“Is that all that was in the wallet when you turned it over to defense counsel?”
“I think so, but I didn’t make an inventory.”
“What name is on the credit cards?”
“Larry Smith.”
“And on the business cards?”
“Larry Smith.”
“So your best guess as to the name of John Doe, the decedent in this case, would be…”
“Objection,” I said. The questions called for a conclusion, and Biggs hadn’t established David Stevens as an expert in determining the identities of dead men.
The judge glared at me, but he sustained the objection. Biggs turned to me and said with exaggerated sweetness. “You may inquire.”
Standing at my table, I said, “I assume that the prosecution has granted you immunity in exchange for your testimony?”
“We, ah, discussed it.”
“You didn’t get it in writing?”
“Well, yes. Actually we did exchange some paperwork.”
“So you lied just now when you said you merely discussed it.”
“I didn’t say merely.”
“So you were merely misleading the court through omission,” I said. “Very good. You mentioned that your brother Mark was concerned that something incriminating might be found in his daughter’s bedroom. Did he express these concerns to you?”
“Yes, he did.”
“In person?”
“No. Over the telephone.”
“Never in person?”
“No. Mark is in China on business.”
“Text messages? Email?”
“No, just the phone, I think.”
“But you’ve kept in touch.”
“Sporadically.”
“Only sporadically? Even after he learned that his daughter had been arrested and charged with murder?”
“He’s moving around all over China. It’s all we’ve been able to work out.”
“Really,” I said. “He couldn’t break away and come home to be with his only daughter when she’s on trial for murder.”
“He’s putting together the biggest deal our company has ever had, and there’s not much he could do here, is there?”
“Isn’t there? There’s been some testimony that a Mark Stevens rented a motel room right next to the room rented to Natalie on that fateful Sunday night. I don’t believe you were in the courtroom. Have you heard anything about that testimony?”
“Yes, something about it.”
“Could you tell us on what day your brother Mark left Richmond for China?”
David’s glance slid to Aubrey Biggs and returned to me. “The morning of December 7.”
I’d expected to have to use documentary evidence to prove the flight out, but of course David Stevens knew I could do it. Given the district attorney’s lack of a reaction, I assumed he had briefed Aubrey Biggs. “That would be Monday morning,” I said, “the day after this man the prosecutor wants us to call Larry Smith met his death. The very day that Natalie Stevens was arrested for murder.”
David coughed, cleared his throat. “Actually, I think she was originally charged with manslaughter.”
“Could you tell us when Mark Stevens returned from China?”
“He hasn’t returned.”
“The Cathay Airlines flight Mark Stevens took from LAX to Hong Kong was scheduled to arrive at 9:55 p.m. on Tuesday, December eighth. Did it arrive at that time, as far as you know?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Another Cathay Airlines flight left Hong Kong for LAX at 5:35 a.m. on December ninth,” I said.
“If you say so.”
“I have the flight manifest here.” I took some stapled pages from a folder, and looked up at the judge. “May I approach the witness?” He nodded, and I took one copy of the manifest to the judge, handed another to the witness, and took a third copy to Aubrey Biggs.
Biggs, looking at it, said, “Where did you get this? It hasn’t been authenticated.”
“I’m not asking for admission into evidence at this time. Mr. Stevens, do you see the name of Mark Stevens on that manifest?”
David turned the pages. “No, I don’t. Is it supposed to be here?”
“Do you see any other name of interest? The name of Larry Smith perhaps?”
He flapped back through the pages.
“Page three,” I said. “About halfway down.” While I waited for him to answer, I got another set of stapled pages from the folder on my table, and I delivered copies all around. “Perhaps you can find the name on this manifest. It’s an American Airlines flight from LAX to Dulles Airport that left LAX two-and-a-half hours after the flight from Hong Kong arrived. Look at the second page near the bottom.”
“Larry Smith,” Stevens read softly. There was some whispering going on at the prosecutor’s table.
“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“Larry Smith is a common name.”
“Yes, isn’t it? It is surprising, though, to find it on yet another manifest, this one for a flight from Dulles to Richmond International that left Dulles after a fifty-five minute layover.” I handed around yet another set of stapled pages. “Mark Stevens had a motel room right next door to the room where murder was committed Sunday night, and the next morning he left for Hong Kong. Mere hours after he arrived there, one Larry Smith left Hong Kong and returned to Richmond, Virginia, arriving late Wednesday evening. On Thursday you gave me Larry Smith’s wallet, minus the driver’s license and passport, minus any identification at all that included a photograph.”
David Stevens didn’t say anything. At the prosecution table Aubrey Biggs was sitting stiffly upright, and his left leg jigged up and down beneath the table.
I said, “Which of those credit cards on the rail there in front of you paid for Larry Smith’s flight? Was it the Visa or the American Express?”
David Stevens seemed to have been struck dumb.
I turned to the jury. “Murder was committed. Mark Stevens left, and no one has seen him since, though two people have testified to speaking to him on the phone. That would be his trophy wife Chloe Stevens and his brother, the man sitting on the stand in front of us.”
Ralph Waldo, glancing at his boss, said, “Objection. That’s not a question.”
Rodney Burns came into the courtroom carrying a file folder.
“Could I have just a moment?” I asked the judge.
Judge Cheatham drew in a breath, but let it out again without speaking. I took it for assent and went to the rail to take the folder from Rodney.
“Question,” I said, turning to the witness. “You and your brother look quite a bit alike, don’t you, Mr. Stevens? A desk clerk who had seen you at a Best Western, say, might subsequently identify a picture of your brother as the man she had seen.”
David shook his head. “No. We don’t look so much alike.”
“You don’t look alike?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Not so much alike that if you came into possession of a plane ticket issued to your brother, you would be able to take the flight in his place using his identification as if it were your own?”
“Of course not.”
“You flew to Hong Kong as Mark Stevens that Monday, didn’t you? That way, when he turned up missing, he would have disappeared in China, not right here in Richmond, Virginia. You flew back as Larry Smith.”
He had a sneer on this face, but there were beads of sweat on his cheeks and forehead. “That’s a complete fabrication, and you know it.”
There were three copies of Larry Smith’s driver’s license in the folder. Bestowing a silent blessing on Rodney Burns, I delivered one to the judge, one to Aubrey Biggs, and one to the witness stand. David Stevens’ hand shook as he took it.
“What I have handed you is a certified copy of a driver’s license made out to one Larry Gholson Smith. Could you tell us whose picture is on that driver’s license?”
“No.”
<
br /> “It’s not familiar to you? Not at all?” I retrieved the copy of the driver’s license from him and walked in front of the jury box with it, taking my time as they craned their necks, making sure they all got a good look at it. I took it back to the witness.
“To me it looks like you.”
David shrugged. “It’s not. It can’t be.” His face, though, was now gleaming with perspiration.
“It was Chloe Stevens who checked into the Best Western that Sunday night, wasn’t it? She used a credit card she had applied for in the name of Natalie Stevens. She was there to meet you.”
“No.”
Brooke Marshall entered at the back of the courtroom. With her was a broad-shouldered man wearing a sports jacket over a shirt with an open collar. He carried a white Tyvek envelope—and Brooke’s hair was mussed.
“I’m sorry. If I could have just one more moment.” I went back to my table, got a copy of the autopsy report and took it into the gallery to give to the man with Brooke. “Second page,” I told him. As I walked back to the lectern, I said, “That’s your brother’s dentist. He’s going to be comparing your brother’s dental records to the dental record in the autopsy report of John Doe. You were having an affair with your brother’s wife, weren’t you?”
David was shaking his head, but he looked punch drunk.
I said, “Mark Stevens had become suspicious of his wife. He was supposed to be on a business trip somewhere, and he told everyone he would be leaving the country without coming home. He did that in hopes that Chloe would become careless. He did come home, of course. Mark Stevens followed his wife to the Best Western, and he managed to rent the motel room right next to hers. When you and Chloe were in her room together, he forced his way in or got you to open the door somehow. You panicked. Or Chloe panicked. Which of you was it who shot him with the gun that had been taken from his house, the Glock 32 that was registered in his name? Was it you?”
David’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He might have been mouthing the name Chloe.
Natalie was suddenly on her feet, turning toward the gallery. “You,” she said to Chloe. Chloe started up, and Natalie stepped toward the rail and reached across it to grab her by the front of her dress and drag her half across. Chloe’s eyes were round and staring. “You killed my daddy, you bitch.” Natalie slammed her forehead down into Chloe’s exposed face, then twisted, dragging Chloe over the rail and throwing her onto the defense table, which she slid across, taking my legal pads and folders and papers with her. Even as she landed on the floor, blood spattering from her nose onto the industrial carpet, the deputy sheriff was seizing Natalie and forcing her face down over the table, pulling one wrist behind her and then the other to cuff her.
In the confusion David Stevens left the witness stand and strode head down toward the gallery. I moved to block him, but my heel turned on me as I stepped around the lectern, and I staggered. When his hand shot out, I failed to dodge it, and it caught me in the shoulder. I spun and fell, landing on my butt with my legs splayed out in front of me. David Stevens was through the bar, striding down the center aisle, when Paul Soldano appeared in the aisle just beyond him.
“Move, fat man,” Stevens lowered his shoulder and drove into him.
Paul’s stance shifted subtly, his arms reaching out, his hands clutching as he fell backward, pulling Stevens with him, twisting at the last instant so that Stevens landed on his back with Paul’s forearm across his chest. All the spectators, even the jurors, were standing, some moving and calling out, and Judge Cheatham, on his feet, was waving the stick of his headless gavel and pounding on the bench with his open hand in a vain effort to restore order to his courtroom.
Chapter 30
Judge Cheatham dismissed the contempt charges against me. Though I had been indecorous in court, I hadn’t withheld any documents belonging to the murder victim. Aubrey Biggs, much as he might like to, couldn’t charge me as Natalie’s accessory-after-the-fact because he couldn’t prove Natalie herself to be guilty of any crime. The motions and the arguments and the paperwork took most of the afternoon, but at the end of it, Natalie was free, and David and Chloe Stevens were in custody.
With some difficulty, I talked Natalie into joining Brooke, Paul, and me for dinner. “I really just want to sleep,” she said.
“I know. You need to mourn your father.”
“I just feel drugged.”
“You’ve lost weight in jail. Come with us, we won’t drag it out.”
Before six, we were back at Enrique’s, a couple of bowls of chips and a pitcher of margaritas in front of us along with four frosted mugs.
“At least there’s one good thing about going out to eat with old people,” Natalie said.
Brooke and Paul and I exchanged glances.
“You don’t get carded,” Natalie said. She poured herself a margarita, then lifted her mug to us and took a long swallow.
“Good?” Paul said, watching her.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. “The best thing I’ve felt since Chloe’s nose splattered against my forehead.”
“I bet.”
“I knew something was wrong. Daddy would have come home if he could.”
Paul made a face, nodding sympathetically.
I said, “Dragging Chloe across the rail and throwing her across the defense table was an amazing bit of athleticism.”
Natalie was blinking, but she held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll cry later. Tonight I’m going to eat, and I’m going to drink a little too much, and I’m going to think about how much pain and money it’s going to cost Chloe to get her nose set straight again.”
“If it can be done at all,” I said.
Brooke raised her mug. “If it can be done at all,” she said. We clinked mugs and drank, Natalie managing a smile despite her watery eyes.
“How did you come to show up in the nick of time?” Brooke said to Paul. “I thought you were in meetings all day.”
“All morning. I walked over when I got out, thinking I might be in time to catch the fireworks. Who’d have thought I’d get to participate?”
“Good thing, too,” I said. “David Stevens had a wallet in his jacket with credit cards and a driver’s license in the name of Robert Ingalsbe. If he’d made it through that door, he might have disappeared forever.”
“It was a pretty impressive move,” Brooke said to Paul. “His feet actually flew up over his head.”
Paul sat back, his chest expanding. “I was on the wrestling team in high school,” he said, wagging his head in mock solemnity. Then he shrugged. “Briefly. You got to witness my signature move. Actually, if I’d known then that he was the one who shot Robin, I wouldn’t have been so gentle.”
“You paralyzed his diaphragm,” I protested. “He couldn’t breathe.”
“But he did eventually.”
“Fat man beats pretty boy,” Brooke said. She popped a tortilla chip in her mouth.
“Hey, let’s go easy on the labels.”
“At least it let him know that sleeping with his brother’s wife and fratricide are big no-noes,” I said. “He told me once that dog law is the only kind of law he understands.”
“What’s dog law?” Brooke asked.
“It’s beating or hanging people for bad behavior to let them know they’ve done wrong—like a dog-owner might train his pet. What I want to know is what happened to your hair. It was perfectly arranged when I first saw you this morning, but when you showed up in court with that dentist, it was all over the place. You didn’t…”
“No, I did not.” She jerked her chin at me and took a sip of her margarita.
“Well?”
“Well I may have rubbed my head against his chest a little when I was persuading him.” She giggled. “It turns out that Dr. Davis is single. Forty years old and never been married. I think he’s a little shy.”
“You don’t think he just seemed shy because a woman he’d never met before came in and started rubbing h
er head against his chest?”
The waiter came with a huge round tray loaded with food, and Natalie put her mug down, empty.
“You want to spend the night with Deeks and me again?” I asked her as the waiter placed a sizzling pan of fajitas in front of her.
“I don’t know yet. We’ll see.”
“Fair enough.”
“What are you going to be doing now that you’re not busy saving me?” she asked me.
“Tomorrow I’m going to stay home with my dog,” I said. “Take some time to recuperate.”
“How about Monday?”
I shrugged. “Go back to playing solitaire until another case walks through the door.”
“After today, you should be getting a pile of business,” Paul said. “A pile.”
“I don’t know what property Chloe has her name on and what she’s going to inherit,” Natalie said to me.
“She won’t inherit anything, not if Aubrey Biggs does his job right,” I said.
“I’d have more confidence in you doing your job right.”
“Here, here,” Paul said, and we all had another slug of lime juice, triple sec, and tequila.
“And something’s got to happen with Steven’s Imports. It’s set up as a partnership between Daddy and Uncle David. Last year Daddy told me his share was worth five or six million dollars.”
“You might be able to afford me,” I said. “Two hundred dollars an hour won’t put a dent in that fortune.”
“So you’ll help me?”
It was a job offer. I nodded. “You bet.”
Her phone dinged, and she bent her head over it.
“What about you? What are you going to do?” I asked her.
She looked up. “Go back to school. I’ve only missed four days.”
“Can I help?”
She shook her head. “Austin’s on her way. My roommate at Longwood? She’s going to spend the night with me, and we’ll drive back to Farmville tomorrow.”
“Here, here,” Paul said again, picking up the pitcher and refilling our glasses.
“What is this?” Brooke said. “Some kind of drinking game?”
“This is how a fat man goes about getting his girlfriend tipsy to lower her inhibitions.” He raised his mug and smiled at me hopefully.
Dog Law (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 23
