Terence O’Rourke said about the single shot and then, a minute or two later, three evenly spaced shots to follow. That’s what he said, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

“And by the way, do you at all dispute Mr. O’Rourke’s figures about the money you gave him when he left your employ?”

“Not at all. He was a faithful servant.”

“How about his vacation to Colorado and California? Did he tell that story accurately?”

“I think he may have exaggerated. He wasn’t a young man, and he was looking tired. My recollection is that he was owed those three weeks holiday and the time had come.”

She’d had a while to think that over, I realized, and she spoke with a renewed confidence.

“So you didn’t, in any sense, send him away to visit his family so that he wouldn’t be present in Jacksonville during the trial?”

“Of course not.”

“And when he left your employ, you didn’t give him that considerable bonus in order to ensure his continued loyalty?”

“He
was
loyal. I didn’t need to ensure it.”

“Did you know that Neil was sending him four thousand dollars a month for the past eight years?”

“I believe Neil and I discussed it once.”

“And that money wasn’t meant to keep him quiet either, was it?” “Not at all.”

“Did you ever consider having Terence O’Rourke killed?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Would you like the court reporter to read back the question to you?”

“No, I heard the question,” Connie said, her lip quivering. “I was just a little shocked by it. Killing him? Having Terence killed? No, Mr. Jaffe.
No.
Definitely
no.”

“You never discussed that possibility with your son?”

“No!”

“Did you discuss with Neil the idea of having Victor Gambrel killed?”

“No.”

“Did Neil elect to do that on his own?”

“Objection!” Muriel, her face inflamed, jumped to her feet. “There’s no predicate whatever for this insinuation. This is bizarre!”

“Objection sustained,” Judge Fleming said. Normally he would have told the jury to disregard the question and any answer. But since there was no jury, he was the only one required to disregard the so-called insinuation—if he could. He wagged a finger of admonishment at me.

“Mrs. Zide”—I stood up and began to prowl by the counsel table —”how many servants do you employ at your house?”

“Seven or eight. It varies.”

“How many did you employ back in December 1978?”

“Perhaps a few more than that.”

“The seven or eight you employ now have been with you since 1978?”

“No, there’s some turnover.”

“The ones who’ve gone, have they all been fired?”

“Of course not.”

“Some have quit?”

“A few.”

“Some have left by mutual agreement with you?”

“Yes.”

“Of those who’ve quit or left your employ by mutual agreement, how many received a bonus of a quarter of a million dollars plus a retirement payment of four thousand dollars a month?”

She had no way out.

“None,” she said quietly. “But Terence was special.”

“I’m sure he was. Let’s go back to the night of December 5,1978,” I said. “The night of the murder.”

She nodded; she seemed almost relieved.

“Do you want me to tell you again what happened, Ted?” she asked.

Oh, poor Connie.

It was as if we were going to have a conversation on her living room sofa, or in my office as we had done thirteen years ago. And as if we were still what we once had been: lovers, then careful friends.

“No,” I said, smiling sadly. “I want you to answer my questions, Mrs. Zide, if you don’t mind.”

Connie clasped her hands like a child and nodded obediently.

Chapter 32

“MRS. ZIDE,” I said, “on the night of the murder you had a party on the grounds of your house, is that correct?”

“A musicale,” Connie said eagerly. “You were there.”

“Yes, I was definitely there. With my wife.”

“The party ended about eleven o’clock, I’d say—”

“No, Mrs. Zide, I didn’t ask you that. Tell me this, please. That night, the night of your husband’s murder, what
first
alerted you to the presence of burglars—or, let’s say, intruders—on your grounds?”