by Parnell Hall
“I could buy all that except for one thing,” Cora said.
“What’s that?”
“Aaron Grant. He’s a wonderful witness. He saw everything, and he’s totally unbiased. Well, at least until I’m the defendant. Then he’s out to get me.”
“Cora.”
“She tells you she burned the puzzle at the mall. She knows you don’t believe her, or at least are very skeptical, and you’re not going to let her say it on the stand. That is the time to trot out Aaron Grant. Instead of a morose, depressed lawyer fighting for every foothold, suddenly, you’re megabitch attorney, striding into court and kicking the prosecutor’s ass.”
“She didn’t remember Aaron Grant.”
“Until court broke for recess today? Give me a break.”
“She saw him in court.”
“Yeah. Up front in the press row. Where he’s been sitting every day since the beginning of her trial. She just sees him now?”
“It happens. She just happened to glance over.”
“Right. On the very day her witness is dead and her alibi falls apart. I don’t buy it. She had him in her hip pocket. He was her trump card, she was just waiting to play it. Meanwhile, she’s putzing around with her other two witnesses.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. And that’s what I can’t figure. Aaron Grant is gold. If you have him, why do you need them at all?”
“I have no idea. Maybe it will come out on the stand.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I question Aaron Grant.”
Cora sighed, shook her head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Question Aaron Grant. He’s in enough trouble at home as it is. Let him go.”
Becky stared at her. “Cora, Aaron just gave Paula Martindale her alibi. If that stands up, I don’t know if I can save you.”
“Well, don’t browbeat it out of Aaron Grant.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
“You want me to go easy on him?”
“I want you to let him go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t question him at all.”
“I can’t let his testimony stand uncontested.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“No, but—”
“There you are. He’s telling the truth. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. Nothing’s gonna make it any better.”
Cora shook her head. “Let him go.”
Chapter
57
Dinner that night was strained at best. Only Jennifer was oblivious to the tension in the air. She had had a wonderful day in preschool, painting a picture of what was either a green and yellow backhoe or a rather grotesque frog. It was almost dry when she proudly bore it home. Sherry was lucky to keep it off the seat of the car.
The meal was microwave frozen pasta. Sherry hadn’t been in the mood to cook, and no one could blame her. The tortellini weren’t bad but lacked that home-style touch.
“I think you two should get away for a little vacation,” Cora said.
Sherry’s mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I thought about kidding you; it didn’t seem like a good time.”
“Cora—” Aaron said.
“Oh, please don’t apologize again,” Cora said. “I got myself into this mess, and I’ll get myself out of it. Pass the grated cheese.”
The Parmesan was also store-bought rather than shaved Reggiano. Cora shook some out on the tortellini, considered the result, shook out a little more. “Why don’t you rent a house on the beach and take off for a week. I’m sure Jennifer would love the seashore.”
“We’re not going to go off and leave you,” Sherry said.
“Oh, please go off and leave me,” Cora said. “It’s like living in one of those depressing subtitled movies where you keep praying the projector will break down. I’m a very poor marriage counselor, even under the best of circumstances when I’m not on trial for murder.”
“You’re not helping,” Aaron said.
“Oh, you’re blaming her?” Sherry said.
“Maybe you shouldn’t come to court tomorrow,” Aaron said.
“And miss your old girlfriend tearing you to bits?” Sherry said. “Not a chance.”
“Becky wouldn’t do that,” Cora said.
“She wouldn’t do that to Aaron? Maybe you should get another lawyer.”
“I should get another plate of pasta,” Cora said.
“Getting fat will just make you depressed,” Sherry said.
“Oh? What will cheer me up?”
“Actually, you’re in an awfully good mood,” Aaron said. “What gives?”
“I’m punchy. After a while you get punchy.”
“See what you’ve done?” Sherry said.
“Aw, hell,” Cora said. Instead of getting more pasta, she put her plate in the sink and clomped down the hall to her office.
The computer was on. She had mail. Maybe it was something that would help … Only if she were embarrassed in the locker room. Cora deleted the message, scanned the recently arrived. Sherry often picked up Cora’s email to see if there were Puzzle Lady queries she needed to answer, so just because messages were marked “read” didn’t mean Cora had seen them. Today she had, and they were all about the trial. Sympathy and support was running neck and neck with how-could-you-do-such-a-thing?
Cora went across the hall, flopped down on her bed, flipped on the TV.
Rick Reed was holding forth. The last thing in the world she wanted to hear. She put the TV on Mute.
It was strange. Rick Reed looked smarter when you couldn’t hear him. A smart Rick Reed was more than she could bear. Cora zapped the sound back on.
“… a tough job,” Rick Reed said. “Becky Baldwin has to find some way to cross-examine Aaron Grant that doesn’t crucify her client. It seems an impossible task. The smart move would be to get Aaron Grant off the stand before he does any more harm. In the opinion of this reporter, she probably shouldn’t cross-examine at all.”
Cora zapped the TV to Mute again.
Waves of depression swept over her. Here she was, facing a murder conviction, and the best she could come up with was the wisdom of Rick Reed.
And yet, there was nothing else to do. Aaron Grant couldn’t help her. Every question Becky asked would only sink her more. It would cost Cora her liberty and Sherry her marriage.
Was it worth it, not to take the advice of Rick Reed?
Henry Firth’s face filled the screen. Cora could practically see his ratty nose twitching, smelling the victory. She zapped the sound on again.
“Mr. Firth,” Rick Reed said, “if you get a conviction in the Roger Martindale case, would you turn around and try Cora Felton for the murder of Luke Haslett?”
The prosecutor smiled, put up his hand. “One thing at a time, Rick. It is really premature to start talking about a murder conviction,” he said magnanimously, “when the defense has not yet begun to put on its case.”
“What defense could they possibly have?”
“I can’t speak for the defense. I can only speak for the prosecution.”
“The prosecution must be feeling pretty good right about now.”
“Two men were killed, Rick. I don’t feel good about that. But I am confident of a conviction.”
“That was Henry Firth, speaking for the prosecution in the trial of Cora Felton for the murder of Roger Martindale. The defense declined comment. Rick Reed, Channel Eight News.”
Cora muted Rick Reed again, sank into a deeper depression. She hadn’t considered being tried for the murder of Luke Haslett. That was, however, a very real possibility. She barely knew the details of the crime. She’d have to do some rather thorough investigating, and it might be difficult if she was incarcerated.
Her spiral of despair was twisting rapidly down. Ken Jessup, Luke Haslett, Aaron Grant, oblivion. Not a nice progression. Think,
you moron, she told herself.
What the hell can you possibly do?
Chapter
58
Becky Baldwin muted Rick Reed in the same place Cora had. This was not a coincidence. Muting Rick Reed was one of Becky Baldwin’s favorite occupations.
Becky got up off the couch, went to see what was in the fridge. It was not a long trip. Becky’s apartment, on the top floor of Mrs. Taggart’s house, was not extensive. It resembled an artist’s garret more than a lawyer’s apartment. The eaves made it impossible to stand upright, except in the center of the room, which was long and narrow and divided up like a railroad flat without partitions. Becky intended to move out as soon as her practice became successful.
She’d lived there for years.
The fridge was not well stocked. She found a few leaves left from a head of romaine lettuce, half a red pepper, a few radishes, and a cucumber. That would do for a salad. There was still a little left of the balsamic vinaigrette she’d made the day before. Becky took out a bowl, prepared to toss the salad. She had to keep up her strength without putting on weight. It was depressing enough barely getting by. She couldn’t bear the thought of fat and forty. Not that she was anywhere near forty, but that was something she could do nothing about. Fat, she could. Becky still looked like she’d be comfortable on a catwalk.
There was some leftover chicken. Becky cut off a couple of slices, put them on a plate with the salad, poured herself a glass of wine, and went back to eat in front of the TV.
She clicked through the schedule, scanned the evening’s programming. There was a lawyer show. Becky wasn’t up for a lawyer show. A stupid sitcom would do the trick. The ones offered were too stupid. She’d tried them before. Couldn’t stomach them, either.
Becky sighed. It was frustrating as hell. Aaron Grant gets on the witness stand, decimates her client, and she can’t do anything about it. Because her client forbade her. As if she were a small child.
Should she ignore the wishes of her client? Sure, if she wanted to be disbarred. Her client was Cora Felton. Cora was capable of standing up in court and saying, “I told you not to do that.” It would be contempt of court, but that wouldn’t stop Cora. She was facing a murder count. Would a contempt of court citation faze her?
So Becky couldn’t cross-examine Aaron, Henry Firth would go on all morning using Aaron, and by extension, Becky and Cora, as a punching bag. And she’d just have to sit there and take it.
Becky nibbled on a piece of lettuce. Tried to think of a way to change Cora’s mind. That wasn’t a very likely prospect. She’d be better off attacking the follow-up witness, which there would have to be. Just because Paula Martindale didn’t kill her husband didn’t mean Cora Felton did. Though it surely would in the minds of the jurors. And Henry Firth would drive the point home before Becky could raise reasonable doubt.
What reasonable doubt? Becky was beginning to reasonably doubt her own client. So how could she keep the jury from doing it?
That, Becky realized, was going to take a miracle.
She was sunk if she couldn’t cross-examine Aaron Grant.
The phone rang.
Becky scooped it up. Wondered what fresh hell this might be.
“Becky, it’s Cora. Remember what I said about not cross-examining Aaron Grant?”
“I know. I won’t do it.”
“Forget it. Let ’er rip.”
Chapter
59
“Mr. Grant,” Becky said, “you were in court for the testimony of Paula Martindale, were you not?”
“Yes, I was.”
“And you heard her testify about seeing you in the mall parking lot?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And was her testimony accurate? With regard to seeing you on that occasion?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Entirely accurate?”
“As far as I can recall.”
“You saw her sitting in the car?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You saw her burn something?”
“I saw her burn a paper.”
“She burned a white sheet of paper?”
“That’s right.”
“But you couldn’t see what was written on it?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“And when she burned the paper—was that the only time you saw her at the mall?”
Aaron frowned. “I don’t understand the question.”
“You stated that you went to the mall as a result of a tip, and you waited in the parking lot for as much as one to two hours. Is that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“During that time, was the only time you saw Paula Martindale when she burned the paper?”
“No, it was not.”
“You saw her sitting there before she burned the paper?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you saw her sitting there after she burned the paper?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was she there when you got there?”
“No, she arrived shortly thereafter.”
“How long after that did she burn the paper?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Was it right away?”
“No.”
“It was after some time?”
“Yes.”
“As much as an hour?”
“No.”
“Half an hour?”
“Possibly. I’m not sure.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“That’s more likely. I really couldn’t say.”
“And did she stay in the parking lot after she burned the paper?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Did she stay long?”
“‘Long’ is a relative term.”
“Well, you say. How long did she stay in the parking lot?”
“I really can’t remember.”
“As long as half an hour?”
“Possibly.”
“It might have been?”
“It might.”
“So you would put her at the mall for approximately one hour encompassing the time her husband was killed.”
Aaron took a breath. “That’s right.”
“Interesting,” Becky said. “Let me ask you this. During that sixty-some minutes that you saw the defendant, did you see the witness Luke Haslett?”
“I don’t recall seeing Luke Haslett.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Directing your attention to the time Paula Martindale burned the paper, did you see Luke Haslett walking by her car and nearly getting run over?”
“No, I did not.”
“And did you see the witness Ken Jessup?”
“I don’t recall seeing him.”
“The witness Ken Jessup said that he walked by the car and shortly thereafter drove by it, nearly running over Luke Haslett. Did you see that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“To the best of your recollection, when Paula Martindale burned the piece of paper, was there anyone else around?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I had parked my car so I had a clear, unobstructed view of the front of Walmart. I also had a clear, unobstructed view of Paula Martindale’s car, which was right in my sight line.”
“Was there anything else in your sight line when you saw her burn the paper?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw it clearly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grant. No further questions.”
“Any redirect, Mr. Firth?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Very well, the witness is excused. Call your next witness.”
Cora Felton stood up. “Before he does, Your Honor, I wonder if we could have a brief recess. I’d like to talk plea bargain.”
There was a stunned silence in the courtroom.
Judge Hobbs’s mouth fell open. He recovered, banged the gavel. “Miss Felton, you are out of o
rder. Counselor, could you please control your client!”
“I can try, Your Honor.”
There was a ripple of amusement in the courtroom.
“Ms. Baldwin, this is not a laughing matter. Your client has just made a particularly inappropriate remark in open court in the presence of the jury.
“Miss Felton, you are risking a contempt of court citation.”
Cora shrugged. “How much trouble can I be in, Your Honor? I’m already on trial for murder. Contempt of court is a parking ticket.”
“It’s a one-thousand-dollar parking ticket, and you just earned it. Counselor, control your client.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Sit down, Cora.”
“Court is in recess for half an hour. Rein in your client, Ms. Baldwin, or the rest of this trial will take place in her absence.”
With that, Judge Hobbs strode from the courtroom.
Chapter
60
Henry Firth had the smug assurance of a winner. “I’m genuinely sorry you’re guilty,” he said, “but I’m glad you decided to plea-bargain. I think in light of your cooperation, I can probably persuade Judge Hobbs to make that contempt citation go away.”
“That’s nice of you, Henry,” Cora said.
Becky let out a relieved sigh. She’d been afraid Cora was going to call him Ratface.
“So, Becky, what’s your offer?”
“So familiar, Henry,” Cora said. “People will think you two are dating.”
Becky turned to Cora. “If you spread any more rumors about me…”
“Spread? What do you mean, spread? It’s just the three of us here.”
“Don’t play innocent with me. I know what you’re capable of.”
“Becky, this is neither the time nor the place.”
“Has that ever stopped you before?”
“Must you make a scene in front of Henry Firth?”
“Must I make a scene?” Becky said. “You know, the last time you started rumors about me having an affair with Barney Nathan, it was to cover up the fact you were having an affair with Barney Nathan. Can I assume you’re having an affair with Henry Firth?”
“Becky. Henry Firth is married.”
“So was Barney Nathan.”
“He still is. I’m not necessarily a deal breaker.”
