Desperate Measures (37 page)

“Objection,” Novak said, jumping to his feet. “May I approach, Your Honor?”

Judge Mac beckoned him to come forward. He turned off his microphone and waited until Novak and Barbara were together before the bench. “What is it, Mr. Novak? On what grounds?”

“Immaterial. It has nothing to do with the murder, and there's no point in dragging the personal, private lives of the two deceased people out in the open. It's to no end, except sensationalism. Those are Mrs. Marchand's birth-control pills and condoms. What's the point in making an issue of them?”

Judge Mac turned to Barbara. “I tend to agree with him. Do you have a point to make concerning those items?”

“I do, but it can wait until the defense presents its case and has laid a solid foundation. However, at that time I will have to recall Lieutenant Whorley to identify the items on the table.”

“And I'll make the same objection,” Novak said heatedly. “Irrelevant and immaterial.”

“Mr. Novak, at that time will you stipulate as to the identity of those items?” Judge Mac asked calmly.

“Yes. If they're admitted at all,” he said, but not with good grace.

“Very well. Ms. Holloway, will you withdraw your question at this time with that understanding?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

He waved them away and Barbara withdrew the question. When she turned back to her table, she saw Dolly Feldman gazing at her with undisguised hostility.

She faced the lieutenant again. “Did you recover fingerprints on the lid of the skillet?”

“Just smudges.”

“How about the control for the stove burner? Did you recover fingerprints from it?”

“No. Just smudges.”

“The oven control?”

“Leona Marchand's prints were on it.”

“Did you find more than one dish towel out and in use in the kitchen?”

“No. Just the one.”

“The one on the counter? Is that the one that had linseed oil on it?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Since you recapitulated the crime earlier, I'd like you to do it again, and this time add some of the new evidence. For example, Mr. Marchand washed his hands in the lavatory. Then what?”

“He went to the stove and turned on the burner,” Whorley said, possibly bored and certainly indifferent.

“Did he remove the cover of the skillet first?”

“I don't know.”

“Was it on the counter nearby, not on the skillet?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lift it at any time?”

“Yes. We picked it up to test for fingerprints.”

“Was the counter moist under it?”

He thought about this for a moment, then said, “I don't recall.”

“Had the lid been used? Was it spotless, or did it have food stains, moisture, even grease on it?”

“It had been used,” he said after a moment. “It was a little greasy.”

“All right. Now, if someone took the lid from the skillet, wouldn't you expect to find that person's fingerprints on it?”

“He might have used a mitt, or even the dish towel to pick it up.”

“What would that suggest?”

“Objection,” Novak said, rising. “This line of questioning is irrelevant and immaterial. Obviously, the lieutenant can't be held accountable for every single action that took place in that kitchen.”

“You opened that door,” Barbara said, “when you invited Lieutenant Whorley to speculate about the sequence of events on which he based his entire investigation. I am merely exploring the events he left out of his account.”

“Her point,” Judge Mac said. “Overruled. Proceed, Ms. Holloway.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The question, Lieutenant, is: Did you at any time speculate about why there were no fingerprints on the skillet lid?”

“No. I didn't attach any importance to the lid.”

“Did you speculate about why there were no fingerprints on the dial to the burner that was turned on?”

“No, I didn't. He probably was carrying the towel at the time.”

“I see. Lieutenant Whorley, please continue recapitulating the events as you did before, but include some of the things you neglected the first time.”

His attitude said clearly, It's a waste of your time and mine, but here goes. “Mr. Marchand entered the house by the back door—”

“Let's stop a moment,” she said. “Did you find linseed oil on the doorknob? Or the screen door?”

“On the screen-door pull,” he said. “Not on the doorknob.”

“All right. So the door was probably open, and the screen door closed. Is that what you're telling us?”

“Yes. He went in and put the hammer down and then went to the small bathroom and washed his hands. He went back to the kitchen and walked over to the stove and turned on the burner—”

“Stop a moment, Lieutenant. You left out the towel. Why would he pick it up when he had already washed and dried his hands?”

“I don't know why.”

“Can you speculate as to where it was?”

“I don't know,” he said. “He picked it up from somewhere. Probably from the towel rack. Or maybe he didn't pick it up at all. He used the mitt.”

“What would he need the mitt for, Lieutenant?” she asked softly.

“To take the lid off the skillet,” he said. “It might have been hot.”

“If it was hot, why turn on the burner?”

For the first time he looked at her as if she had said something interesting. He shook his head. “I don't know.”

She turned back toward her own table, and saw that Novak was conferring with an assistant. Then, standing by the defense table, she asked, “Lieutenant, let's continue with your speculative recapitulation of the crime. After Mr. Marchand was struck down, what did the killer do?”

The lieutenant was more tentative than he had been before when he said, “I think it's probable that he looked for something to wipe the handle of the hammer with and spotted the dish towel.”

She stopped him again. “Where is the towel rack? Can you show us on the crime scene photograph?”

“It's on the inside of the cabinet door under the sink.”

She showed him the photograph of the sink, and he said that was it. “Did you find any fingerprints on the knob of the cabinet door?”

“Just smudges.”

“Still speculating, Lieutenant Whorley, if the towel was neatly hung up, it would not have been visible, would it? Not until the door was opened?”

“That's right, but I don't know where the towel was.”

“Of course. So he saw the towel and used it to wipe the handle clean. Then what?”

He paused, then said, “He tossed it down on the counter.”

“That kitchen is eighteen feet from wall to wall, Lieutenant. The body was fifteen feet from the stove, and the hammer two feet beyond that. Do you mean he tossed the towel seventeen feet across the room?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so. I think he must have gone across the kitchen to throw it down.” He looked past her toward Novak, and he no longer appeared indifferent or bored.

Abruptly Barbara said, “No further questions.” She took her seat, and behind her Dolly said in a very audible voice, “Oh, my God!”

Judge Mac looked at her sternly and raised his gavel, but he laid it down again when she made no further sound; he nodded to Novak. “Redirect, Mr. Novak?”

“Still speculating, Lieutenant,” Novak said, walking around his table. “Since that door is wide open, we'll all stroll through. Why do you suppose anyone would walk across the kitchen to put the towel down instead of just dropping it by the hammer?”

“If he wanted to turn on the stove and maybe start a fire, he might do that,” Whorley said slowly.

“Who might do that, Lieutenant?”

“The killer might.”

Before Novak could continue, Judge Mac said, “I think we've had quite enough speculation for one day. Do you have any more questions, Mr. Novak?”

He had a few, but they were of little consequence, and the day ended. As soon as Judge Mac left the bench, Dolly said shrilly, “Alexander, you have to get a new lawyer! Don't you understand, she's helping them! She's on their side!”

33

Late that night
Barbara stood at her darkened kitchen window gazing at the small swimming pool in the courtyard below. The weather had continued so warm and sunny that the pool had not been shut down yet. There was a pale yellow haze around the pool lights; a weather inversion was holding smoke in the valley from the many forest fires in the Cascades and in the Coast Range. The smoke dimmed all outside lighting, dimmed sunsets and moonglow. It had made her throat scratchy, raw-feeling, and burned her eyes.

After court that day Will Thaxton had taken the Feldmans, Alex, Dr. Minick, and Shelley to his house for a catered dinner. He was being heroic, she thought, not envious of an evening spent with Dolly Feldman.

Across the courtyard Shelley's lights had gone off finally, and Barbara continued to stand at her window, thinking about the day in court, about the coming days, about Frank's warning, repeated at dinner that night. “It's a risky strategy, Bobby. You know that. But I'll be damned if I can see a different way to play it.”

Me, too
, she thought, and turned away from the window to get ready for bed.

The next morning Barbara and Shelley arrived almost simultaneously at Frank's house. Bailey's old Dodge was already in the driveway. They would wait for the rest of their crew, and Bailey would drive them all to the courthouse, as he had done the day before and would do every day of the trial.

“How did it go?” Barbara asked Shelley when Frank opened the door.

“Fine,” Shelley said brightly. “But I need expert advice. Which is better, arsenic or strychnine?”

“Do it the American way,” Bailey said from the doorway to the kitchen. “Get yourself a cute little gun and shoot him, whoever it is you're after.”

“Her,” Shelley said. “That's not a bad idea. Thank you, Bailey.”

She turned to Barbara and said, “Will told them you're the best defense attorney west of the Mississippi. Now she thinks you're sleeping with him.”

“All three,” Barbara said. “A gun, strychnine, and arsenic. How was Alex?”

“He never said a word, and he kept his beret and his sunglasses on all evening. Maybe we can send her on an errand to Tahiti or someplace like that.”

“We'll have a conference and then dinner here after court recesses today,” Frank said, his face grim. “They can fend for themselves. I'll tell them,” he added.

And here we go, Barbara thought, back in the courtroom. Today the Marchand children were present along with their aunt, Mrs. Dufault. Rachel looked ill, hollow-eyed, even gaunt, and very pale. Half a dozen or more young men were present, schoolmates of Daniel's, his rooting section, fellow track-team members. When everyone was in place and Judge Mac had taken his seat at the bench, Novak called his first witness of the day, Detective Mallory Stedman.

He was a slightly built man with thinning hair and thick eyeglasses. His eyes were inflamed and watery with allergies or perhaps a cold; when he gave his credentials and experience, he sounded nasal and hoarse.

Novak took him straight to June ninth and asked what he had done that day.

“I made a visual inspection of the immediate surroundings of the house, all the way to the rear, and out to the road.”

“What were you looking for?” Novak asked.

“Anything that didn't seem to belong there. Or signs of footprints, just anything out of place.”

“And did you find anything that didn't belong there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you find?”

“A drawing pencil. Back by the blackberries in the rear of the property.”

Novak held up an evidence bag. “Is this the pencil you found?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you describe this pencil for the court, Detective?”

“It's a Faber Extra Soft drawing pencil.”

“Thank you.” Novak picked up a second evidence bag. “Did you come across any similar pencils while investigating this crime?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was that?”

“In the defendant's studio.”

Novak took a pencil from the second bag and had him identify it and then describe it.

“It's a Faber Extra Soft drawing pencil like the other one.”

When Barbara stood up to cross-examine, she smiled at the detective. “Good morning. Has the smoke gotten to you?”

He nodded.

“I'll try not to keep you too long,” she said. “When you discovered the pencil by the blackberries, was it just lying on the ground?”

“It was half under some leaves, half showing.”

“You have sharp eyes, Detective. Was it dirty, crusted with dirt?”

“A little bit dirty, yes.”

“Did you recover any fingerprints from it?”

“No, ma'am. It had been out in the weather, maybe rolled a little.”

“So it was partly exposed, and a little dirty. Did you know it was a drawing pencil immediately?”

“No, ma'am. It just looked like a pencil at first.”

“Does it say anywhere on it that it's a drawing pencil?”

“No.”

“Detective Stedman, what made you think that a pencil partly covered with leaves, partly covered with dirt, on the property where two children lived, was a clue to murder?” She kept the question easy, conversational, but he stiffened.

“It was out of place,” he said. “I was looking for anything out of place.”

“I see. Is that the only object you found that appeared to be out of place?”

“I recovered a soda pop can, and two little toy soldiers.”

“Did they strike you as being out of place?”

He hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

She shook her head and walked to her table where Shelley handed her the detective's statement. “I have a copy of your statement here, Detective. Can you tell me where you mentioned a soda pop can or toy soldiers?”