Trick of Light
Page 18
So, I ask her, what was the G.G.C., a rich man's sporting club or a gun nut's paradise?
"Both," she says. "But poor Chap didn't know it. He thought of it as a place where gentlemen who had achieved a certain level of success could mingle informally, bond in the male ritual of the hunt. He wasn't aware of all the evil things Ram was doing . . . not until the final year."
I mention Schuyler Lord's column about factions at the club.
"Yes, Baggy had that right," she says. "He's a nasty man, but his reporting's accurate enough."
So what, I ask, was Ram Carson doing that caused other G.G.C. members such distress?
She turns again to stare out through the French doors. Glancing out myself, I can hear nothing except her agitated breathing. When she turns to face me the light is so dim I can barely read her features.
"What Ram was doing, Ram and a few of his cronies, was to take the motifs engraved on the sides of his erotic guns and . . . bring them to life."
She shakes her head. "And worse. That's how Chap put it. He couldn't bring himself to say much more. He was so aggrieved, Kay, indignant that such things could be going on at his beloved club, and outraged that Ram was the one who'd instigated them."
When I ask her what kind of things, she shakes her head.
"There were probably crimes committed," she says. "Trespassers shot, things like that. And special hunting parties. 'Safaris' they called them, for which they'd hire drifters to play escaped convicts, then hunt them down. From the rumors Chap heard, not much mercy was shown."
She tells me how Chap felt betrayed by the man who was not only his partner, whom he'd nurtured and helped make rich, but also, he thought, his closest friend. It was, he told Agnes, like being stabbed in the back. And along with these feelings of outrage and betrayal, there grew in him an anger so deep it could only be assuaged by revenge.
He swore vengeance to her, night after night told her he'd get even with Ram, destroy him, bring him down. The first thing was to break off their business relationship—which didn't prove to be so easy. They were partners, along with Orrin Jennett, in a web of interlocking companies. Neither one held a controlling interest. There were all sorts of issues pertaining to the value of the properties and who had the right to buy the other out. Also, Jennett, protective of his investment, refused to take Chap's side, which infuriated Chap, since he was the one who'd originally brought Orrin in. So there was also a feeling of being double-betrayed, which only made things worse. Then there was the matter of the club.
The G.G.C. was set up as a private association with three classes of members—voted, charter and founding—with nearly all the power in the hands of the latter. Since the three founding members were Chap, Ram and Orrin, it came down to the same insupportable situation as at CFJ Realty.
It was this intractability, she felt, that may have led to the duel—if, in fact, a duel took place. If Ram indeed did challenge him, Chap had been crazed enough to accept.
"Chap was an experienced woodsman," she tells me, "a decent enough shot, but he knew he wasn't in the same class as Ram. Ram was a tournament shooter. He had a room filled with trophies. Chap had no business taking him on in a fight."
Chap Fontaine, she assures me, was a civilized man, ethical in business and personal affairs. He was intelligent, rational, honorable . . . all the qualities one hopes to find in a gentleman. But, like any man when his manliness is challenged, he was capable of behaving like a fool. Better to die than be shamed, to fall on the field than be regarded as a coward.
She sniffs. "Maybe it didn't happen that way. Maybe he did shoot himself by mistake. But I'm certain of this—Chap did not commit suicide. He was incapable of that and far too angry to consider it."
That Sunday night she was sitting in this room, in the very seat I now occupy, contemplating the sunset. It had been a glorious display, she recalls, the kind we get every so often in San Francisco—mackerel sky turned to the color of blood as it caught the final rays of the failing sun. She'd become lost in the magnificence of it, the vivid phosphorescent glow that hung in the western sky even after the sun sank into the Pacific. Then the phone rang, its shrill sound cutting to her ears. She knew it was about Chap even before she picked it up.
She'd been getting intimations throughout the day, little whiffs that made her feel weak. Chap had gone to Mendocino Friday night in the private plane the club used to shuttle its senior members upstate. There'd been a determined look in his eyes when he kissed her goodbye. "I'll be back late Sunday," he'd told her. "By then everything will be resolved." He didn't say anything else, just nodded to her, then walked out the door. He didn't call her over the weekend. Yet when the phone rang that Sunday night, she knew it was someone else with news that would forever change her life.
It was Ram, his voice gravelly, filled with a kind of grievous gravitas.
"It's about Chap," he said. "There's been a shooting accident at the club. Doc Petersen's here, so he attended Chap right away." Ram paused. "I'm so sorry, Aggie. There was nothing Doc could do."
After Ram broke the news, the others came on the line with details of the sorrowful event. Petersen, their family doctor, a charter G.G.C. member, told her how it had happened. Then Vince Carroll, who was head of G.G.C. security, then Ram again, then Orrin . . . and she remembered none of it, just that Chap was dead, had somehow accidentally shot himself on the club range, that there'd been witnesses, people had gotten to him right away, but he'd never regained consciousness, had died painlessly . . . and they'd be flying his body back to San Francisco in the morning.
Perfect wife that she was, she wasted no time feeling sorry for herself. Instead she immediately called her children: Susan, who lived in L.A.; Junior, who practiced medicine in Palo Alto; Tom in Washington, where he practiced law. Next, Chap's attorney, Raid Harris, who was also Ram's attorney and lead attorney for CFJ Realty Corporation. Then . . . she was about to start calling Chap's close friends when she realized she'd already spoken to two of them, Ram and Orrin, and that the rest of their circle, at least the men, had been up at the club that weekend and thus already knew.
The same thing struck her later, the way they were all connected: through CFJ Realty and the G.G.C., sharing the same doctors, lawyers, bankers and friends, including a retired federal judge, two state senators, a justice of the state Supreme Court, a regent of the University of California and assorted fellow board members of the Fine Arts Museums and the San Francisco Opera Association. It was a closed circle. Even the owner of the mortuary that handled Chap's cremation and burial was part of it. Plus the wives, most of whom she'd known for years, worked with on committees, served with on boards, entertained one another in their respective homes, met for lunch at their downtown women's clubs.
The whole bunch of them turned out for the funeral, a lugubrious affair at Grace Cathedral. "Great turnout for Chap," people said afterwards. Ram Carson played lead eulogist, mouthing the usual platitudes: "Chap Fontaine . . . one of the last of a dying breed . . . a true gentleman whose word was his bond . . . We won't see his like again."
After the burial, when Ram kissed her at the cemetery, his lips felt cold on her cheek. She asked him then about the "falling out." He dismissed it with a shake of his head.
"Sure, we had differences, Aggie. Business mostly. But nothing that could undermine a friendship of nearly thirty years. Without Chap there's going to be a big hole in my life. Let's not drift apart as people in these circumstances often do. I know that's what Chap would want."
Four days later she heard the first glimmers of the rumor that Chap and Ram had fought a duel.
She wondered to whom she could turn.
She went to see Raid Harris. When she started voicing her concerns after condolences and small talk, he cut her short.
"Do you want to bring criminal charges against Ram, Aggie? Is that what you're asking me to do?"
His eyes were so stern, his tone so incredulous, she wilted, apologized, then listened passively
as he recommended "an excellent and extremely discreet psychiatrist," who, as it turned out, was also a member of the G.G.C.
Raid Harris made another point: Ram and Orrin were proposing to buy out Chap's interest in CFJ Realty for "a most generous amount," more than it was worth. They wanted to bend over backwards, Raid said, to be fair to her and to Chap's kids.
"Under such circumstances it would be pretty ironic, Aggie, don't you think, if word were to get back to Ram you think he murdered Chap?"
The implication was clear: if word of such a horrible thought did get back, no telling whether the proposed buyout would be nearly so "generous."
Not at all happy with Raid's reaction, she decided to hire an investigator, someone who would get to the bottom of the thing, come up with proof that Chap hadn't been accidentally killed or put the rumors of a duel to rest.
The obvious first choice was Lars Cosgrave, the most respected private detective in the city. His firm occupied a plush suite of offices on Montgomery Street, his receptionist had a British accent, he specialized in corporate investigations and worked with prominent attorneys on high-profile criminal cases.
Cosgrave listened politely as she sketched out her suspicions, but as soon as he heard the names of the players, he folded his arms.
"If you feel strongly about this, Mrs. Fontaine, truly believe a crime has been committed, I advise you to take your evidence directly to the Mendocino County DA."
When she protested she had no evidence, that that was why she'd come to him, he muttered "Indeed!" to signal their meeting was over, then escorted her to the door.
Even after this rebuff, she was not ready to give up. She asked around, came up with the name of another private investigator—Susan Marzik of Marzik & Associates, a competitor of Cosgrave's, who, if not nearly so well connected, still had an excellent reputation.
Marzik turned out to be a soft-spoken fortyish woman with a serious demeanor. A San Francisco native, she'd spent twenty years as an L.A. cop, rising to the rank of captain, then moved back to the Bay Area to set up on her own.
Marzik told her that if it turned out Ram Carson killed Chap Fontaine in a duel, this was a very serious matter indeed. She proposed that she and an associate go up to Mendocino for a day, visit the scene, talk to the county coroner and the Sheriff's Department people and interview local witnesses. Marzik granted that such a brief overview would not be complete, but she was certain that if people were lying she'd pick up on it and thus be in a position to recommend an in-depth investigation. Agnes agreed, signed a retainer agreement, wrote out a check for thirty-five hundred dollars and went home feeling she'd done the proper thing.
Two weeks later she received Susan Marzik's report with "CONFIDENTIAL" embossed diagonally across the binder. The report, with tabbed sections and appendices, included detailed summaries of all the interviews along with photocopies of official county documents.
Five G.G.C. members—Carson, Jennett, Petersen, Jack Stadpole and Kirk Kistler—plus Carroll, the club security director, acting as range master that afternoon, had been present when the unfortunate accident took place. All six had made sworn statements as to what occurred. Marzik studied those statements carefully, then interviewed Carroll in depth.
Her summary:
Fontaine was practicing with a pair of 19th-century English percussion dueling pistols owned by the Club (photo attached). He loaded both pistols, placed one on his gun table, then went to the firing line to fire the other. After firing, he turned again toward the table, at which point the second pistol, perhaps jarred by vibrations caused by the firing of other weapons, discharged. The lead ball hit him between the eyes, killing him instantly.
All interviews, statements and coroner's photographs are consistent with the above account.
Because of lack of powder burns, there is no possibility that the deceased shot himself or was shot by another at close range (under six feet).
Though we cannot discount the possibility that all witnesses lied in their sworn accounts, and there was, additionally, a cover-up by all the sworn law enforcement officers called to the scene, the likelihood of such an elaborate conspiracy is so remote as to be ruled out by common sense.
In addition, we have had an arms expert examine the pistols. His report (copy attached) verifies the delicate nature of the firing mechanisms and is consistent with the accidental discharge of the killing weapon as described in the witness accounts.
The only portion of the story which may be regarded as curious is the accuracy with which the accidentally discharged lead ball hit the deceased and thus caused death. Still, such things happen. Our research reveals that 25% of all accidental gunshot wounds are fatal.
Further, it is our opinion that rumors of duel between Carson and Fontaine derive solely from the fact that the killing weapon was one of set of antique dueling pistols donated by Carson to the Club, and otherwise have no basis in fact.
In short, we find the official account of the incident to be highly credible. Thus we cannot at this time recommend further expenditure of client's resources in pursuit of an alternative explanation of the matter.
Respectfully submitted,
Susan M. Marzik, Investigator
It's dark outside. A three-quarters moon, dominating the eastern sky, combined with the ambient light of the city is the only source of illumination in the room.
Agnes Fontaine shakes her head. "I didn't pursue it after that. I didn't see any way I could. And Raid Harris was right—the offer Ram and Orrin made for Chap's share of CFJ Realty was extremely generous. My son Tom represented me in the negotiations. I had no wish to see Raid again. Or any of the others. I've dropped them all . . . or perhaps they've dropped me. It doesn't matter. Those times are over for me. I'm no longer interested in putting up a social front."
She sets down her teacup. "I'm going to have a Scotch and soda. What about you?"
I ask for a glass of merlot. She smiles, says she's changed her mind, she'll have the same, leaves the room, returns followed by her maid carrying a tray. After the maid pours the wine and leaves, I turn to her.
"There's one thing I don't understand. When your husband discovered what Carson was doing at the club—the orgies, enactments of erotic motifs on his guns, shooting poachers, the safaris and all that—why didn't he go public or report the activities to the cops?"
"Probably because nothing could be proved," Agnes says. "No one ever said Ram or any of the rest of them were stupid. As for going public, that wasn't Chap's style. These men were his friends. He wanted to restore the dignity of the club, not bring it down in ruins. The way he went about it is the way he went about everything in life—working quietly, building consensus, then, when the time was right, making his move. He'd have wanted to keep it between Ram and himself, settle the matter, privately between them."
Which, I point out to her, would have made an excellent rationale for a traditional gentleman's duel.
She sits in silence. I wonder what she's thinking.
"If there was a duel," I say gently, "someone must have talked. How else to explain the rumors?"
"Marzik said—"
"Because of the pistols—I know. And she doesn't think a conspiracy is credible with so many people involved. But isn't that what they always say: 'There just couldn't have been a cover-up. It's too far-fetched'?"
She takes a sip of wine. "What are you thinking, Kay?"
"Assume for a moment there was a duel," I tell her. "If so, there were six witnesses. One was Carson, the other duelist. Then there's Jennett, your husband's partner, and Petersen, his doctor, and Carroll, a club employee. Suppose the other two were seconds? In which case all six would be involved. Since dueling's against the law, it wouldn't have been in anyone's interest to tell the truth.
"Then there's the gun mechanism. I don't know much about guns, but I do know that in the most famous duel ever fought in this state, the pistols also had hair triggers. On the other hand, a mortal shot between the eyes is cons
istent with the capabilities of an expert marksman . . . which, you tell me, is what Carson is. As for a law enforcement cover-up, there was no reason for one. Again, I'm no expert, but I was brought up around cops. Think about it: The sheriff's people arrive, the witnesses, all reputable men, offer their statements, their story matches the observable facts. That a different story of a duel might also match doesn't mean there was a cover-up. All it means is that since the cops already had a credible explanation, they had no need to seek out an alternative.
"But I think the biggest hole in Marzik's report is her theory that there were rumors of a duel because old dueling pistols were involved. Isn't the more likely reason that a duel actually took place? Who, after all, at the end of the twentieth century would think to make up a tale about a duel? It's so improbable . . . unless, of course, someone saw it. And I think if someone did, it would have been nearly impossible not to talk about it.
"Also, Marzik never mentions the rumors that years ago Carson fought a duel and shot his opponent dead. If those rumors are true, isn't that all the more reason to believe he may have done so again?"
Agnes is agitated. I feel her tension rising as I speak. After Marzik's report she gave up her quest for justice. Now, a year later, I turn up reigniting embers she thought were dead.
"I'm sorry," I tell her. "I'm stirring the pot. I know I have no right."
"But you do!" she says, voice firm. "And I'm grateful. You've suggested things I should have thought of myself." She pauses. "Chap wouldn't have rested till he had the truth."
She stands, goes to the wall, flicks a switch, illuminates the room.
"I see it so clearly now. They thought I was weak, that all they'd have to do is stare me down. Raid Harris, Lars Cosgrave, the bunch of them. They own this town. Marzik too . . . or maybe she was just afraid."
Agnes is shaking. She starts to pace. It's as if all the rage she buried for a year is bursting forth.
"You say dueling's illegal?"
I explain the anti-dueling law and the possible penalties.