As we neared the courthouse I saw several large TV transmission vans, some bearing the logos of national networks. I wasn’t surprised. Governor Wentworth had been in the news a lot lately, and the media would be excited, like a school of piranha, hoping to chew the flesh from his bones. The fact of his being a witness in a murder trial was just too juicy to pass up.
As Anne and I neared the courthouse steps, I was mobbed by the reporters, throwing stupid questions in my direction. I did not respond, walking quickly and quietly toward the security station at the entrance. The mob was left behind as I passed through security. Perhaps these rent a cops had some use after all.
The courtroom gallery was packed. Most of the observers had press passes hanging around their necks. There was a TV camera set up in one corner of the courtroom, aimed at the pit. Elizabeth and her assistant were at their table. Anne came inside the rail and sat in one of the chairs behind counsel table. As a member of the bar, she was allowed entrance to the pit, and I had already introduced her to Elizabeth and Judge O’Reilly.
The court was called to order, and the judge entered. Taking the bench, he told us to be seated, and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a most unusual event, to have this many members of the press in a Manatee County courtroom. I want to caution each of you that I will countenance no outburst, no talking and no running out of the courtroom during the testimony of Governor Wentworth. I have instructed the deputies to seal the courtroom. If you want to leave, do so now.” No one stirred.
“There is a pool camera in the corner,” the judge continued. “If counsel has any objection, I will hear it now.” There was no objection. “Bring in the jury.”
The jury entered, anticipation written across their faces. This was probably the most exciting event of their lives, and they would be telling their grandchildren about it. They took their seats, intent on the proceedings. The judge said, “Mr. Royal, call your witness.” I did and the court deputy made a big deal out of walking to the door at the back of the courtroom,
“Governor George Wentworth,” the deputy called, and then stood aside as the governor strode into the courtroom. He was wearing a navy blue suit, a bright white dress shirt, and a red silk tie. His hair had obviously been styled that morning, probably by his traveling hairdresser. He had that arrogant air about him that emanates from many politicians, especially when they are campaigning. It was clear that the governor saw his court appearance as just another campaign stop; one that he was determined to turn to his advantage. He took his seat on the witness stand, was sworn, and turned and smiled at the jury as he promised to tell the truth and nothing but.
State your name and occupation, please sir,” I said.
“George Wentworth, Governor of Iowa and candidate for the Presidency of the United States.” He smiled directly at the camera in the back corner of the courtroom. He was probably thinking about the six o’clock news. He seemed very sure of himself, the arrogance oozing from every pore. It was time to start chipping away at the stone exterior. I wanted to see him sweat a little. I had heard stories about the hair trigger temper he was careful not to show in public. Trial lawyers love explosive tempers in witnesses. If you can gently goad a witness into exploding on the stand, you have him in your arena. You’re in charge, and the jury is forever after a little skeptical of his testimony.
“Where were you on October 6, twelve years ago?” I asked.
“I have no idea.”
“If I told you you were at the Lakeview Hotel in Chicago on that evening would you disagree?”
“I have no idea, Counselor.”
I walked to the witness stand and handed him a piece of paper. “Can you identify that document, Governor?”
“It appears to be a computer printout from the Lakeview Hotel for the evening October 6.”
“Does it show the name of the person registered in suite 1101?”
“Yes.”
“And what is the name?”
“It’s my name, Counselor. So, I guess you proved your point.” He was close to snarling.
“Do you remember that a prostitute was beaten to death in that hotel on the same night you stayed there?”
“What’s your point, Sir?”
“Just asking, Governor. Do you remember that?”
“Vaguely, “ he said.
“And do you remember Governor, that some john had two prostitutes in his room and they were all snorting cocaine?”
“What are you implying, Counselor?” The snarl was closer to the surface now.
“Nothing, Governor, just asking.”
“Well, ask something else. I’m tired of this line of questions.”
“Your Honor?” I said.
Judge O’Reilly leaned over his bench, his face grave. “Governor, you will answer the questions put to you unless I rule otherwise.”
“Judge, these questions have no bearing on anything,” said Wentworth.
“I’ll make that decision, Governor,” said the judge.
Turning to me the governor said, “Ask your next stupid question, Counselor.”
“Governor,” said the judge, “You will sit there and conduct yourself like a gentleman. You will answer the questions put to you, or so help me, I will hold you in contempt of this court.”
I had turned and was walking back to counsel table. I saw one of the governor’s handlers standing in the very back of the courtroom, making calming hand signals to the governor. The governor was trying to control himself, willing himself to calm down, to present himself as the strong leader with a steady demeanor.
“Where were you on the evening of May 5, 1979, Governor?” I asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Where did you live at the time?”
“I was in college then.”
“At Georgetown University in Washington D.C.?”
“That’s right.”
“Lived in a dorm on campus?”
“Yes.”
“Then why were you checked into a sleazebag hotel on that night?”
“I’m not sure I was. I guess you have a registration card for that as well.”
“I sure do, Governor.” I handed him the registration card.
“Okay. That’s my name. So what?”
“Are you aware that a prostitute was beaten to death in that hotel on the very night you were there?”
“This is getting tiresome, Counselor.”
“Can you answer the question?” I asked.
“I don’t have any memory of that.”
“Were you aware that cocaine was found in both hotel rooms where the dead prostitutes were found?”
Judge O’Reilly was getting a little restless. “Do you have a point, Mr. Royal?”
“Yes, sir, your Honor,” I said. “Just a few more questions.”
“Governor, where were you on the evening of September 6, 1984?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Does Moline, Illinois sound familiar?”
“Maybe. I’ve been to Moline a number of times. It’s right across the river from Davenport, Iowa. I was working on my father’s campaign for reelection to the United States Senate at the time. I was traveling the whole state of Iowa.”
“Do you remember that a prostitute was beaten to death in the same hotel in which you stayed on the night you were there?”
“No. I’m not aware of that.”
“There was cocaine residue found in the room. Does that ring any bells?”
“Just what are you getting at, Counselor?”
“Are you still using cocaine, Governor?” I asked.
That was it. He came out of his chair, screaming, “You two bit pissant. I’m the Governor of Iowa. Just who the hell do you think you are?” Spittle was flying out of his mouth, his eyes blazing. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the court deputy move toward the witness stand. Two members of the jury flinched at the fury of the governor’s response.
“Sit down, Governor!” said the ju
dge.
“Don’t you tell me what to do, you small time tyrant. I make and break judges like you every day.” The governor had lost control. I could not have asked for a better display of a witness out of control.
“Not in this state, and not in this courtroom,” said Judge O’Reilly. “Either you sit down or I’ll have the deputy arrest you. Now, Governor. Right now!” The judge’s voice was calm, but his words flowed out of his mouth like steel javelins.
Suddenly, the governor sat down. He had pulled himself back to reality by strength of will, but he must have known that he had done terrible damage to himself. His outburst would lead the national news shows that evening. “I apologize, your Honor,” he said.
“Proceed, Mr. Royal,” said the judge.
“Governor, are you aware of the progress made in DNA evidence during the last ten years?” I asked.
“Only in the vaguest sense.”
“Did you know that the Chicago Police Department had recovered semen from the room in which one prostitute was beaten to death and Vivian Pickens was almost beaten to death?”
He didn’t know that. His eyes reflected something that I had seen a long time ago in the eyes of a North Viet Namese regular soldier who was about to die. It was the acknowledgment that his life was over.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Would you be willing to give a DNA sample to the Chicago detective that is here in the courtroom?”
“I think I’d better seek legal counsel, Mr. Royal,” said the governor.
“Were you responsible for the death of Vivian Pickens and Golden Joe Johnson?”
“No.”
“Governor, you sent your goons to Chicago to find Vivian four years ago, and when they did, she disappeared. Your people picked up her trail through her father down in Pahokee, and they found her on Longboat Key. You had her killed, because you were afraid she could identify you as her attacker and the murderer of her friend. You had Sam Cox waylay Logan on the night of Vivian’s death, so someone could strangle her and leave her in Logan’s condo. You wanted it to look like a lover’s quarrel, so the police would look no further. Am I right, Governor?”
“I refuse to answer that without advice of counsel.”
“I have nothing further, your Honor,” I said.
“I have no questions, your Honor.” said Elizabeth.
“You may be excused, Governor. Under the circumstances there will be no contempt citation. I imagine you’ll be going to Chicago for awhile,” said the judge.
“Your Honor,” said Elizabeth, still on her feet, “The state dismisses all charges against the defendant Logan Hamilton.”
“Case is dismissed,” said the judge. “The defendant is forthwith released from custody. The jury is dismissed.” He rose and left the bench.
Just like that, the trial was over. Since a jury had been empaneled before the dismissal, jeopardy had attached, and Logan was as free as if the jury had acquitted him. I breathed a large sigh of relief. Logan leaned over to me and said, “What just happened?”
“Case is over,” I said. “You’re a free man.”
Pandemonium erupted in the courtroom as the judge left. Cell phones appeared, and reporters were calling in their stories. The pool camera was being broken down, the live feed having been sent all day to the trucks parked in front of the courthouse. Programming would be interrupted on all the network and cable channels, so that the feed of the governor imploding his campaign could be given to the American people without delay.
The court deputy walked over, smiling. “That was great, Mr. Royal,” he said. “That SOB had it coming. I can’t imagine him ending up as president.”
“I don’t think it’ll happen now,” said Anne.
I had turned to find Elizabeth, who was packing up, getting ready to leave. “That was a courageous thing you did,” I said. “I wonder how your boss is going to take it.”
“I don’t really care, Matt,” she said. “Maybe it’s time I moved on.”
“Don’t do anything rash, Elizabeth. You’re a hell of a prosecutor. The state needs you. Why don’t we let the dust settle and have a drink. I’ll call you the first of the week.”
“I’d like that Matt. You’re a hell of a lawyer, for a beach bum.” She was smiling.
Logan, Anne and I walked out of the courthouse, reporters vying for our attention. We ignored them, and headed for Longboat Key. I was breathing easy for the first time since I had agreed to represent Logan. The trial was over, and my friend was free. Anne was the bonus I did not expect when the case started, and I thought I could get used to having her around. We’d have to explore that.
Chapter 30
As I expected, the national news on Friday evening was dominated by the turn of events for Wentworth. The governor was not available for comment, and the media was frantically trying to find him. I knew that he had been arrested by a Chicago Police lieutenant of detectives named Miles Leavitt, and that he would be transported to Chicago before the night was over.
The morning papers ran large headlines announcing that the governor had been arrested for murder and had withdrawn from the presidential race and resigned his governorship. Longboat Key was prominent among the stories, and I had my fifteen minutes of fame. It was a little unsettling, but so is life.
I called David Jarski on Saturday morning.
“I saw you on TV. I thought you were in the insurance business,” he said.
“I’m sorry about that, Dr. Jarski. I was under the impression that you might have killed Vivian, who I then thought was your wife Connie.”
“It’s not a problem, Mr. Royal. I’m glad you found Vivian’s murderer. And I appreciate your taking the time to call.”
We chatted for awhile, and I asked him to give my regards to Mrs. Gibbs. He was not a man to hold a grudge, and he seemed genuinely pleased that Vivian’s murder would not go unpunished.
Sam Cox was going to be charged with the murder of Golden Joe Johnson and with conspiracy to commit murder in the Vivian Pickens case. Nobody had figured out who actually killed Vivian. Cox had an ironclad alibi for most of the time in which the murder could have occurred, since he was with Logan. No one doubted though, that Cox had put it all together.
The key was quiet on Saturday. Dottie Johanson put together a party at one of the local gin mills to welcome Logan home. All the regulars were there, including some who had probably thought Logan guilty. It was a celebration, and the key breathed a collective sigh of relief over Logan’s acquittal.
While we would never know exactly what was going on with Connie/Vivian during the last days of her life, Dallas probably came up with the best guess. “I think she must have realized that somebody was after her in Chicago, and when she found out about the real Connie’s death, she decided that was her way out. She turned herself into Connie Sanborne and started a new life.”
“But why was she so strange just before she died?” asked Dottie.
“I think Rundel’s people found her through her father. All they had to do was wait until Vivian came to the post office to get her mail, and they could follow her home. It wouldn’t take a whole lot of nosing around on this island to find out all they needed to know about Connie, or actually Vivian, and her new friends.”
“Maybe she had given up,” said Dottie. “Maybe she knew she had been found by whoever was looking for her, and was just tired of running. That last night at Moore’s, she was so quiet, and then she went to listen to Pearl. Even Logan said all that crazy sex was a surprise. Maybe she was just saying good-bye.”
I thought that was probably as close to the truth as we were likely to get.
Anne left for Miami on Sunday afternoon, and Logan, K dawg and I went fishing. It was an easy afternoon floating around Terra Ceia Bay, drinking beer, telling the same old stories, and catching a few fish. Logan told us more about his heart problems, and that he had not told anyone on the Key, because he wasn’t sure he would get a new heart. He didn’t want to be treated as
if he were dying, so he kept it all to himself. During the year leading up to the transplant, a lot of the time when we all thought he was out of town on business, he was in Boston doing medical things. He thought the new heart would give him fifteen or twenty more years.
Logan left for somewhere on Monday morning, back to work. He said he had to make some money to pay his defense attorney. I told him that I didn’t need the money, and that the pizza he gave me for a retainer was payment enough. I suspected I would never be able to buy another drink when he was in the bar. Logan was a good guy.
Elizabeth called me on Monday morning and asked if I could meet her at O’Sullivans for lunch. I accepted immediately. She had been an honorable and tough adversary, and I always respected that in a lawyer.
I was at the bar talking to Glenda when Elizabeth arrived. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, with her hair in a pony tail. I stood as she approached the bar, and she gave me a hug. “You’re one hell of a lawyer, Matt Royal,” she said.
“You too, counselor,” I said.
“I’m glad it worked out for Logan, but how in the world did you get the evidence on the governor?”
We ordered lunch, and I told her the story. I had become friendly with Will Ledbetter, the probation officer, and his friend, Lieutenant Miles Leavitt, had overseen the investigation into Vivian’s beating and the murder of her friend. Leavitt had moved on to the intelligence division of the Chicago Police Department, and when I told Will of my suspicions about all the ties from Cox and Rundel to Wentworth, he passed it on to Leavitt. The police had collected semen samples from the murder scene involving Vivian, but even with the advent of better science, they had nothing to compare it to.
Leavitt went into the computers and found the similar murders in Washington and Moline. When he compared the guest lists of the three hotels where the murders occurred, he found that Wentworth had been registered at all three on the night of the murders. It was just too much of a coincidence. We figured that the DNA from the crime scene would match Wentworth’s, but there was no way we were going to get a sample from a sitting governor. That is why is was so important to put him on the stand, under oath. I was betting that at some point he would crack. I could publicly ask him for a DNA sample. No innocent man, especially one who wanted to be president, could refuse.
Longboat Blues Page 23
