Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  The state’s attorney leaped to his feet, “Objection, your honor,” he said sharply. “It’s not Mrs. Elliot who is on trial.” But he could not be heard above the noise of the judge banging his gavel as Fletcher walked slowly back to his place.

  When the judge had managed to bring some semblance of order back to proceedings, all Fletcher said was, “No more questions, your honor.”

  “Do you have any evidence?” Nat whispered as his counsel sat down.

  “Not a lot,” admitted Fletcher, “but one thing I feel confident about is that if Mrs. Elliot did kill her husband, she won’t be getting a lot of sleep between now and when she enters that witness stand. And as for Ebden, he’ll be spending the next few days wondering what we’ve come up with that he doesn’t yet know about.” Fletcher smiled at the chief as he stepped down from the witness stand, but received a cold, blank stare in response.

  The judge looked down from the bench at both attorneys. “I think that’s enough for today, gentlemen,” he said. “We will convene again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when Mr. Ebden may call his next witness.”

  “All rise.”

  47

  When the judge made his entrance the following morning, only a change of tie gave any clue that he had ever left the building. Nat wondered how long it would be before the ties also began to make a second and even a third appearance.

  “Good morning,” said Judge Kravats as he took his place on the bench and beamed down at the assembled throng as though he were a benevolent preacher about to address his congregation. “Mr. Ebden,” he said, “you may call your next witness.”

  “Thank you, your honor. I call Detective Petrowski.”

  Fletcher studied the senior detective carefully as he made his way to the witness stand. He raised his right hand and began to recite the oath. Petrowski could barely have passed the minimum height the force required of its recruits. His tight-fitting suit implied a wrestler’s build, rather than someone who was overweight. His jaw was square, his eyes narrow and his lips curled slightly down at the edges, leaving an impression that he didn’t smile that often. One of Fletcher’s researchers had found out that Petrowski was rumored to be the next chief when Don Culver retired. He had a reputation for sticking by the book, but hating paperwork, much preferring to be visiting the scene of the crime than sitting behind a desk back at headquarters.

  “Good morning, Captain,” said the state’s attorney once the witness had sat down. Petrowski nodded, but still didn’t smile. “For the record, would you please state your name and rank.”

  “Frank Petrowski, chief of detectives, City of Hartford Police Department.”

  “And how long have you been a detective?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “And when were you appointed chief of detectives?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “Having established your record, let us move on to the night of the murder. The police log shows that you were the first officer on the scene of the crime.”

  “Yes, I was,” said Petrowski, “I was the senior officer on duty that night, having taken over from the chief at eight o’clock.”

  “And where were you at two thirty that morning when the chief called in?”

  “I was in a patrol car, on the way to investigate a break-in at a warehouse on Marsham Street, when the desk sergeant phoned to say the chief wanted me to go immediately to the home of Ralph Elliot in West Hartford, and investigate a possible homicide. As I was only minutes away, I took on the assignment and detailed another patrol car to cover Marsham Street.”

  “And you drove straight to the Elliots’ home?”

  “Yes, but on the way I radioed in to headquarters to let them know that I would be needing the assistance of forensics and the best photographer they could get out of bed at that time in the morning.”

  “And what did you find when you arrived at the Elliots’ house?”

  “I was surprised to discover that the front door was open and Mrs. Elliot was crouched on the floor in the hallway. She told me that she had found her husband’s body in the study, and pointed to the other end of the corridor. She added that the chief had told her not to touch anything, which was why the front door had been left open. I went straight to the study, and once I had confirmed that Mr. Elliot was dead, I returned to the hallway and took a statement from his wife, copies of which are in the court’s possession.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “In her statement, Mrs. Elliot said that she had been asleep when she heard two shots coming from downstairs, so I and three other officers returned to the study to search for the bullets.”

  “And did you find them?”

  “Yes. The first was easy to locate because after it had passed through Mr. Elliot’s heart it ended up embedded in the wooden panel behind his desk. The second took a little longer to find, but we eventually spotted it lodged in the ceiling above Mr. Elliot’s bureau.”

  “Could these two bullets have been fired by the same person?”

  “It’s possible,” said Petrowski, “if the murderer had wanted to leave the impression of a struggle, or the victim had turned the gun on himself.”

  “Is that common in a homicide case?”

  “It’s not unknown for a criminal to try and leave conflicting evidence.”

  “But can you prove that both bullets came from the same gun?”

  “That was confirmed by ballistics the following day.”

  “And were any fingerprints found on the firearm?”

  “Yes,” said Petrowski, “a palm mark on the handle of the gun, plus an index finger on the trigger.”

  “And were you later able to match up these samples?”

  “Yes,” he paused. “They both matched Mr. Cartwright’s prints.”

  A babble of chatter erupted from the public benches behind Fletcher. He tried not to blink as he observed the jury’s reaction to this piece of information. A moment later he scribbled a note on his yellow pad. The judge banged his gavel several times as he called for order, before Ebden was able to resume.

  “From the entry of the bullet into the body, and the burn marks on the chest, were you able to ascertain what distance the murderer was from his victim?”

  “Yes,” said Petrowski. “Forensics estimated that the assailant must have been standing four to five feet in front of his victim, and from the angle which the bullet entered the body, they were able to show that both men were standing at the time.”

  “Objection, your honor,” said Fletcher, rising from his place. “We have yet to prove that it was a man who fired either shot.”

  “Sustained.”

  “And when you had gathered all your evidence,” continued Ebden as if he had not been interrupted, “was it you who made the decision to arrest Mr. Cartwright?”

  “No, by then the chief had turned up, and although it was my case, I asked if he would also take a statement from Mrs. Elliot, to make sure her story hadn’t changed in any way.”

  “And had it?”

  “No, on all the essential points, it remained consistent.”

  Fletcher underlined the word essential as both Petrowski and the chief had used it. Well rehearsed or a coincidence, he wondered.

  “Was that when you decided to arrest the accused?”

  “Yes, it was on my recommendation, but ultimately the chief’s decision.”

  “Weren’t you taking a tremendous risk, arresting a gubernatorial candidate during an election campaign?”

  “Yes, we were, and I discussed that problem with the chief. We often find to our cost that the first twenty-four hours are the most important in any investigation, and we had a body, two bullets and a witness to the crime. I considered it would have been an abrogation of my duty not to make an arrest simply because the assailant had powerful friends.”

  “Objection, your honor, that was prejudicial,” said Fletcher.

  “Sustained,” said the judge, “and strike it from the record.
” He turned to Petrowski and added, “Please stick to facts, detective, I’m not interested in your opinions.”

  Petrowski nodded.

  Fletcher turned to Nat. “That last statement sounded to me as if it had been written in the DA’s office.” He paused, looked down at his yellow pad and commented that “abrogation,” “essential points,” and “assailant” were delivered as if they had been learned by heart. “Petrowski won’t have the opportunity to deliver rehearsed answers when I cross-examine him.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Ebden, “I have no more questions for Detective Petrowski, your honor.”

  “Do you wish to question this witness?” asked the judge, preparing himself for another tactical maneuver.

  “Yes, I most certainly do, your honor.” Fletcher remained seated while he turned a page of his legal pad. “Detective Petrowski, you told the court that my client’s fingerprints were on the gun.”

  “Not just his fingerprints, also a palm print on the butt as confirmed in the forensic report.”

  “And didn’t you also tell the court that in your experience, criminals often try to leave conflicting evidence in order to fool the police?”

  Petrowski nodded, but made no reply.

  “Yes or no, Captain?”

  “Yes,” said Petrowski,

  “Would you describe Mr. Cartwright as a fool?”

  Petrowski hesitated while he tried to work out where Fletcher was attempting to lead him. “No, I would say he was a highly intelligent man.”

  “Would you describe leaving your fingerprints and a palm print on the murder weapon as the act of a highly intelligent man?” asked Fletcher.

  “No, but then Mr. Cartwright is not a professional criminal, and doesn’t think like one. Amateurs often panic and that’s when they make simple mistakes.”

  “Like dropping the gun on the floor, covered in his prints, and running out of the house leaving the front door wide open?”

  “Yes, that doesn’t surprise me, given the circumstances.”

  “You spent several hours questioning Mr. Cartwright, Captain; does he strike you as the type of man who panics and then runs away?”

  “Objection, your honor,” said Ebden, rising from his place, “how can Detective Petrowski be expected to answer that question?”

  “Your honor, Detective Petrowski has been only too willing to give his opinion on the habits of amateur and professional criminals, so I can’t see why he wouldn’t feel comfortable answering my question.”

  “Overruled, counselor. Move on.”

  Fletcher bowed to the judge, stood up, walked over to the witness stand and came to a halt in front of the detective. “Were there any other fingerprints on the gun?”

  “Yes,” said Petrowski, not appearing to be fazed by Fletcher’s presence, “there were partials of Mr. Elliot’s prints, but they have been accounted for, remembering that he took the gun from his desk to protect himself.”

  “But his prints were on the gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you check to see if there was any powder residue under his fingernails?”

  “No,” said Petrowski.

  “And why not?” asked Fletcher.

  “Because you’d need very long arms to shoot yourself from a distance of four feet.” Laughter broke out in the court.

  Fletcher waited for silence before he said, “But he could well have fired the first bullet that ended up in the ceiling.”

  “It could have been the second bullet,” rebutted Petrowski.

  Fletcher turned away from the witness box and walked over to the jury. “When you took the statement from Mrs. Elliot, what was she wearing?”

  “A robe—as she explained, she had been asleep at the time when the first shot was fired.”

  “Ah yes, I remember,” said Fletcher before he walked back to the table. He picked up a single sheet of paper and read from it. “It was when Mrs. Elliot heard the second shot that she came out of the bedroom and ran to the top of the stairs.” Petrowski nodded.

  “Please answer the question, detective, yes or no?”

  “I don’t recall the question,” said Petrowski, sounding flustered.

  “It was when she heard the second shot that Mrs. Elliot came out of the bedroom and ran to the top of the stairs.”

  “Yes, that’s what she told us.”

  “And she stood there watching Mr. Cartwright as he ran out of the front door. Is that also correct?” Fletcher asked, turning around to look directly at Petrowski.

  “Yes it is,” said Petrowski, trying to remain calm.

  “Detective, you told the court that among the professionals you called in to assist you was a police photographer.”

  “Yes, that’s standard practice in a case like this, and all the photographs taken that night have been submitted as evidence.”

  “Indeed they have,” said Fletcher as he returned to the table and emptied a large package of photographs onto his table. He selected one, and walked back to the witness stand. “Is this one of those photographs?” he asked.

  Petrowski studied it carefully, and then looked at the stamp on the back. “Yes, it is.”

  “Would you describe it to the jury?”

  “It’s a picture of the Elliots’ front door, taken from their driveway.”

  “Why was this particular photograph submitted as evidence?”

  “Because it proved that the door had been left open when the murderer made good his escape. It also shows the long corridor leading through to Mr. Elliot’s study.”

  “Yes, of course it does, I should have worked that out for myself,” said Fletcher. He paused. “And the figure crouched in the corridor, is that Mrs. Elliot?”

  The detective took a second look, “Yes it is, she seemed calm at the time, so we decided not to disturb her.”

  “How considerate,” said Fletcher. “So let me ask you finally, detective, you told the district attorney that you did not call for an ambulance until your investigation had been completed?”

  “That is correct, paramedics sometimes turn up at the scene of a crime before the police have arrived, and they are notorious for disturbing evidence.”

  “Are they?” asked Fletcher. “But that didn’t happen on this occasion, because you were the first person to arrive following Mrs. Elliot’s call to the chief.”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Most commendable,” said Fletcher.” “Do you have any idea how long it took you to reach Mrs. Elliot’s home in West Hartford?”

  “Five, maybe six minutes.”

  “You must have had to break the speed limit to achieve that,” said Fletcher, with a smile.

  “I put my siren on, but as it was two in the morning, there was very little traffic.”

  “I’m grateful for that explanation,” said Fletcher. “No more questions, your honor.”

  “What was all that about?” muttered Nat when Fletcher had returned to his place.

  “Ah, I’m glad you didn’t work it out,” said Fletcher. “Now we must hope that the state’s attorney hasn’t either.”

  48

  “I call Rebecca Elliot to the stand.”

  When Rebecca entered the courtroom, every head turned except Nat’s. He remained staring resolutely ahead. She walked slowly down the center aisle, making the sort of entrance that an actress looks for in every script. The court had been packed from the moment the doors were opened at eight o’clock that morning. The front three rows of the public benches had been cordoned off, and only the presence of uniformed police officers kept them from being colonized.

  Fletcher had looked around when Don Culver, the chief of police, and Detective Petrowski had taken their seats in the front row, directly behind the state’s attorney’s table. At one minute to ten, only thirteen seats remained unoccupied.

  Nat glanced across at Fletcher, who had a little stack of yellow legal pads in front of him. He could see that the top sheet was blank and prayed that the other three unopened p
ads had something written on them. A court officer stepped forward to show Mrs. Elliot into the well of the court and guide her to the witness stand. Nat looked up at Rebecca for the first time. She was wearing her widow’s weeds—fashionable black tailored suit, buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that fell several inches below the knee. Her only jewelry other than her wedding and engagement ring was a simple string of pearls. Fletcher glanced at her left wrist and made the first note on his pad. As she took the stand, Rebecca turned to face the judge, and gave him a shy smile. He nodded courteously. She then haltingly took the oath. She finally sat down and, turning to face the jury, gave them the same shy smile. Fletcher noticed that several of them returned the compliment. Rebecca touched the side of her hair, and Fletcher knew where she must have spent most of the previous afternoon. The state’s attorney hadn’t missed a trick, and if he could have called for the jury to deliver their verdict before a question had been asked, he suspected that they would have happily sentenced him, as well as his client, to the electric chair.

  The judge nodded, and the state’s attorney rose from his place. Mr. Ebden had also joined in the charade. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, white shirt and a sober blue tie—the appropriate attire in which to question the Virgin Mother.

  “Mrs. Elliot,” he said quietly, as he stepped on into the well of the court. “Everyone in this courtroom is aware of the ordeal you have been put through, and are now going to have to painfully relive. Let me reassure you that it is my intention to take you through any questions I might have as painlessly as possible, in the hope that you will not have to remain in the witness stand any longer than is necessary.”

  “Especially as we have been able to rehearse every question again and again for the past five months,” murmured Fletcher. Nat tried not to smile.

  “Let me begin by asking you, Mrs. Elliot, how long were you married to your late husband?”

  “Tomorrow would have been our seventeenth wedding anniversary.”

  “And how did you plan to celebrate that occasion?”