Juggling Evidence (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Do you have another witness, or are you resting your case?”

  “Oh, I have more witnesses, your honor.”

  “Are you sure you need them? I’ve got a crowded docket and unless the defense intends to put on a case…”

  “Your honor,” Biggs said, “not only am I concerned about prosecuting these two defendants, but I have a duty to the integrity of the legal profession. This is a good forum for bringing out certain conduct that is not only a violation of professional ethics, but…”

  Cochran was shaking his head. “Careful, Mr. Biggs.”

  “May I ask a question, your honor?” I said. When Cochran nodded, I asked, “Would it be a violation of professional ethics to squash Mr. Biggs's nose all over his fat, red, uninformed face?”

  There was a silence.

  “Your honor,” Biggs said. “This is exactly the kind of thing I’ve been talking about. Personal threats to opposing counsel in the courtroom…”

  Cochran held up a hand, silencing him. “Ms. Starling, you will be spending the night in jail.”

  “Yes, your honor. I would like to point out, though, that Mr. Biggs has been doing nothing but threaten me for the last five minutes.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “I would also like to ask whether the court has already decided this case against the defendants before either side has finished presenting its evidence.”

  Now Judge Cochran was getting red in the face. “Ms. Starling,” he began, and stopped. After a few seconds of breathing through flaring nostrils, he said, “We’re going to recess for lunch.” He picked up his gavel and banged it. “Be back here at one o’clock.”

  He got up with a jerk and stalked out of the courtroom.

  Chapter 28

  Biggs left the courtroom without even a glance in my direction. I smiled at my clients in what I hoped was a reassuring way.

  “What’s going on?” Lynn asked me.

  “Nothing important. They’re just making an effort to tar us all with the same brush.”

  Bruno said, “I’m wondering how long you’re going to be an effective advocate for us.”

  I nodded. “I’ve begun to wonder the same thing myself.”

  “Is that some kind of joke?”

  Lynn said, “If it is, it’s hardly reassuring.”

  I stood and stretched, making a conscious effort to relax as I turned to look back over the gallery of witnesses and spectators. My father was still there, looking dismayed at what he had just witnessed. James Jordan was just going out, and Liz Lockard was there, looking right at me and sneering. I didn’t know when Biggs would put her on the stand, but I thought it would be soon. Still smiling, I leaned over Lynn. “Most of what they’re throwing at me comes from your actions the night of the murder, first at the crime scene, then at the hotel where I had to insert myself into Steve’s room in your place.”

  Bruno leaned closer. In a whisper, he said, “It just seems to me that the prosecution wouldn’t be bothering with any of it if someone else were representing us.”

  “Biggs would still file a grievance with the Disciplinary Committee, but you’re right. I think they’d leave it alone in your trial. On the other hand, whoever represents you in the main trial is going to need to know everything there is to know about the prosecution’s case. Since I’m here, I might as well develop it for them.”

  I patted his shoulder and nodded to the deputy sheriffs who stood by to take them back into custody. As they were led away, I packed up my papers, slung my purse over my shoulder, and picked up my briefcase. Dad was gone, which disappointed me somehow. I began dialing my cell phone with the thumb of my free hand as I walked down the aisle toward the door of the courtroom. A man stood up and walked toward me along the row of seats. He was short and stocky and wearing a corduroy jacket over a shirt with an open collar. It took me a moment to recognize him: Paul Soldano, whom I’d met at the Tobacco Company.

  Brooke didn’t answer our home phone. I punched END and said to Paul, “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a job?”

  “I took the day off.”

  “And you’re spending it this way?”

  “It’s pretty exciting. Is it always like this?”

  I glanced around. Only he and I were left in the courtroom. “Not always,” I said. “But I do seem to have a knack for irritating the hell out of people.”

  “I love it. Can I take you to lunch?”

  I took a breath. “I’m pretty preoccupied. And I need to make a phone call.”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  I shrugged. As we rode down on the elevator, I tried Brooke on her cell. There was no answer there, either. I wondered if Biggs had taken my bait.

  I frowned as I punched off the phone.

  “A problem?” Paul asked.

  “Or an opportunity.”

  “Ah. You’re an optimist.”

  The comment surprised me enough to break through my distraction, and I smiled at him. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just making a desperate gamble—or trying to.”

  “Only an optimist would do that.”

  “Is a cornered rat an optimist?”

  We walked across Broad Street and down Ninth to Travelers’, the restaurant in the basement of the house where Robert E. Lee and his family had lived during the Civil War. Though I wasn’t particularly hungry, Paul probably was, and I had time to kill. I ordered a cup of soup with a half-sandwich. Paul ordered the whole sandwich. Pete Larsen was sitting on the far side of the room with a city councilman, but if he noticed me he didn’t let on.

  “That’s my boss over there, the one with Councilman Akers.”

  Paul shifted in his seat so he could see. “I don’t know Councilman Akers. Is he the guy with the tan?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Larsen’s gaze slid over me without pausing.

  “He seems determined not to notice you,” Paul said.

  “He is. I’ve lost my job over this case. I have until the end of the year to find another one.”

  “Well, that sucks.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The waitress came with our food. I ate slowly, my mind reverting to how the afternoon might play out, trying to anticipate everything that might happen and what I would do if it did. Paul, to his credit, didn’t try to fill the silence with a lot of chatter. He seemed content to eat his food and look at me, which I would have expected to make me uncomfortable, but didn’t.

  I was the one who broke the silence. “In a preliminary hearing, the judge has the power to separate the witnesses, but he doesn’t have to.”

  Paul nodded. “What does that mean?”

  “He can keep them out of the courtroom and away from each other, then bring them each into the courtroom when it’s their turn to testify. This judge is letting them all sit in the courtroom together.”

  Again, Paul nodded.

  “I think the prosecution allowed it because the witnesses are all his. They can listen to each other and—possibly—coordinate their testimonies, making little adjustments so that the prosecution’s case is a consistent whole.”

  “Could you have objected?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know. A hunch. With any luck it may do me some good this afternoon.”

  “You want them all in the same courtroom?”

  I nodded.

  “So you can see their reactions to the testimony?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not thinking that one of them will leap from his seat, tear open his shirt and shout his confession, are you?”

  I smiled. “One can always hope,” I said.

  At a quarter to one, I said, “I’ve got to get back.”

  Paul got up, dropped a twenty on the table, and walked with me back to the courthouse.

  A reporter for the Richmond Times-Dispatch was waiting outside the door of the courtroom. He and I had go
ne to the same college, and I knew him vaguely.

  “Robin Starling!” he said when he saw me.

  “Hi, Blake,” I said resignedly. Paul went on into the courtroom, giving no sign that we’d done any more than ride up in the elevator together.

  Blake said, “The word is the judge is threatening you with jail time, and Biggs is going to bring you up before the state bar.”

  I curled my lip at him, trying for a smile. “Who’s the source of this word?” I asked.

  He laughed as if it were funny. “I can’t reveal my sources; you know that.”

  “So this word is not for attribution,” I said, moving away from the door and the people going through it. He stayed with me.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “And you’re going to respect that.”

  “Absolutely.”

  I glanced casually around, judging myself out of earshot of everybody but Blake. “So if I were to tell you, speaking not for attribution, that Biggs is a pompous little toad who has his head so far up his butt that he can’t see anything but a load of crap, you’d report that without revealing your source?”

  Blake’s smile faltered.

  I patted his cheek. “Gotta go now. Enjoy the show.” I moved past him and joined the line of people filing into the courtroom. Inside I looked over the gallery, which was filled with spectators and witnesses, past and future. I saw everyone I expected, including my father. Possibly the trial was reminding him of some of my more volatile teenage years.

  I took my seat at the defense table, smiling encouragement to my unhappy clients. The judge came in, and we all stood up. When we were seated, he said, “As you all know—or should know—this is a preliminary hearing in the case of Commonwealth versus Lynn Nolan and Steven Bruno. It is a capital crime. I cannot overemphasize the seriousness of these proceedings. Before lunch there were some unfortunate exchanges between counsel and…” He took a breath. “…some unfortunate exchanges between the court and counsel. We will wipe the slate clean as of now. Ms. Starling, I am not going to hold you in contempt for your comments this morning, but from now on you will address your remarks to the court, and you will refer to opposing counsel in respectful terms. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “And you agree to abide by these instructions?”

  I nodded. “I will abide by them.”

  “Mr. Biggs,” the judge said, “You will confine yourself to questioning witnesses and addressing the court. There will be no exchange of personalities. You will refer to opposing counsel in respectful terms. You will make no reference at all to whatever actions you plan to take outside of this courtroom at some future date. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “I believe we have finished with the witness Stephanie Hoard. Do you have any more witnesses to call?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Call your next one.”

  Biggs called the woman who had been at the desk of the Berkeley Hotel the night of the murder. I recognized her. She was the light-skinned black woman who could have been a model. According to her, Steve Bruno had come striding into the hotel about eight forty-five on the night of the murder—which according to Dr. Birdsong would have been fifteen to thirty minutes after the murder of Derek Nolan.

  “Is there any particular reason this sticks in your mind?” Biggs asked her.

  “He walked right into a bellhop and knocked a suitcase out of his hands as he was putting it on a luggage trolley.”

  “And what happened then?” Biggs asked her.

  “He said he was sorry and went on.”

  “Did he try to help pick up the suitcase?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “That’s all I have for this witness, your honor.” Biggs didn’t even glance in my direction.

  I went to the podium. The witness—her name was Whitney James—was a very minor witness for the prosecution. It seemed to me that Biggs was stalling for time.

  “I see why you remember the incident,” I said to Whitney. “Did anything in particular draw your attention to the time?”

  “No.”

  “You say this was about eight forty-five? Can you narrow it down any more than that? Was it a little before, or a little after?”

  “I think it was between eight thirty and eight forty-five.”

  “There’s no point of reference to fix it more definitely?”

  She shook her head. “That’s just my best recollection?”

  “Somebody evidently was checking in at the time. It would have been their luggage that the bellhop was putting on the trolley. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Is there a record of check-in times in the hotel computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t tell you the exact time?”

  “More than a score of people checked into the hotel between eight o’clock and nine-thirty. I’m not sure exactly who was checking in when Mr. Bruno came in.”

  “But you’re pretty sure it was in this eight o’clock to nine-thirty window.”

  Her eyes cut to Biggs, who said, “I object,” just as Whitney said, “Yes.”

  I looked at Biggs, my eyebrows elevated.

  “Your honor, counsel has deliberately mischaracterized the witness’s testimony. She said eight thirty to eight forty-five.”

  “The witness has agreed with Ms. Starling’s mischaracterization,” Cochran said. “Objection overruled.”

  I said, “Could it have been any later than nine-thirty?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “It could have been as late as nine thirty, but it couldn’t have been nine thirty-one,” I said.

  She smiled, tilting her head, and I found I liked her. “I don’t think it was that late,” she said.

  “But it could have been?”

  “It could have been.”

  “Could it have been as early as seven fifty-five?”

  “I don’t think it was.”

  “But it could have been?”

  “It could have been.”

  “What can you say for certain about the time?”

  “It was before the police came in and set up their surveillance, but it wasn’t immediately before.” Her gaze again went to Biggs, and there was something defiant in it.

  “When did the police come in?” I asked.

  “Shortly after ten-o’clock.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “One other point, which is really a very minor one. Have you ever before witnessed a hotel guest bumping into anyone?”

  “Sure.”

  “More than one?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did any of them turn out to have been fleeing a murder scene? As far as you know?”

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Not as far as I know,” the witness said.

  Chapter 29

  Biggs called Elizabeth Lockard to the stand. Though she had been sitting in the gallery with the spectators and the rest of the witnesses, I hadn’t noticed until then how she was dressed and made up. Somehow, she had worked the hint of a wave into her short, almost brush-cut hair, and she had applied a little make-up to her square face, using mascara to bring some focus to her pale eyes. Her dress looked like a sack on her thick body, but it was pink and had a diaphanous layer over the bodice. She plunked down in the witness chair, and Biggs asked her to state her name for the record.

  “Elizabeth Lockard.”

  “Where do you live, Ms. Lockard?”

  She told him.

  “What is your occupation?”

  “At the moment I’m unemployed.”

  “Were you employed on October twenty-third?”

  “Yes. I was Derek Nolan’s office manager.”

  “Derek Nolan being the decedent in this case?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the husband of the defendant Lynn Nolan?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “Did you have any conversation with Mrs. Nolan on October twenty-third, the day of the murder?”

  “Yes. She asked me about her husband’s insurance.”

  “What did she ask you exactly?”

  “She asked me how much he carried. I started explaining to her the way their health insurance worked, but she stopped me. She wasn’t interested in health insurance.”

  “What was she interested in?”

  “Life insurance.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That she should probably take it up with Mr. Nolan, but then I went ahead and told her what she wanted to know.”

  “And what did you tell her? How much life insurance did Mr. Nolan carry?”

  “A half-million dollars in universal life and another million dollars in term life. I know because I wrote the premium checks each month.”

  “One-point-five million dollars in life insurance?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that was the end of the conversation.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Liz said. “She also wanted to know about Derek’s—Mr. Nolan’s—retirement accounts. Those came to another one-point-two million.”

  “One-point-two million dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told this to the defendant?”

  “Yes, though the conversation was making me more and more uncomfortable.”

  “Never mind how you felt,” Biggs said with a glance at me. “Was there more to it? Did she have questions about Mr. Nolan’s other assets, his notes receivable and bank accounts and so on?”

  “No. That was the end of the conversation.”

  “I see.” Biggs shuffled notes at the podium—not, I think, because he was looking for anything, but because he wanted to place a punctuation mark after this part of the testimony. After a moment he looked up.

  “Did your employer Derek Nolan tell you anything about a cell phone that had come into his possession?”

  “Yes. He said a private detective had obtained it for him.”

  I objected. “That’s hearsay, your honor. This witness can’t testify to anything the decedent may or may not have told her, unless it was said in the presence of one of the defendants.”

  “Mr. Biggs?” Cochran said. “Do you have a response?”