Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “We were going to stay at the Salisbury Inn, where we had spent the first night of our honeymoon, because I knew Ralph couldn’t spare more than a few hours off from his campaign.”

  “Typical of Mr. Elliot’s commitment and conscientious approach to public service,” said the state’s attorney as he walked out into the well of the court and across to the jury. “I must, Mrs. Elliot, ask you to bear with me while I return to the night of your husband’s tragic and untimely death.” Rebecca bowed her head slightly. “You didn’t attend the debate that Mr. Elliot took part in earlier that evening: Was there any particular reason for that?”

  “Yes,” said Rebecca, facing the jury, “Ralph liked me to stay at home and watch him whenever he was on television, where I could make detailed notes that we would discuss later. He felt that if I was part of the studio audience, I might be influenced by those sitting around me, especially once they realized that I was the candidate’s wife.”

  “That makes a great deal of sense,” said Ebden. Fletcher penned a second note on the pad in front of him.

  “Was there anything in particular you recall about that evening’s broadcast?”

  “Yes,” said Rebecca. She paused and bowed her head. “I felt sick when Mr. Cartwright threatened my husband with the words ‘I will still kill you.’” She slowly raised her head and looked at the jury, as Fletcher made a further note.

  “And once the debate was over your husband returned home to West Hartford?”

  “Yes, I had prepared a light supper for him which we had in the kitchen, because he sometimes forgets.” She paused again. “I’m so sorry, forgot, to take a break from his arduous schedule to eat.”

  “Do you recall anything in particular about that supper?”

  “Yes, I went over my notes with him, as I felt strongly about some of the issues that had been raised during the debate.” Fletcher turned the page and made another note. “In fact, it was over supper that I learned Mr. Cartwright had accused him of setting up the last question.”

  “How did you react to such a suggestion?”

  “I was appalled that anyone could think Ralph might have been involved in such underhanded tactics. However I remained convinced that the public would not be taken in by Mr. Cartwright’s false accusations, and that his petulant outburst would only increase my husband’s chances of winning the election the following day.”

  “And after supper did you both go to bed?”

  “No, Ralph always found it difficult to sleep after appearing on television.” She turned to face the jury again. “He told me that the adrenalin would go on pumping for several hours, and in any case, he wanted to put some finishing touches to his acceptance speech, so I went to bed while he settled down to work in his study.” Fletcher added a further note to his script.

  “And what time was that?”

  “Just before midnight.”

  “And after you had fallen asleep, what was the next thing you remember?”

  “Being woken by a shot, and not being certain if it was real or just part of a dream. I turned on the light and checked the time by the clock on my bedside table. It was just after two o’clock, and I remember being surprised that Ralph still hadn’t come to bed. Then I thought I heard voices, so I walked over to the door and opened it slightly. That was when I first heard someone shouting at Ralph. I was horrified when I realized it was Nat Cartwright. He was screaming at the top of his voice, and once again threatening to kill my husband. I crept out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs and that was when I heard the second shot. A moment later Mr. Cartwright came running out of the study, continued on down the corridor, opened the front door and disappeared into the night.”

  “Did you chase after him?”

  “No, I was terrified.”

  Fletcher scribbled yet another note as Rebecca continued. “I ran downstairs, and straight into Ralph’s study, fearing the worst. The first thing I saw was my husband on the far side of the room slumped in the corner, blood trickling from his mouth, so I immediately picked up the phone on his desk and called Chief Culver at home.”

  Fletcher turned yet another page and continued writing furiously. “I’m afraid I woke him, but the chief said he would come over as quickly as possible and that I was to touch nothing.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I suddenly felt cold and sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor. The next thing I remember was a police siren in the distance and a few moments later someone came running through the front door. The policeman knelt down by my side and introduced himself as Detective Petrowski. One of his officers made me a cup of coffee and then he asked me to describe what had happened. I told him all I could remember, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very coherent. I recall pointing to Ralph’s study.”

  “Can you remember what happened next?”

  “Yes, a few minutes later I heard another siren, and then the chief walked in. Mr. Culver spent a long time with Detective Petrowski in my husband’s study, and then returned and asked me to go over my story once again. He didn’t stay for very long after that, but I did see him in deep conversation with the detective before he left. It wasn’t until the following morning that I discovered that Mr. Cartwright had been arrested and charged with the murder of my husband.” Rebecca burst into tears.

  “Right on cue,” said Fletcher as the chief prosecutor removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it over to Mrs. Elliot. “I wonder how long they took rehearsing that?” he added as he turned his attention to the jury and noticed that a woman in the second row was also quietly crying.

  “I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, Mrs. Elliot.” Ebden paused. “Perhaps you would like me to ask the court for an adjournment so you have a little time to compose yourself?”

  Fletcher would have objected, but he already knew what her answer would be, because they were so obviously sticking to a well-worn script.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” said Rebecca, “and in any case I’d rather get it over with.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Elliot,” Ebden looked up toward the judge, “I have no more questions for this witness, your honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ebden,” said the judge. “Your witness, Mr. Davenport.”

  “Thank you, your honor.” Fletcher removed a stopwatch from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He then slowly rose from his place. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom boring into the back of his head. How could he even consider questioning this helpless, saintly woman? He walked over to the stand and didn’t speak for some time. “I will try not to detain you for longer than is necessary, Mrs. Elliot, remembering the ordeal you have already been put through.” Fletcher spoke softly. “But I must ask you one or two questions, as it is my client who is facing the death penalty, based almost solely on your testimony.”

  “Yes, of course,” Rebecca replied, trying to sound brave as she wiped away the last tear.

  “You told the court, Mrs. Elliot, that you had a very fulfilling relationship with your husband.”

  “Yes, we were devoted to each other.”

  “Were you?” Fletcher paused again. “And the only reason you did not attend the television debate that evening was because Mr. Elliot had asked you to remain at home and make some notes on his performance, so that you could discuss them later that evening?”

  “Yes, that is correct,” she said.

  “I can appreciate that,” said Fletcher, “but I’m puzzled as to why you did not accompany your husband to a single public function during the previous month?” He paused. “Night or day.”

  “I did, I feel sure I did,” she said. “But in any case you must remember that my main task was to run the home, and make life as easy as possible for Ralph, after the long hours he spent on the road campaigning.”

  “Did you keep those notes?”

  She hesitated, “No, once I’d
gone over them with him, I gave them to Ralph.”

  “And on this particular occasion you told the court that you felt very strongly about certain issues?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “May I ask which issues in particular, Mrs. Elliot?”

  Rebecca hesitated again. “I can’t remember exactly.” She paused. “It was several months ago.”

  “But it was the only public function you took an interest in during his entire campaign, Mrs. Elliot, so one would have thought you might just have remembered one or two of the issues you felt so strongly about. After all, your husband was running for governor and you, so to speak, for first lady.”

  “Yes, no, yes—health care, I think.”

  “Then you’ll have to think again, Mrs. Elliot,” said Fletcher as he returned to the table and picked up one of his yellow notepads. “I also watched that debate with more than a passing interest, and was somewhat surprised that the subject of health care was not raised. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your last answer, as I did keep detailed notes on every issue that was debated that night.”

  “Objection, your honor. Defense counsel is not here to act as a witness.”

  “Sustained. Keep to your brief, counselor.”

  “But there was one thing you felt strongly about, wasn’t there, Mrs. Elliot?” continued Fletcher. “The vicious attack on your husband when Mr. Cartwright said on television, ‘I will still kill you.’”

  “Yes, that was a terrible thing to say with the whole world watching.”

  “But the whole world wasn’t watching, Mrs. Elliot, otherwise I would have seen it. It wasn’t said until after the program had ended.”

  “Then my husband must have told me about it over supper.”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Elliot. I suspect that you didn’t even see that program, just as you never attended any of his meetings.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell the jury the location of any meeting you attended during your husband’s lengthy campaign, Mrs. Elliot?”

  “How could I be expected to remember every one of them, when Ralph’s campaign started over a year ago?”

  “I’ll settle for just one,” said Fletcher, turning to face the jury.

  Rebecca started crying again, but on this occasion the timing was not quite as effective, and there was no one on hand to offer her a handkerchief.

  “Now let us consider those words, ‘I will still kill you,’ spoken off air the evening before an election.” Fletcher remained facing the jury. “Mr. Cartwright didn’t say ‘I will kill you,’ which would have indeed been damning; what he actually said was ‘I will still kill you,’ and everyone present assumed he was referring to the election that was taking place the following day.”

  “He killed my husband,” shouted Mrs. Elliot, her voice rising for the first time.

  “There are still a few more questions that need to be answered before I come to who killed your husband, Mrs. Elliot. But first allow me to return to the events of that evening. Having watched a television program you can’t remember, and had supper with your husband to discuss in detail issues that you don’t recall, you went to bed while your husband returned to his study to work on his acceptance speech.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what happened,” said Rebecca, staring defiantly at Fletcher.

  “But as he was significantly behind in the opinion polls, why waste time working on an acceptance speech he could never need hope to deliver?”

  “He was still convinced he would win, especially following Mr. Cartwright’s outburst and…”

  “And?” repeated Fletcher, but Rebecca remained silent. “Then perhaps you both knew something the rest of us didn’t,” said Fletcher, “but I’ll come to that in a moment. You say you went to bed around midnight?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Rebecca, sounding even more defiant.

  “And when you were woken by a gunshot, you checked the time by looking at the clock on your side of the bed?”

  “Yes, it was just after two.”

  “So you don’t wear a wristwatch in bed?”

  “No, I lock away all my jewelry in a little safe Ralph had installed in the bedroom. There have been so many burglaries in the area recently.”

  “How wise of him. And you still think it was the first shot that woke you?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was.”

  “How long was it between the first and second shot, Mrs. Elliot?” Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. “Do take your time, Mrs. Elliot, because I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake that, like so much of your evidence, needs correcting later.”

  “Objection, your honor, my client is not…”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Ebden, sustained. That last comment will be struck from the record,” and turning to Fletcher, the judge repeated, “stick to your brief, Mr. Davenport.”

  “I will try to, your honor,” said Fletcher, but his eyes never left the jury to make sure it wasn’t struck from their minds. “Have you had enough time to consider your reply, Mrs. Elliot?” He waited once again before repeating, “How long was it between the first and second shots?”

  “Three, possibly four minutes,” she said.

  Fletcher smiled at the chief prosecutor, walked back to his table and picked up the stopwatch, which he placed in his pocket. “When you heard the first shot, Mrs. Elliot, why didn’t you phone the police immediately, why wait for three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?”

  “Because to begin with I wasn’t absolutely sure that I had heard it. Don’t forget, I’d been asleep for some time.”

  “But you opened your bedroom door and were horrified to hear Mr. Cartwright shouting at your husband and threatening to kill him, so you must have believed that Ralph was in some considerable danger, so why not lock your door, and immediately phone the police from the bedroom?” Rebecca looked across at Richard Ebden. “No, Mrs. Elliot, Mr. Ebden can’t help you this time, because he didn’t anticipate the question, which, to be fair,” said Fletcher, “wasn’t entirely his fault, because you’ve only told him half the story.”

  “Objection,” said Ebden, jumping to his feet.

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “Mr. Davenport, stick to questioning Mrs. Elliot, not giving opinions. This is a court of law, not the Senate Chamber.”

  “I apologize, your honor, but on this occasion I do know the answer. You see the reason Mrs. Elliot didn’t call the police was because she feared that it was her husband who had fired the first shot.”

  “Objection,” shouted Ebden, leaping to his feet as several members of the public began talking at once. It was some time before the judge could gavel the court back to order.

  “No, no,” said Rebecca, “from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d fired the first shot.”

  “Then I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?” Fletcher repeated, turning back to face her. “Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?”

  “It all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.”

  “What is your favorite work of fiction, Mrs. Elliot?” asked Fletcher quietly.

  “Objection, your honor. How can this possibly be relevant?”

  “Overruled. I have a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr. Ebden.”

  “You are indeed, your honor,” said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness. “Mrs. Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply want you to tell the court your favorite work of fiction.”

  “I’m not sure I have a particular one,” she replied, “but my favorite author is Hemingway.”

  “Mine too,” said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face the judge, he asked, “Your honor, may I have your permission to briefly leave the courtroom?”

  “For what purpose, Mr. Davenport?”

  “To prove that my client did not fire the first shot.”

  The judge nodded. “Briefly, Mr. Davenp
ort.”

  Fletcher then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door. “Your honor,” said Ebden, jumping up from his place, “I must object. Mr. Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.”

  “If that turns out to be the case, Mr. Ebden, I shall severely censure Mr. Davenport the moment he returns.”

  “But, your honor, is this kind of behavior fair to my client?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Ebden. As Mr. Davenport reminded the court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your principal witness.”

  The chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public entrance.

  Richard Ebden rose again, at which point the judge called for order. “You honor, I move that Mrs. Elliot be released from further questioning on the grounds that the defense counsel is no longer able to carry out his cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.”

  “I shall approve your request, Mr. Ebden,” the state’s attorney looked delighted, “should Mr. Davenport fail to return in under four minutes.” He smiled down at Mr. Ebden, assuming they had both worked out the significance of his judgment.

  “Your honor, I must…” continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs. Elliot, before turning to the judge.

  “Your honor, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?” he said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.

  Judge Kravats pressed the stopper and, looking down at the stopwatch, said, “Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.”

  Fletcher turned his attention back to the defense witness. “Mrs. Elliot, I had enough time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card, and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you were fearful of what he might have done.”