Juggling Evidence (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “No, your honor,” Jordan said.

  “Then I object to the question,” I said. “It calls for hearsay.”

  “Sustained.”

  Biggs said, “One final point, Officer Jordan. I understand the decedent was clutching something in his hand when the body was found. Could you tell us what that was?”

  “It was a Motorola cell phone.”

  “Do you know to whom it belonged?”

  “It’s registered to the AT&T account of Steven Bruno,” Jordan said.

  Jordan was still on the stand when the court recessed for lunch. “I have a couple of minor items to clear up right after lunch,” the judge told us. “Let’s reconvene at two o’clock.”

  I drove back to the office, stopping off in the lobby to buy a yogurt-granola shake. I knew many lawyers who could barely eat when they were in trial, but it’s never affected me that way. I was ravenous and would have welcomed a half-pound cheeseburger and a mound of fries. I went with the shake only because it was more portable nutrition.

  I got off the elevator on my floor. “Hello, Jennifer.”

  “Hi, Robin.” She followed the greeting by mouthing something I couldn’t make out. I moved closer.

  “He’s looking for you,” she said softly. “I’ll send him back.”

  I sighed, then nodded. “Thanks for the heads up,” I said.

  In my office I took a seat behind my desk and spooned yogurt into my mouth. I resisted the urge to put my feet on my desk. I was, after all, wearing a dress, and my boss was on his way. Both feet were demurely on the floor when Larsen stopped in the doorway.

  “Robin,” he said, as if he were surprised to see me. He glanced over his shoulder as he entered and shut the door, which seemed like a bad sign. Since two walls of my office were made of transparent glass, it seemed pointless as well.

  Larsen sat and cleared his throat. “I understand you’ve been in trial this morning,” he said. “The Nolan murder.”

  “I thought I had to at least see them through the preliminary hearing, since they wouldn’t agree to a substitution. It will take the judge’s approval to get out.”

  He nodded, but said, “Did you try to get it?”

  “Well. No. Not yet.”

  He continued to nod, his lips pursed. Finally he said, “I received a call from Aubrey Biggs this morning.”

  That surprised me. “You did?”

  “He wanted to let me know that he’d be filing disciplinary charges against one of my lawyers. He says you tampered with evidence at a crime scene and have been hiding a witness.”

  “It isn’t true,” I said.

  “Why does he think it is?”

  “Because he doesn’t like the way the evidence is developing. He’s told himself this fantasy that makes it all somebody else’s fault.”

  Larsen just looked at me.

  “Pete, he’s a pompous little jerk. I don’t know why he thinks what he thinks, but I can straighten it all out when the time comes. Trust me.”

  “Why don’t you call him and straighten it out now?”

  “Because we’re in the middle of a trial. I can’t draw him a diagram right now without torpedoing my clients’ case.”

  “Then maybe they don’t have much of a case.”

  “Maybe not. Unlike Mr. Biggs, I’m dealing with the facts as they’re given me.”

  “You know, Robin…” He trailed off, looking away.

  “Yes?”

  He sighed and turned his gaze back toward me. “You’re due to come up for partner at the end of this calendar year, but I don’t think it’s a vote that’s going to go in your favor. Ours is primarily a corporate practice, and your career seems to be developing in another direction.”

  “It’s one trial, Pete.”

  He looked at me.

  “Okay, it’s my second criminal trial. Out of sixteen. Two trials don’t make a career direction.”

  “They may be enough to derail a career—as my call from the district attorney indicates.”

  “It’s a phone call, and Aubrey Biggs is a gasbag. He doesn’t have to prove anything to make a phone call.”

  “And he can’t prove his assertions?”

  “He cannot.”

  Larsen made a face, nodding again. He stood up. “I wanted to give you as much notice as I could,” he said. “You’ve got till the end of January, nearly three months, to find another position. I’ll make phone calls for you and write you a very positive letter of recommendation. Let me know what you need.”

  I stood, too.

  He continued, “You’re good with clients. You’ve had some real success in the courtroom. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  He turned and left without saying anything else. I watched him go. No response came to me until the door had closed behind him. I dropped back into my chair.

  “Son of a bitch,” I said.

  I called Brooke on my cell phone as I took the elevator in the parking garage up to my car. “Is there still a police car in front of our house?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “They think you’re Melissa Butler,” I said.

  “What?”

  “They’re confusing you with Melissa Butler. That may be why we had the break-in the other night. Mark Walker—and whoever was with him—also thought Melissa was staying with me.”

  “But why—”

  “Because Melissa saw the killer leaving that downstairs apartment.”

  “So it was Mark Walker.”

  “Or the other one. Little Feet.” I beeped open my car and climbed into it.

  “We need to find Melissa,” Brooke said. “Without her, you’re never going to prove the person she saw wasn’t Steve Bruno.”

  “It’s not up to the defense to prove anything, but I get your point. If we can’t find Melissa, it’s going to be hard to fight the implication that I spirited her away because she could identify Bruno. I’ve been thinking, though. Maybe we can get the police to find her for us.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Have you been outside today?”

  “I got the paper.”

  “The mail?” I asked, doglegging west on Main to a through-street that would take me north to the courthouse.

  “Not yet.”

  “Melissa has a darker complexion than you do because of her freckles. And her hair’s not as full. Why don’t you put on some makeup, the darkest you can find, overdo the mascara to change your appearance a little, and use some of that leave-in conditioner that smoothes your hair and takes some of the body out.”

  “You mean the frizz out.”

  “Then go out and get the mail,” I said.

  “That’s it? All that makeup just to get the mail?”

  “I want the cops to get a look at you when you’re not looking quite yourself.”

  “How does that help you? It makes it look like you’ve been hiding Melissa.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “But that’s okay, because we can prove you’re you any time we need to.”

  She was silent. “All right,” she said finally. “I don’t see the point, but I’ll do it.”

  Chapter 25

  When I got back to the courtroom, Aubrey Biggs was already at his table, going through some papers and making notes on a legal pad. I stopped just outside the rail and stood looking at him. He had the right, even the obligation, to file disciplinary charges against me if he thought I was violating the rules of professional responsibility. I didn’t see that he had any reason to call my boss to try to get me fired, though.

  He looked up. “Good afternoon, Ms. Starling.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything. He went back to his papers. After a moment I went to my table to arrange my folders and pens and legal pads.

  Five minutes before court was to reconvene, a deputy sheriff brought in my clients. Bruno nodded at me, but neither he nor Lynn said anything. Then the bailiff came in with the witnesses, who talked in low voices, rustled clothing, and creaked cha
irs. At last there was enough noise in the courtroom to drown out the scratch of Aubrey Biggs’s pen and the flap of his page turning.

  The bailiff called the court to order, and the judge came in. He sat, motioned for us to sit with a wave of his hand, and told Biggs to proceed.

  Biggs stood. “With the indulgence of the court, we would like to withdraw Detective Jordan temporarily for another witness. We need to lay the foundation for the rest of his testimony.”

  Cochran looked at me. “Do you want to cross-examine on the testimony we’ve had so far, or do you want to wait until the prosecution has finished with Officer Jordan?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Call Sergeant Robert Garry,” Biggs said, standing.

  Robert Garry was a police officer who had aided in the search of the Nolan residence the night of the murder. After running through the preliminaries, Biggs asked him if he been involved in the search of the Nolans’ bedroom.

  “Yes, sir. I searched the closet while others were searching the rest of the room.”

  “Did you find anything of significance?”

  “A pistol in a shoebox.”

  “A pistol in a shoebox?” Biggs repeated. At that moment a woman came through the courtroom door carrying a shoebox. She met Biggs at the rail and handed him the shoebox, acknowledging his thanks with a quick, nervous smile before turning and going back down the aisle to the door. Biggs carried the shoebox to the witness and handed it to him.

  “Is this the shoebox?” Biggs asked.

  Garry turned it over in his hands. “This is the one. I recognize it, and I placed a small mark on it here.” He pointed.

  Biggs extracted a pistol from another box beside his table. He took that to the witness, handed it to him, and gave him the opportunity to turn it over in his hands. “Is this the pistol you found in that shoebox?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you describe it?”

  “It’s a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver, the model they call a LadySmith. It’s a small-frame revolver that holds 5 rounds.”

  “Thank you, Officer.” He looked at the judge. “I move that this revolver be admitted into evidence as State’s Exhibit 11.”

  “No objection,” I said.

  “It will be admitted.”

  After it had been marked, Biggs asked the witness, “What did you do with this gun after you found it?”

  “I turned it over to Sergeant Jordan.”

  “I’m finished with this witness, your honor.”

  Looking at me, Judge Cochran said, “Cross-examine.”

  “No questions.”

  “Recall Detective Jordan to the stand,” Biggs said.

  Jordan came forward again, this time carrying a manila envelope, and was reminded that he had already been sworn.

  “I understand,” he said.

  Biggs, standing at the podium, said, “Dr. Birdsong testified to giving you a bullet that he extracted from the skull of Derek Nolan. Did you examine that bullet?”

  “Yes. It was a 130 grain bullet, slightly flattened on one side.”

  “Did you perform any tests in an attempt to determine the gun from which it had been fired?”

  “We did.”

  “We’ve had evidence concerning two guns in this case, the pistol registered to Derek Nolan and this Smith & Wesson. Was either of these the murder weapon?”

  “Yes. The murder weapon was the Ladysmith revolver that’s been admitted as Exhibit 11.”

  Biggs looked at me. “Your witness.”

  I stood, then paused to think for a moment before I went to the podium. Jordan was still holding the manila envelope he had brought with him to the witness stand. Though I didn’t know positively what he had in it, I suspected what he had was a picture taken through a comparison microscope, a picture that showed the image of the fatal bullet overlaying one of a test bullet fired through the Ladysmith revolver. Jordan had given his conclusion, and Biggs was leaving it to me to bring out the facts that supported that conclusion.

  I looked at Biggs, who smiled at me urbanely. I sighed. “Detective Jordan,” I said. “Is your last answer based on comparison of the fatal bullet to a test bullet in a comparison microscope?”

  “It is.”

  “The fatal bullet was undamaged?”

  “As I said, it was flattened on one side, but two-thirds of the perimeter was intact.”

  “You found not just characteristics of the Ladysmith make and model, but individual markings made by this particular gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to trace the Ladysmith? Who bought it?”

  Jordan opened the envelope and extracted a legal pad containing handwritten notes. I didn’t see the expected photograph. He consulted the notes and said, “Most recently, Albert Landwer of Norfolk, Virginia. He bought the gun from a pawn shop some five years ago.”

  I waited. “Did you talk to Mr. Landwer?” I asked finally.

  “Mr. Landwer died three years ago at the age of seventy-two. The gun seems to have been sold in the estate sale.”

  “To whom?”

  “We don’t know. His daughters conducted the sale and kept no record of it.”

  “So you haven’t been able to trace the gun to either defendant.”

  “We found it in Ms. Nolan’s shoebox.”

  “But you don’t know who put it there.”

  “No, though it was in her closet in her bedroom in her house.”

  “Suggesting that it was probably someone with access to the house.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you found no fingerprints on the gun.”

  “No, no fingerprints at all.”

  “Or on the shoebox.”

  “No.”

  “Did you try to develop them? Did you try ninhydrin?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you tell us which pair of Lynn’s shoes came in the shoebox?”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s a Kenneth Cole shoebox. Does Lynn Nolan own a pair of Kenneth Cole shoes?”

  Jordan hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  I went forward to look more closely at the shoebox. “Does Lynn Nolan wear a size nine?” I asked Jordan.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you can’t say for sure that it was Lynn’s shoebox.”

  “It was in her closet…”

  “…in her bedroom, in her house. Yes, I know. But whoever put the gun there might have carried it into the house in the shoebox. As far as you know.”

  “I guess that’s right.”

  I looked at Biggs again. He was scratching at his legal pad, and he didn’t look up. No doubt he was expecting me to spend the rest of the afternoon on my cross-examination. I didn’t want to. Nothing I could elicit from Jordan would help me in the preliminary hearing. On the other hand, it was an opportunity to get details that might prove helpful in the main trial.

  I took a breath, released it, and set to work.

  Chapter 26

  When I got home, Brooke was eating a salad and drinking a glass of white wine. The bottle was on the table. I poured myself a glass and sat at the table with her, for the moment too tired to bother about pulling something together to eat, even if it was just a matter of dropping a couple handfuls of mixed greens on a plate and pouring a little vinaigrette on them.

  “You look tired,” Brooke said.

  “Looks don’t deceive.”

  “Trial not going well,” she said.

  “Maybe as well as could be expected in a preliminary hearing. Aubrey Biggs has done a good job of hanging the murder on Lynn Nolan. My guess is tomorrow he’ll start to work on Steve Bruno.”

  “Aubrey Biggs. Isn’t he the D.A.?”

  I nodded.

  “The big kahuna himself?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “His office must be pretty scared of you, if he feels like he needs to handle a preliminary hearing personally.”

  “Yeah.” I swir
led the wine in my glass, frowning at it thoughtfully. “I’m afraid it’s more likely he’s got another agenda. Evidently, after Melissa Butler made off with my car, she was picked up at the bus station by somebody who could have been me. Later, she went to her apartment with somebody who was me.”

  Brooke looked startled. “When…”

  “When we went to Melissa’s apartment, the police had it staked out, apparently. On top of that, they’re doing a pretty good job of showing Lynn changed the crime scene — or maybe staged the crime scene altogether — and of course I was there.”

  “But it was behind your back.”

  “It’s not something I can bring out at this point.”

  “So what does Biggs want, you think?”

  “I think he’s after my license to practice law. He’s already gotten me fired.”

  “Robin!”

  I nodded somberly, again studying the swirling wine in my long-stemmed glass. I took a sip and put it down. “I’ll tell you about it later. I want to take my run before it gets too late.”

  The police car was still out front. Whatever it was they were hoping to accomplish, they hadn’t given up on it yet. By the time I finished my run, I’d decided I would try to take advantage of their persistence. Pieces of a plan had been stirring around it my mind as early as lunchtime, but only after an hour of running down dark, cold streets had it begun to jell.

  “Brooke!” I called as I came in the front door.

  She came out of her bedroom wearing silk pajamas.

  “How willing would you be to spend some time in jail?”

  She didn’t answer as she took a seat on the couch in the living room and pulled her legs under her. “I can’t say it’s at the top of my to-do list,” she said finally.

  “But you’d be willing?” I was bent over double, stretching my hamstrings, twisting my head and looking up at her through a fall of hair.

  “Let’s start with a no and continue the discussion from there.”

  “It wouldn’t be under your own name, or I don’t think it would. And I’d get you out.” When she didn’t say anything, I said, “Call Matt Nolan tonight. See if he can recognize your voice without you having to identify yourself.”

  “Matt Nolan, do you know who this is?” she intoned.