Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (26 page)

Tomorrow.

Tonight, Scott Gardner, duly elected District Attorney of Santa Barbara County, spun his tale for the empty chairs of his
conference room. A dry run.

“Earlier that fateful evening,” he continued, “Dr. Philip Macklin, the man sitting right here…”

J’accuse!
Pointing his index finger like a rapier at the monster.

“… placed the drug Seconal in his wife’s drink. You will hear evidence that alcohol and barbiturates were found in Mrs. Macklin’s
blood, and that both substances were present in a cocktail glass in the family living room. Not only that…”

Softly but gravely. Make them lean forward, thirsting for every word.

“… Dr. Macklin’s fingerprints were found on that glass, along with those of his wife.
He
mixed her drink, and when she passed out,
he
carried her to the car, a scrap of her blue satin blouse catching on the Spanish bayonet bush in the driveway.
He
drove at a high rate of speed down Santa Ynez Road, veered through a guardrail, over the embankment, and into the canal. Just
as
he
had planned.”

“You have a motive for all this?”

Scott wheeled around. “Jesus! Mom, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Your father used to say I treaded softly as an angel.”

“I think he was going deaf there at the end.” She didn’t laugh at his joke. She
never
laughed at his jokes. “Say, how’d you get past security?”

She smiled and gave a little shrug. “Aren’t you going to get your hair trimmed before trial?”

Reflexively, Scott ran a hand through his shaggy mop. Next, he expected his mother to straighten his tie, tuck in his shirttail,
and remind him to eat his veggies.

“No time, Mom. We pick a jury in the morning.”

She sighed her disapproval. For a moment Scott stared at his mother, marveling at her elegance. A gold silk embroidered jacket
with a matching skirt falling just below the knees. Armani or Gucci, he figured. Gray hair stylishly cut, glacial blue eyes,
and a still-firm chin.

“So what’s up, Mom? I’m a little busy.”

“I’m here to help. It’s not like you’re in court every day. Not like your father. Now, there was a lawyer.”

As opposed to me?

“And there was a man,” she added wistfully.

Ditto
, he thought.

“So, what’s the motive, Scottie?” his mother said.

Scottie.

Jeez, how many times had he asked her not to call him that?

He turned to his imaginary jury. “And just why did Dr. Macklin kill his wife? Because he was deeply in debt, his psychology
practice foundering. Because Mrs. Macklin planned to divorce him, and she was his cash cow.”

“Cash cow? Dear God, what a vulgarity. Why not call her his
femme de miel
?”

“If I get any Parisians on the jury, I will.”

His mother lowered herself into one of the conference chairs. She gracefully crossed her legs and reached into her handbag,
some Italian number made of supple blond leather the color of hay and soft as butter. She tapped a cigarette out of a blue
Gauloises Blondes box and said, “Sometimes, Scottie, I wonder if you’re cut out for criminal law.”

“The voters of Santa Barbara County think I am.”

“Oh, come, dear. They didn’t know they were voting for Scott Gardner,
Junior.
”

That again. In any contest with his father, he would always come in second. Scott Gardner, Sr., had been DA for a dozen years
before going back into private practice with his wife. Gardner & Gardner, LLP. For all those messy problems of the moneyed
folk with big houses in the hills of Montecito and on the cliffs above the beach.

So, sure, Scott knew that a lot of voters mistakenly thought his old man was making a comeback, even though he’d been residing
in a cemetery overlooking the Pacific for the past three years.

“God, how I miss your father,” she said, lighting a cigarette in violation of state, county, and city laws.

“Me too, Mom.”

“I should never have gotten remarried.”

“After what you and Dad had, you were bound to be disappointed.”

Scott once told his mother that her marriage was a lot like the Reagans’. Husband and wife adoring each other and basically
ignoring their children.

She didn’t deny the charge, saying simply that little tadpoles need to swim on their own, or something to that effect.

She tilted her head toward the ceiling and exhaled a puff of smoke. “So what’s your proof this wasn’t an accident?”

“Seventeen minutes. The car’s clock stopped at ten eighteen p.m. Macklin called nine-one-one at ten thirty-five. What was
he doing for seventeen minutes?”

“Maybe he was in shock.”

“Paramedics say he was fine.” Scott smiled, letting her know he’d covered that base, just like good old Dad would have done.
“Say, have you eaten? Kristin’s stopping by with cheeseburgers.”

“Cheeseburgers?” Making the word sound like “herpes sores.”

“And fries.”

“Kristin never did learn to cook, did she?”

“Don’t start, Mom.”

“I’m amazed she’s kept her figure. Must have been all that exotic dancing.”

“Mom, she was a Laker Girl.”

“So she was. A regular Isadora Duncan.”

“If you want a burger, tell me now, and I’ll catch Kristin at the In-N-Out.”

“I’d rather eat glass.” She tapped cigarette ash into an empty coffee cup. “What makes you think Macklin didn’t dive into
the water and pound on the car windows for seventeen minutes?”

“He never claimed he did. Not a word to the cops at the scene or in the hospital. What does that tell you?”

“His silence is inadmissible.”

“I’m just saying, would an innocent man keep quiet?”

“Maybe. If he had to think things through.”

“Why? To plan his lies for trial?”

“To tell a painful truth that would nonetheless prove his innocence.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The holes in your case.”

“Hey, Mom. It’s one thing to play devil’s advocate, but I’ve been over this a hundred times. There are no holes.”

“Do you remember the night of the crash?”

“Hard to forget. The sheriff called me at home. I was at the scene in fifteen minutes.”

His mother exhaled a perfect smoke ring. She’d learned the trick from his father. “Did the lovely Kristin go with you?”

He thought a second. “No. She wasn’t home.”

“Ten thirty at night. Where was she, donating blood at the Red Cross?”

“It was a Thursday. Girls’ night out. Racquetball.”

“Was she there when you got back?”

“Of course. I didn’t get home until nearly dawn. Kristin was asleep.”

“How was she in the morning?”

“I don’t understand the question, Counselor.”

“Yes, you do. I always told your father you were brighter than you appear.”

“Gee, thanks, Mom.”

“Was Kristin stiff or sore? Was she visibly injured in any way?”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“The witness shall answer the question.”

Fine, he’d play along. “I wouldn’t call it an injury. She had a bruised cheekbone from getting hit with a racquetball.”

“Easily covered, I suppose, by all that Estée Lauder foundation she trowels on.”

The intercom rasped with a woman’s voice. “Honey, can you buzz me in?”

“Only if you’re bringing food.” Scott hit a button and heard the lock double-click open.

“We haven’t much time,” his mother said. “Don’t make me go through this when you already know the answer.”

“Mom, I swear I don’t even know the question.”

“You’re in denial, Scottie.”

“Of what?”

“Let’s say that Mrs. Macklin was supposed to be traveling that fateful evening. But a marine layer rolled in and the Lear
couldn’t get out of the municipal airport.”

“Okay, she’s fogged in.”

His mother laughed, the sound of church bells pealing. “Oh my, yes. Was she ever fogged in. Anyway, she comes home and finds
her husband in bed with a young woman. The woman was astride the miscreant in what I believe they call the ‘cowgirl’ position,
and sure as shooting, her whoops and hollers would have been appropriate for a rodeo.”

Scott heard the door to the anteroom open. “Honey,” Kristin called out, “I’ll be there in a sec, after I get some Cokes from
the fridge.”

“Take your time.” He turned to his mother. “Your story doesn’t make sense. If Mrs. Macklin catches her husband in flagrante
delicto, no way she’s going to sit down and have a drink with him.”

“She doesn’t.”

“So what’s with his fingerprints on the glass?”

“I assume she put Seconal in her whiskey, downed it, then dropped the glass. Her husband simply picked up the glass, perhaps
to sniff it, or maybe he’s a neat freak.”

They could hear Kristin in the next room, the sound of ice cubes rattling out of a tray.

“You’re saying she committed suicide,” Scott said.

“Tried to. OD’ed into a semiconscious state.”

“So what’s she doing in the car with her husband?”

“What’s down Santa Ynez Road? Three miles past the site of the accident.”

He considered the question. “The Cottage Hospital.”

“Exactly. If I were defending the case, I’d say Dr. Macklin felt enormous guilt over causing his wife’s suicide attempt. He
picked her up, carried her to his car, her blouse catching on that damn thorny bush. He’s driving to the hospital at seventy
miles an hour when he loses control around a curve and plunges into the canal.”

“So why didn’t he pull her out of the water?”

“Because he only had time to rescue one person, and no matter how heavy his guilt, he was in love with someone else. Stated
another way, his wife was second on his triage list.”

“Wrong. There was no one else in the car.”

“You mean there was no one else there when the paramedics arrived. Dr. Macklin didn’t call nine-one-one until his paramour—a
lovely term, is it not? —left the scene. There’s your seventeen minutes.”

“So who’d he rescue? Who’s this paramour?”

“How about a woman who hit her cheekbone on the dashboard when the car went into the water?”

He shook his head and his shoulders sagged. Of course, he knew. He just couldn’t accept it. Not that or the knowledge of his
own cowardice. He’d never challenged Kristin, and he’d never confronted his own unethical conduct. He wanted to punish Dr.
Macklin. Not for homicide, because Macklin wasn’t a killer. No, he wanted to punish Macklin for cuckolding him.

“So what do I do now?” he said.

“Scott, who are you talking to?” With a dancer’s graceful gait, Kristin waltzed into the conference room in black yoga pants
and a fluorescent orange sleeveless sports top. She carried a tray of food and drinks.

“Tell me!” he yelled.

“Tell you what?” Kristin asked. “What are you upset about?”

“Mom, what do I do?”

“Oh Christ.” Kristin dropped the tray on the table, spilling a soda. “Not this again.”

“Mom!”

He could still see Gayle Gardner Macklin, but her image was fading.

“Mom, don’t leave me. Please!”

Trembling, Kristin said, “Scott, you know your mother drowned in that car.”

“No! She’s here now.”

“Honey, you spoke at her funeral and bawled your eyes out.”

Scott propped one hand on the conference table and struggled to his feet. He brushed past his wife without even seeing her.

“The judge should never have allowed you to handle the case,” Kristin said. “I knew something weird would happen.”

His legs felt rubbery as he staggered out, leaving behind his trial bag, the pleadings, the exhibits. His wife.

“Scott, where are you going?”

She dropped into a chair, sniffed the air. “Did you start smoking again?”

No answer. He was gone.

Kristin examined a coffee cup on the table. Inside, a half-smoked cigarette. She picked it up, the tip still glowing.

French. Just like her bitch mother-in-law used to smoke. A shudder went through her and she crushed the cigarette into the
bottom of the cup. From the doorway, she heard a melodious voice.

“Kristin, dear. You look just darling in your workout gear.”

She spun around in her chair.

Omigod.

“Last time we met, you were au naturel and grunting like a sow in heat.”

Kristin steadied herself against the fear. Her words came in forced breaths. “What have you become? What do you want?”

“At long last, I am my true self. And all I want is justice.”

Paralyzed, Kristin watched as Scott, wearing a woman’s gray wig, his cheeks rouged and lips glossed, raised a handgun and
pointed it at her chest.

BY LEIGH LUNDIN

T
hank you, Your Honor. Yes, the prosecution is ready with an opening statement.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, good morning. We are here today to discuss, literally, a case of life and death: whether
any individual has the right to take another’s life. My job is to present the state’s evidence, the state’s view of this crime.
Your job, based upon the evidence, is to render a decision about this crime, about this sad and unfortunate death.

Today, ladies and gentlemen, we come to this courtroom to try a defendant, to discuss and deliberate upon a death for which
the accused freely admits responsibility.

My esteemed colleague at the adjoining table will tell you about extenuating circumstances, about euthanasia, about the right
to die. Indeed, my opponent can rattle on for hours about it.

The state’s position is: What about the right to life? If a society condones murder—and don’t mistake that, with all its window
dressing, this was murder—what kind of society would we live in?

Most of you, I’m sure, would rather be somewhere else. I certainly did not ask for this case. I didn’t want it; no one wanted
it. I even like the defendant. I feel for the defendant. You may well like the defendant, too.

I won’t demonize the accused, I won’t tell you the crime was diabolical, but—let us be clear—a homicide was committed, the
law broken, a life taken, and we, my friends, live in a society of laws. As such, it is incumbent upon us to take note of
the societal picture at large.