Shadow of A Doubt

by William J. Coughlin

  After the court hearing I planned to move my few belongings to my new place of business, but I still had a key to Mitch’s office so, after everyone had left for the night, I had gone back, let myself in, and used the firm’s small library, concentrating on cases dealing with the exclusion of confessions. I found many but somehow I just couldn’t seem to focus on the key cases I needed to read and understand.

  I had telephoned Robin from there, wondering if someone like the ghostly Sister Marie Celeste might not have found another conscience to bother. If Robin was feeling guilty, she didn’t sound it. But she did sound tired, and I was not invited back for a rematch, which prompted in me a surprising conflict-ridden sense of relief and irritation. Robin had described the funeral. It had been no different than any other. Harrison Harwell now lay in a grave next to his father. Robin seemed pleased that a plot had been reserved for Harrison’s sister, her sharp tone implying she hoped that the vacant space wouldn’t go unused for long.

  She said she would see me in court in the morning.

  And now it was the morning.

  I sat up, but my legs seemed heavy. It was a chore to move. It was as though I were the one being charged, not my client.

  A drink would have done it, just a small one, just enough to ease the increasing grip of galloping anxiety.

  It felt like I was about to go on trial.

  And, in a way, I was.

  *

  TOMMY Mulhern looked in pretty good shape, although his puffy cheeks had a deep rosy blush, the tint seen in sunsets and on the faces of people with very high blood pressure. But Judge Mulhern exhibited no signs of hangover, and he seemed to enjoy meeting with me and Evola in his chambers, briskly setting rules for the conduct of the preliminary examination like a director telling his actors what to say and where to stand. Mulhern had already met with the television people, and a single camera, set back by the empty jury box, was manned and ready.

  “Let’s do a nice, quick, workmanlike job,” Mulhern said to both of us, though it was clear he was aiming his remarks at Evola. “They got everything out there but the elephants and the tent, but I’m not going to let this thing get turned into a circus. If either of you should be tempted to get a bit theatrical, I will perform some stagecraft myself and the offender will end up looking like a prime asshole. And I think you both know I can do just that, right?”

  I nodded, but Mark Evola looked irritated.

  “This is a routine murder examination,” the judge continued. “The reporters, cameras, and all the rest of it don’t change that. I want this run like any other case. Murder is just a fatal assault and battery, nothing more. Get the witnesses on, get ’em off, and remember that damn television camera isn’t going to make the decisions here, I am. So play to me, not the lens or the crowd.”

  Evola smiled, but it was forced. “Judge, we have no control over what the media do. But I assure you I’m going to conduct this case just like any other.”

  Mulhern snorted “Oh yeah? If that’s so, then how come you’re doing the court work yourself and not one of your usual lackeys?”

  “This is —”

  Mulhern raised a beefy hand. “Enough. I got things to do this afternoon, so let’s not drag this thing out. Unless you boys got something else to discuss, let’s get the show on the road.”

  Evola composed his features so that his handsome face seemed almost angelic as we marched out from the judge’s chambers.

  The crush of spectators did resemble a circus crowd, expectant and impatient to be entertained. Every available seat held human flesh, so packed together that breath and movement looked impossible. Local attorneys were jammed shoulder to shoulder with famous writers. High-paid media types snuggled next to low-paid court workers who, like kids wiggling under a circus tent, had snuck away from their own duties to peek at the legal wonders to come. The crowd, their combined whispered conversations producing an electrical buzzing, seemed to me for a moment like a many-headed monster, all eyes and moving mouths.

  Evola took his place at his side of the counsel table, sitting in front of Morgan and Maguire. The two detectives had assumed the solemn expressions of monks at prayer.

  Angel seemed equally composed. She sat directly behind my chair, a uniformed court officer behind her.

  Robin sat in the first row of spectator seats. I recognized the man seated next to her. Every attorney in Michigan knew him.

  I walked back. “Good morning,” I said. Robin seemed tense, uncomfortable.

  She nodded in response, then spoke quietly. “Charley, this is Nate Golden. He’s handling the sale of the boat company for us, for Angel and me.”

  I nodded and he nodded. Nate Golden was a past president of the state bar. If anyone had to name the number-one attorney in our state, Golden would make everyone’s short list. I knew he was at least seventy although he looked much younger, his skin tan and almost wrinkle-free. Nate Golden reminded me of that little Esquire man of years ago, the short round guy with the big eyes and the white mustache. His bulging blue eyes and a carefully trimmed white mustache were those of the Esquire man, but Golden was whippet-thin and very tall, his hair full and so white it looked like a stage prop.

  “Might I have a brief word, Mr. Sloan?” Golden’s voice was deep and soothing.

  He stood up, moved gracefully past the others in the spectator row, then passed through the opening in the hip-high polished wood barricade. He took my elbow and guided me to a spot just in front of the judge’s still-empty bench, the only place where we could talk in some privacy.

  “You know me?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Robin tells me you’re stepping aside in this matter as soon as this hearing is done.”

  “It’s been discussed.”

  He smiled, an expression that was almost spiritual. “I recently had my gallbladder out,” he said. “I’ve recovered nicely.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s not exactly brain surgery, having a gallbladder removed. The operation is performed every day in every hospital all over the world.”

  I kept an eye out for the judge, who had not yet appeared.

  “Still,” he continued in a voice that was just above a whisper, “routine or not, it was of concern to me.”

  “I don’t —”

  “Mr. Sloan,” he said, even more softly, “would I have selected a surgeon who hadn’t done a major operation in four years, one who had almost lost his license because of alcoholism? Obviously, I wouldn’t, not if other competent surgeons were available.”

  He patted my arm. “I’m describing you, am I not? And certainly a murder charge is a much more serious situation than nipping out a mere gallbladder, isn’t it?”

  His manner was still friendly, but his words had the effect of an unexpected slap. I felt the anger rising and he sensed it.

  “Come now, Mr. Sloan, don’t take offense. I’m dealing in facts. Your last major case was the successful defense of the Carter brothers, two young gentlemen who decapitated several competitors. A very impressive win, but that was almost four long years ago. before your ... ah ... problem led you into all that difficulty.”

  “I am a fully licensed attorney,” I said. “And criminal law is my primary field.”

  “It was,” he said, “and I’m sure it will be again. But this is far too important a case to use as a practice run, Mr. Sloan. We’re both lawyers. I know how difficult it must be for you to re-establish yourself. I will propose a new lawyer and suggest to Robin that you work with him as a kind of consultant. I’ll see that your fee is protected. You won’t be hurt financially by stepping aside.”

  I was looking up at him. His benign expression was like that of a favorite uncle who was explaining why he couldn’t let you drive his Mercedes. Those bulging blue eyes glistened with benevolence.

  “Mr. Golden, I told Robin that I — ”

  The clerk rapped the gavel and the crowd produced a rumbling noise as they struggled to th
eir feet.

  “I’m sure you’re a reasonable man,” he said, patting my arm again, “and I know you’ll do the right thing.”

  He returned, as gracefully as before, to his place next to Robin. He was smiling at me, a knowing little smirk, as if we shared a juicy little secret.

  I felt a wave of revulsion. I would step aside, I had already told Robin that I would. That didn’t bother me. But Nate Golden would think I had folded because of his power and the promise of easy money. That did bother me. A lot.

  “Come on, let’s get this thing going,” Judge Mulhern rasped.

  “The people are ready,” Evola said, standing.

  I walked back to my chair. I was conscious of Angel’s eyes on me. Her expression was as inscrutable as before, but her eyes were not. They were filled with fear.

  That made two of us.

  “The people are ready,” Evola said once more, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the packed courtroom.

  *

  JUDGE Thomas J. Mulhern, who had cautioned us against the bite of the publicity bug, demonstrated that he was not immune to it himself, giving a long-winded lecture at the beginning, glancing occasionally at the crowd but mostly speaking directly into the glass eye of the TV camera. He explained that a preliminary hearing was a judicial investigation, that guilt or innocence didn’t have to be proven, only that a crime had been committed and that there were reasonable grounds to believe the defendant had done it. It sounded to me as if he might have rehearsed the speech. His phrases were just a little too smooth and finely articulated to have come trippingly off the judicial cuff.

  To my surprise, Evola was as good as his word, quickly and efficiently questioning the policemen who had answered the call that night to the Harwell house and demonstrating that he knew his way around a courtroom. Next on the stand were Dennis Bernard and his wife, the two Harwell servants who had identified the body.

  The policemen told Evola what time they had first questioned Angel, which was the only thing I wanted to establish, so I had no questions for them or the Bernards.

  To someone not familiar with court technique it might have appeared that I wasn’t doing my job. But I was only waiting for the right opportunity, which presented itself in the small, dapper person of Dr. Ernesto Rey.

  For the first time I began to enjoy myself. Evola began by having the doctor identify himself. He asked me if I would stipulate to the doctor’s qualifications, a usual courtroom courtesy.

  It was time to rattle the cage. I stood up.

  “If the court please, I wonder if I might ask just one question about the doctor’s qualifications?”

  “I have no objections,” Evola said.

  “Go on,” Mulhern commanded.

  “Dr. Rey, would you be able to estimate for us the number of abortions you’ve performed?”

  The spectators gasped in unison and Rey’s brown eyes opened wide in surprise and alarm. Even his tan seemed to fade.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said before Evola could protest, “did I say abortions? I meant autopsies. These medical terms can be so confusing. Oh well, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. For the purposes of this hearing only, I will stipulate to Dr. Rey’s qualifications.”

  It was a cheap trick admittedly, but it worked. It had unsettled the doctor. From that point on he watched me like a bird might eye a prowling snake. He answered Evola’s standard questions hesitantly, since his mind was more on me than what he was saying. I objected to his conclusions that Angel had done the stabbing. Judge Mulhern sustained that objection, although he let stand Rey’s statement that murder had been the cause of death, reminding me from the bench that this was only the preliminary examination and not the trial.

  I didn’t ask Rey about the possibility of suicide. If it proved to be worth presenting I wanted to keep that for the trial itself, although I reluctantly had to remind myself that I would not be the lawyer trying the case.

  The knife was admitted into evidence with no objection from me, which seemed to surprise Evola. There was no way to keep the knife out, and I hoped to turn it to my own benefit later.

  Angel had sat behind me quietly, never asking a question. I had glanced back at her several times. It was as though she were not involved, three feet outside herself, in a world of her own. I wondered if her attitude was born of fear, or perhaps from something much more complicated.

  Evola called Detective Morgan to the stand. He was about to put the confession into evidence. I waited while he took Morgan up to the point when he had first questioned Angel.

  Show time, as they say.

  I stood up. “If the court please, I object to anything said by my client to this police officer, Mr. Evola, or any other investigator connected with this case.”

  Mulhern looked annoyed. “Why? Didn’t they read her her rights?”

  “Oh, they did, they certainly did. Over and over again.”

  “Well, then, what’s the problem?” Mulhern said.

  “The problem is they badgered this young woman for over five long hours, taking statement after statement from her. She denied stabbing her father but that wasn’t sufficient for the prosecuting attorney. He worked her over with a kind of mental rubber hose until she finally gave up and used the words he told her to say.”

  This time Evola was really angry. He was yelling and his face was flushed. For a moment I thought he was going to punch me, which would have been good for the case, but, given his size and athletic ability, very bad for me.

  “Hold it!” Mulhern cracked his gavel and glared at Mark Evola. “This isn’t a barroom. One at a time. Sloan is making an objection. When he’s done, Mr. Evola, you can have your say, not before. Sit down.”

  The judge then directed his attention to me with an equally unpleasant glare. “Save the rhetoric and make this brief.”

  “Judge, I was led to believe that only one statement was made by my client, a statement that was taken down and typed up by a stenographer. And I wouldn’t have even gotten that if you hadn’t made them give it to me. Now, I’m informed that Miss Harwell was interrogated by a number of policemen that night, by detectives Morgan and Maguire, and finally by the prosecuting attorney himself. She made several statements to the police in the presence of a stenographer. She made a videotaped statement to Mr. Evola. When she again stated her innocence, Mr. Evola persisted in questioning her off camera, and after she caved in to his suggestions, took the final statement, also videotaped, which they will now try to present to you. I object to the statement as having been given under duress. They badgered Miss Harwell over and over again for hours until she was too exhausted to think straight. The statement she gave was about as free and voluntary as those given by people having their toenails extracted. It violates every provision of due process and I object to its introduction.”

  Evola was standing only a few feet away, glaring at me.

  “Your turn,” Mulhern said to him.

  “First of all, I deeply resent the untrue and unfounded allegations made by Mr. Sloan. He has a rather odious reputation and he’s doing his best to live up to it.”

  “Come on,” Mulhern growled, “save that stuff for a jury. Get on with it.”

  “We do plan to introduce a statement made by the defendant. It is more than a mere statement, it is a confession to murder. We lid film it, so everyone can see it was made completely voluntarily and free from duress. It was made by the defendant after Saving been fully informed of every constitutional right available to her. We will show that Angel Harwell confessed to killing her lather, a murder that resulted from an earlier quarrel. We will show that she planned to kill and that it was done with premeditation and malice. We will show —”

  “Hold it,” Mulhern said. He looked over at me. “Are you planning to ask for a Walker hearing on this?”

  “If it comes to that, yes.”

  He nodded, then smiled toward the camera. “In this state, a defendant can ask for a hearing before trial to determine if
a confession was voluntarily made. It’s called a Walker hearing, and it’s held for that sole purpose.” He sounded like a TV anchorman explaining an item on the evening news.

  He again turned his attention to me. “This is not the trial, Mr. Sloan, and this is not even the Walker hearing. So, unless something else presents itself I’m going to allow this statement.”

  “But —”

  “Butts are something to stick in ashtrays, Mr. Sloan. Your objection is a bit premature anyway. I’m overruling it for the present.” He nodded to Evola. “Let’s cut to the chase. If you have something on videotape, let’s have a look at it.”

  Evola tried to set up the equipment so that the television camera could catch it but the angle wouldn’t allow it. Reluctantly, Evola had the screen set so the judge could see it. I walked up to the bench to have a look.

  As soon as it started to run, I objected again, asking that the other statements be produced, but I was quickly overruled. I think Mulhern was more curious than anything else. So was I.

  The tape had the date and time at the bottom. That would prove useful later. Taped confessions are no novelty anymore, but this one had a strange, almost eerie feeling. The camera was trained on Angel’s face, the only thing on the screen. Evola could not be seen, but his voice could be heard.

  She looked childlike, those marvelous eyes seldom blinking. If she was tired, she didn’t look it, which was unsettling. She spoke evenly, without any emotion, not robotlike, but like she were telling a story she didn’t find particularly interesting. A jury would not be very sympathetic to Angel’s cold and detached screen image.

  I objected again when Evola asked her on the tape about killing her lather. The tape was stopped while the judge heard me out. But he ruled against me and the tape continued.

  The people in the courtroom couldn’t see the screen but they could hear the questions and answers. There was a hushed quiet as everyone strained to listen.

  Finally, it was over.

  At the risk of making Mulhern angry I again asked that the statement be stricken. I talked of the hours that Angel had been held in custody, the incessant questioning, the horror of her father’s death, and the terrible effect that had upon her mental state. I did not mention her emotional illness. That card would be held until later — to be played by whomever ended up trying the case.