“You have to look at things from the viewpoint of the jury,” I said. “They’ll tend to credit what they saw on that videotape, unless we give them a reason not to. Our experts should provide that, give them a basis for suspecting that maybe the statement was made under duress. But everything hangs on the question of suicide. If the jury accepts even the possibility of suicide, they’ll be convinced the statement was forced by an ambitious prosecutor. It’s kind of a one-two punch.”
That seemed to catch Angel’s interest. “Do you think they’ll do that, accept the death as a suicide?”
“We’re going to present a strong case, Angel. If they aren’t totally convinced, the shadow of a doubt should be sufficient.”
“Let me freshen that for you, Charley.” Robin took my glass and walked the length of the room to the small bar at the other end.
“Suicide and a forced statement.” Angel spoke as if she was talking about someone else’s case. “It sounds too simple to me. If I were a juror, I’d be suspicious of anything so basic.”
“Believe me, the less complicated the better. A jury becomes a kind of basic beast, even if it’s made up of twelve Albert Einsteins. There’s a chemistry that takes place, a sort of meltdown into a single primitive intelligence that demands things be kept simple. Trial lawyers know that. One basic idea, well pitched, over and over, is the most effective tactic there is.” I took the orange juice from Robin and slugged half of it down.
“Unfortunately, Evola knows that, too. He’s been doing a good job keeping things very basic. So will we. We don’t have to prove it was suicide, we just have to show that it might have been. If we do that, we win.”
I was beginning to feel relaxed, comfortable. It was peaceful here, sitting and watching the river.
Then Mary Beth Needham came to call.
Angel got me another orange juice and I tried to find a politic way to caution Robin and Angel to watch what they said in front of Needham, since she was now sitting next to me.
But I really didn’t have to worry. Oddly, the little blonde writer chose not to talk about the case itself. She dished up some juicy tidbits she had dug up about Mark Evola’s private life. I already knew about that but she presented everything in a witty, bitchy way that amused me.
I realized I was getting drunk along about the fourth glass of orange juice.
“Robin, what’s in this?” I held up the nearly empty glass.
“A little vodka, Charley. You knew that. You needed something to relax you. We don’t want our lord protector having a nervous breakdown in the middle of the trial. It won’t hurt, Charley. Just this once.”
I hadn’t tasted it, I thought, but maybe I did. But whether I knew or not, I liked the feeling. Hell, I loved the feeling. I felt better than I had since the case began, perhaps a lot longer than that.
I looked at my glass. “You might be right.”
Mary Beth Needham frowned. “Charley, this isn’t such a good idea, drinking.”
I shrugged. “I’ve had more vodka in my time than Stalin. A couple more won’t hurt.”
“We can have a nice little party,” Robin said, taking my glass again for a refill.
“But I have to get going soon,” I said. “Big day tomorrow.”
I saw the alarm in Needham’s eyes. I was so happy, I wondered why she wasn’t. Everything was just swell.
“Charley,” she said, her voice low and urgent, “you’re an alcoholic. You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Listen, I —” My words came out slightly slurred.
I stood up, and to my surprise found my balance wasn’t quite right.
“I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll drive you, Charley,” Needham said.
I shook my head. “No. Thanks.”
“You shouldn’t drive.” Her voice was strained.
I waved as I weaved my way out. “I’m not going to drive. I’m going to walk.”
*
IT was dark out when I left the Harwell house. My car was there. The keys were in it — no thief in his right mind would steal it. I felt pretty good. I reconsidered my decision not to drive. I’d just motor over to some quaint local bar, have a nightcap, and then get a good night’s sleep.
Besides, I argued with myself, the media folks were probably still waiting out at the entrance. If I walked they would insist on getting a statement. Also, my apartment was two miles away. It would be inconvenient to walk.
But I was still unsteady and I wondered just how much vodka I had consumed. Probably not much, but my body wasn’t accustomed to alcohol anymore.
I looked at my old Ford. Suddenly it seemed to be a symbol for what had become of my life. I wanted another drink, very badly, but I no longer wanted to be like my car, a rusting wreck, barely functioning, noticed by no one. So I went on walking.
The guards at the entrance were surprised to see me.
“Walking is good for the mind,” I said, answering the question before it was asked. “Where is everybody?”
There were no television trucks, no cars full of reporters.
“They took off. I guess they figured the show was over for the night. You okay, Mr. Sloan?”
“Never better. Good night.”
I walked along the shoulder of the road. It was dark and it was dangerous. The road consisted of two narrow lanes, and despite that, cars whizzed by like racers heading for the checkered flag. The side of the road was rough gravel. I stumbled several times, tripping on small rocks.
The lore of Alcoholics Anonymous is full of horror stories of men and women who take that one unsuspecting sip of alcohol and find themselves seized by an uncontrollable urge to drink, followed by a downward spiral into degradation. In A.A., they called it a slip. I wasn’t like that. No, I wanted to continue drinking, but it was only for the relaxation of it, for the companionship of fellow drinkers, for the ease provided by a few civilized cocktails.
Sure.
I was walking faster, trying to breathe deeply and force my body to throw off the effect of the vodka. I stumbled again and almost fell.
And it was then that the scout car pulled up behind me.
There was an officer behind the flashlight but I couldn’t make out his face behind the light.
“Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, trying not to slur my words. “I’m just taking a little walk.”
“You’re Mr. Sloan, the lawyer, right?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
“Have you been drinking a bit, Mr. Sloan?”
“No.”
“It’s dangerous out here, Mr. Sloan. There isn’t much room between you and the traffic. How about we drive you home?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Why don’t we give you a lift anyway? We don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m just walking to help me think. I’m trying the Harwell murder case and tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Sloan. But you can’t try it if you’re an asphalt pancake, can you? Come on, get in the car. We’ll take you home.”
They were both young and respectful. They took me to my apartment and waited until they saw me go in.
The sense of elation the vodka had inspired had passed and now the dark cloud of depression began to descend.
Along with the depression came the fear.
I fixed a frozen dinner in the microwave, hoping food might help counter the effects of the vodka.
A frozen dinner fixed in the microwave is no big deal, so I gulped it down. After I did that, I just sat there, staring at the little plastic plate.
It was garbage now. Just something to be tossed away.
Like me, maybe.
And then I cried.
*
IT WAS mild, but it had been so long that I had forgotten what a hangover was like. I had forgotten the nasty ache behind the eyes, the nausea, the dry mouth. W. C. Fields, a gin addict, said he felt sorry for nondrinkers because when they woke up
in the morning that was as good as they were going to feel for the rest of the day.
I would feel better later, I knew that from experience.
Someone had returned my car to my apartment. I presumed it was Bernard. I drove to the courthouse.
“The judge wants to see you,” The clerk said as soon as I had pushed my way through the mob clustered at the back of the courtroom. “Just you.”
I followed him into the judge’s chambers. Judge Brown was already in his robe, seated behind his desk. The clerk left us alone.
“Sloan, I believe I told you my views on drunks and what would happen if you started drinking during the course of this trial?”
“Yes.”
I was standing. He looked up at me over the rim of his little half glasses. “The police arrested you last night for being drunk.”
“No.”
“I’ve been told they did.”
“I wasn’t arrested.”
“But you were drinking?”
“No.”
He stared at me. “All drunks are liars. I presume you know that?”
I tried to smile. I hope the expression didn’t look as forced as it felt. “I’ve known a few who bent the truth now and then.”
“I’ve requested information from the police on this incident,” he said. “If you were drunk I’ll declare a mistrial on the basis that Angel Harwell isn’t getting adequate legal representation.”
“If you do that, jeopardy will have attached and she can’t be tried again. As you know.”
His mouth had become a short angry line. “You’re wrong. A defendant is entitled to adequate counsel under the Sixth Amendment of the Constitution. If you had a heart attack or some other physical disability and couldn’t continue there’d be no problem with trying the case again.”
“That’s different.”
“I don’t think so. A drunk lawyer is at least as dangerous as a sick one.”
“Judge —”
“I’ll have the. police report later today and I will use it, Mr. Sloan, either when this case is done or when I feel I must remove you.” He paused. “I’m not your enemy, Mr. Sloan. You are.”
He looked down at some papers in front of him. “I know about drunks, Sloan. My father was a drunk. I hate drunks. They ruin everything they touch.” His eyes remained fixed on the papers before him. “That’s not going to happen here, I assure you. Now, get out.”
Evola came forward as I came out of chambers.
“What was that all about?” He was concerned. In an ongoing trial it was most unusual for a judge to talk to one of the attorneys alone.
“I bribed the judge,” I said. “Maybe if you go in there fast he’ll split with you.”
Evola hadn’t been smiling much, but this time his grin looked genuine.
“You better bribe the jury too, Charley, because otherwise I’m going to beat your ass.”
Angel had come in and was seated at the counsel table. Robin was in the first row, as usual, but this time Nate Golden wasn’t with her. I didn’t know if that was bad or good.
“Mark, are you about ready to rest your case?” I asked.
“Yes, but we can’t find Theresa Hernandez,” he said. “We’ve tried everything. The Puerto Rico police even tried to find her for us. She’s taken off.”
“Come on, Mark, it’s your duty to produce all the res gestae witnesses. I’ll raise hell about it on the record if you don’t.”
“Morgan thinks you’re responsible, Charley. Little Theresa would have hurt you pretty bad. Morgan thinks you’ve got her hidden away somewhere so she can’t testify.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know it, Charley. Morgan says you used to have a reputation for this sort of thing. He said you were known in the Detroit courts as a trickster. True?”
“I’ve never hid a witness, then or now. I’m going to raise hell that the girl isn’t here.”
I was, but only for show. I was absolutely delighted she wasn’t. Theresa could have brought the whole case crashing around us. I suspected that Robin had a hand in helping her disappear, but I didn’t know that and I didn’t want to know.
“There are two res gestae witnesses, Charley. There’s Robin Harwell, too.”
“I thought you weren’t going call her? I told you I’d waive on her.”
“That was then, Charley. This is now. Maybe Mrs. Harwell can throw a little light on the father-daughter relationship, you think? Maybe she even knows how her husband came by that scar on his arm.”
His smile was still there, but it had become challenging.
“Suppose I waive on both?”
“Sorry, Charley.”
I walked back to the counsel table. Angel looked up at me.
“That was a terrible thing you did last night,” I said.
“It relaxed you,” she said calmly. “You liked it.”
She watched Evola walk toward the front of the courtroom. “What happens now?”
“He’s going to call Robin,” I said. “He’ll try to use her to get in the Florida stabbing.”
“Can he do that?”
“Maybe. I’ll do my best to keep it out.”
The courtroom whispers rose excitedly as Evola called Robin Harwell to the witness stand. She looked terrific, a nicely dressed, very attractive woman, a lady in every way.
She was sworn and then sat down. I noticed that Evola was listening to Morgan’s intense whispers. Morgan had that tiger look again.
“What is your name please?” Evola asked.
“Robin Harwell.”
“And you are the widow of Harrison Harwell?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Harwell, I realize that all this is extremely painful but I shall be asking you questions about your late husband that are not intended to be embarrassing, but are merely an effort to get to the truth.”
I jumped up. “That’s a speech, not a question. I object.”
“Sustained,” the judge said, sounding bored.
“Mrs. Harwell, were you at home here in Pickeral Point the night that your husband died?”
She paused, then spoke in a soft but firm voice. “I respectfully refuse to answer that question on constitutional grounds.”
I thought I had imagined the answer.
“Pardon me?” Evola was as surprised as I was, and showed it. Robin looked determined. “I said that on advice of counsel, I respectfully refuse to answer your question on the grounds that it may tend to degrade or incriminate me. I’m invoking the protections of the Fifth Amendment.”
I was stunned, and so was everyone else. I looked at Robin. For an instant I vividly recalled the image of the young girl I had loved as a kid. But I also recalled the woman who had made such passionate animal love the night before her husband’s funeral. This seemed to be still another, different woman.
Evola was red-faced and shouting. “This is a rotten, underhanded attempt to mislead the jury, nothing else.”
I thought he might physically attack me, but he pointed. “And this miserable excuse for a lawyer knows it! I demand —”
The judge’s gavel cracked like a rifle shot. “The jury is excused,” he said, his voice low and angry. “And the jury will disregard everything they just heard.”
They seemed slow to troop out, disappointed they weren’t going to be able see what was about to happen. No one moved or spoke until the jury was gone.
Then Judge Brown looked at me, gesturing with the gavel still in his hand.
“Mr. Sloan, this appears to be an extremely serious breach of ethics. There is no possible way you could be unaware of that.”
“I had no idea that Mrs. Harwell would claim constitutional privilege,” I said. “I offered to waive her production as a res gestae witness.”
‘That’s was a fake,” Evola exclaimed. “He planned this whole drama.”
“What did you expect to do, Mr. Sloan?” The judge’s voice was full of anger. “Ask h
er if she killed her husband and have her then plead the Fifth Amendment? Did you possibly think I’d allow you to mislead the jury with a slimy trick like that?”
“I assure you I had nothing of the sort in mind.”
He didn’t have to call me a liar. His eyes did that.
“The judge looked at Robin. “Mrs. Harwell, you said you were refusing on the advice of counsel. Did Mr. Sloan so advise you?”
It was like being beneath the guillotine, waiting for the fatal blade to drop. If Robin answered yes, the judge would declare a mistrial and throw me in jail for a couple of months, something he would easily be able to make stick. Obstruction of justice and contempt of court for starters. When I came out I would no longer be a lawyer. Nate Golden would see to that.
Robin turned to the judge. “I respectfully decline to answer that on the same constitutional grounds.”
I felt faint. I had escaped the blade. I was in trouble, but I wasn’t dead. Not yet.
“Mrs. Harwell,” the judge continued in a surprisingly gentle tone. “The constitutional privilege against self-incrimination extends only to yourself. If your refusal is for your own protection, that’s one thing. However, if the refusal is designed to protect someone else, that’s another. For instance, you cannot refuse to answer if it’s to protect the defendant, your stepdaughter. You can only refuse for your own protection. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“And is this for your own protection?”
If a pin dropped it would have sounded like thunder — the courtroom was that quiet.
She looked straight ahead. “I respectfully refuse to answer on the grounds that —”
“That’s enough,” the judge snapped. “Get her out of here.”
Robin left the stand. But the judge wasn’t through.
“I will take all of this under advisement, Mr. Sloan. When this trial is concluded, I will decide then what to do about you.”
“He’s poisoned this trial,” Evola almost yelled. “The jury knows what the Fifth Amendment means. They’ve seen this kind of thing on television. They’ll think Robin Harwell is the murderer. That’s why Sloan staged this whole thing. This is nothing but a rotten underhanded trick to create the fiction that someone else committed the murder. It is something that can’t be cured.”
Shadow of A Doubt Page 38
