“No, no,” said Rebecca, “from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d fired the first shot.”
“Then I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?” Fletcher repeated, turning back to face her. “Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?”
“It all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.”
“What is your favorite work of fiction, Mrs. Elliot?” asked Fletcher quietly.
“Objection, your honor. How can this possibly be relevant?”
“Overruled. I have a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr. Ebden.”
“You are indeed, your honor,” said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness. “Mrs. Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply want you to tell the court your favorite work of fiction.”
“I’m not sure I have a particular one,” she replied, “but my favorite author is Hemingway.”
“Mine too,” said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face the judge, he asked, “Your honor, may I have your permission to briefly leave the courtroom?”
“For what purpose, Mr. Davenport?”
“To prove that my client did not fire the first shot.”
The judge nodded. “Briefly, Mr. Davenport.”
Fletcher then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door. “Your honor,” said Ebden, jumping up from his place, “I must object. Mr. Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.”
“If that turns out to be the case, Mr. Ebden, I shall severely censure Mr. Davenport the moment he returns.”
“But, your honor, is this kind of behavior fair to my client?”
“I believe so, Mr. Ebden. As Mr. Davenport reminded the court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your principal witness.”
The chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public entrance.
Richard Ebden rose again, at which point the judge called for order. “You honor, I move that Mrs. Elliot be released from further questioning on the grounds that the defense counsel is no longer able to carry out his cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.”
“I shall approve your request, Mr. Ebden,” the state’s attorney looked delighted, “should Mr. Davenport fail to return in under four minutes.” He smiled down at Mr. Ebden, assuming they had both worked out the significance of his judgment.
“Your honor, I must …” continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs. Elliot, before turning to the judge.
“Your honor, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?” he said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.
Judge Kravats pressed the stopper and, looking down at the stopwatch, said, “Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.”
Fletcher turned his attention back to the defense witness. “Mrs. Elliot, I had enough time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card, and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you were fearful of what he might have done.”
“But even if I did think that,” said Rebecca, losing her composure, “it’s only the second bullet that matters, the one that killed Ralph. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the first bullet ended up in the ceiling, or are you now suggesting that my husband killed himself?”
“No, I am not,” said Fletcher, “so why don’t you now tell the court exactly what you did when you heard the second shot.”
“I went to the top of the stairs and saw Mr. Cartwright running out of the house.”
“But he didn’t see you?”
“No, he only glanced back in my direction.”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Elliot. I think you saw him very clearly when he calmly walked past you in the corridor.”
“He couldn’t have walked past me in the corridor because I was at the top of the stairs.”
“I agree that he couldn’t have seen you if you had been at the top of the stairs,” said Fletcher as he returned to the table and selected a photograph, before walking back across to the witness stand. He passed the photograph over to her. “As you will see from this picture, Mrs. Elliot, anyone who left your husband’s study, walked into the corridor and then out of the front door could not have been observed from the top of the stairs.” He paused so that the jury could take in the significance of his statement, before continuing, “No, the truth is, Mrs. Elliot, that you were not standing at the top of the stairs, but in the hallway when Mr. Cartwright came out of your husband’s study, and if you would like me to ask the judge to adjourn so that the jury can visit your home and check on the veracity of your statement, I would be quite happy to do so.”
“Well, I might have been halfway down the stairs.”
“You weren’t even on the stairs, Mrs. Elliot, you were in the hallway, and you were not, as you also claimed, in your robe, but in a blue dress that you had worn to a cocktail party earlier that evening, which is why you didn’t see the television debate!”
“I was in a robe and there’s a picture of me to prove it.”
“Indeed there is,” said Fletcher, once again returning to the table and extracting another photograph, “which I am happy to enter as evidence—item 122, your honor.”
The judge, prosecution team and the jury began to rummage through their files as Fletcher handed over his copy to Mrs. Elliot.
“There you are,” she said, “it’s just as I told you, I’m sitting in the hallway in my robe.”
“You are indeed, Mrs. Elliot, and that photograph was taken by the police photographer, and we’ve since had it enlarged so we can consider all the details more clearly. Your honor, I would like to submit this enlarged photograph as evidence.”
“Objection, your honor,” said Ebden, leaping up from his place. “We have not been given an opportunity to study this photograph.”
“It’s state’s evidence, Mr. Ebden, and has been in your possession for weeks,” the judge reminded him. “Your objection is overruled.”
“Please study the photograph carefully,” said Fletcher as he walked away from Mrs. Elliot and passed the state’s attorney a copy of the enlarged photo. A clerk handed one to each member of the jury. Fletcher then turned back to face Rebecca. “And do tell the court what you see.”
“It’s a photograph of me sitting in the hallway in my robe.”
“It is indeed, but what are you wearing on your left wrist and around your neck?” Fletcher asked, before turning to face the jury, all of whom were now studying the photograph intently.
The blood drained from Rebecca’s face.
“I do believe they’re your wristwatch and your pearl necklace,” said Fletcher answering his own question. “Do you remember?” He paused. “The ones you always locked away in your safe just before going to bed because there had been several burglaries in the area recently?” Fletcher turned to face Chief Culver and Detective Petrowski, who were seated in the front row. “It is, as Detective Petrowski reminded us, the little mistakes that always reveal the amateur.” Fletcher turned back and looked directly at Rebecca, before adding, “You may have forgotten to take off your watch and necklace, Mrs. Elliot, but I can tell you something you didn’t forget to take off, your dress.” Fletcher placed his hands on the jury box rail before saying slowly and withou
t expression. “Because you didn’t do that until after you’d killed your husband.”
Several people rose at once, and the judge carried on banging his gavel before it was quiet enough for the state’s attorney to say in a loud voice, “Objection. How can wearing a wristwatch prove that Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband?”
“I agree with you, Mr. Ebden,” said the judge and turning to Fletcher suggested, “That’s quite a quantum leap, counselor.”
“Then I will be happy to take the state’s attorney through it step by step, your honor.” The judge nodded. “When Mr. Cartwright arrived at the house, he overheard an argument going on between Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, and after he’d knocked on the door, it was Mr. Elliot who answered it, while Mrs. Elliot was nowhere to be seen. I’m willing to accept that she did run up to the top of the stairs so that she could overhear what was going on while not being observed, but the moment the first shot was fired, she came back down into the corridor and listened to the quarrel taking place between her husband and my client. Three or four minutes later, Mr. Cartwright walked calmly out of the study and passed Mrs. Elliot in the corridor, before opening the front door. He looked back at Mrs. Elliot, which is why he was able to tell the police questioning him later that night that she was wearing a lowcut blue dress and a string of pearls. If the jury studies the photograph of Mrs. Elliot, if I’m not mistaken, she is wearing the same string of pearls as the ones she has on today.” Rebecca touched her necklace as Fletcher continued. “But let’s not rely on my client’s word, but on your own statement, Mrs. Elliot.” He turned another page of the state’s evidence, before he began reading. “I ran into the study, saw my husband’s body slumped on the floor and then called the police.”
“That’s right, I did ring Chief Culver at home, he’s already confirmed that,” interjected Rebecca.
“But why did you call the chief of police first?”
“Because my husband had been murdered.”
“But in your evidence, Mrs. Elliot, given to Detective Petrowski only moments after your husband’s death, you stated that you saw Ralph slumped in the corner of his study, blood coming from his mouth, and immediately called the chief of police.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I did,” shouted Rebecca.
Fletcher paused before turning to face the jury. “If I saw my wife slumped in a corner with blood coming from her mouth, the first thing I would do is to check to see if she was still alive and, if she was, I wouldn’t call for the police, I’d call for an ambulance. And at no time did you call for an ambulance, Mrs. Elliot. Why? Because you already knew that your husband was dead.”
Once again there was uproar in the body of the court, and the reporters who weren’t old-fashioned enough to take shorthand struggled to get down every word.
“Mrs. Elliot,” continued Fletcher, once the judge had stopped banging his gavel, “allow me to repeat the words you said only a few moments ago when questioned by the state’s attorney.” Fletcher picked up one of the yellow pads from his desk and began reading. “‘I suddenly felt cold and sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor.’” Fletcher threw the notepad down on his desk, stared at Mrs. Elliot and said, “You still haven’t even bothered to check if your husband is alive, but you didn’t need to, did you, because you knew he was dead; after all, it was you who had killed him.”
“Then why didn’t they find any traces of gunpowder residue on my robe?” Rebecca shouted above the banging of the judge’s gavel.
“Because when you shot your husband, you weren’t in your robe, Mrs. Elliot, but still in the blue dress you’d been wearing that evening. It was only after you had killed Ralph that you ran upstairs to change into your nightgown and robe. But unfortunately Detective Petrowski switched on his car siren, broke the speed limit, and managed to be with you six minutes later, which is why you had to rush back downstairs, forgetting to take off your watch or pearls. And even more damning, not leaving yourself enough time to close the front door. If, as you have claimed, Mr. Cartwright had killed your husband, and then run out of the door, the first thing you would have done would be to make sure that it was closed so he couldn’t get back in to harm you. But Detective Petrowski, conscientious man that he is, arrived a little too quickly for you, and even remarked how surprised he was to find the front door open. Amateurs often panic, and that’s when they make simple mistakes,” he repeated almost in a whisper. “Because the truth is that once Mr. Cartwright had walked past you in the hallway, you then ran into the study, picked up the gun and realized this was a perfect opportunity to be rid of a husband you’d despised for years. The shot Mr. Cartwright heard as he was driving away from the house was indeed the bullet that killed your husband, but it wasn’t Mr. Cartwright who pulled the trigger, it was you. What Mr. Cartwright did do was give you the perfect alibi, and a solution to all your problems.” He paused and, turning away from the jury, added, “If only you had remembered to remove your wristwatch and pearls before you came downstairs, closed the front door and then phoned for an ambulance, rather than the chief of police, you would have committed the perfect murder, and my client would be facing the death penalty.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did? Because it can’t have been Mr. Cartwright, as he left some time before the second shot was fired. I feel sure you recall his words when confronted by the chief—‘he was still alive when I left him,’ and by the way, Mr. Cartwright didn’t find it necessary to change out of the suit he’d been wearing earlier that evening.” Once again Fletcher turned to face the jury, but they were now all staring at Mrs. Elliot.
She buried her head in her hands and whispered, “Ralph’s the one who should be on trial. He was responsible for his own death.”
However firmly Judge Kravats called the court to order, it was still some time before he was able to restore calm. Fletcher waited until he had complete silence, before he delivered his next sentence.
“But how is that possible, Mrs. Elliot?” he asked. “After all, it was Detective Petrowski who pointed out that it’s quite difficult to shoot yourself from four feet away.”
“He made me do it.”
Ebden leaped to his feet as the public began repeating the sentence to each other.
“Objection, your honor, the witness is being …”
“Overruled,” said Judge Kravats firmly. “Sit down, Mr. Ebden, and remain seated.” The judge turned his attention back to the witness. “What did you mean, Mrs. Elliot, by ‘he made me do it’?”
Rebecca turned to the judge, who looked down at her with concern. “You honor, Ralph was desperate to win the election at any cost, and after Nat told him that Luke had committed suicide, he knew he no longer had any hope of becoming governor. He kept pacing around the room repeating the words, ‘I will still kill you,’ then he snapped his fingers and said, ‘I’ve got the solution, you’re going to have to do it.’”
“What did he mean by that?” asked the judge.
“To begin with I didn’t understand myself, your honor, then he started shouting at me. He said, ‘There’s no time to argue, otherwise he’ll get away, and then we’ll never be able to pin it on him, so I’ll tell you exactly what you’re going to do. First, you’ll shoot me in the shoulder, and then you’ll call the chief at home and tell him that you were in the bedroom when you heard the first shot. You came rushing downstairs when you heard the second shot, and that’s when you saw Cartwright running out of the front door.’”
“But why did you agree to go along with this outrageous suggestion?” asked the judge.
“I didn’t,” said Rebecca. “I told him if there was any shooting to be done, he could do it himself, because I wasn’t going to get involved.”
“And what did he say to that?” asked the judge.
“That he couldn’t shoot himself because the police would be able to work that out, but if I did it, they would never know.”<
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“But that still doesn’t explain why you agreed to go through with it?”
“I didn’t,” repeated Rebecca quietly. “I told him I would have nothing to do with it, Nat had never done me any harm. But then Ralph grabbed the gun and said, ‘If you’re not willing to go through with it, then there’s only one alternative, I’ll have to shoot you.’ I was terrified, but all he said was, ‘I’ll tell everyone that it was Nat Cartwright who killed my wife when she tried to come to my rescue, then they’ll be even more sympathetic when I play the part of the grieving widower.’ He laughed, and added, ‘Don’t think I wouldn’t do it.’ He then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and said, ‘Wrap this around your hand, so your fingerprints won’t be on the gun.’” Rebecca was silent for some time before she whispered, “I remember picking up the gun and pointing it at Ralph’s shoulder, but I closed my eyes just as I pulled the trigger. When I opened them, Ralph was slumped in the corner. I didn’t need to check to know that he was dead. I panicked, dropped the gun, ran upstairs and called the chief at home just as Ralph had told me to. Then I started to undress. I’d just put on my robe when I heard the siren. I looked through the curtains and saw a police car turning into the driveway. I ran back downstairs as the car was pulling up outside the house, which didn’t leave me enough time to close the front door. I slumped down in the hallway just before Detective Petrowski came rushing in.” She bowed her head and this time the weeping was genuine and unrehearsed. Whispering turned to chattering as everyone in the courtroom began to discuss Rebecca’s testimony.
Fletcher turned to face the state’s attorney, who was in a huddle, consulting his team. He made no attempt to hurry them, and returned to take his seat next to Nat. It was some time before Ebden eventually rose from his place. “Your honor.”
“Yes, Mr. Ebden?” said the judge.
“The state withdraws all charges against the defendant.” He paused for some time. “On a personal note,” he added as he turned to face Nat and Fletcher, “having watched you as a team, I can’t wait to see what will happen when you’re up against each other.”
Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Page 102
