Defending Turquoise (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 5)

by John Ellsworth

  Finally Shep drew a deep breath and said, “Like shum appleshauce?”

  “What?”

  “Hungry?”

  “Shep—I—I was hoping—”

  The old lawyer raised a palsied hand and allowed it to shake between them. “I’m jush not all there, I guesh. I’m shorry.”

  “Shit,” Thaddeus muttered, and immediately regretted it. “I know,” he said. “I understand.”

  “Shounds guilty, to me. Maybe plead her?”

  Thaddeus beat the steering wheel of the F250 truck on the way home. “Shit!” he cried. “How could you fall for her story and not get your own workup done? How!”

  47

  She arrived at the office the next morning at exactly seven o’clock, as he had demanded. She was wearing a navy suit with white piping, a small string of pearls, the turquoise bracelet, and wedding ring. A pair of glasses had appeared on her face. Her hair was up and held in place by two silver combs, each studded in turquoise stones the size of a pencil eraser. She looked studious, almost matronly, and he felt a ray of hope, for she at least looked the part of someone who was leading a normal life in a normal neighborhood in a normal job in a normal family with—wait, the normal family part? A daughter dead by her own hand and a husband now dead by her hand? Angelina was anything but normal. Her entire family was deceased and she was left behind to explain? He sighed. Might as well get on with it.

  They rehearsed her testimony, starting the night before and coming up to the time of death. They moved hour by hour in an effort to cover all the bases. She described the shooting, the struggle, the sexual assault and digital penetration, the struggle on the carpet, her momentary freedom and her hand finding the gun and pulling the trigger. There was enough doubt raised by the story that it amounted to a reasonable doubt—Thaddeus was pretty comfortable with that. But then there was the biting tale. How to deal with that? How to deal with the fact she had lied to the police about the biting and injuries recorded at the hospital?

  “Who bit you?” he asked when they came to the wall.

  “Bill. I thought I told you that.”

  “Bill Gerhardt, our judge?”

  “One and the same.” She took a bite of Starbucks sausage muffin and chewed thoughtfully. “We like it kinky, I told you that too.”

  “When did this biting occur?”

  “The night before. John stayed over in Cameron on business. Bill came by and we thrashed each other and had our climaxes and broke up around ten.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Drank a half bottle of California claret and went to bed. I remember the room spinning.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Old sorority girl trick. I put one foot out of bed on the floor. Helps stop the spinning.”

  “Great,” he said, weighing how this would sound to the jury. He would try to avoid these little details.

  “Next morning John comes in and catches me half passed out. He pulls up my nightie and sees the marks. He goes ape-shit, chases me downstairs. I think he’s going to kill me. So I shoot him.”

  “Give me more details.”

  “Oh, he tackled me in the family room, digital penetration, tried to mount me against my will, all of that stuff is true.”

  “Where does the gun come in?”

  “I managed to buck him to the side, but he’s strong and grabs my ankle when I try to stand and run. He pulls me back down, I kick free and get to the drawer with the gun. All I meant to do was scare him. I just wanted him to leave me alone. I had decided I wanted a divorce and I was going to tell him anyway. But first I had to make him listen to me.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I had the gun and I held it up to show him. He lunged at me and I guess I shot him. Really I don’t remember all that much. I know I was in shock because I replaced the gun and went upstairs and cleaned myself up. I knew there would be tests and pictures at the hospital and I didn’t want Bill’s DNA found on me.”

  “Why did you tell Art Handelman that John bit you?”

  She sighed. “That was the easy part. He wasn’t believing me when I told him what happened. So I embellished. I added the bite part.”

  “That simple?”

  “Yeppers. Just threw it in to sweeten the pot. You were a gambler once, weren’t you?”

  Thaddeus, in spite of himself, smiled. “I once owned a casino. But I didn’t gamble.”

  “Well, the pot needed sweetening when Handelman looked me in the eye. So I sweetened it. I tossed in the bit about John coming after me with his teeth. That was pure white lie.”

  “Not so white. That denigrates the whopper you told.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yes, whatever.”

  48

  Two hours later she was on the witness stand and repeated almost word-for-word what she had told Thaddeus at the office. She left out the Bill Gerhardt part, of course. The jury was sitting back in their seats, arms crossed, no note-taking. None that Thaddeus could see, and he was watching them. Closely. Evidently their minds were made up and they weren’t going to believe much if any of what she said at this point.

  Thaddeus plowed ahead. After all, there was one critical piece of testimony that the jury couldn’t ignore. Couldn’t, because it had been laid down by the state’s own witnesses.

  “Now Angelina,” Thaddeus began, taking up the new tack. “When the fatal shot was fired, where was your husband?”

  “On the carpet on his knees.”

  “Describe his actions.”

  “He was about to stand up, coming upright, and coming after me.”

  “Did you hear the state’s expert witnesses and firearms expert testify about the absence of gunshot residue, power burns or stippling on your husband’s skin?”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “Did you hear them testify that there was a fair amount of separation between the two of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if there was that separation, why did you feel the need to use the gun?”

  “Because of what he said.”

  “What was that?”

  “I’m going to kill you and make it look like a suicide. Just like I did with Hammy.”

  “Who is Hammy?”

  “Our daughter.”

  “Repeat that. What did John say about Hammy just before you shot him?”

  “That he was going to kill me and make it look like a suicide just like he did with Hammy.”

  “What did that mean to you?”

  “That he killed Hammy, our daughter, and made it look like a suicide.”

  Thaddeus went to counsel table and returned with a handwritten note.

  “Mark, please,” he said to the clerk, who affixed an evidence label to the exhibit and announced it was Defendant’s Exhibit 37.

  “I’m handing you this exhibit thirty-seven. What is it?”

  “Hammy’s handwriting. Suicide note. It was found at the time of her death.”

  “And it refers to her abuser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Read the exhibit, please.”

  Angelina lifted the exhibit for all to see. Just like Thaddeus had coached her. “‘Don’t play like you don’t know, mother. I’m doing it because of you. You play ignorant about his sexual abuse but any fool could see. Fuck you both. I hate you and hope this kills you. Goodbye.’”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “It was pinned with a brooch to my daughter when she was found dead.”

  “Ostensibly was dead by suicide?”

  “That’s what we all believed. Until John told me that he was going to kill me and make it look like a suicide just like he did with Hammy.”

  “That would be Hamilton Steinmar, you daughter.”

  “Yes. He killed her. He admitted it and all I saw was red. At that exact moment the gun went off. I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. I was stunned by his confession. I was in shock. And I flew into a rage, I’m sure of it.”


  “Did you lose control?”

  “Wouldn’t you, if your spouse had been sexually abusing your child then admitted killing her?”

  Thaddeus made no attempt to respond. It was rhetorical, of course, and he let it hang there in the air for the jury to consider. He looked at them out the corner of his eye. Many were making notes. He crossed back to counsel table and fiddled with his tablet. He wanted the response to soak in. It didn’t mean a not guilty verdict was coming. But it could mean manslaughter. Heat-of-the-moment. A gun fired in the heat of the murder. That wasn’t first-degree murder. That was manslaughter. And people weren’t put to death for manslaughter. Ever.

  He turned back to his client. “Describe your emotional state when you pulled the trigger.”

  “I didn’t have an emotional state. I was a blank.”

  “Were you angry?”

  “Of course.”

  “Were you enraged?”

  “Of course. And shocked. I had never even suspected.”

  “How do you explain the note in your daughter’s handwriting?”

  “The note was from before. It was from the first time she tried. He told me that.”

  “He told you that before you shot him?”

  “Uh-huh, yes. He found Hammy after she took some pills and tried suicide the first time. Evidently he found her note too and hid it. He saved it for when he would really need it.”

  “This sounds like something out of a movie.”

  “Not a very good movie, then, because I don’t believe it myself. I mean, I never would have believed anyone could be so conniving. He said he saved the note. But John was sick. He was out of control.”

  “Objection,” shouted Moroney. “She has no expertise with which to judge his mental state.”

  “Might be true,” said Judge Gerhardt, “but she can tell what she saw. She says he was out of control, which isn’t a medical opinion. It’s lay testimony and I’m going to allow it. Overruled.”

  “You said he was out of control?”

  “He was. And when he said he was going to kill me and make it look like a suicide, I had no doubt. At that very instant I believed I was in immediate danger of dying.”

  “You believed he was coming after the gun to kill you with it.”

  “Of course I did. He just said he killed my little girl. If he would kill her, he would kill me, who he was already in a rage about.”

  Thaddeus rattled the papers on the podium. By now everyone on the jury was making notes. And he was enervated to see that. He had just made self-defense: She was in fear for her own life, believed her own death was imminent.

  At long last, he had his defense.

  Jimmy Moroney wasted no time going after her on cross. With his cool reserve he stood up from counsel table and crossed to the podium. There might have been a hint of a swagger of someone holding a winning bet, but no one on the jury took note. He positioned his papers on the podium and then extended his hand, his index finger, accusingly at Angelina.

  “You expect this jury of good and smart people to believe that your husband would provide a suicide note that clearly implicated him in molesting your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would he do that?” asked Jimmy, ignoring, in the passion of the moment, the cardinal rule of cross-examination: that the questioner never asks a “why” question to which he or she doesn’t already know the answer.

  “Because he knew it would go to the grand jury.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand that.”

  Angelina sighed. She was going to have to explain to this man. Did he really not get it? thought Thaddeus.

  “He knew the note would go to the grand jury. Grand jury stuff is secret. He knew the note would never see the light of day.”

  “But he knew it implicated him. It could make the grand jury indict him,” Jimmy argued.

  “It was ambiguous, the note was ambiguous. It doesn’t give his name. He knew that. He knew he could be viewed as a suspect, but not indicted. John was a lot of things, but he was a brilliant prosecutor and he knew how grand juries worked. They wouldn’t indict him just over the note and he was sure of that. So he produced it. Understand now?”

  Jimmy stared at the witness. He did, in fact, understand. But too late. Now he had allowed her to explain what would otherwise have been good argument in his closing argument. Now he had given her a club to use against him. His face said it all: crestfallen and unsmiling. He rattled the papers on the podium, evidently lost in thought as to how to proceed. His cross-examination had just had the air let out of it. Gone.

  He tried a different approach. “Now, you expect this jury to believe he confessed to you that he murdered his own daughter?”

  “Did you read her suicide note? My own daughter said he was molesting her. That’s worse than killing her, to some of us. So if he would molest her, he would kill her, too. Don’t you see that?”

  “Madam, I’m asking the questions here,” Jimmy responded.

  “You’re not asking the right questions,” Angelina shot back, and Thaddeus saw three jurors smile. She had made it up to at least three of them. Fantastic, he thought, just one would be enough to get a hung jury. Now she maybe had three. Nine more and she was not guilty. Of anything. Thaddeus clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. It was brighter, lighter, than before.

  But Jimmy wasn’t going to go away easily.

  “So you tell us you shot him in a rage?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said my mind went blank.”

  “Are you saying you weren’t in a rage?”

  “He had just told me he murdered my precious baby. I suppose there was rage. But it was like I was unconscious one second and in the next second realized he was coming for me. I had to defend myself.”

  “So you shot him.”

  “I did. I shot him.”

  “You meant to kill him?”

  “I meant to stop him. I must admit, I was angry enough to kill him, but killing wasn’t in my mind. I only wanted to keep from being killed.”

  Thaddeus looked back down at the table but inside he was glowing. She had just made manslaughter with “angry enough to kill him,” and then trumped her own card with “keep from being killed,” because that was the language of self-defense. She had listened well around the dinner table all those years with John. She definitely knew the language of self-defense and manslaughter.

  Which was the moment when he realized. She hadn’t learned that around John Steinmar’s table at all. Thaddeus snuck a look at the judge. Suddenly he knew where her words were coming from. Of course. Steinmar was a prosecutor, he wouldn’t be using the words of self-defense and manslaughter. No, the words came from elsewhere, from a schooled resource, someone bright and intelligent. From someone who even now wouldn’t look him in the eye, someone who was evidently busy with note-taking, eyes downcast to the tablet before him. Son of a bitch. He did love her. He was fighting for her. He was feeding her her lines.

  “So you shot him.”

  “I held up the pistol to show him, warn him to stop.”

  “Then you shot him.”

  “He lunged at me. Next thing I know the gun goes off.”

  “Testimony from CSI indicates he was on his knees.”

  “Yes, and lunging at me. Did I have to wait for him to get his hands around my throat again? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Madam,” Moroney replied stonily, “I am asking the questions here.”

  “But you don’t hear my answers. He was going to kill me. I know John.”

  “And then you told the police you had his bite marks all over you.”

  “I did.”

  “So you lied.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you lying now?”

  “No.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “How do you know I am?”

  “Because you did before.”

  “Art Handelman was trying to put words in
my mouth to make it look like I killed John because I was mad at him. And he gave me Miranda but then wouldn’t shut up even when I wanted him to.”

  “According to the recording, you never asked him to stop asking questions.”

  “No, I told him that before he started recording. I told him when he first came in that I wanted to talk to a lawyer. One thing I knew from all those years with John was to never talk to the police without a lawyer.”

  “How do we know you asked him not to ask you questions?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “Your Honor,” said Thaddeus, rising to his feet, “this is argument. Counsel is arguing with the witness, which is improper. Defense objects.”

  Judge Gerhardt nodded. “The court agrees. Move on, Counsel. Objection sustained.”

  “Judge,” said Moroney, turning to face the judge, “I’m trying to understand how we know she’s not lying now. It’s a fair question.”

  “Counsel, I’ve known this witness for many years. She’s come into my court hundreds of times and testified on child abuse cases. One thing I know is that she’s a believable witness. She tells the truth and doesn’t embellish. Your arguing with her isn’t going to change that. Now move along, please.”

  The whole speech was improper but was delivered in the nicest way, without any indication the judge was taking sides. Moroney had sought out the confrontation and the judge had responded to him. Thaddeus saw how slick it had been handled, and he was impressed. If not a little sorry for the prosecutor. Moroney was an all right guy but he was going to lose this case. There was too much working against him now and he was clueless. Even worse for him, the state couldn’t appeal a Not Guilty verdict. The court of appeals would never read about the judge’s improper comments. It was a done deal. Thaddeus never raised his eyes from his papers and notes as all this went through his mind. To anyone watching him, he appeared to be oblivious to the court’s comments. They were what they were, his face said.