Gone Ballistic (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “Like a what?”

  “Never mind. Sorry.”

  “Can’t I just whisper he’s coming?”

  “That will be fine.

  Carter Fox had a smaller office than I did, only about eight or ten feet square, most of the space taken up by a desk and two client chairs pushed against the wall. There was not even a desktop computer, though I thought he might carry a laptop around in that briefcase of his. I slid into the office chair and started opening drawers.

  There was surprisingly little there. I knew Carter was a lawyer; the law license hanging on his wall was testament to that, but there was no filing cabinet in the office and just a single unlabeled file in one of the desk drawers.

  “You don’t store files for him anywhere, do you?” I called as I took out the folder and laid it on the desk.

  Carly appeared in the doorway. “No. Can you keep it down? Not everyone’s gone home yet.”

  “Sorry.” I opened the folder, and my picture stared up at me. It was part of a newspaper article that had appeared during my last trial. I shifted it to one side and saw another article beneath it, also about me.

  Carly, who had caught sight of the photograph, leaned over the desk. “It’s like he’s stalking you.”

  “My number one fan,” I said.

  There were more articles, six in all, and there were more photographs printed out on copy paper. I had no idea when they were taken. In one I was standing in front of the courthouse. In another, I was wearing a blouse I had taken to Goodwill a couple of months ago. In the last one, I was sitting on the front stoop of my house with my chin in my hands, probably waiting for Deacon to do his business.

  “I think he’s fixated on you.”

  I shivered as a gaggle of geese paraded across my gravesite. I looked up blindly. “Aren’t you standing guard?” I said.

  “Oh, right.” She disappeared again into the hallway, pulling the door almost shut as she went.

  I gave myself a shake and went back to work. Carter had office supplies in his desk—pens, legal pads, paper clips, folders—but the legal pads were blank. There was no evidence of work in progress anywhere. What did he do when he was in his office, other than sit and look at pictures of me?

  I pulled the middle drawer out all the way and reached in for the small manila envelope at the back. It was only about the size of a credit card. I opened the flap and spilled two keys into my palm. One of them had the distinctive diamond-shaped bow of the office keys at the Ironfronts. The other looked a lot like my house key.

  The implications dizzied me. The day when I couldn’t find my keys had been the very day that Brooke and I met Carter Fox. Had I left my keys on my desk, and had Carter found a moment that morning when he could walk into my office and out again unseen? After that one act of daring, everything would have been easy—getting copies made of my office and house keys, returning everything to the kitchen on the far side of the coffee maker. I shook my head, thinking. I’d had my locks changed. There was no way to verify my suspicions or to discredit them. The main thing for now was not to alert Carter Fox and put him on his guard. I put the keys back in the envelope and pushed it to the back of the drawer.

  When I’d gotten my breathing under control, I stepped out and closed the office door behind me. Carly exhaled noisily. “Thank goodness,” she said. “I kept expecting him to turn into the hall at any minute. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “You need to learn how to hoot like a barn owl.”

  She gave me a look, and I smiled, though I still felt sick.

  “What did you find?” she asked me. “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the keys to my home and office.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Robin! That man is dangerous.”

  “I think he may be.”

  “What are you going to do?” She stepped closer. “I worry about you, you know. You don’t know how to be careful.”

  I put an arm around her and patted her back to comfort her. Somehow, it made me feel better, too.

  Chapter 12

  When I entered the courtroom the next morning, I was armed with a subpoena for Carter Fox, which I carried in one hand with my briefcase in the other. My plan was to serve the subpoena as I entered the courtroom, but Carter, who had been in the courtroom every day of the trial so far, wasn’t there. Brooke was, though, with a seat on the aisle. I leaned over her.

  “Have you seen Carter Fox this morning?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Watch for him, will you? And if you see him, give him this.” I handed her the subpoena. “My plan is to put him on the stand and tickle his tonsils a little.”

  She made a face. “You’re going to make out with Carter Fox in the courtroom?”

  I straightened. “You’ve got a one-track mind,” I said.

  There were nearly a dozen people in the gallery, among them Peyton Shilling, but no one was on the other side of the railing yet. I pushed through the bar and sat alone at the defense table. Maybe tickle his tonsils wasn’t the best metaphor for a grueling examination. Though I’d majored in English in college, none of my professors had ever mistaken me for a poet.

  James Jordan and Ray Hernandez came in and sat on the first row of the gallery, directly behind me. I gave them a sharp look, but Hernandez only gave me a finger wave.

  I leaned over the bar. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your case.”

  “We’re here to arrest you,” Jordan said, “unless you can pull off another one of your Houdini tricks.”

  “Arrest me in the middle of the preliminary? You’re kidding.”

  “We’ll wait until it’s over. Our instructions are to arrest you and charge you as an accessory after the fact just as soon as the judge binds the defendant over for trial.”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “We’re cops,” Hernandez said. “Nobody expects us to be nice.”

  “Well you could look more broken up about it. And you’re likely to be here all day, you know.”

  “Aubrey doesn’t think so.”

  Speak of the devil. I turned away from them as Aubrey Biggs came in and thumped his briefcase down on the other table. He gave me a curt nod. “Ms. Starling.”

  “Mr. Biggs.” I always felt like I was talking to a cartoon character when I called him that, but I needed to take him seriously. I looked back over the gallery, past Jordan and Hernandez, but Carter Fox still wasn’t there. Brooke had moved over a seat, though, leaving an empty one on the aisle—an invitation for Carter Fox to sit beside her if ever there was one. I gave her a nod of approval.

  As soon as Willow Woodruff had been ushered in, the bailiff called the court into session with his “Oyez, oyez,” and Judge Cheatham came in and took a seat. We all sat after him.

  “We’re here in the case of Commonwealth versus Woodruff. Mr. Biggs, call your next witness.”

  “The prosecution rests, your honor.”

  It was a surprise, but perhaps it shouldn’t have been. All Biggs had to show was that a crime had been committed—not a big stretch when a man’s found lying on his bed with his brains blown out—and that there was probable cause to believe the defendant committed it. The standard of proof is much lower than at trial, where the prosecutor has to prove each element of the crime beyond a reasonable doubt. If Biggs hadn’t been after me as much as he was Willow Woodruff, he’d have probably rested before now.

  The judge looked at me. “Will there be a defense?”

  The smart answer here is usually no. Why give the prosecution a chance to test your case before you are playing for real stakes before a jury? I glanced back into the gallery. Still no Carter Fox, just Peyton Shilling, meeting my gaze defiantly. If I wanted to question her under oath, this was my chance.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “You really have exculpatory evidence that you think has a chance of clearing your client?”

  “Maybe.”

  The judge looked resigned. �
�Very well. Go ahead with your opening statement.”

  “I’d rather begin with my first witness.”

  He cut his eyes toward the ceiling and waved a hand.

  Once again I looked out over the gallery. Was Carter Fox just busy on other matters, or had he somehow become aware that I was onto him? I didn’t see how he could have, but there might be some bizarre combination of coincidences that accounted for it.

  “Ms. Starling?”

  “Call Peyton Shilling,” I said.

  Peyton came forward. Yesterday she’d looked like a schoolgirl. Today she looked like fashion model. Her unbound hair flowed past her shoulders, and she was wearing a simple shift dress with three-quarter sleeves. The light brown fabric with its slightly darker geometric pattern brought out her dark eyes and the honey tones in her skin. I wondered if the change in appearance represented a change in tactics on her part.

  She was sworn in and took her seat in the witness box, giving her skirt a pointless tug in the direction of her knees. Judge Cheatham, I noted, seemed to be taking full advantage of his elevated vantage point.

  Biggs was on his feet behind his table. “Your honor, I object to the calling of this witness. Counsel’s calling her is an abuse of process, and at the conclusion of her testimony I will be asking this court to impose sanctions.”

  “Ms. Starling?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Pardon?”

  I heaved a big sigh. “Your honor, what Mr. Biggs really objects to is a vigorous defense and my zealous representation of my client. He has two police officers sitting immediately behind me to let me know I’m going to be arrested at the conclusion of this hearing. He has threatened me with prosecution, and now he is threatening me with sanctions. He’s a big bully who lacks any confidence in the strength of his case against Willow Woodruff. All he has are scare tactics and intimidation, tools that are available to him only because of his office and his willingness to abuse it.”

  I glanced at Biggs and was pleased to see his face reddening.

  He said, “Your honor, those statements are defamatory, and I demand that Ms. Starling retract them.”

  The one thing I wasn’t worried about was a suit for defamation. Statements made in judicial proceedings are protected by an absolute privilege, a privilege Mr. Biggs himself had been taking advantage of.

  “Is the defendant entitled to call witnesses in her defense, or isn’t she?” I asked.

  “She is. Of course she is.” The judge looked down into the lap of this particular witness, nodding his head judiciously.

  “This witness has nothing to say helpful for the defense,” Biggs said.

  “I believe she does, though Mr. Biggs may be in a better position to know than I am. She certainly seems to have given him the curtesy of an interview as well as a good look at her long, silky legs.”

  Judge Cheatham jerked his gaze away from what might have been his view of those very legs.

  Biggs said, “Perhaps the witness objects to your pointless snooping into the private details of her personal life.”

  “Perhaps she does.”

  He took a breath. “So you agree not to call her?”

  “No. Perhaps I don’t give a damn. I’ve called Peyton Shilling, and I intend to question her.”

  To the judge Biggs said, “And I intend to object to every question that is not strictly relevant to this case.” To me: “We’ll see how far you get.”

  Cheatham rapped his gavel. “That’s enough, Mr. Biggs. You can make your objections at the appropriate time.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” I said. “Ms. Shilling. Could you tell us your full name, please?”

  It was Peyton Quincy Shilling. I got her address into the record, and her occupation as a yoga instructor. So far, no objections.

  “Are you also a student at J Sargent Reynolds?” Still no objection.

  “Yes. I take a course or two every semester.”

  “Is that where you met Christopher Woodruff?”

  “Objection,” Biggs said.

  “Overruled.”

  With the judge’s quick ruling, I bit back my own response. “Answer the question,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s where I met him.”

  “He was a professor in one of the classes you were taking?”

  “Objection. Relevance.”

  “Overruled.”

  Biggs face was turning red again, and I smiled—but only on the inside.

  “I had him for microeconomics,” Peyton said.

  “Was fall of last year the first semester you’d had him?”

  “No, I had him for personal finance the semester before that.”

  “What was your relationship with Chris Woodruff, other than student-teacher?”

  “I really must object,” Biggs said. “This can have no purpose but to smear the reputation of this young woman.”

  “Ms. Starling?”

  “Any innuendo is coming from the prosecutor, your honor—though really, if she didn’t have any kind of relationship with the decedent or the defendant, there would be no point in my calling her.”

  “My point exactly,” Biggs said.

  “But you did have a relationship with Chris Woodruff, didn’t you, Ms. Shilling?”

  “We were friends.”

  “Don’t answer her questions!” Biggs said. “Don’t answer until the judge has a chance to rule on my objections.”

  “Friends with benefits?” I said.

  “You see, your honor? There it is. That’s what I was talking about.”

  Judge Cheatham said, “Just where are you going with this, Ms. Starling? Are you proposing a motive for this witness?”

  “I am. I believe I can establish that Chris Woodruff left his wife and moved in with this witness,” I said. “That he purchased two identical handguns and gave the one registered in his wife’s name to Ms. Shilling for her protection.” Biggs was shouting, and I had to raise my voice to be heard over his shrill objections. “That Ms. Shilling was bitter when he left her and moved back in. . .”

  I had to give up. Biggs was shouting and waving his arms and all but dancing behind his table. “Objection! There is no basis for any of these remarks. They are defamatory and inflammatory and highly prejudicial, and I most strenuously object. I—”

  “The judge asked me what I hoped to prove,” I shouted back at him. “I was telling him.”

  “You might hope to prove that Istanbul is the capital of France! That doesn’t mean you have any basis for such a statement.”

  The judge banged his gavel.

  “We might see what kind of basis there was if the witness were allowed to answer questions,” I said.

  “Ms. Starling!” Judge Cheatham whacked his gavel on the bench again.

  “I’m sorry, your honor.”

  He turned to Peyton Shilling. “Did Christopher Woodruff ever give you a handgun?” he asked.

  “He certainly did not.” She said it with conviction. If she was a liar, she was a good liar.

  “You’re aware you’re under oath, that any falsehoods would make you liable to prosecution for perjury?” the judge said.

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “In light of that answer, I’m not going to allow any more questions about this witness’s relationship with the decedent. Not until something more has been laid by way of foundation.”

  It was a blow. “Very well, your honor.”

  “Do you have any more questions of this witness?”

  “A few. Ms. Shilling. . .”

  She looked at me in wide-eyed innocence.

  “What is your relationship with a lawyer named Carter Fox?”

  She flinched, and I saw it. The clamor that sprang up at once from the prosecution’s table, whatever the judge was saying, all of it faded to background noise.

  Her eyes had widened, and her mouth was pursed as if she were saying, “Who?” beneath the hubbub.

  “With Carter Fox,” I said, more loudly. “The lawyer
who sold Chris Woodruff one-and-a-half shares in a limited partnership called South of Main for a grand total of sixty thousand dollars.”

  “What makes you think I. . .”

  Biggs was saying something, so I increased my volume another notch to override him. “You also have an interest in that partnership, don’t you? Now what is your connection to Carter Fox?”

  “He’s my brother.” It was almost a whisper. I glanced at the court reporter to make sure he’d caught it.

  “He’s your brother,” I repeated.

  “My half-brother.”

  Biggs, at last, fell silent. The entire courtroom seemed to ring with silence.

  “Is Carter Fox the sole owner of CF Development, Incorporated, or do you also have an interest?”

  She hesitated, her mouth open, but no sound coming out.

  I said, “It’s a matter of public record, you know.”

  “I have a share. That’s all. Just the one share.”

  “CF Development is the general partner in South of Main Limited?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “And what does South of Main do?”

  “Pardon?”

  “South of Main buys and sells real estate, and it manages rental properties, doesn’t it?”

  She looked past me into the gallery, and I turned to follow her gaze. If she was looking for Carter Fox, he wasn’t there.

  Biggs stood up. “Your honor, the relevance of all this is not clear to me, and in any case counsel is leading the witness.”

  “Rephrase your question,” Judge Cheatham told me.

  “I’ll leave that question and go to the next one, your honor.” To Peyton I said, “How did you talk Chris Woodruff into investing in South of Main? Did you and he buy that first share together?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Out loud, Ms. Shilling. Did you buy a share together?”

  “Yes.”

  “His half of the share cost twenty thousand dollars. How much did yours cost? How much will your bank records showed you paid for your half?”

  She shook her head.

  “You didn’t pay anything, did you? Your contribution was finding Chris Woodruff and reeling him in.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I thought it was a good investment, so I told Chris about it. Mr. Woodruff.”