“We object to that,” Evola said quickly. “She should be sitting in a jail cell now. Florida is out of the question. She has money. She could leave the country. She should stay here where we can keep an eye on her.”
The judge pursed his lips, then looked at me. “Does she have a passport?”
“I’m not sure. I think she probably does.”
He nodded. “All right. She can return to her home in Florida, but no other place, until trial. However, she must turn over her passport to the sheriff before she leaves. All other conditions of bond will remain the same.”
‘Thank you, your honor,” I said.
He leaned back in his leather chair and studied the two of us for a moment. “I have a reputation for punctuality, gentlemen. It is something I insist upon. Attorneys seem to have a built-in clock that perpetually runs late. But that clock is not tolerated in my courtroom. Also, I insist on professional decorum at all times. Should there be any deviation to that rule, I shall deal with it quickly, and in a way neither of you will like very much.”
He paused. “If you have any questions before trial, feel free to contact Miss Taylor, here. Unless I note otherwise, she speaks for me in procedural matters.”
The green eyes focused on me. “I hesitate to bring this up, Mr. Sloan, at this time, but I suppose I must.”
He studied me for a moment, then continued. “The Sixth Amendment to the Constitution provides that persons accused of crime shall have the right to be represented by counsel. The courts, both federal and state, have interpreted that to mean adequate counsel. Anything less may be grounds for appeal.”
I nodded.
“This may be painful, but I must address the issue. You have had the reputation of being, how shall I say it, Mr. Sloan, a heavy drinker. I presume you agree?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic,” I said, feeling both anger and fear blossom.
He smiled, again as cold as ice. “Yes, that’s how it’s put nowadays, isn’t it? Well, let me make this absolutely clear. I don’t think people under the influence of alcohol should fly airplanes, drive cars, perform surgery, or,” he paused, “try lawsuits.”
“I don’t drink now,” I said, knowing I was coloring.
“Yes,” he said, his tone disbelieving. “However, if you did, and you tried this case, it could allow an appellate court to find that your client really wasn’t represented by adequate counsel. That is something that isn’t going to happen, Mr. Sloan.”
“I don’t understand. Are you saying I can’t defend my client?”
The eyes seemed even colder. “No. However, if you run into any of your old difficulties, or if I think you’ve been drinking, even the odor of alcohol will be sufficient, I will declare a mistrial and personally move for your disbarrment. Your client will be tried again since jeopardy under that circumstance won’t attach. However, the consequences for you will be devastating. I hope this is sufficiently clear to you?”
“I don’t drink,” I repeated.
His smile was more of a smirk. “Yes. I’m just telling you what will happen if you do.”
I could almost see the headlines.
13
JUDGE BROWN’S WARNING TO ME WASN’T THE BEST way to start the day.
Evola walked out of chambers with me, but with no show of fraternal affection. It was as if he had just learned I had a particularly loathsome disease. Polite, but no longer convivial, he moved quickly away in case what I had might be extremely contagious.
The Kerry County courthouse was relatively new and had a pod with three pay phones in the lobby, identical to the modern phone pods in most airports.
One was free. Getting Dr. Williams on the line was about as easy as getting through to the president. I went through a succession of nurses, being put on hold for a few minutes each time, which gave me some opportunity to observe my fellow telephones.
In theory, the small plastic barriers at the side of each phone provide privacy. That’s only in theory. We stood almost elbow to elbow. The caller on my right was a young man in a very expensive suit, sporting an equally expensive haircut. His gold Rolex flashed as he gestured. From his conversation I gathered he was a lawyer waiting to go to trial. He was talking to his stockbroker, demanding information and giving crisp buy and sell orders. He was oblivious of the world around him. As far as he was concerned he was the center of the universe. I saw in him an echo of what I had once been.
The other caller, a bondsman, shaped like a pumpkin and sweating like a fountain, wore an ill-fitting sports jacket over a rumpled shirt and stained tie. He was talking to someone about a customer who hadn’t shown up for sentencing. His grating voice had a singsong quality as he whined about how hard it was for an honest man to make a living anymore. I got the impression that his defaulting customer was about to find the world a very dangerous place. The bondsman was stand-up comedian and menace, mixed about half and half. He looked shabby but I figured he could probably buy and sell the kid lawyer at the other phone.
Both conversations were interesting and I almost regretted it when Bob Williams finally came on my line.
He had set everything up as I had asked. Angel was scheduled to see the clinical psychologist on Thursday. Williams had set aside an hour to talk to her on Friday morning. I thanked him for his fast action and hung up.
My partners at the pod were still at it, the bondsman complaining about the cost of doing business and the lawyer snapping commands about some obscure stock.
It was nice being back in a courthouse again. A busy courthouse has a life of its own. Like the bottom of the sea, there is always a lot going on that isn’t visible from the surface.
I was going to call and see if Angel and Robin were up yet, then I decided to just go over. My visit wasn’t social.
They were up and they weren’t alone. Apparently the atrium was the gathering spot of choice for the Harwell women. Angel and Robin were still in robes, sitting with Mary Beth Needham, the writer, who was dressed in casual jeans and a sweater. I was reminded of photos of suburban housewives sitting around morning coffee. The kind of women who might be gossiping of milkmen, but not about murder.
But there were no milkmen anymore in Pickeral Point. And they weren’t housewives.
The presence of the writer alarmed me. I had warned both Robin and Angel to avoid journalists and writers. My instructions about that were being as carefully obeyed as those about not leaving the state.
I accepted coffee, then asked if I could see Angel and Robin privately.
“Com’on, Charley,” Mary Beth Needham said. “We’re all pals here. You have nothing to fear from me. If this is off the record, my lips are sealed.”
“No offense, but a lot of lawyers prefer to see their clients alone. A little like priests and doctors.”
She didn’t appear offended. “Priests examine the soul. Doctors the body. What do you examine?”
“Evil and the appearance of evil.”
She laughed. ‘That must be fun. I’ll go, but first, I understand you talked to the trial judge this morning. Has a trial date been set?”
I nodded.
“Tell me and save me a phone call. Surely, there can be no risk in that?”
“Trial is set for August first.”
“That soon,” Robin said in surprise.
“This isn’t a big city. There are fewer cases. Besides, the judge is canceling his vacation so he can bring this to trial.”
“That’s very accommodating,” Needham said. “Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Everybody likes to be a star. The judge is retiring the end of this year, so I suppose ending his career by presiding over a nationally covered murder trial isn’t the worst way to say adieu.”
“Can we go to Florida?” Angel asked, as unconcerned as if the trial involved someone else.
“Yes. You have to surrender your passport, though.”
“Why?” Angel demanded.
“So you won’t take your trust fund
and run off to Brazil or some other place where it would be tough to get you back. It’s a standard provision in cases like this,” I said. “You do have a passport?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Then Florida will be no problem.”
“And we only have to come back for the trial?” Angel asked. I wondered if she really understood what was at stake. She seemed to regard her trial for murder as if it were some minor bureaucratic exercise. Something that really wouldn’t significantly affect her.
“You’ll have to come back for the Walker hearing. That’s set for July twenty-sixth.”
“What’s a Walker hearing?” Needham asked.
I didn’t like discussing the case with her, but it was public information so it could do no harm.
“When a defendant has made a statement that the prosecution intends to introduce at trial, the defense can ask for a separate hearing on whether that statement is admissible or not.”
“I’ve never heard of that,” Needham said.
“It’s something we have in Michigan. A few other states have similar procedures.”
“When you say statement, you really mean confession, don’t you?” Needham smiled at me with what she hoped was wide-eyed innocence.
“Look, I know this isn’t polite, but I do have to talk to my clients.”
“Do you represent both these ladies?” Needham asked, with the same pretended innocence. “I thought Angel was your client?”
“Technically, you’re right,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind ...”
Needham showed no irritation. She finished the last of her coffee, kissed both women on the cheek, promised to visit them in Florida, and then was gone.
“I thought I told you to avoid the press.” I spoke to both of them but I looked at Robin.
“Mary Beth is a friend,” she said.
“That friend intends to write a book about all of this. If it’s cutesy and bland she won’t make a cent. But if it’s packed with juicy personal tidbits, the spicy kind picked up over girl talk and coffee, the book can make her a millionaire. Friends like that you don’t need.”
Angel said nothing, just gazed out at the river and sipped her coffee.
“She’s different,” Robin said, dismissing my advice.
“There’s a lot of people sitting in jail who made the same assumption about other writers. If you must see her, at least watch what you say. She has a reputation for getting harmful admissions out of people.”
This time Robin joined Angel in staring out at the river. I wasn’t making much of a sale.
So I went on to something else. “We’ve set up the psychological tests for this Thursday, Angel. Friday morning you’ll see Doctor Williams.”
Angel looked over at Robin and cocked an eyebrow when I mentioned Friday.
“Bernard can take you,” Robin said, then looked at me. “I have to be in Detroit for a court hearing on Friday morning.”
“Oh?”
“Harrison’s sister is trying to block the sale of the boat company. Nate Golden is having her suit thrown out on Friday. He said it won’t be any problem, and Amos Gillespie asked that I be there. Amos is buying the company.”
“Why is the sister bringing legal action?” I asked.
“Oh, just to make a pest of herself,” Robin said. “She doesn’t want the boat company owned by anyone who isn’t a Harwell. That, plus she hates the idea that I’ll get any money from the sale.”
“How much will you get?”
She shrugged. “Since Harrison got the company into so much financial difficulty, not much. A little over four million.”
“Some people would think that could be defined as much.” Robin laughed. “If Harrison hadn’t become so overextended, it would have been ten or twenty times that. We’re lucky to get out with anything at all, frankly.”
“We?”
“Angel gets the same amount. We split everything equally, so Nate Golden says.”
“Under the will?”
She shook her head. “No. Actually. Harrison changed his will several months ago. It all has to do with my status as widow, something Nate called the ‘widow’s election.’ ” She looked at me. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yes. The widow is entitled to assets even if her husband cut her out of the will. You get half?”
“We agreed, Angel and I.”
I looked over at Angel. She nodded.
The amounts they spoke of made my other task a bit easier. “Speaking of money, Angel, I’m going to need some more before you take off for Florida. I had to advance ten thousand for an investigator and there’ll be some similar expenses coming up.”
“Bill me,” Angel said.
Robin smiled. “Charley will need the money up front.”
She knew I didn’t have that kind of cash.
“I’d prefer it,” I said. “It keeps things a bit more businesslike.”
Angel sighed as if an enormous task had been asked of her. “I suppose I’ll have to write a check,” she said. “How much?”
Robin looked at me. “Will another twenty thousand do it, Charley?”
I nodded. “I’m keeping track of every penny. Everything will be accounted for when this is done.”
“Write a check for that amount,” Robin said to Angel. “If you don’t have that in your account, I’ll cover it.”
Angel shrugged, stood up, and walked off. Her movements were those of an athlete — easy, powerful, and extremely sexy.
“Don’t step on your tongue,” Robin said, observing my gaze. “I thought you only looked at me like that?”
I felt myself coloring.
She laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Charley. If I were a man I’d react the same way. Angel is absolutely breathtaking.”
She paused for a moment, then spoke in a soft voice, almost a conspiratorial whisper. “What do you think these psychological tests might show?”
“I hope I can use them to show she is fragile emotionally and the strain of that night caused her to say things she didn’t mean.”
“Suppose they show something else, something worse?”
“Insanity?”
She looked out at the river. “I’m asking what you think.”
“I don’t think anything, Robin, not at this point. Those evaluations are up to the experts.”
“Experts can be wrong. Suppose she says something detrimental?”
“Fortunately, these are my experts. If I don’t like what they find, I don’t have to use it.”
“Can you do that?”
“It’s not evidence, not in the usual sense. This is being done just for my benefit. I can use it or not. So if I elect not to use it I’m not obstructing justice.”
She raised that eyebrow again. “Oh?”
“It can be a fine line, I admit, but I’m on the right side of it this time.”
She turned and studied the river, her face solemn. “Suppose the tests reveal something that might make you feel differently about her?”
“Like what?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It might be anything. Who knows? But if it was something, well, terrible, could you still defend her, knowing it?”
It was my turn to shrug. “I’ve defended child molesters, mass murderers, and pimps, Robin. I haven’t exactly been in love with any of them but I did the job I was paid to do.”
“But —”
“Attorneys have to be objective, like doctors. An appendix is an appendix. A surgeon does the best job he can no matter who the appendix belongs to. It’s the same with lawyers. No lawyer takes a case based on whether he likes the client or not.”
“A pretty speech, Charley,” she said. “Although I’m not sure anyone can be that objective about anything.”
Angel came back and handed me a check.
I tucked it away.
“Will you come to visit us in Florida?” Angel asked.
“I’m going to be pretty busy.”
Angel smi
led that odd little enigmatic smile. “You’ll come. You’ll find a reason.”
She sounded as if she really knew.
*
I HAD driven by the Harwell boat plant at least a dozen times before but I had never really looked at it. It was just another factory. But not anymore. The boat works had become very interesting.
Pickeral Creek isn’t even shown on some maps, although on others it’s designated a river. It trickles down through the farm country and drains into the big St. Clair River. Pickeral Creek is more of a ditch, at least in some places, and the only time it looks like a real river is when it floods during the spring rains. Even then it’s a kind of half-hearted flood. It’s a half-hearted river generally.
I followed the winding road that borders Pickeral Creek. Little farmhouses were scattered along it, like sentinels watching over their planted fields. Coming from town, the road turned past a heavy clump of ancient oaks, and then the sprawling boat plant came into view. looking huge and incongruous in contrast to the flat farmland surrounding it.
The modern plant building, two stories high and with few windows, seems to stretch on forever. It was surrounded by acres of parking for the workers. Sleek boats, stacked one after another, sat on caravans of trucks, waiting for shipment.
The little river delivered just enough water to supply a small manmade lake just behind the factory. The factory and all the other buildings had been painted a light industrial blue.
I parked by a sign saying VISITORS and walked into the administration building, a structure that was nearly all windows. The walls were also painted that peculiar shade of blue.
Inside, the reception area was done up in the same blue, including the modern furniture. Enlarged photos of Harwell boats took up the little wall space that wasn’t ceiling-to-floor glass.
The receptionist, a young brunette, the only thing in the room not painted blue, smiled a professional smile — wide, gleaming, and insincere.
“How may I help you?” she asked. The enamel of her teeth reflected the room’s bright lights.
“My name is Sloan,” I said. “I’m the lawyer for Angel Harwell. I’d like to look around Harrison Harwell’s office, if that’s possible.”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 20
