“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Annie. “Your client poisoned her husband with an overdose of curare, which caused paralysis and then she sat on the staircase waiting for him to die.”
“But he’d been beating her up for years—and he also abused their children,” said Fletcher.
“Do you have any proof of that, counselor?” asked Jimmy.
“Not a lot, but on the day she agreed to appoint me, I took several photographs of the bruises on her body, and the burn on the palm of her hand will remain with her for the rest of her life.”
“How did she get that?” asked Annie.
“That bastard of a husband pressed her hand down on a burning stove, and only stopped when she fainted.”
“Sounds like a lovely guy,” said Annie. “So what’s stopping you pleading manslaughter and pressing for extenuating circumstances?”
“Only the fear of losing, and Mrs. Kirsten having to spend the rest of her life in jail.”
“Why did she ask you to be her defense counsel in the first place?” asked Jimmy.
“No one else stepped up to the plate,” replied Fletcher. “And in any case, she found my fee irresistible.”
“But you’re up against the state’s attorney.”
“Which is a bit of a mystery, because I can’t work out why he’s bothering to represent the state in a case like this.”
“That’s simply answered,” said Jimmy. “Black woman kills white man in a state where only twenty percent of the population is black, and over half of them don’t bother to vote, and surprise, surprise, there’s an election coming up in May.”
“How long has Stamp given you before you have to tell him your decision?” asked Annie.
“We’re back in court next Monday.”
“Can you spare the time to be involved in a long trial?” she asked.
“No, but I mustn’t make that an excuse for agreeing to any compromise.”
“So we’ll be spending our holiday in court number three, will we?” asked Annie with a grin.
“It could even be court number four,” said Fletcher, putting an arm around his wife.
“Have you thought of asking Professor Abrahams’s advice on how she should plead?”
Jimmy and Fletcher stared at her in disbelief. “He advises presidents and heads of state,” said Fletcher.
“And possibly the occasional governor,” added Jimmy.
“Then perhaps the time has come for him to start advising a second-year law student. After all, that’s what he’s paid for.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” said Fletcher.
“How about picking up the phone and asking if he’ll see you,” said Annie. “My bet is that he’d be flattered.”
Nat arrived at Mario’s fifteen minutes early. He’d chosen the restaurant because it was unpretentious—tables with red-and-white checked cloths, a small arrangement of flowers, with black-and-white photos of Florence decorating the walls. Tom had also told him the pasta was homemade, cooked by the patron’s wife, and this had brought back memories of their trip to Rome. He’d taken Tom’s advice and selected a casual blue shirt, gray slacks and a navy sweater, no tie and no jacket—Tom had approved.
Nat introduced himself to Mario, who suggested a quiet table in the corner. After Nat had read the menu several times, he looked at his watch again, becoming ever more nervous. He must have checked a dozen times to be sure he had enough cash on him in case they didn’t accept credit cards. Perhaps it would have been more sensible if he had walked around the block a couple of times.
The moment he saw her, he realized he’d blown it. Su Ling was wearing a smart, well-cut blue suit, cream blouse and navy shoes. Nat rose from his place and waved. She smiled—a smile he hadn’t experienced until then, which made her look even more captivating. She walked over to join him.
“I apologize,” he said, rising from his place as he waited for her to be seated.
“What for?” she asked, looking puzzled.
“My clothes. I confess I spent a lot of time thinking about what I should wear, and still got it wrong.”
“Me too,” said Su Ling. “I expected you to turn up in a uniform covered in medals,” she added as she slipped off her jacket and placed it over the back of her chair.
Nat burst out laughing, and they didn’t seem to stop laughing for the next two hours, until Nat asked if she’d like some coffee. “Yes, black please,” said Su Ling.
“I’ve told you about my family, now tell me about yours,” Nat said. “Are you, like me, an only child?”
“Yes, my father was a master sergeant in Korea when he met my mother. They were only married for a few months before he was killed at the battle of Yudam-ni.”
Nat wanted to lean across and take her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “Mom decided to emigrate to America so that we could meet up with my grandparents. But we were never able to trace them.” This time he did take her hand. “I was too young to know what was going on, but my mother doesn’t give up that easily. She took a job in Storrs Laundry, near the bookstore, and the owner allowed us to live above the shop.”
“I know that laundry,” said Nat. “My father has his shirts done there—it’s very efficient and …”
“ … And has been ever since my mother took it over, but she’s had to sacrifice everything to ensure that I had a good education.”
“Your mother sounds just like mine,” said Nat as Mario appeared by their side.
“Everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Cartwright?”
“An excellent meal, thank you, Mario,” said Nat. “All I need now is the check.”
“Certainly, Mr. Cartwright, and may I say what an honor it has been to have you in the restaurant.”
“Thank you,” said Nat, trying to hide his embarrassment.
“How much did you tip him to say that?” asked Su Ling once Mario had slipped away.
“Ten dollars, and he’s word-perfect every time.”
“But does it always pay off?” asked Su Ling.
“Oh yes, most of my dates start taking off their clothes even before we get back to the car.”
“So do you always bring them here?”
“No. If I think it’s likely to be a one-night stand, I take them to McDonald’s, followed by a motel—if it’s serious, we go to the Altnaveigh Inn.”
“So which group are chosen for Mario’s?” asked Su Ling.
“I can’t answer that,” said Nat, “because I’ve never taken anyone to Mario’s before.”
“I’m flattered,” said Su Ling as he helped her on with her jacket. As they walked out of the restaurant, Su Ling took his hand. “You’re really quite shy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I am,” said Nat, as they continued walking toward the campus.
“Not at all like your arch rival, Ralph Elliot.” Nat didn’t comment. “He asked me for a date within minutes of meeting me.”
“To be fair,” said Nat, “I would have too, but you walked away.”
“I thought I was running at the time,” she said. He turned and smiled. “And even more interesting is how much action you actually saw in Vietnam to turn you into such a hero.” Nat was about to protest when she added, “Answer, about half an hour.”
“How do you know that?” asked Nat.
“Because I did some research on you, Captain Cartwright, and to quote Steinbeck, ‘you’re sailing under false colors.’ I learned that quote today,” she said, “just in case you might think I’m well read. When you jumped on the helicopter, you weren’t even carrying a gun. You were a warrant officer who shouldn’t have been on that aircraft in the first place. In fact, it was bad enough that you jumped on the helicopter without permission, but you also jumped off it without permission. Mind you, if you hadn’t, you might well have been court-martialed.”
“True,” said Nat, “but don’t tell anyone else, because it will stop me having my usual three
girls a night.”
Su Ling placed a hand in front of her mouth and laughed. “But I did read on, and your action after the helicopter crashed in the jungle was that of an extremely brave man. To have dragged that poor soldier on a stretcher with half your leg blown away must have taken immense courage, and then to discover he had later died can only have left an irremediable scar.” Nat didn’t reply. “I’m sorry,” she said as they reached south campus, “that last remark was inconsiderate of me.”
“It was kind of you to search for the truth,” he said, looking down into her dark brown eyes. “Not many have bothered to do that.”
18
“MEMBERS OF THE jury, in most murder trials it is the responsibility of the state, and rightly so, to prove that the defendant is guilty of homicide. That has not proved necessary in this case. Why? Because Mrs. Kirsten signed a confession within an hour of her husband’s brutal killing. And even now, eight months later, you will have noted that her legal representative has not at any time during this trial suggested that his client didn’t commit the crime, or even challenged how she went about it.
“So let us turn to the facts in this case, because this was not what could be described as a crime of passion where a woman seeks to defend herself with the nearest weapon at hand. No, Mrs. Kirsten was not interested in the nearest weapon at hand, because she spent several weeks planning this cold-blooded murder, well aware that her victim would have no chance of defending himself.
“How did Mrs. Kirsten set about her task? Over a period of nearly three months, she collected several vials of curare from different drug dealers who reside in the shadows of Hartford. The defense tried to suggest that none of the dealers’ evidence could be relied upon, which might have influenced you had Mrs. Kirsten herself not confirmed from the witness stand that they were all telling the truth.
“Having collected the vials over several weeks, what does Mrs. Kirsten do next? She waits until a Saturday night, when she knows her husband goes out drinking with his friends, and covertly pours the drug into six bottles of beer, and even replaces the tops. She then puts these bottles on the kitchen table, leaves the light on and goes to bed. She even places a bottle opener and a glass next to them. She does everything except pour out the drink herself.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this was a well-planned and cleverly executed murder. However, if you can believe it possible, there was even worse to follow.
“When her husband arrives home that night, he does indeed fall into her trap. First he goes to the kitchen, probably to turn off the light, and, seeing the bottles on the table, Alex Kirsten is tempted into having a beer before going to bed. Even before he has put the second bottle to his lips, the drug has begun to take effect. When he calls for help his wife leaves the bedroom and walks slowly down to the hall, where she hears her husband crying out in pain. Does she phone for an ambulance? No, she does not. Does she even go to his assistance? No, she does not. She sits on the staircase and waits patiently until his agonized cries have stopped and she can be certain he’s dead. And then, and only then, does she raise the alarm.
“How can we be so sure this is what actually took place? Not just because the neighbors were woken by her husband’s haunting screams for help, but because when one of those neighbors came to the door to see if they could assist, in her panic Mrs. Kirsten forgot to dispose of the contents of the other four bottles.” He paused for several seconds. “When analyzed, they contained enough curare to kill a football team.
“Members of the jury, the only defense Mr. Davenport has suggested for this crime is that Mrs. Kirsten’s husband regularly beat her. If this was the case, why didn’t she inform the police? If this was true, why didn’t she go and live with her mother, who resides on the other side of the city? If we are to believe her story, why didn’t she leave him? I’ll tell you why. Because once her husband was out of the way, she would own the house they lived in and collect his pension from the company he worked for, making it possible for her to live in relative comfort for the rest of her life.
“In normal circumstances, the state would not hesitate to call for the death penalty for such a horrendous crime, but we do not feel it is appropriate on this occasion. It is, nevertheless, your duty to send a clear message to any person who believes they can get away with murder. Such a crime may be lightly regarded in some other states, but we don’t need one of those to be Connecticut. Do we want to be known as the state that condones murder?”
The attorney general lowered his voice almost to a whisper, and looked straight at the jury. “When you indulge yourself in a moment of sympathy for Mrs. Kirsten, and indeed you should, if only because you are caring human beings, place that on one side of the scales called justice. On the other side, place the facts—the cold-blooded murder of a forty-two-year-old man who would still be alive today if it were not for the premeditated crime cunningly executed by that evil woman.” He turned and pointed directly at the defendant. “The state has no hesitation in asking you to find Mrs. Kirsten guilty, and sentence her according to the law.” Mr. Stamp returned to his place, the suggestion of a smile on his his face.
“Mr. Davenport,” said the judge, “I intend to break for lunch. When we return, you may begin your summing up.”
“You look very pleased with yourself,” said Tom as they settled down for breakfast in the kitchen.
“It was an unforgettable evening.”
“From that I assume consummation took place?”
“No, you cannot assume anything of the sort,” said Nat. “But I can tell you that I held her hand.”
“You did what?”
“I held her hand,” Nat repeated.
“That won’t do your reputation any good.”
“I’m rather hoping it will ruin my reputation,” said Nat as he poured some milk over his Wheaties. “And how about you?” he asked.
“If you are referring to my sex life, it is currently nonexistent, though not through lack of offers, one even persistent, But I’m just not interested.” Nat stared across at his friend and raised an eyebrow. “Rebecca Thornton has made it all too obvious that she’s available.”
“But I thought …”
“That she was back with Elliot?”
“Yes.”
“Possibly, but whenever I see her, she prefers to talk about you—in very flattering terms, I might add, though I’m told she tells a different story whenever she’s with Elliot.”
“If that’s the case,” said Nat, “why do you think she’s bothering to chase you?”
Tom pushed aside his empty bowl and began to concentrate on the two boiled eggs in front of him. He cracked the shell and looked at the yolk before he continued. “If it’s known that you’re an only child and your father is worth millions, most women view you in a completely different light. So I never can be sure if it’s me, or my money they’re interested in. Just be thankful that you don’t suffer from the same problem.”
“You’ll know when it’s the right person,” said Nat.
“Will I? I wonder. You’re one of the few people who’s never shown the slightest interest in my wealth, and you’re almost the only person I know who always insists on paying his own way. You’d be surprised by how many people assume I’ll pick up the tab just because I can afford it. I despise such people, which means that my circle of friends ends up being very small.”
“My latest friend is very small,” said Nat, hoping to snap Tom out of his morose mood, “and I know you’ll like her.”
“The ‘I held her hand’ girl?”
“Yes, Su Ling—she’s about five foot four, and now that thin is fashionable, she’ll be the most sought-after woman on the campus.”
“Su Ling?” said Tom.
“You know her?” asked Nat.
“No, but my father tells me that she’s taken over the new computer lab that his company funded, and the tutors have virtually stopped bothering to try and teach her.”
“She never ment
ioned anything about computers to me last night,” said Nat.
“Well, you’d better move quickly, because Dad also mentioned that MIT and Harvard are both trying to tempt her away from UConn, so be warned, there’s a big brain on top of that little body.”
“And I’ve made a complete fool of myself again,” said Nat, “because I even teased her about her English, when she’s obviously mastered a new language that everyone wants to know about. By the way, is that why you wanted to see me?” asked Nat.
“No, I had no idea you were dating a genius.”
“I’m not,” said Nat, “she’s a gentle, thoughtful, beautiful woman, who considers holding hands is one step away from promiscuity.” He paused. “So if it wasn’t to discuss my sex life, why did you call this high-powered breakfast meeting in the first place?”
Tom gave up on the eggs and pushed them to one side. “Before I return to Yale, I wanted to know if you’re going to run for president.” He waited for the usual barrage of count me out, not interested, you’ve got the wrong person, but Nat didn’t respond for some time.
“I discussed it with Su Ling last night,” he eventually said, “and in her usual disarming way, she told me that it was not so much that they wanted me, as they didn’t want Elliot. The lesser of two evils were her exact words, if I remember correctly.”
“I’m sure she’s right,” said Tom, “but that could change if you gave them a chance to get to know you. You’ve been pretty much of a recluse since you returned to college.”
“I’ve had a lot of catching up to do,” said Nat defensively.
“Well that’s no longer the case, as your grade point average clearly shows,” said Tom, “and now you’ve been selected to run for the university …”
“If you were at UConn, Tom, I wouldn’t hesitate to run for president, but while you’re at Yale …”
Fletcher rose from his place to face the jury—ninety—nine years was written on every one of their faces. If he could have turned the clock back and accepted the offer of three years, he would have done so without hesitation. Now he had been left with only one throw of the dice to try and give Mrs. Kirsten the rest of her life back. He touched his client’s shoulder, and turned to seek a reassuring smile from Annie, who had felt so strongly that he should defend this woman. The smile disappeared the moment he saw who was seated two rows behind her. Professor Karl Abrahams graced him with a nod. At least Jimmy would discover what it took to get a nod out of Homer.
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 71
