Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “He drives over uninvited to the Elliots’ family home at two A.M. The door is answered by Mr. Elliot, who has been in his study working on an acceptance speech. Mr. Cartwright barges in, punching Mr. Elliot so hard on the nose that he staggers back into the corridor, only to see his adversary come charging in after him. Mr. Elliot recovers in time to run into his study and retrieve a gun that he kept in a drawer in his desk. He turns just as Cartwright leaps on him, kicking the gun out of his hand, thus ensuring that Mr. Elliot has no chance of defending himself. Cartwright then grabs the pistol, stands over his victim and without a moment’s hesitation, shoots him through the heart. He then aims a second shot into the ceiling to leave the impression that a struggle had taken place. Cartwright then drops the gun, runs out of the open door and, jumping into his car, drives quickly back to his home. Unbeknownst to him, he left behind a witness to the entire episode—the victim’s wife, Mrs. Rebecca Elliot. When she heard the first shot, Mrs. Elliot ran from her bedroom to the top of the stairs and moments after hearing the second shot, she watched in horror as Cartwright bolted out of the front door. And just as the television camera had recorded every detail earlier in the evening, Mrs. Elliot will describe to you with the same accuracy, exactly what took place later that night.”

  The state’s attorney turned his attention away from the jury for a moment and looked directly at Fletcher. “In a few moments’ time, defense counsel will rise from his place and with all his famed charm and oratory will attempt to bring tears to your eyes as he tries to explain away what really happened. But what he can’t explain away is the body of an innocent man murdered in cold blood by his political rival. What he can’t explain away is his television message, ‘I will still kill you.’ What he can’t explain away is a witness to the murder—Mr. Elliot’s widow, Rebecca.”

  The prosecutor transferred his gaze to Nat. “I can well understand you feeling some sympathy for this man, but after you have heard all the evidence, I believe you will be left in no doubt of Mr. Cartwright’s guilt, and with no choice but to carry out your duty to the state and deliver a verdict of Guilty.”

  There was an eerie silence in the courtroom when Richard Ebden resumed his place. Several heads nodded, even one or two on the jury. Judge Kravats made a note on the pad in front of him, and then looked down toward the defense counsel’s table.

  “Do you wish to respond, counselor?” asked the judge, making no attempt to hide the irony in his voice.

  Fletcher rose from his place and, looking directly at the judge, said, “No thank you, your honor, it is not my intention to make an opening statement.”

  Fletcher and Nat sat in silence looking directly in front of them amid the pandemonium that broke out in the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel several times, trying to bring the proceedings back to order. Fletcher glanced across at the state attorney’s table, to see Richard Ebden, head bowed, in a huddle with his prosecution team. The judge tried to hide a smile once he realized what a shrewd tactical move the defense had made; it had thrown the state’s team into disarray. He turned his attention back to the prosecution.

  “Mr. Ebden, that being the case, perhaps you’d like to call your first witness?” he said matter-of-factly.

  Ebden rose, not quite as confidently now that he’d worked out what Fletcher was up to. “Your honor, I would in these unusual circumstances seek an adjournment.”

  “Objection, your honor,” cried Fletcher, rising quickly from his place. “The state has had several months to prepare their case; are we now to understand they cannot even produce a single witness?”

  “Is that the case, Mr. Ebden?” asked the judge. “Are you unable to call your first witness?”

  “That is correct, your honor. Our first witness would have been Mr. Don Culver, the chief of police, and we did not want to take him away from his important duties until it was entirely necessary.”

  Fletcher was on his feet again. “But it is entirely necessary, your honor. He is the chief of police, and this is a murder trial, and I therefore ask that this case be dismissed on the grounds there is no police evidence available to place before the court.”

  “Nice try, Mr. Davenport,” said the judge, “but I won’t fall for it. Mr. Ebden, I shall grant your request for an adjournment. I shall reconvene this court immediately after the lunch break, and if the chief of police is unable to be with us by then, I shall rule his evidence inadmissible.” Ebden nodded, unable to hide his embarrassment.

  “All rise,” said the clerk, as Judge Kravats glanced at the clock before leaving the courtroom.

  “First round to us, I think,” remarked Tom, as the state’s team hurriedly left the courtroom.

  “Possibly,” said Fletcher, “but we’ll need more than Pyrrhic victories to win the final battle.”

  Nat hated the hanging around, and was back in his seat long before the lunch break was up. He looked across at the state’s table to see Richard Ebden also in his place, knowing he wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time. But had he yet worked out why Fletcher had risked such a bold move? Fletcher had explained to Nat during the adjournment that he believed his only hope of winning the case was to undermine Rebecca Elliot’s evidence, and therefore he couldn’t afford to let her relax even for a moment. Following the judge’s warning, Ebden would now have to keep her waiting in the corridor, perhaps for days on end, before she was finally called.

  Fletcher took his seat next to Nat only moments before the judge was due to reconvene. “The chief’s out there in the corridor storming up and down fuming, while Mrs. Elliot is sitting alone in a corner biting her nails. I intend to keep that lady hanging around for several days,” he added as the clerk called, “All rise, Judge Kravats presiding.”

  “Good afternoon,” said the judge, and turning to the chief prosecutor added, “Do you have a witness for us, Mr. Ebden?”

  “Yes, I do, your honor. The state calls Police Chief Don Culver.”

  Nat watched as Don Culver took his place on the stand and repeated the oath. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t work out what it was. Then he saw the second and third fingers of Culver’s right hand twitching, and realized it was the first time he’d seen him without his trademark cigar.

  “Mr. Culver, would you tell the jury your present rank?”

  “I’m the chief of police for the city of Hartford.”

  “And how long have you held that position?”

  “Just over fourteen years.”

  “And how long have you been a law enforcement officer?”

  “For the past thirty-six years.”

  “So it would be safe to say that you have a great deal of experience when it comes to homicide?

  “I guess that’s right,” the chief said.

  “And have you ever come into contact with the defendant?”

  “Yes, I have, on several occasions.”

  “He’s stealing some of my questions,” Fletcher whispered to Nat, “but I haven’t yet worked out why.”

  “And had you formed an opinion of the man?”

  “Yes, I had, he’s a decent law-abiding citizen, who, until he murdered…”

  “Objection, your honor,” said Fletcher, rising from his place, “it is up to the jury to decide who murdered Mr. Elliot, not the chief of police. We don’t live in a police state yet.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge.

  “Well, all I can say,” said the chief, “is that until all this happened, I would have voted for him.” Laughter broke out in the court.

  “And after I’ve finished with the chief,” whispered Fletcher, “he sure won’t be voting for me.”

  “Then you must have had some doubt in your mind that such an upstanding citizen was capable of murder?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Ebden,” said the chief. “Murderers aren’t run-of-the-mill criminals.”

  “Would you care to explain what you mean by that, Chief?”

  “Sure will,” said Culver. “The average murder is a
domestic affair, usually within the family, and is often carried out by someone who not only has never committed a crime before, but probably never will again. Once they’re in custody, they are often easier to handle than a petty burglar.”

  “Do you feel Mr. Cartwright falls into this category?”

  “Objection,” said Fletcher from a seated position, “how can the chief possibly know the answer to that question?”

  “Because I’ve been dealing with murderers for the past thirty-six years,” Don Culver responded.

  “Strike that from the record,” said the judge. “Experience is all very well, but the jury must in the end deal only with the facts in this particular case.”

  “Then let’s move on to a question that does deal with fact in this particular case,” said the state’s attorney. “How did you become involved in this case, Chief Culver?”

  “I took a call at my home from Mrs. Elliot in the early hours of February twelfth.

  “She called you at home? Is she a personal acquaintance?”

  “No, but all candidates for public office are able to get in touch with me directly. They are often the subject of threats, real or imagined, and it was no secret that Mr. Elliot had received several death threats since he’d declared he would run for governor.”

  “When Mrs. Elliot called you, did you record her exact words?”

  “You bet I did,” said the chief. “She sounded hysterical, and was shouting. I remember I had to hold the phone away from my ear, in fact she woke my wife.” A little laughter broke out in the court for a second time, and Culver waited until it had died down before he added, “I wrote down her exact words on a pad I keep next to the phone.” He opened a notebook.

  Fletcher was on his feet. “Is this admissible?” he asked.

  “It was on the agreed list of prosecution documents, your honor,” Ebden intervened, “as I feel sure Mr. Davenport is aware. He’s had weeks to consider its relevance, not to mention importance.”

  The judge nodded to the chief. “Carry on,” he said as Fletcher resumed his seat.

  “‘My husband has been shot in his study, please come as quickly as possible,’” said the chief, reading from his notebook.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her not to touch anything, and I’d be with her just as soon as I could get there.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Two twenty-six,” the chief replied after rechecking his notebook.

  “And when did you arrive at the Elliots’ home?”

  “Not until three nineteen. First I had to call the station and tell them to send the most senior detective available to the Elliots’ residence. I then got dressed, so that when I eventually made it, I found two of my officers had already arrived—but then they didn’t have to get dressed.” Once again laughter broke out around the courtroom.

  “Please describe to the jury exactly what you saw when you first arrived.”

  “The front door was open, and Mrs. Elliot was sitting on the floor in the hallway, her knees hunched up under her chin. I let her know I was there, and then joined Detective Petrowski in Mr. Elliot’s study. Mr. Petrowski,” the chief added, “is one of the most respected detectives on my force, with a great deal of experience with homicide, and as he seemed to have the investigation well under way. I left him to get on with his job, while I returned to Mrs. Elliot.”

  “Did you then question her?”

  “Yes, I did,” replied the chief.

  “But wouldn’t Detective Petrowski already have done that?”

  “Yes, but it’s often useful to get two statements so that one can compare them later and see if they differ on any essential points.”

  “Your honor, these statements are hearsay,” Fletcher interjected.

  “And did they?” Ebden hurriedly asked.

  “No, they did not.”

  “Objection,” Fletcher emphasized.

  “Overruled, Mr. Davenport. As has already been pointed out, you have had access to these documents for several weeks.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” said Ebden. “I would like you to tell the court what you did next, Chief.”

  “I suggested that we go and sit in the front room, so that Mrs. Elliot would be more comfortable. I then asked her to take me slowly through what had happened that evening. I didn’t hurry her, as witnesses are quite often resentful of being asked exactly the same questions a second or third time. After she’d finished her cup of coffee, Mrs. Elliot eventually told me that she had been asleep in bed when she heard the first shot. She switched on the light, put on her robe and went to the top of the stairs and that was when she heard the second shot. She then watched as Mr. Cartwright ran out of the study toward the open door. He turned to look back, but couldn’t have seen her in the darkness at the top of the stairs, although she recognized him immediately. She then ran downstairs and into the study where she found her husband lying on the floor in a pool of blood. She immediately called me at home.”

  “Did you continue to question her?”

  “No, I left a female officer with Mrs. Elliot while I checked over her original statement. After a farther consultation with Detective Petrowski, I drove to Mr. Cartwright’s home accompanied by two other officers, arrested the defendant and charged him with the murder of Ralph Elliot.”

  “Had he gone to bed?”

  “No, he was still in the clothes he had been wearing on the television program that night.”

  “No more questions, your honor.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Davenport.”

  Fletcher walked across to the witness box with a smile on his face. “Good afternoon, Chief. I won’t detain you for long, as I’m only too aware how busy you are, but I do nevertheless have three or four questions that need answering.” The chief didn’t return Fletcher’s smile. “To begin with, I would like to know what period of time passed between your receiving the phone call at your home from Mrs. Elliot, and when you placed Mr. Cartwright under arrest.”

  The chief’s fingers twitched again while he considered the question. “Two hours, two and a half at the most,” he eventually said.

  “And when you arrived at Mr. Cartwright’s house, how was he dressed?”

  “I’ve already told the court that—in exactly the same clothes as he was wearing on television that night.”

  “So he didn’t open the door in his pajamas and dressing gown looking as if he had just got out of bed?”

  “No, he didn’t,” said the chief, puzzled.

  “Don’t you think that a man who had just committed a murder might want to get undressed and into bed at two o’clock in the morning, so that should the police suddenly turn up on his doorstep, he could at least give an impression of having been asleep?”

  The chief frowned. “He was comforting his wife.”

  “I see,” said Fletcher. “The murderer was comforting his wife, so let me ask you, Chief, when you arrested Mr. Cartwright, did he make a statement?”

  “No,” the chief replied, “he said he wanted to speak to his lawyer first.”

  “But did he say anything at all that you might have recorded in your trusty notebook?”

  “Yes,” said the chief, and flipped back some pages of the notebook before carefully studying an entry. “Yes,” he repeated with a smile, “Cartwright said, ‘but he was still alive when I left him.’”

  “But he was still alive when I left him,” repeated Fletcher. “Hardly the words of a man who is trying to hide the fact that he had been there at all. He doesn’t get undressed, he doesn’t go to bed, and he openly admits he was at Elliot’s house earlier that evening.” The chief remained silent. “When he accompanied you to the police station, did you take his fingerprints?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you carry out any other tests?” asked Fletcher.

  “What did you have in mind?” asked the chief.

  “Don’t play games with me,” said Fletcher, his voice revealing a slig
ht edge. “Did you carry out any other tests?”

  “Yes,” said the chief. “We checked under his fingernails to see if there was any sign that he had fired a gun.”

  “And was there any indication that Mr. Cartwright had fired a gun?” asked Fletcher, returning to his more conciliatory tone.

  The chief hesitated. “We could find no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails.”

  “There was no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails,” said Fletcher, facing the jury.

  “Yes, but he’d had a couple of hours to wash his hands and scrub his nails.”

  “He certainly did, Chief, and he also had a couple of hours to get undressed, go to bed, turn off all the lights in the house, and come up with a far more convincing line than, ‘but he was still alive when I left him.’” Fletcher’s eyes never left the jury. Once again, the chief remained silent.

  “My final question, Mr. Culver, is something that’s been nagging at me ever since I took on this case, especially when I think about your thirty-six years of experience, fourteen of them as chief of police.” He turned back to face Culver. “Did it ever cross your mind that someone else might have committed this crime?”

  “There was no sign of anyone else having entered the house other than Mr. Cartwright.”

  “But there was already someone else in the house.”

  “And there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to suggest that Mrs. Elliot could possibly have been involved.”

  “No evidence of any kind?” repeated Fletcher. “I do hope, Chief, that you will find time in your busy schedule to drop in and hear my cross-examination of Mrs. Elliot, when the jury will be able to decide if there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to show she might have been involved in this crime.” Uproar broke out in the courtroom as everyone began talking at once.