Summer was slow. The diplomats and generals were all on vacation. A nice juicy murder trial was the answer to a network news-hawk’s prayer.
I was already on the bad side of Judge Theodore Brown, so I continued to duck requests for interviews to avoid incurring further displeasure.
But Mark Evola felt no such restrictions. It was becoming difficult to find a newspaper or magazine that didn’t have an article about him and his view of the legal system. If he was spending any time preparing for trial it wasn’t apparent. He was digging into the publicity hill like a miner who had discovered gold but knew it wouldn’t last forever.
I hadn’t been ignored. A television camera crew had taken footage of the outside of my office while a reporter talked into a microphone. They were nervy people, coming up the stairs and trying to push their way in and force an impromptu interview.
I stayed in my inner office while Donna repulsed the invaders. She was polite but firm. I was impressed.
The telephone messages were becoming numerous, piling up until they were thick as a book. I called my other clients back. I suspected that most of the calls were just people who needed to become a small part of the Harwell circus. Something to tell relatives and friends — “I just talked to my lawyer, he’s Angel Harwell’s lawyer, you know” — a chance to shine in a vicarious spotlight.
I did return one telephone call from Dan Conroy, my friend on the Detroit News.
We went through the usual little conversational dance, exchanging jokes and barbs, then Conroy got down to business.
“I’ve done a personality profile on you, Charley. The paper wants to run it tomorrow.”
“What do you mean, profile? You didn’t interview me.”
“No, not formally. This is just a little biography. My editor wants to get a picture. We have some shots from the last hearing when you got the charge reduced, but he wants one, a studio head-shot, to match the one we have of your opponent.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We’re going to make this a full-page thing. One side a picture of Evola and a matching article, the other side you and the piece I’ve done.”
“Dan, can you hold it off? Tomorrow is Tuesday. The Walker hearing’s scheduled for Wednesday. This judge is the kind who only likes publicity about himself. He might get sore.”
“So what?”
“I have a client to protect.”
“You’re news, Charley. You have to get used to that. Sorry, but my editors are hot to run this.”
“How about making it a three-way thing, Dan. Give the judge a picture and an article. That would take the sting out.”
“The page is all laid out, Charley. What about the picture? I can have one of our photographers there in an hour.”
“No dice.”
There was a pause. Then a chuckle. “By the way, Evola isn’t so shy. He did give an interview. He said some interesting things about you.”
“Like what?”
“Well, in fairness, I sort of baited him into what he said.”
“Go on.”
“He said you have a reputation as a trickster. He expects you to try a dozen different underhanded things to try to win.”
“Dan, are you trying to bait me into replying?”
“A little, yeah. What about the trickster business?”
“I’m not going to reply. What did he say? Exactly?”
“Don’t be cheap. Buy a paper tomorrow and read it for yourself. Oh, by the way, I think I did pretty good by you. There’s a couple of things in the article you won’t like, but overall it’s not bad.”
He paused. When he spoke again his tone had changed. It seemed to have an almost wistful quality. “Charley, I know you’ve been through a lot. Maybe this time your luck will change. Anyway, I want you to know I’ll be rooting for you.” Then, slightly softer, “no matter that happens.”
He hung up before I could ask what he meant.
It was getting late. Angel and Robin should have arrived so I called the Harwell place.
Dennis Bernard answered. ‘They’re not here,” he said when I asked.
“What do you mean? Didn’t you pick them up at the airport?”
“Mrs. Harwell called. She was concerned about the media people. They’re such pests. She thought they might even have found out what flight they’d be on. So she changed her plans.”
“What!”
“Mr. Sloan, we are under a state of siege here again. Those television people are waiting out in the street, just like before. The Harwell plant security people are back, too.”
“Where are Mrs. Harwell and Robin?”
“I really don’t know. They may fly in tonight, perhaps tomorrow. I suspect they’re staying the night in Atlanta. That’s where they were to change planes.”
“C’mon, Bernard. Don’t give me that crap. Where are they?”
I tried not to be angry, but I was. Very angry.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sloan. I swear to you, this time I haven’t the foggiest idea where they might be.”
I thought he was lying, but if he was, he was doing a very credible job.
And, there was no point in shouting at him. He was only the messenger.
“Bernard, do these women know what will happen if they fail to show up?”
“I presume they do, sir.”
There was no point to continuing. “Look, if they call in, or if you should know where they are, tell them I have to talk with them immediately. You have my home phone number?”
“Yes, sir.” Then he added. “Don’t worry, Mr. Sloan, they’ll be here.”
“I’m not the one whose being charged with murder, Bernard. Angel should be the one who is worried. Not me.”
I hung up. So much for careful planning.
I thought about the pint of brandy in the desk. I got out of there before I did something about it.
22
I FOUND IT REMARKABLE. THE ANGER SMOLDERING in me somehow replaced the usual urge to drink when I felt stressed. Tuesday morning came and went and they still hadn’t shown up.
Dr. Henry Foreman was staying at the Pickeral Point Inn, waiting to interview Angel. I kept him advised of the situation. He didn’t seem upset in the least. Of course, his career wasn’t at risk.
If Angel didn’t show up, Judge Brown wouldn’t just raise hell, he would demand a human sacrifice. Someone would have to be punished, and I knew just who that someone would be.
Ever since I was little boy, when things got really nasty in my life my favorite fantasy was always one of escape.
I sat in my office and stared out at the river. There wasn’t a great deal of money left in my account, not after paying out all the expenses and front money required by the experts, but there was enough to buy a one-way ticket to some faraway place, maybe Mexico. There was still enough to live modestly there for at least a couple of months. I could almost conjure up a quiet beach, tropic skies, and the tangy taste of tequila. But drinking fantasies are dangerous for alcoholics; they tend to come true. I changed that part of my daydream to a soft drink.
Reality has no part in a pleasant fantasy. The dream of escape withered and died.
As usual, Donna, my secretary, had departed at noon. A few minutes before one o’clock the phone rang.
It was Dennis Bernard.
“Mrs. Harwell just called,” he said. “They did stay overnight in Atlanta.”
“Where are they now?”
“At Metro. They just arrived.”
“Detroit? Both of them?”
“Yes.”
I felt my muscles relax. I hadn’t realized how tense I had become.
“Are you going to pick them up, Bernard?”
“No. Mrs. Harwell thought the newspaper people might follow me. They’ll come by cab. I would think they’d be here in an hour or so.”
“I’ll get Dr. Foreman. We’ll be over there before they arrive.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Sloan. They may be tired from
the trip. Perhaps you should let them call you.”
“Bernard, if we don’t take care of business, Angel will get a really nice rest in a place with bars and guards. I’ll be there in an hour.”
There was a pause. “As you wish,” he said, his tone disapproving.
I hung up. Relief replaced anger. It was like getting a last-minute reprieve. Mexico would have to wait.
*
IT had been an anxiety-producing evening, but only for me. Before coming home Robin and Angel had stopped off to do some shopping. For someone who threatened to do away with herself if convicted, Angel wasn’t exhibiting much heart-stopping fear over what might happen to her in court.
After they finally arrived, I sat through Angel’s session with Dr. Foreman. At first Angel seemed almost amused, but that eventually slipped into boredom. By the time they were through, Angel’s hostility was overt, her clipped answers icy and arrogant. The doctor, although straining to keep a cool professional attitude, finally reacted, and his questions were beginning to sound hostile too when he finally called it quits.
“Interesting piece of work, that,” he said of Angel as I walked him out.
“Well, besides not falling madly in love with her, what is your assessment?”
He smiled. “Doctor Williams is quite right in his diagnosis. She suffers from a pronounced personality disorder. I would classify it as mixed, several types of disorders manifesting various levels of problems.”
“If I put you on the stand tomorrow, what can I expect?”
“I trust you observed her low tolerance for interrogation? It would have been the same that night with the police. They only had to keep at it. Although she might not show it, eventually she’d become annoyed and say anything to get it all over with, no matter what the consequences might be for her. That kind of thoughtless and irresponsible behavior is often a hallmark of a personality disorder.”
“Was she insane when they questioned her?”
“No. She knew what she was doing. The problem is that because of the disorder, her way of responding is different than normal. But she would think her response logical even if it obviously wasn’t.”
“If the prosecutor asks you —”
He held up his hand. “Please, Mr. Sloan. This is my line of work, isn’t it? Have no fear. In my opinion the statement she gave that night was not voluntary. Believe me, I can make that stick.” He paused. “Are you planning to put her on the stand?”
“No.”
“Very wise. A person like Angel is liable to say anything if she thinks it will serve the purpose of the moment. She is a bit too erratic to be reliable.”
Dennis Bernard drove the doctor back to the Inn. I spent what remained of the evening in an attempt to instruct Angel and Robin on the proper way to act in the courtroom and in public.
They remained as cool as the ice cubes in their drinks. Angel’s attitude would have been more appropriate if she’d only been a spectator. It was as if what was going to happen in the morning had no connection with their lives.
Back at my apartment, my mind filled with the terrible things that might happen in the morning. High overhead, heat lightning caused distant rumbling thunder, echoing the Japanese funeral music that kept replaying in my memory.
*
I PUSHED my way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen waiting outside the courthouse and through another mass of newspeople in the hall and made my way to Judge Brown’s second-floor courtroom.
Every seat was filled. People were talking and laughing like an audience waiting for the opening of a play. Actually, that wasn’t far off the mark. An American criminal trial usually includes all the dramatic elements — love, hate, lust, greed, good versus evil. It’s a flesh-and-blood movie with everything except the popcorn.
Angel and Robin had not yet arrived. I tried not to think about that.
But Evola was there, surrounded with several of his assistants and the policemen who would testify. For the first time since the case had begun I thought he looked nervous. I found that reassuring.
He had cause to worry. If I was successful and the statement was thrown out, Evola’s chance of success would be considerably diminished. And if he lost this case his dream of a golden political future would sink right along with it.
If I lost, it would be even worse for me. Not to mention Angel.
Today was going to be a big day for everybody.
I walked over. Morgan and Maguire smiled. There was no nervousness evident in either veteran policeman. They reminded me of two tigers who were about to feast on a fat antelope.
“Good morning, Charley.” This time Evola’s smile was only at half power. “Are you ready to go?”
“You bet,” I said. “I will be calling several doctors to give opinions on my client’s mental state the night she was arrested.” I took the copies I had made of Angel’s medical records from my briefcase and handed them to him. “These are reports of previous treatment and the psychological tests done in preparation for this hearing.”
“Jesus Christ,” he snarled. “These things are as thick as a book. What the hell is this? We don’t have time to look through all this now. What kind of bullshit is this! I’m going to object if you try to introduce any of this crap.”
I was pleased that he was as jumpy as I was. It made me feel much better.
“Relax, Mark. This is part of what the doctors used to form their opinions. I’m not offering any of it as an exhibit. I just thought it should be available to you. In fairness.”
“Fairness, my ass! If you wanted to be fair you could have gotten this to us days ago, and you know it. I don’t like this, Charley, not a bit.”
“It’s a hell of a lot more honest than trying to conceal the other statements my client made. Where are they? You have a hell of a nerve yelling about being fair. I want those statements, Mark, and I want them now.”
I preferred being angry to being nervous. It felt better.
“I’m not concealing anything,” he said, his irritation evaporating before my anger. “They weren’t kept. It’s as simple that, Charley.”
“Simple? We’ll see how simple it is.” I walked away.
There was a rising ripple of noise as the court officers escorted Robin and Angel into the courtroom. Robin took a front-row seat. I was annoyed to see Nate Golden with her. His glance at me was the kind you might see at executions — stern, cold, and unforgiving.
Angel came up and sat behind me at the counsel table.
“Glad you could make it,” I whispered.
She stared at me with those expressionless eyes, then she spoke. “You worry too much, Charley.”
The clerk rapped the gavel and Judge Theodore Brown came stalking from his chambers, his black robe fluttering as he quickly moved up to the bench.
“This matter is a Walker hearing into the admissibility of a statement made by the defendant Angel Harwell, which the prosecution plans to offer as part of their main case.” Judge Brown snapped the words with such staccato force that the courtroom was cowed into complete silence. That seemed to please him. He almost smiled.
“Okay, let’s get this over with. Mr. Sloan, you’re the one making the objection. What’s your position?”
I glanced at Angel. She looked back, displaying only mild interest. I wished I could look as calm and self-controlled.
I got up and walked to a point just in front of the bench. The words came surprisingly easily. I was making two arguments, one to the judge, and the other to the media. Same words, different targets. I couldn’t see how it was affecting the reporters present but I was looking right up at the judge. His was the standard stern judicial mask employed in such situations.
I didn’t do badly. In fact, I thought any reasonable person listening would have to agree with what I said. And maybe that would have been true if it had ended right there.
But then Evola got his turn to speak. Unfortunately, he didn’t do badly either.
So it would
be up to the witnesses.
The first four were easy enough for both sides. They were the two uniformed Pickeral Point cops and the two uniformed Kerry County officers.
Evola dwelled on the fact that Angel had been given her rights every time the officers talked to her. I made sure each witness established how long Angel had been held and questioned before her alleged confession, but my main emphasis was that she had not even hinted to any of the officers that she had been responsible for her father’s death. Each cop, when he was excused, almost skipped out of the courtroom in exaltation. Traffic cases they knew, murder cases they didn’t.
The prosecutor called Morgan first. Evola’s nervousness had departed, and he seemed to draw emotional strength with each succeeding witness. Morgan sat in the witness chair, as saintly and good as anyone’s benign grandfather. But I saw those tiger eyes and I knew he was waiting for me to make some small misjudgment, just enough to let him quickly snake in something poisonous.
So I was very careful. I worded my questions so tightly that it would have been impossible to slip anything extra into the answer. I asked him for his notes, the ones made when Angel gave her first statement.
“I didn’t keep them.” He spoke with quiet assurance.
“But you did make notes of what she said, correct?”
“Yes, but I —”
“Just answer the question please,” I said quickly. “What happened to those notes?”
“I destroyed them.”
“Did you burn them?”
“No.”
“Did you give them to someone else to destroy?”
“I tore them up and threw them in a wastepaper basket.”
“Why?”
God! As soon as I had blurted out that one-word question I knew I had given him his opening.
“After she confessed to murdering her father, I didn’t need them anymore.”
Morgan’s face remained calm and kindly, but those tiger eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
I knew that if I tried to repair it, Morgan would use the attempt to chew some more with those tiger jaws, so I ignored it and kept after him about the number of statements Angel had given that night, taking him minute by minute through each of the interrogations.
Shadow of A Doubt Page 33
