Prosecution: A Legal Thriller (38 page)

"Sit down," I said, as I reached inside my briefcase.
Placing a hand-held tape recorder on top of the table, I glanced at
the two-way mirror on the wall and then looked back at Marshall
Goodwin.

"I had them bring you over from the prison because I
have something I think you might want to hear."

I pushed the button that activated the tape, a copy
of a court-ordered recording of a late-night telephone call between
Kristin and her former fiance. He listened in silence.

Whether it was the often-repeated complaint that she
had been seduced by a murderer and a liar, or the sensuous
insistence that she could barely wait for the next time she could
show Conrad Atkinson all the things she wished she had been doing
with him instead of her husband, Marshall Goodwin was no longer
convinced that saving Kristin's life had been worth risking his
own.

"I'll tell you everything you want to know," he
said.

I looked straight at the mirror, trying to imagine
the look on Kristin's face as I asked him whether she had known
what had been in the envelope she had delivered to Travis
Quentin.

"The whole thing was her idea," he replied.

I almost felt sorry for him. Then, remembering what
they had done, I felt a sense of relief that I had not convicted
the wrong person after all and that, at least this time, no one had
gotten away with murder. I opened the door and motioned the guard
to bring Kristin into the room. Her wrists were handcuffed behind
her back. They looked at each other like two strangers who for just
a moment thought they might have met somewhere once before.

It had almost worked. If Travis Quentin had never
killed again, if he had never been arrested, if he had been caught
in a state without the death penalty, if the state police had taken
what they knew to the district attorney's office instead of giving
it to Horace Woolner—if any of those things had happened, the only
thing that could ever have found them out was their own guilty
conscience, and the odds against that were higher than most people
could count.

Nearly a month went by before I tried to see Horace
Woolner again. Early one afternoon I drove to his building and
called from the intercom phone. There was no answer, and when I
asked the doorman when Horace might be back, I was told that the
Woolners had put their condominium up for sale and left for New
York. At first I did not believe it, and then I realized it was the
only thing that made sense. There was nothing left for them here.
Outside, I looked up at the windows of the twelfth floor,
remembering the night I was there and the proud, lonely expression
on Horace Woolner's face when everyone was applauding his wife. I
turned and headed for the street, wishing I could somehow turn back
time and change the way everything had happened.

I kept walking. A half hour later, I found myself in
front of the courthouse. There was someone I wanted to see.
Scribbling a message from one caller while she answered another
line, the receptionist looked up just long enough to get my name.
As I took a seat, the door to Gilliland-O'Rourke's office swung
open and two young men, engaged in an intense, excited
conversation, walked out. A short, energetic young woman bounced
right past them on her way in. A few minutes later, the
receptionist caught my eye and signaled that it was my turn.

Gwendolyn was standing at a round table on the far
side of the room, examining a set of black-and-white photographs of
herself. "Yes, I think you're right," she said, putting her finger
on one of them. "We'll go with this one."

Beaming, the young woman gathered up the pictures
and, without a glance, left the room as quickly as she had
entered.

"I don't have much time," Gilliland-O'Rourke informed
me as she sat down behind the glowing antique desk. "The
announcement is tomorrow, and there are a thousand things left to
do." There were a lot of things I had thought I wanted to talk to
her about, things I could never talk about with anyone else. But
now, face-to-face with her, there was nothing to say.

"I just dropped by to wish you luck," I said as I got
to my feet. "Give my best to your husband," I added before I turned
to go. "I'm glad he's all right."

Except for the years I had been at school, I had
lived my life in the city. But now, wandering the streets, I felt
out of place, like someone who dreams of coming home only to find
when he gets there that nothing is the way it used to be. All
around me, people were going about their business, to all
appearances certain of what they were doing and why they were doing
it. I was adrift, cut off from the world, without anything to which
I could look forward. I was desperate for a familiar face, a
friendly voice, someone with whom I could talk. I found my way to
the newspaper office and asked for Harper Bryce. I was told that he
was over on the coast, in Astoria, covering another murder trial.
There was no one left for me to go see.

That night, for the first time in weeks, I slept
straight through and did not wake up until late morning. Sunlight
slanted through the bedroom window, and the sky outside was a
brilliant blue. When I was dressed, I started down the long spiral
driveway toward the iron gate at the bottom. The paving glistened
black, still wet from rain that had fallen sometime before dawn.
Water dripped from the branch of a sycamore tree where a bird sat,
cocking its head from side to side, searching for a place in its
nest to add the twig it held in its beak. After the dead days of
winter, spring was about to begin again.

Outside the gate, I picked up the morning paper,
tucked it under my arm, and trudged back up the drive. After a few
steps, I stopped and, squinting my eyes, turned my face to feel the
sun. A noise from down below broke the stillness. Two boys were
pedaling their bicycles on the sidewalk that ran along the other
side of the spite fence. One called the other a liar, a charge
repeated each time it was denied, as they took turns riding their
bikes off the curb.

Perhaps we're born with it, this sense of the
difference between the truth and the lie, this belief that it is
always better to tell the truth and always easier to lie. I had
spent a year in a self-imposed exile because I had convinced
someone to perjure himself, and everyone I had dealt with since had
told lies of their own. Some of them had lied to conceal something
they had done, and some of them had lied to protect other people.
Maybe that was the difference that mattered, not whether you always
told the truth but what you thought was worth lying for.

I sat down on a stone bench below the wooden porch
and for a while did nothing but gaze out at the blank sky. The
voices of the children had faded away, and the only sound was a
slight breeze whispering through the fir trees. The same bird I had
seen before flew back to the sycamore, clutching another twig in
its mouth. Finally, I opened up the paper and saw the front page
picture of Gwendolyn Gilliland-O'Rourke announcing her candidacy
for governor. Her husband, Arthur O'Rourke, stood next to her, a
slightly distracted look on his face, as if he was not quite
certain why he was there.

Down below, outside the gate, the two boys had come
back, and I could hear their laughter as they took turns jumping
the curb. I put down the paper and leaned back against the side of
the house, and wondered what might have happened if someone without
lies and secrets of her own to protect had prosecuted the case
against Alma Woolner.

I will never know what really happened that night
between Alma and Russell Gray. I will never know for sure why she
killed him, whether it was because he was ending their affair or
whether she acted in self-defense. I cannot even guess how much she
told Horace, and how much he knew without her saying a word. I am a
stranger to what passes between husbands and wives. All I know for
certain is that while Horace loved the law, he loved her more. It
did not matter what she had done. He could not have lived a day
without her, and by saving her, he saved himself. It was the least
he deserved.

The End