Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  To my right, long wooden pew-style benches crammed hip-to-hip with observers filled two-thirds of the room. People also stood behind the last row of benches, flanking the open, double door main entrance. To my immediate left was the jury box, then the raised judge’s bench at the head of the room faced by the defendant’s and prosecutor’s tables and the low banister separating them from the gawking public.

  Archie nudged me toward the second bench behind the prosecutor’s table. Bungee cords stretched across both ends of the bench, marking it as reserved. Archie unlatched a cord, and I slid in, alone on the hard bench. I was going to be the first, and depending on how the cross-examination went, only witness today. I bit my lip to fight back a wave of nausea.

  I didn’t have the fortitude to turn around and see who I knew in the crowd. All those sets of eyes staring back. I’d face them soon enough.

  I think the first bench was reserved for the victim’s family. But I also happened to know my ex-fiancé’s mother wasn’t coming. She had no desire to experience his murder through others’ testimony. She’d called, worried her decision would deprive me of moral support and willing to change her mind, but I’d assured her that I had no need of support at such a cost. She was home in Vancouver this morning, probably pruning shrubs in her immaculate yard to work off some anger and grieve yet again for the loss of her only child.

  Outside, the protesters rallied into unison, and their slogan became audible. “Say no to the chair. Zap. Zap. Zap the chair. Zap. Zap.” There was a disco vibe to their cadence.

  I clenched my teeth and considered puking. What was happening today in this courtroom was deadly serious, and I hated that some people were turning it into a form of entertainment. They didn’t care enough to check the facts. Washington doesn’t use an electric chair for executions. If Fulmer was convicted and sentenced to death and exhausted all appeals, he’d be lethally injected. He could swap that method for hanging if he preferred. I’d looked it up last night. I probably shouldn’t have.

  “Hey.” A low voice rumbled in my ear, and I jumped. Then I exhaled.

  Pete.

  He slid into the pew beside me and gave me a quick side hug. “Archie gave me permission to sit with the witness.”

  I frowned. “What’re you doing here? Your load—”

  Pete pulled my hand into both of his and held my gaze with his crinkle-cornered sapphire blue eyes. I usually forget everything when I look into Pete’s eyes. I also usually lose my ability to stand up. But today there were a lot of other thoughts crowding romance out of my mind.

  “Is safely in the hands of another tug captain. I’m not letting you go through this by yourself.”

  I slumped against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “How’s George?”

  “I’m not sure. Worse. An infection. They wouldn’t let me see him yesterday,” I murmured into Pete’s shirt.

  “I’ll find Sheriff Marge during a break and get the details.”

  “She’s here?” My head popped up.

  “Everyone’s here.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff shouted, and I nearly jumped out of my skin again.

  The whoosh of a few hundred knees unbending and clothing rustling swirled behind my head, and I white-knuckled the pew back in front of me. Pete slipped an arm around my waist.

  Judge Lumpkin looked like an anemic bat when he entered the courtroom, the robe pressed against his gaunt body and edges rippling with his rapid stride. His lace-up dress shoes clunked on the wood steps up to his dais, and he dropped into the high-backed cushioned black chair. He could have been a funeral march conductor in a Tim Burton film.

  The audience settled in their seats with a collective sigh.

  The judge and lawyers discussed a few things in hushed voices at the bench.

  The bailiff retrieved the jury. I recognized most of them as they filed in — retail clerks, a frequent patron of the Sidetrack Tavern who favored the third barstool from the end, the father of the high school football team’s star running back, and several others who were familiar but I couldn’t exactly place at the moment. They already appeared wilted and exhausted, and I wondered how long they’d been waiting in the claustrophobic jury room.

  The lawyers took turns announcing what they intended to prove. It was my first chance to watch Fulmer’s defense attorney, Slade Alden, in action. He was charming in a boy-next-door-even-though-we’ve-never-met-before way and a well-tailored charcoal suit. As usual, the residents of Sockeye County, tired of looking at each other and knowing each other’s foibles all too well, enjoyed having a new face and voice to admire. He had wide receiver shoulders and narrow hips, and he pivoted on his fancy shoes as gracefully as a ballroom dancer, flashing a smile worth several thousand dollars of orthodontia and whitening trays.

  I’ll admit he even had me smiling and nodding a few times, until I realized the content of his comments. He positioned Fulmer as a misunderstood loner and the few difficulties he faced could be cleared up quickly and reasonably.

  I scowled and nestled harder against Pete, my skin suddenly clammy.

  Then there was a rustling and organizing of files, scraping of chairs behind the lawyers’ tables, and Judge Lumpkin asked the prosecuting attorney if he was ready to call his first witness.

  Otto Finkelbiener twisted in his seat and raised one of his legendary bushy eyebrows at me. “Yes, I am, Your Honor.”

  I gulped. It’d come so fast.

  Pete squeezed my shoulder, and I rose on trembling legs.

  Everyone refers to Otto by his first name since his last is so cumbersome. He’s like an absentminded uncle. He murmurs to himself and keeps a number two pencil balanced above his right ear. When he’s really concentrating, he pulls the pencil out and scratches his head with the eraser end.

  He wears round tortoiseshell glasses and hasn’t combed his gray, frizzy hair since the sixth grade. The elastic in his socks is shot, so they droop over his scuffed suede shoes, and he usually misses at least part of a shirttail when he’s tucking things in. He wears wildly inappropriate ties — today it was bright blue dotted with what looked like Mexican jumping beans — strung loosely around his open shirt collar like a noose. He has the Humpty Dumpty body type which necessitates suspenders.

  Otto held the gate open and muttered, “That’s a good girl,” as I passed through.

  In spite of appearances, Otto is brilliant, shrewd, and best of all, knows his constituents — most of them personally. He’d walked me through this. I could do this.

  I stretched my fingers out of the fists they’d involuntarily made and walked carefully to the witness stand. I was only shaking a little when I raised my right hand and took the oath.

  Otto pretended he’d misplaced his notes. Bless that man. I took several deep, slow breaths, managed a wobbly smile at Pete who smiled back, and studied the room.

  Fulmer stared from behind the defense table, dark eyes burning holes in his immobile face. I couldn’t see the chains, but both Sheriff Marge and Otto had assured me that Fulmer would be wearing ankle shackles due to his violent crime and flight risk.

  Straight down the center aisle, Sheriff Marge blocked the double door entrance with her widest cop stance, feet spread and hands on hips. Her face was grim, and she was methodically surveying the packed pews.

  My eyes moved back to Otto. We shared the glance for a moment, then he cleared his throat and stood.

  “Ms. Morehouse, I’d like you to describe the events of the morning of November 24th of last year.”

  So I did. Slowly. Carefully. Trying not to forget anything and working through the horror of that day chronologically. I spoke just to Otto, tried to block everyone else out and steadied myself on his thoughtful face.

  When I finished, I eased back in the chair, realizing I’d been perched on the hard edge, all muscles rigid. I wiped my palms on my skirt, tugged the hem over my knees and exhaled. I’d thought wearing a skirt would be cooler, but misery is misery — hard to evalua
te degrees. Sweat trickled down inside my blouse, all the way until it soaked into my waistband.

  Otto made a show of rifling through the stacks of folders on his table, and I glanced at the jury. They were physically drooping, but wide-eyed. It’s not every day you hear a first-hand account of someone finding a dead body.

  “Well, Your Honor,” Otto said. “I think Ms. Morehouse’s testimony stands for itself. I have no questions.”

  Slade Alden launched from behind the defense table, notepad in hand.

  “Just a moment.” Judge Lumpkin held up a warning finger and peered at the clock on the back wall. Then he remembered the glasses that were on top of his head, pulled them down to his nose, and rechecked the clock. He scanned the jury, probably assessing their ability to assimilate information under such torturous conditions. “We’ll take a lunch break and resume at 1:30.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Pete and I ducked down a hallway and practically hung out a window on the shady side of the courthouse to catch any passing puff of air. Archie appeared with cold bottles of tea and deli sandwiches.

  “You’re a saint,” I said, snatching a bottle and pressing the chilled glass to my neck.

  “Jury’s just about dying too. Brought ‘em four bottles each so they can keep drinks with them in the jury box this afternoon.” Archie unwrapped a turkey club sandwich. “You did fine, Meredith.”

  I puffed my cheeks and exhaled. “It’s the cross-examination I’m worried about.”

  “Yeah. That Slade feller’s a loose cannon. All chummy and agreeable one minute and downright nasty the next.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Seattle. Usually takes federal cases, I heard. But this one’s getting enough publicity, I guess he thought it was worth his while. Did you see all the reporters in the courtroom?”

  “I was trying not to.”

  Pete was suddenly distracted by something out the window. He darted an amused look back at Archie.

  “That Verle?” Archie grinned wide, oblivious to the gobs of sandwich visible in his mouth as he did so. He pressed past me and leaned out the window. “Thought there’d be a good view up here.”

  A gleaming white tow truck drove slowly down the side street and idled at the corner of the front lawn. A beater blue minivan with Idaho plates was rolling behind it on rear wheels only, its nose winched up tight to the tow truck’s high bumper. The yellow page of a triplicate form was stuck under the van’s driver’s side windshield wiper.

  Verle, the young tow truck driver, leaned out his window and gave a quick salute to Deputy Owen Hobart who was standing on the corner. Owen nodded back, and Verle pulled out. He disappeared from view, crossing in front of the courthouse.

  I could tell Archie was waiting for something, and then I heard the shouts. Surprise, disbelief, anger — a whole lot of yelling.

  Verle returned, heading in the opposite direction at ten miles an hour followed by a sprinting pack of half-painted people waving their arms and hollering.

  Archie leaned on the window sill laughing so hard his eyes watered. He hung onto his sandwich with one hand and his gun belt with the other.

  Pete slumped against the wall, chuckling. “Did you have Verle do a U-turn in front of the courthouse?”

  Archie hooted and slapped his thigh. “Wanted to make sure they’d notice.”

  “Notice what?” I asked.

  “The protesters carpooled. They had a command vehicle of sorts — where they stashed their clothes and paint. It was illegally parked, so we had it towed.”

  I glanced out the window at the diminishing group of flabby, bare-bottomed protesters. “You guys are something else.”

  “When your resources are limited, you have to get creative.” Archie shrugged, still grinning. “Ten minutes.” He stuffed the rest of his sandwich in his mouth and sauntered away.

  “You ready?” Pete rested his hands on my shoulders and held my gaze.

  I inhaled. “I guess so.”

  He pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “Go get ‘em.”

  oOo

  This time, Slade Alden dawdled, collecting his thoughts and notes, smirking as he did so. It was as though he could read my mind and knew I was getting more nervous with each silent second.

  I glanced at Judge Lumpkin and found him watching me, his head tilted. Then he shuffled his feet under his desk until an oscillating fan peeked out from beyond the desk’s side. The edge of whooshing air from its rotating trajectory just reached me.

  I grinned at Judge Lumpkin and mouthed, “thank you.”

  He nodded.

  Then began the most grueling three hours of my life. Alden picked through everything I’d said, asking for clarification and additional details, questioning my perceptions and integrity with every verbal assault.

  At some point, my nervousness morphed into irritation, but I tried to keep my answers measured. I felt like a broken record. When there’s only one truth, you kind of have to say it the same way every time you’re asked to repeat it.

  The jury slumped, sleepy-eyed, in their seats. Sunlit rectangles from the windows moved across the audience, highlighting the sea of sweaty faces.

  Judge Lumpkin’s long spine curved like a big C in his chair, knees wide and robe hiked up to take full advantage of the fan. His elbow was propped on the chair’s arm, his chin in his hand with the index finger extended along his jaw. Pink tinged the edges of his ashen face and rimmed his slate blue eyes. Behind the bored demeanor, I got the impression he was analyzing everyone’s internal thoughts. Either that or he had heat stroke.

  I was too tired and hot to raise much anger at Alden’s vicious probing — seemed a waste of the little energy I had left. My answers became monotone and short. Judge Lumpkin’s fan hummed like a buzzing fly in the background, white noise behind the question and answer two-step Alden and I were engaged in.

  Pete regarded me seriously, nodding encouragement. He sure looked good in a blue chambray short-sleeved button-up shirt. The shirt buttons and being clean-shaven indicated he thought this was a special occasion, placing a murder trial right up there with weddings and funerals.

  The fan coughed, then lurched into a clacketing rattle that woke everyone with a start. Judge Lumpkin pushed back in his chair and peered into the cavernous dark below his desk. The fan was gone.

  Then his robe jerked out straight, taut, pulling on his neck and shoulders. A corner of the fabric must have caught in the fan blade and was being ratcheted tighter and tighter. Judge Lumpkin’s eyes bulged. He’d rolled over another corner of the robe with his wheeled chair, pinioning himself into it.

  I scrabbled out of the witness stand and dove under the judge’s desk. By now, the fan had escalated into a grating screech, the motor fighting hard to turn the constrained blades. It was pitch black under the desk, but I found a vibrating lump. The fan was completely encased in slinky black fabric, and I couldn’t locate an off button.

  I crawled around to where the fan’s cord disappeared into the hole in the wall. I yanked hard — again and again — until it pulled loose from the outlet in the judge’s bathroom on the other side of the wall.

  It took Myrtle, Otto and Archie to extricate Judge Lumpkin from his robe and the chair and the extension cord. Since it was crowded around the bench, I slipped back to the audience side and slid in next to Pete.

  He pulled me close and tucked his head next to mine. He bounced ever so slightly on the bench.

  “Was it that awful?” I whispered.

  He stifled a snort.

  The bailiff announced the court would recess until tomorrow morning.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Tell me again what Sheriff Marge said about George. How long will he be unconscious?” I stepped out of the galley with a platter of lettuce, thinly sliced onions, thickly sliced tomatoes and blue cheese crumbles.

  Pete flipped a burger over. “He’s in a medically induced coma to let his body focus on fighting the infection. He’s also on heavy
-duty antibiotics. At his age and since he has signs of heart disease and hypertension, they didn’t want to take any risks with the infection.”

  I sniffed the bowl of Pete’s secret barbecue sauce and set it on the bench. We’d arranged a temporary picnic spot on the stern of Pete’s tug to catch the faint breeze. “He seemed so healthy. He’s active, still working.” Aromatic smoke drifted my way.

  “Could be the stress and shock of the explosion. But I’ve noticed he’s been slowing down the past year or two.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  Pete shrugged. “Long time. Think I met him about the same time I bought Surely.” He ran a hand along the railing.

  Surely is the tug’s name. As in a sure thing. Sometimes when people hear the name, they think it’s Shirley and want to know if the boat’s named after Pete’s mom or grandmother or an old girlfriend. The Surely was moored at the Port of Platts Landing, and we had a spectacular view of the sun sinking into the west end of the Columbia River Gorge.

  “He wanted to talk to you.”

  Pete frowned. “Did he say what about?”

  I shook my head. “He told me it was too early to worry about it — whatever it is.”

  Pete moved behind me and pulled me back into his chest, enclosing me in his arms. “Hmmm.” His deep voice rumbled.

  “Hmmm what?”

  “That concerns me. George is honest, always gives a straight answer.”

  “I’m a girl.”

  Pete pinched my side, gently. “I am very aware of that. George isn’t a male chauvinist.”

  “But maybe he was protecting me — maybe it was something too dangerous for me to know.”

  “He did protect you.” Pete rested his chin on my head, holding me tighter.

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “Do you think he knew it was coming?”

  “No.” Pete pushed away, returned to the barbecue. “He would never have let you visit if he did.”

  “What do you two have in common? Why would he specifically need to speak with you?”