He gave me the autopsy report without the slightest hesitancy.
Dr. Clyde Anderson had a national reputation. He was a fair-minded man as well as being a good pathologist. I read the report carefully, including the toxology reports concerning the blood levels. I had had a master’s course in the first Stewart trial, and it paid off now. I understood almost everything in the report, including the basis for the finding of felonious homicide.
“Pretty bad for your side,” Rand said.
“More or less. Who do you plan on calling as witnesses tomorrow?”
“The deputy who went out to the Cronin place. The private duty nurse who was there when Stewart killed him.”
“Did she see it done?”
“No. Your man isn’t stupid. He said he’d look after Cronin while she took a coffee break. But she can testify to the old man being alive when your man came into the room, and being very dead shortly thereafter.” Despite himself, he allowed a grin.
“Who else?”
“The treating physician.”
“Why?”
“Again, to show Sean Cronin’s condition before your man arrived.”
“When did this treating physician last see the patient?”
“That morning. That was before Stewart arrived.”
“Anybody else?”
Now he seemed distressed. “I suppose I have to call Miss Donna. She was there in the doorway when Stewart gave him the deadly dose.”
“You suppose?”
He smiled sadly. “She’s such a nice lady, I hate to put her through all this. But I guess there’s no other way.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, for the examination anyway. I might add some witnesses when we go to trial on this thing.”
“So you think you’ll win tomorrow?”
“Pride goeth before a fall, I know that. But if you can get this guy off tomorrow, Charley, I’ll shave my head and follow you around as your first disciple.”
“Only if you wear a saffron robe. What’s the name of the treating physician?”
“Dr. Kim S. A. Kim. Everybody up here calls him Sam. He’s the only doctor we’ve got. A little Korean guy, but everybody loves him.”
“I want to talk to Donna Cronin.”
He frowned. “Do you have to?”
I nodded. “That a problem?”
“Well, a little maybe. She may look ferocious, but she’s as shy and frightened as a barn owl.”
“In that case, come with me.”
“To keep you honest?”
“That, too, but also maybe to help ease her anxiety.”
Eddie nodded slowly. “Do they do this sort of thing in the big city? You know, the prosecutor and the defense lawyer both interview the witnesses?”
“Sometimes.”
“Okay, I’ll call out there and let them know we’re coming.”
We drove in Eddie Rand’s car, a Chevy sports model with racy lines and a motor that seemed to plead for exercise. It was a hunter’s car, but only for two-legged game.
“You got to understand about the Cronin girls,” he said as we sped along a dusty country road. “They’re well liked up here. They aren’t what you’d call pretty.” He sighed. “They have the bodies of linebackers and the faces of bulldogs, frankly, but you won’t find two nicer people. They contribute to everything, and not just a little. And they make pies and cakes for community things. They usually don’t come. Too shy. If somebody gets sick or dies, they always send something over. Around here, they’re considered minor-league saints.”
“How about their father?”
“The opposite. A mean old bastard who didn’t care a fig about this place. His girls doted on him, waited on him hand and foot. The people up here felt sorry for the daughters,”
“So, no big turnout for the funeral then?”
He shook his head. “Huge. But everybody came out for Doreen and Donna’s sake, not for his.”
He nodded. “We’re coming up now on the local gold coast.”
I could see large Victorian homes set along a high ridge. Plenty of room between them, there they sat, separately, like decorative and elegant castles.
“Most of the owners only come up in the summer,” Eddie said, “but the Cronins live here year-round. Like I say, they’re very much a part of our community.”
“Is that why you haven’t charged Doreen Cronin with murder?”
He looked at me sharply, this time I saw nothing friendly. “Sloan, we’re getting along real well here. There’s no reason to bring that up.”
“If things happened the way you say they did, Doreen contracted for her father’s murder and paid for it. If that isn’t murder, I don’t know what is. Conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder. There are a barrel of charges to be brought.”
“Are you going to bring this up in court?”
“Eddie, I’m the defense lawyer, remember? You can’t have selective enforcement. Sure I’ll bring it up. If not at the examination, then certainly at the trial. Anything less would be malpractice.”
He looked troubled as he turned the car onto a paved road that led to the old wooden palaces.
“I suppose it’s one of those bridges I’ll have to cross when I get there.”
“So you’re not going to charge her?”
He smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “If I did, the people up here would lynch me.”
He pulled into the driveway of one of the palaces, joining a number of other cars.
“This is it. I wonder what’s going on?”
Reggie O’Malley and his cameraman were standing at the door. O’Malley was banging a slow cadence against the wood with his fist. The cameraman stood by at the ready. Several other people were nearby. I didn’t recognize them, but I assumed they were also media people.
O’Malley stopped when he saw me. “Well, Sloan, what are you doing here? Going to put in the fix, are you?” He looked at Eddie. “Eh, this guy’s the prosecutor, isn’t he? I smell corruption here.”
“Who the hell is this?” Eddie asked me.
“The press, my boy. The eyes and ears of the republic. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I imagine an army is at this moment descending.”
Eddie grabbed O’Malley and tossed him away from the door. I noticed the cameraman was grinning as he filmed the action.
The door was opened by a wizened old lady, and Rand and I quickly stepped in. She bolted the door. O’Malley was shouting and again slowly banging at the door.
“Hi, Mrs. Legrand,” Eddie said.
She smiled, crinkling her face into a million wrinkles. She reminded me of an ancient mummy.
She led the way through the enormous house.
“Who’s she?” I whispered to Eddie.
“Mrs. Legrand, the maid.”
“The maid?”
“In name only. She’s too old for anything except serving tea. They have one of her granddaughters for the real work. They keep her on so she’ll have some income in addition to Social Security. The Legrands are a big family up here and work is scarce. Her wages help out.” He spoke in a normal voice, and then smiled. “Don’t worry, Charley. Mrs. Legrand is almost stone deaf.”
We were brought into a small sitting room in the interior of the house. I could see mighty Lake Huron beyond the windows.
Two women, both dressed identically in black, sat primly side by side on a couch that matched the house for age. They were not pleasant to look upon, more like two Chicago Bear tackles in drag. Eddie had described them as looking like two bulldogs. I had thought he was exaggerating.
He wasn’t.
He introduced me, and we took two chairs opposite them.
“Charley here would like to ask you some questions, Miss Donna. I would prefer that he ask only you.”
“Hey,” I said.
He ignored me. “Why don’t you leave the room, Miss Doreen. That way we can get this over quickly.”
Before I could say a thing, she was up and
gone.
“Who are those awful people out there?” The voice chirped like a small nervous bird. I looked around for a second before I realized it was Donna Cronin who was speaking.
“Just some trash from the television,” Eddie said. “I’m going to call Cork and have them run off. Don’t you worry about them, Miss Donna. Go ahead, Charley.”
She looked nervous, perhaps even close to tears. It was unnerving, as if Dick Butkus were about to sob.
“Just a few questions,” I said softly, trying to soothe her. “I’m told you saw Doctor Stewart inject your father. Is that true?”
She paused. “I saw him with the syringe.”
“Well, start from the beginning and tell me what you did see, in your own words.”
She was careful to protect her sister. She said that Dr. Stewart had been her sister’s guest. She denied knowing that he had been paid any money. She said she had heard of his reputation. I asked her if her sister had wanted to end their father’s suffering. She said it was true, but she, Donna, had said it was in God’s hands.
I asked her if she knew Doreen had brought Dr. Stewart up to end their father’s suffering. She evaded the question. For a shy person, she seemed to know how to answer so that her sister wouldn’t be part of any conspiracy.
She said she had seen Dr. Stewart go into her father’s room. She denied that she had been watching him for just that reason. She said she saw him with his back to her, and when he turned he had a syringe in his hand. She said Stewart, mistaking her for her sister, had waved her away. She ran to get her sister and by the time they came back, Dr. Stewart told them Sean Cronin had died. She admitted she hadn’t seen the actual injection.
Miss Donna said she had called the sheriff, that she had been angry when she had done so. She sounded as if she really regretted it now.
I didn’t press. She was being truthful, except for the Miss Doreen part. I didn’t want to expose any more of my hand by going further.
We thanked her and declined the offer of tea. Eddie called Sheriff Cork Miller, and within minutes two deputies came storming up and pushed the media people back to the road. The two officers took up positions blocking the drive entrance.
Eddie and I got back into his car.
As we drove out, Reggie O’Malley spat at us.
He missed.
27
The rest of Wednesday passed quickly. I was busy. I talked to the prospective witnesses, again with the benign help of the prosecutor, who began to act as my own personal ambassador.
Of course, he felt he had nothing to lose. In his mind Doctor Death was tried, convicted, and sentenced. All that remained was to go through the routine steps.
I had lunch with the sheriff and the prosecutor. Cork Miller was something of a cornpone comedian, an act that helped him at election time, and the lunch was filled as much with laughter as good food. For a while it seemed as if we were all on the same side. I think they felt a little sorry for me.
My last interview of the day was with my famous client.
The media army had rolled into town, and I found clusters of them wherever I went. Photographers snapped my picture as I entered the jail. I tried to look resolute and confident.
Hoping to provoke an angry response they might be able to use, a few of the reporters yelled hostile questions. I ignored them.
The few days in jail had done nothing to curb Dr. Miles Stewart’s natural tendencies. I sat in the cell and listened to ten minutes of complaints. Some about the facilities, some about the legal system, some about me. There was nothing I could do but wait him out.
“And they have canceled my appellate bond,” he snarled. “I suppose you know that?”
“It’s what happens, Doctor, when you’re on bond for one murder and they arrest you for another.”
“So what happens if you get me out of this tomorrow? Do I go to prison?”
“You do until I can get the appellate court to reinstate the bond. That might take a day or two. It depends.”
“Jesus! Have you any idea what you just said? I’m supposed to spend days in prison because of some halfwit bureaucratic system? That’s absurd! I’m innocent until proven guilty.”
I smiled. “Technically, you were found guilty of second-degree murder. The appellate bond is not an absolute matter of right.”
“Goddamn lawyers!”
“Anyway, that’s not our immediate concern, is it? If they bind you over on first-degree murder charges tomorrow, any bond is out of the question.”
“You’re paid to see that that doesn’t happen.”
“I’m paid to try my best.”
He frowned. “You’d better do just that. Or face a malpractice suit.”
I smiled. I knew that my smiling always irritated him “Should the worst happen, there are a number of disbarred lawyers in prison who, for the price of cigarettes, will help you draft the pleadings.”
It wasn’t the response he expected and it stopped him cold. But only for a moment.
“What happens tomorrow?” he asked.
“You’ve been through it before, in the Milliard case. It’s a preliminary examination. The prosecutor must show that a crime was committed and that there is reasonable cause to believe that you committed it. It’s his show. He presents his witnesses. I get to cross-examine, but you don’t take the stand, nor do I offer any witnesses.”
“That’s asinine.”
“Could be. But this procedure is a safeguard against frivolous charges. The prosecutor has to show he has enough of a case to merit going to trial.”
He was uncharacteristically silent for a moment, then he spoke. “What kind of a chance do I have tomorrow?”
“Doctor, I warned you what might happen if you decided to go back into the euthanasia business, didn’t I? Well, they have the check from Miss Doreen. You say it was for research, the prosecutor says it was for services rendered. They have Miss Donna, who saw you with a syringe in your hand, standing over dear old dad, just before he breathed his last. And they have the autopsy report by one of the state’s best pathologists. He says, on paper at least, that it was murder. You tell me? What kind of case do they have?”
Some of the arrogance drained out of him. Just some, not all. “Can you do anything tomorrow?”
“I’m going to try, Doctor.”
“Will they be able to bring out . . . the other things?”
“If you mean your conviction for murder, and the allegations that all this happened before, several times, the answer is no. Not formally. But you are a famous man. Everyone in that courtroom tomorrow will have read about you and your little hobby. They don’t have to say a word, you come in tarred with a very big brush.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Probably. Fairness is sometimes a relative term.”
“Goddamn lawyers.”
I got up to go. Cork Miller answered my call.
“Try to look humble tomorrow,” I said. “People like humble.”
“Fuck you, Sloan,” he snapped.
I presumed that humble was out of the question.
I HAD PUT OFF CALLING my office because I was afraid of the kind of message that might be waiting. But it had to be done. Just before five o’clock, the magic hour when Mrs. Fenton disappeared, I called.
It was Wednesday. According to my projected timetable, Sabin and the cops would have met with the attorney general to suggest that I be taken off the streets. Of course, that was my timetable, the one I was anticipating. Things might have been speeded up. Maybe they already wanted me to come in. Or maybe I would be arrested as I went to court in the morning.
Mrs. Fenton let me know she was irritated that I hadn’t called until the last minute of the working day. Again, I thought she had mixed up in her mind who was the boss and who was the employee. But I let it go and listened to her recitation of the phone messages and the mail.
The big message hadn’t come. Sabin hadn’t called, nor had the cops, nor had The Bishop.
> In a way I was relieved, but in another way what it meant was that it would be one more day of continuing suspense.
My motel was crawling with the media. There were several loud parties going on in several of the units. It was like a bunch of drunken alumni cutting up before the big homecoming football game.
And it was no place for me to be.
In fact, Broken Axe in general was no place for me to be, not if I didn’t want to face the working press. I drove down to the nearest town, even smaller than Broken Axe, and had a quick dinner in a small restaurant. The food was good, and in this part of the form world they believed a man worked best on a full belly, so the portions were good too.
After dinner I wanted to spend some quiet time preparing for tomorrow, but there was no place where I could do it. I knew the media people would have my room staked out, at least for a while. I drove back to Broken Axe, then followed the road to the lake and the gold coast homes.
I drove past the Cronin place. Lights were on in many rooms.
A sheriff’s car was stationed at the entrance.
I kept driving until I came to a place where I could park and look out over the lake.
It was almost dark. Distant clouds, high above the lake, were washed in a soft red, a parting salute from the sun setting on the other side of the state.
A soft wind whipped up occasional whitecaps on the darkening lake below. Of course, it didn’t look like a lake. It looked like an ocean, water stretching all the way to the far horizon. Canada was too far away to be visible. It was a freshwater sea holding in its depths just as many secrets as any ocean. It was a liquid graveyard, its waters concealing hundreds of wrecked ships, a last resting place for their crews.
It was deceptive.
Perhaps anyone driving by might look at me and see a man sitting peacefully in his car, watching the water, a tranquil man thinking tranquil thoughts, a man enjoying the final minutes of a good day. A man without care.
Also deceptive.
I tried to focus on the examination and what I might be able to do tomorrow. But like a radio station encountering interference, thoughts of my own plight kept intruding.
Dr. Miles Stewart, like him or not, was my client and entitled to my full concentration. Guilty or innocent, he was relying on me.
Death Penalty Page 32
