“It might have. She was a conniving bitch.”
I glanced at Nathan, but his gaze was fixed on the rail in front of him.
“And she might have known that if your uncle died and you were implicated in your uncle’s murder, you would be barred from any inheritance yourself, which would have increased her own take.”
In the gallery Rupert made a sound like he was in pain. His head was thrust forward, and his eyes were jerking as if to signal the witness.
Judge Cochran rolled his head on his shoulders as if loosening up for a fight. “Bailiff, please go stand right beside Mr. Propst. The next time he makes so much as a squeak, take him by the arm and remove him from the courtroom.” He turned to me. “I warned you that I wasn’t going to tolerate a fishing expedition,” he said. “If you’ve got a point to make here, you need to make it.”
“I wouldn’t have put it past her to drown the old man and try to pin it on me,” Jared said.
“But you don’t have any reason to think she did.”
“No. He could have passed out in his own bathtub, for all I know, entirely on his own. She found him floating there and carried him across the street to dump him in my hot tub. She wasn’t a big woman, but she could have had help.” He didn't even look at his brother Nathan, and Rupert flopped in his chair, banging the arm of his seat in an apparent effort to get his attention.
Judge Cochran nodded at the bailiff, who took Rupert’s arm and pulled him to his feet. As they went up the aisle, Rupert twisted to call over his shoulder. “Remember, Nathan, what I told you. Answer no questions.” The bailiff yanked at him. “No questions on the advice of counsel.”
The bailiff pulled him through the double doors, and the doors swung shut behind them.
Cochran shook his head. “I’ve never put a lawyer in jail before,” he said. “But that might have been a very good time to start.” He sighed. “Ms. Starling, continue.”
“I’m finished with this witness.”
“Mr. Biggs?”
Biggs stood. “Ms. Starling has clearly abused the indulgence of this court,” he said. “I for one will not add to the abuse by asking any questions of a witness so obviously peripheral to the issue before this court, which is whether probable…”
“Thank you for your restraint,” the judge said, interrupting him. “Ms. Starling, it does seem that Mr. Biggs has a point. I won’t say the testimony of this witness is irrelevant—it’s clear you’ll be calling him at trial—but it’s not enough to change the disposition of the case in this courtroom. It’s not in the ballpark of being enough. To succeed here, you’ve got to produce evidence that shows the defendants had no connection to the crime, and you can’t do that. There’s no evidence out there that can do that.”
“I’m laying a foundation,” I said.
The judge’s head fell back against his head rest, his eyes closed. Without opening them, he said, “You may leave the stand, Mr. Walsh. Ms. Starling, call your next witness.”
“Nathan Walsh.”
Nathan was dressed more casually than his brother, wearing a blue suede jacket over a yellow T-shirt. The bailiff swore him in, and he took a seat in the witness box.
“What is your name, please?” I asked him.
He fished a business card from the front pocket of his jacket and held it up in front of him. “On the advice of counsel, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me,” he read.
“Telling us your name might incriminate you?” I said. “Is it not Nathan Walsh?”
“On the advice of counsel, I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.”
“Are you telling us you are implicated in the murder of Macy Buck, or is it some other crime?”
“On the advice of counsel…”
I looked at the judge, who pursed his lips. Following his gaze, I saw that the bailiff had returned and was standing just inside the double doors.
Nathan was still holding the card in front of him, and I stepped around the podium to get a closer look at it. “It looks like he’s reading from the back of Rupert Propst’s business card,” I said.
Cochran nodded. “Much as I hate to say this—and I do hate to say it—bailiff, get Mr. Propst back in here.”
The bailiff went out and came back a few minutes later behind Rupert Propst, who bustled down the aisle toward the front of the courtroom. “Thank you, your honor, thank you. I welcome this opportunity to represent my clients as this, this woman tries to sow discord between them and to smear their good names.”
“This man on the witness stand is your client?”
“He is, your honor.”
“And you have advised him not to tell us his name because the answer would incriminate him?”
“Well, now, your honor. I knew there was a chance I might be ejected from the courtroom as I attempted to offer my clients the best representation I was able. A lawyer can’t make fine distinctions standing in the hall. I simply advised him not to answer any questions because I knew that this lawyer, this attorney for the defense, was going to do everything in her power to implicate him in matters he doesn’t have anything to do with. In the courtroom she can say anything she wants to, she can make any assertion, cast any aspersion, ask any question no matter how unfair or how inflammatory, and the law protects her. She has an absolute privilege to say or imply anything she wants to, and we can’t sue her for slander or defamation of any kind. The law protects her, and it doesn’t protect my clients. I have to do that. I have to…”
The judge was holding up a hand. “Mr. Propst?”
“Yes, your honor?”
“Did you just tell me that this witness doesn’t have anything to do with this case?”
Rupert’s tongue appeared between his pale lips.
“If that’s so, how can any testimony he gives possibly tend to incriminate him?”
“There are more crimes in the world than the murder of Macy Buck, your honor.”
“And Nathan Walsh was committing one of them on the day she was killed?”
“I didn’t say that, your honor. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”
The judge studied him. “Mr. Propst, unless your client is not Nathan Walsh and telling us who he is would implicate him in some crime, please instruct him to identify himself for the record.”
Rupert hesitated. “Very well, your honor.” To Nathan he said, “You may identify yourself.”
I said to Nathan, “Who are you?”
“Nathan Walsh.”
“Brother of Jared Walsh, nephew of Robert Walsh?”
He looked at Rupert, who nodded. “Yes,” he said.
“Did you ever hear the decedent Macy Buck talk about hearing voices and splashing noises coming from your brother’s backyard on the day your uncle, Robert Walsh, died?”
“Don’t answer that,” Rupert said. “You need to take the Fifth on that. Read the words on the card.”
“On the advice of counsel…”
“Yeah, we’ve got it,” I said, interrupting Nathan. I turned to Rupert. “It seems to me the answer is far more likely to incriminate Nathan’s brother Jared Walsh than Nathan himself. I know you’re representing both of them, but that doesn’t mean Nathan can plead the Fifth to protect his brother.”
“You don’t need to tell me the law, counselor. I know what I’m doing.”
Judge Cochran said, “It’s hard for me to see how an admission to having heard Macy Buck tell a story would implicate this witness in any crime.”
“Once you see that, the damage is done, your honor. There’s no putting the cat back in the bag once it’s out.”
“I don’t like this,” Cochran said. “I think you and your client are abusing the privilege against self-incrimination.”
“Let me ask another question,” I said. “Where were you the afternoon and evening of Friday, February 11, the day your fiancé was murdered?”
“Don’t answer!” Rupert said. “You see what sh
e’s doing, your honor. This is just the kind of fishing expedition you told counsel you wouldn’t tolerate.”
“That’s my concern, not yours,” Cochran said. “The only acceptable grounds for this witness refusing to answer a question is that the answer would incriminate him.”
“And that’s what it would do. That’s just what it would do.”
“Because Nathan Walsh killed Macy Buck?” I asked. “Or was he engaged in shoplifting or assault or some other felony?”
Rupert’s chin went up. “Your honor, this cannot go on. A person may reasonably fear prosecution and yet be innocent of any crime. The Constitution shields my client, the Constitution shields all Americans, from having inferences such as these drawn from their failure to testify. This is America. My client is an American. God bless America!” To his credit as an actor, it did seem as if the fire of patriotism shone in his eyes.
Judge Cochran looked at me. I said, “Perhaps Mr. Biggs would offer Nathan Walsh immunity for any crime short of murder his testimony might point to.”
Biggs half-stood behind his table. “Perhaps he wouldn’t,” he said, and dropped back into his seat.
“We seem to be at a standstill,” Cochran said.
“Let me try one more time. Mr. Walsh, that’s a nice T-shirt you’re wearing under your blazer today.”
Nathan looked at Rupert, then back at me. “Thanks.”
“Is it a Dulce Vita?”
He held open his jacket to look at the left breast. “I don’t think so.”
“Let me ask you this, and you tell me if the answer would incriminate you.”
“Your honor…”
“Mr. Rupert, the Constitution may allow your client to refuse to testify, but it does not give you the power to silence lawyers in my courtroom. I will hear the question.”
I said, “On Friday the eleventh, did you Nathan Walsh go to the home of Macy Buck, find her dead on her kitchen floor in a pool of her own blood, and get blood on your Dulce Vita T-shirt. Did you subsequently return to your car and, before you could gather your composure enough to drive away, see the defendant Brian Marshall enter the house?”
One of Nathan’s eyebrows had begun to twitch. “Your honor,” Rupert began.
“I’m not finished,” I said. To Nathan: “Did you then go to Brian Marshall’s apartment and, using either the spare key you found there or a bump key your friends the Strumpfs had showed you how to use, let yourself into Brian’s apartment and leave your blood-covered T-shirt in his laundry basket? Would the answer to that question incriminate you?”
For a moment there was silence, unbroken even by Rupert.
Nathan, both eyebrows going now, held up Rupert’s business card in front of him. “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might tend to incriminate me.”
“Your honor,” Rupert said in the softest voice he had used so far. “This is outrageous. This proceeding is making a mockery of the Fifth Amendment. To allow it to go on…”
“I’m not going to allow it to go on,” Judge Cochran said.
Nathan was licking his lips like an old man with a neurological problem. Biggs, though, was on his feet. “As entertaining as all this has been,” he said, “I must point out to the court that it constitutes misconduct on the part of counsel for the defense. She can have no basis for this wildly inventive fantasy that she’s told. If it has a place at all, it’s in closing argument at trial and not in a long, convoluted question propounded to a witness who has already invoked his Constitutional rights.”
The judge gaze moved from Nathan on the witness stand, to Biggs, to Rupert Propst, standing like a sentinel at the rail. Finally he looked at me. “I think we’re done here,” he said.
“I have no further questions.”
“You’re excused,” the judge said to Nathan.
Nathan got up, brushed past his lawyer as he pushed through the bar, and headed down the aisle.
“Nathan,” I called.
He stopped, but didn’t turn around.
“I know what you did.”
As Nathan started forward again, both Biggs and Rupert started talking at once. The gist of their cacophony of argument was that I was guilty of misconduct and should face a variety of penalties that ranged from reprimand to being held in contempt to disbarment. Brooke Marshall got out of her seat and started down the aisle toward the door, followed moments later by Mike McMillan. For my part, I went to my table and sat down.
Chapter 21
I got reprimanded—scolded by the judge, essentially—but didn’t get fined or jailed, and if I lost my license to practice law, it would be at a different time and before a different tribunal. From my clients’ perspective, the important thing was that the judge recessed the hearing until the next morning rather than bind them over for trial. That might be coming—it almost certainly was coming—but we had lived to fight another day.
Since Mike and Brooke had left before me, I was able to think as I walked alone to my car, the cold wind cutting through my coat like it wasn’t there. I had earned another day, but only one more day, and I needed to make the most of it. I pulled out my cell phone as I got into my car, using one hand to smooth my wind-blown hair as I pecked around for Detective Jordan’s number with the thumb of my other.
He answered with “Robin Starling. What do you want?”
“Where are you? Are you at the station?”
“As it happens it’s five o’clock and I’m on my way home.”
“I was hoping you could meet me. Do you have any luminol with you?”
“Oh yes. I must have half-a-hundred chemical reagents lined up on my back seat.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“What do you want, Starling?”
“Do you know where Macy Buck’s car is?”
“Still in her driveway, I think.”
“Was it searched thoroughly, do you know?”
“We looked through it. I don’t think anyone combed it looking for loose fibers.”
“Or blood stains? A witness today said she saw the car at Jack Packard’s house the afternoon of the day Macy was murdered.”
Jordan didn’t answer.
“You see what I’m getting at, don’t you? Macy’s blood was found at Packard’s house…”
“…and Brian Marshall’s apartment, and Carytown Joe. Biggs thinks you’re responsible for the blood at Packard’s place, you know.”
“He made that pretty clear. Let’s assume for a moment though that I’m a reasonable person and not some nut-job who goes around dribbling the blood of murder victims onto every horizontal surface she comes across.”
After a few seconds Jordan said, “I’m turning around. Let me call Ray. I think he’s still at the station.”
I got to Macy’s house first and parked on the street in front of it. I stayed in my car. It was cold outside, and Victoria O’Neal was probably watching out her window for her new husband’s imminent return. My phone began to play: Brooke was calling.
“Hey, Brooke. What’s up?”
“Mike and I are on I-95 heading north. We just went through Fredericksburg.”
“Are you eloping?”
“We’re following Nathan Walsh.”
“Where is he going?”
“Out of town. Do you think we should keep following him?”
“Do you want to keep following him?”
There was the briefest hesitation. “Okay, then. We’ll stay on him,” she said. “I’ll let you know when he stops.”
I punched off, smiling. Feminine wiles, I thought.
Jordan pulled in behind me and got out, pulling the zipper on his jacket all the way to his throat and stuffing his hands into his pockets. I lowered my window a couple of inches. “Thanks for meeting me,” I said.
He nodded. “Oh, sure,” he said. “I have no home life.” It was getting dark, but the nearby streetlamp illuminated the white vapor of his breath.
A Ford Explorer cut across my headlights into Macy’s d
riveway. I turned off my car and got out.
Ray Hernandez got out of the Explorer as we approached. “Which one of you brought the beer?”
“I really appreciate this, guys.”
“Does that mean no beer?”
Jordan said, “Let’s see if we can get this car open. Did you bring the keys?”
“Oh, yeah.” He reached back inside the Explorer and came out with a plastic evidence bag. I saw a lipstick, a wallet, a small hairbrush, and a key ring with a fob in the shape of a four-leaf clover—evidently the contents of Macy’s purse. As Hernandez got out the keys, Jordan opened the Explorer’s passenger door and came out with a long flashlight. Hernandez pressed a button on the largest of the keys, and the Honda Element beeped.
He and Ray opened both doors of the Honda, then the rear-hinged back doors. The interior lights came on, and Jordan moved the beam of the flashlight around the car as we examined the various surfaces.
“Stain here on the passenger door,” Hernandez said, and Jordan played the light on it.
“More of a smudge, really.” Jordan moved the beam over the interior of the door then onto the seat and the seatback.
“Luminol?” I suggested.
“You watch too much CSI,” Hernandez said, but he walked back to the Explorer.
“Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a complete episode. Are any of them still on?”
“Beats me. I watch SportsCenter,” Jordan said.
Hernandez came back with a red spray bottle with a black top and a spray trigger. “Let’s do this.”
“Hang on. Let me get the camera.” Jordan came back with a big black camera with an adjustable lens. “Okay.”
Hernandez sprayed the smudge on the door, and the spot began to glow a faint blue. “Will you look at that?” he said.
Jordan’s camera clicked.
“Try the seat,” I suggested, and Hernandez gave it a few squirts, moving his arm to fan the spray. Right where the seat joined the seatback, there was a spot that glowed blue.
“We need to get the forensic unit out here,” Jordan said.
“And I need to get home to my dog,” I said. “Can I count on you to be in court tomorrow, or do I need to serve you with subpoenas?”
Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 22
