“Yes.”
“And did you tell the truth to that other judge and that jury?” “Yes.”
“Read what you were asked and what you told them, Mrs. Zide, if you please. The part marked in yellow ink.”
She read:
“Q: You heard the shots?
“A: Yes, there were three, or maybe even four. Shots, I mean. They came one after the other. I ran outside.”
I said now, “You still stand by that statement, that the shots ‘came one after the other’?”
A trickle of sweat appeared at Connie’s temple. “Yes,” she murmured.
“Mrs. Zide,” I said, “did you, back then, identify this man sitting beside me as the murderer of your husband?”
“Yes.”
“How did you do that?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall?”
"I mean, I did it because the police arrested him, I think . .. and they showed me photographs … and I knew him. He was the man who shot my husband, and he had worked for us. A handyman. He cleaned up after the dogs. I was told that he had a criminal record, that he was violent—”
“Who told you that he had a criminal record and was violent?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Did Sergeant Floyd Nickerson tell you that?”
“He may have. I don’t recall.”
“Did your son tell you that?”
“I don’t recall!” Her voice rose shrilly. “Can’t you understand what I’m saying? Don’t you believe me?”
Muriel sprang to her feet. “Your Honor, may we have a break so that the witness can compose herself?”
“I’m going to object to that,” I said forcefully. “We’re in the midst of a line of questioning. If opposing counsel has any objection to that line, let her state it. Otherwise, I ask the court’s permission to continue. Time is limited, and by the court itself.”
Judge Fleming thought it over. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Is this your last witness?” he asked me.
In a sense Neil was more vulnerable, but I decided to roll the dice and stay with Connie.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“We don’t need a break,” the judge said. “Keep going.”
Connie moaned softly.
“Mrs. Zide,” I resumed, “let’s get back to what Terence O’Rourke said about the single shot and then, a minute or two later, three evenly spaced shots to follow. That’s what he said, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“And by the way, do you at all dispute Mr. O’Rourke’s figures about the money you gave him when he left your employ?”
“Not at all. He was a faithful servant.”
“How about his vacation to Colorado and California? Did he tell that story accurately?”
“I think he may have exaggerated. He wasn’t a young man, and he was looking tired. My recollection is that he was owed those three weeks holiday and the time had come.”
She’d had a while to think that over, I realized, and she spoke with a renewed confidence.
“So you didn’t, in any sense, send him away to visit his family so that he wouldn’t be present in Jacksonville during the trial?”
“Of course not.”
“And when he left your employ, you didn’t give him that considerable bonus in order to ensure his continued loyalty?”
“He was loyal. I didn’t need to ensure it.”
“Did you know that Neil was sending him four thousand dollars a month for the past eight years?”
“I believe Neil and I discussed it once.”
“And that money wasn’t meant to keep him quiet either, was it?” “Not at all.”
“Did you ever consider having Terence O’Rourke killed?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you like the court reporter to read back the question to you?”
“No, I heard the question,” Connie said, her lip quivering. “I was just a little shocked by it. Killing him? Having Terence killed? No, Mr. Jaffe. No. Definitely no.”
“You never discussed that possibility with your son?”
“No!”
“Did you discuss with Neil the idea of having Victor Gambrel killed?”
“No.”
“Did Neil elect to do that on his own?”
“Objection!” Muriel, her face inflamed, jumped to her feet. “There’s no predicate whatever for this insinuation. This is bizarre!”
“Objection sustained,” Judge Fleming said. Normally he would have told the jury to disregard the question and any answer. But since there was no jury, he was the only one required to disregard the so-called insinuation—if he could. He wagged a finger of admonishment at me.
“Mrs. Zide”—I stood up and began to prowl by the counsel table —”how many servants do you employ at your house?”
“Seven or eight. It varies.”
“How many did you employ back in December 1978?”
“Perhaps a few more than that.”
“The seven or eight you employ now have been with you since 1978?”
“No, there’s some turnover.”
“The ones who’ve gone, have they all been fired?”
“Of course not.”
“Some have quit?”
“A few.”
“Some have left by mutual agreement with you?”
“Yes.”
“Of those who’ve quit or left your employ by mutual agreement, how many received a bonus of a quarter of a million dollars plus a retirement payment of four thousand dollars a month?”
She had no way out.
“None,” she said quietly. “But Terence was special.”
“I’m sure he was. Let’s go back to the night of December 5,1978,” I said. “The night of the murder.”
She nodded; she seemed almost relieved.
“Do you want me to tell you again what happened, Ted?” she asked.
Oh, poor Connie.
It was as if we were going to have a conversation on her living room sofa, or in my office as we had done thirteen years ago. And as if we were still what we once had been: lovers, then careful friends.
“No,” I said, smiling sadly. “I want you to answer my questions, Mrs. Zide, if you don’t mind.”
Connie clasped her hands like a child and nodded obediently.
Chapter 32
“MRS. ZIDE,” I said, “on the night of the murder you had a party on the grounds of your house, is that correct?”
“A musicale,” Connie said eagerly. “You were there.”
“Yes, I was definitely there. With my wife.”
“The party ended about eleven o’clock, I’d say—”
“No, Mrs. Zide, I didn’t ask you that. Tell me this, please. That night, the night of your husband’s murder, what first alerted you to the presence of burglars—or, let’s say, intruders—on your grounds?”
A blotch of color appeared on her pale cheek. “An urn crashed on the patio,” she said. “We heard the noise of its breaking. Solomon got up from the backgammon table—”
“Mrs. Zide, stop.” I wanted to be casual at this stage, but I had to control her. “Just answer my questions. Don’t volunteer information. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I thought…” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to be friendly, to defuse me.
“So the first thing that alerted you to the presence of burglars was the sound of an urn breaking, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Didn’t you have what you once referred to as ‘a state-of-the-art security system’?”
She offered a rueful smile. “We thought we did.”
“Didn’t that security system include a number of spotlights called First Alert, which would snap on if anyone broke the path of their ultraviolet beams?”
“I’m not sure what they were called. But yes, that’s what was supposed to happen.”
“It didn’t happen?
None of the lights went on to alert you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When Darryl Morgan and William Smith entered your property in the dead of night, you’re telling us they didn’t break any of those First Alert beams? Didn’t trigger any of the spotlights?”
“Objection,” Muriel called, rising. “Calls for speculation. She doesn’t know if Morgan and Smith broke any of the beams or not. All she remembers is that the lights didn’t go on, and she’s said so.”
“Objection sustained,” said the judge.
I could see that Connie was feeling confident again. This was all polite, friendly, and bearable. Muriel was protecting her.
“Do you recall, Mrs. Zide, when your son took the stand here on Monday, that I read aloud some of his testimony from the trial thirteen years ago?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Do you recall what he said in response to my asking him: ‘Did you see the intruders clearly?’ “
“Not really.”
“You don’t recall his saying”—once again I read from the transcript in my hand—” ‘the spotlights on the lawn had finally been triggered, I assume by these two men’? Didn’t you hear that, Mrs. Zide?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that you did see the lights go on outside —while your husband was still alive—and that you then went outside on the terrace in your bathrobe?”
“Objection! Asked and answered.”
“Sustained.”
I pointed my finger at Connie like a pistol. “And that’s also about the time, isn’t it, that you heard the Lhasa apso puppies barking?”
“Objection!” Muriel was still on her feet. “There’s no predicate for any barking Lhasa apso puppies.”
A murmur of laughter flowed through the courtroom.
“Objection sustained.”
“And therefore, Mrs. Zide,” I said, with as much righteous anger and conviction as I dared—since it was all speculation—”you got up from the backgammon table and went outside before any shots were fired?”
“Objection!”
“On what grounds, Ms. Suarez?” the judge asked.
“Argumentative, and when he says ‘therefore’ he’s assuming a fact not in evidence.”
“I don’t think so. Overruled. She can answer yes or no.”
A couple for you, and now one for you, the judge seemed to be saying to Muriel and me. No prejudice in my court. He smiled benevolently at Connie.
“No,” Connie said to me. “Whatever you say happened, that didn’t happen.”
“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that you came outside in your bathrobe and saw Darryl Morgan on the lawn or on the terrace?”
Connie waited for Muriel’s objection, but none came. Muriel played by the rules. I didn’t intend to do that. I had more at stake than Muriel had.
“No, it’s not a fact,” Connie said.
“You didn’t see Darryl Morgan?”
“I saw two men. I didn’t know then that one of them was Darryl Morgan.”
“Isn’t it a fact that you saw the other intruder, William Smith, kick one of the puppies as he ran away toward the beach?”
“No,” Connie said. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Are you telling us that a puppy wasn’t taken to the vet later that morning by one of your servants, a woman named Martina Vargas?”
Terence had told me about this, but Martina was long vanished to her native León, and Gary hadn’t been able to find her. And when Terence was on the stand, I’d forgotten to ask him about it. I was tired; I’d managed about an hour’s sleep on the plane from Newark. There was nothing I could do now except try and jam it through.
But Connie couldn’t afford to lie blatantly; she didn’t know what other pieces of paper I might pull out of my conjuror’s hat.
“I’m not sure,” she said, placing her hands protectively across her breasts. “It’s hard to remember.”
“Try, Mrs. Zide.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Did the puppy live?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So you remember that. Were any of its ribs broken?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Any of its legs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Either of its shoulders?”
“Objection!” Muriel tried. “Badgering the witness!”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “He’s just asking questions.”
“Mrs. Zide,” I continued, “what’s the name of the vet who takes care of your dogs?”
Her scalp was rivering perspiration over her forehead, causing her to rub both palms over her eyes. She didn’t know if I knew the name of the vet or not. If I knew, I might have checked with him.
“Dr. Merrill,” she said. “I remember now. Harry Merrill. He’s still my vet. I have a black Labrador now, and two golden retrievers. One of the puppies was hurt that night. Broken leg, I seem to recall. Yes, he was probably kicked by one of the men when they ran away. How foolish of me not to remember it.”
It was a small point, but it loomed large. She had lied about the pistol and now about the kicked puppy. She could have admitted the story of the puppy at the very beginning and then could have disclaimed having seen what happened. It wouldn’t have hurt her at all. But she didn’t know what I knew or didn’t know. Didn’t know where each lie would lead. Didn’t know what was coming next. She and Neil had woven a tangled web; now it was coming undone. She hadn’t been in any real danger, but she had let herself stumble and appear counterfeit. She looked beseechingly at Muriel, but there was nothing Muriel could do … and maybe by then, for all I knew, nothing Muriel really wanted to do.
Connie looked quickly up at Judge Fleming. He was studying her with great curiosity.
I rose from the counsel table and moved two steps closer to the witness stand. I wasn’t in Connie’s territory, but I must have loomed larger to her, as if suddenly she’d trained a telescopic sight on me. But she was not the hunter, and I was not the hunted. And she could see the look in my eyes. There was none of the mercy she was looking for. Pity was there, but no mercy.
The courtroom was completely silent. No one coughed.
“Mrs. Zide,” I asked, “what happened to the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Chief Special you carried in your handbag fourteen years ago?”
“The what?” She seemed confused. “You keep changing the subject, Ted.”
I knew that.
“Your pistol, Mrs. Zide. You told us about it earlier, don’t you remember? I ask you: What happened to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you still carry it?”
“No.”
“Do you still own it?”
“No.”
“Do you carry another pistol?”
She hesitated. “Yes. This is a dangerous city. I have a permit.”
“What kind of pistol do you carry now?”
“It’s called a Llama. An automatic.”
“What’s the caliber?”
“I’m not sure.”
“How about a thirty-two? Does that sound right?”
I knew the Llama Blackhawk; it was a woman’s gun. Muriel carried one too.
“Yes. It may be a thirty-two.”
“You carry it for protection?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You threw the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight away?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Neil threw it away?”
“Neil did what?”
“I’m asking you, Mrs. Zide. Did Neil throw it away?”
“I don’t know.”
“If Neil didn’t throw it away, what happened to it?”
“I don’t know.”
“It just vanished? Disappeared?”
“I think so.”
“Soon after the death of your husband?”
“I think so. I mean, no. I don’t remember.”
�
�Didn’t it vanish the night your husband died? Didn’t Neil throw it in the ocean, or the Intracoastal?”
“If she knows.” From behind me I heard Muriel speak quietly, dutifully.
“Yes, excuse me, Mrs. Zide. If you know.”
“I don’t know.”
“Neil didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Did you shoot your husband, Mrs. Zide?”
“No, I didn’t, I swear that to you.”
“But on the night of December 5, in the early morning, someone fired your pistol, your Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, isn’t that so?”
She didn’t answer. Her lips twisted into a skeletal grimace. She had been licking them constantly, and the lipstick was gone, so that they seemed colorless. Her blue-green eyes had sunk deep into their sockets.
“Your husband was in a rage that night, wasn’t he, Mrs. Zide?”
She nodded her head up and down, slowly.
“He was angry at me, yes.”
“After the party?”
“Yes, after the party. You were there.”
“I was at the party, I wasn’t there afterward. Your husband took your pistol out of your handbag and fired it once, didn’t he?”
“No.”
“And the bullet lodged in the Swedish oak paneling on the far side of the living room from the terrace, isn’t that so?”
“No, not so.”
There was a half-smile on her bloodless lips and a cunning look in her eyes that at first I couldn’t define. But it slowly resolved itself into an expression of superiority. Then I understood. She knew something I didn’t know, and she was reveling in it.
“There in the living room, Mrs. Zide, after the party, Solly was in a rage?”
“Yes.”
“At you?”
“Yes.”
“And he screamed at you?”
“Yes.”
“He frightened you?”
“Yes.”
“And then Neil came home?”
Her eyes grew stony, darker. “I don’t remember.”
“You testified under oath, at the trial, that Neil came home from a party while you and Solly were playing backgammon after the musicale. Do you remember that now?”
“Yes.”
“Was Neil drunk?”
“I don’t think so.”
“High on drugs?”
“I don’t know.”
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller Page 34
