Trial by Fire

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” Richardson said, a puzzled look on her face.

  When a robbery goes bad,” Stella continued, it turns into complete pandemonium. Innocent bystanders are shot. The offenders panic and keep shooting until they empty their guns completely and then flee. We never see a wound like this, so carefully placed. The shooter in this case held the gun flush against the victim’s forehead and fired only one shot.” She paused, trying to put it together in her mind. “Do you have the crime scene report with you?” she asked. “Look and see if any other spent shells were found on the floor or embedded in the walls.”

  The woman brought the file into her lap and started flipping through the pages. “No other shells were found,” she said, closing the file and facing Stella again.

  “Okay,” Stella said, “he fired only once because he knew he only needed one shot—the kill shot.” She looked the woman in the eye and said, “The robbery was staged. This was a professional hit, Melinda. It’s probably related to China white, the new heroin that’s coming in from Asia.”

  Ben Growman appeared in the door. “I need to see you privately,” he snapped, his loud voice echoing out over the room.

  “We’re just finishing up,” Stella said, motioning to Richardson with her hand. Once the woman had collected her paperwork and left, Growman strode over and stood in front of Stella’s desk. “What’s going on?” she asked, somewhat miffed. “You barked at me like a damn dog in front of Richardson.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you attacked this Randall person?” he shouted, his face flushed in anger. “You threatened to kill him. With your bare hands, no less.” He threw his hands out to the side and then let them slap back against his thighs. “I told you not to go to Houston, to let the Houston authorities deal with this Randall person, but no, you had to run off like a nut and threaten to kill someone in front of dozens of witnesses.”

  Stella flushed under his hot stare. “All I did was scratch his face. I wouldn’t characterize that as a vicious attack, Ben, and I didn’t do it on the steps of the courthouse or anything. A few people were present, but they certainly wouldn’t constitute dozens of witnesses.”

  “They’re reopening the old case,” he shot out, leaning forward with his palms on her desk.

  “Great,” she exclaimed, never expecting to hear such good news. “They must have found new evidence linking Randall to the crime. That’s fantastic. How did you hear?”

  “They’re not filing against Randall,” he said, linking eyes with her. “They’re filing against you. They believe you set the fire that killed your parents.”

  Stella was flabbergasted. Her breath started coming so fast that Growman had to run to the outer office and get her a drink of water. While Stella drank it and tried to assimilate what he had told her, Growman stood behind her and massaged her shoulders. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We’re going to fly to Houston this afternoon. I’ve already arranged a meeting with Jack Fitzgerald and checked on available flights.” Fitzgerald was the number-one man, Growman’s counterpart in Houston. “If we catch the three o’clock shuttle, we should be able to see him by five o’clock. Get in touch with your brother and have him meet us at Fitzgerald’s office. His statement should carry a great deal of weight.”

  Stella’s thoughts were racing. How could they have believed Randall’s statement over hers? It just didn’t make sense. “Look,” she said, sliding her chair back from the desk and glancing up at Growman, “maybe this is a slick maneuver on Holly’s part. Someone higher up pushed her to file against me because of the scene I made and Randall’s ridiculous statements. Holly decided that once the case is officially reopened and she has a full investigative staff working on it, she can dig up what we need to nail Randall.”

  “I don’t think so, Stella.”

  “But why?” she cried. “Why would they do this to me? This has to be a mistake. Prosecuting me is preposterous.”

  Growman circled to the front of her desk and began pacing. “Once Fitzgerald hears your side of the story as well as your brother’s, I’m certain he’ll put a stop to this foolishness.” He spun around and faced her. “But you must take this seriously, Stella,” he cautioned. “Holly Oppenheimer is not one to underestimate.”

  Stella had never confronted Growman about the sexual harassment charges. She tried to avoid gossip, and generally made it a rule to keep her nose out of people’s personal affairs. Right now, however, she decided she had to know the details.

  “Ben,” she said, “what really happened between you and Holly?”

  “It wasn’t what you’re thinking,” he said, lowering himself into a chair. “I was in love with her. I didn’t sexually harass her as she claimed. We had a brief affair, completely consensual.”

  As Stella had told Sam the night before, she had always speculated that Growman had been seeing Holly on the side. During her conversations with Holly over lunch, however, Holly had held fast to her claim that Growman had used his position to force her to grant him sexual favors. Stella had tried to stay out of it, knowing nothing could be gained by taking sides and endangering her own relationship with Growman. “Why did she do it, then? You know, make such a big stink?”

  “Bitterness,” Growman said, grimacing. “She was young and naive. I guess she thought our affair would lead somewhere, that I would eventually divorce my wife and marry her.”

  “Did you promise to marry her?”

  “Absolutely not,” Growman said, shaking his head. “She knew where I stood from the start, how much my kids meant to me. When we ended it, she constantly wrote me letters and mailed them to my house. She showed up in restaurants where I was having dinner with my wife and kids.” He looked over at Stella, his face haggard now and filled with anguish. “I had to let her go, Stella. Not only was she destroying my marriage, she was out to destroy my career.”

  “I thought she resigned,” Stella said, giving him a curious look.

  “Oh,” he said, “officially, she did resign. After the Pelham case went down,1 used it as an excuse to transfer her from homicide back to the fraud division. I knew she would quit at that point. Holly’s an ambitious woman.”

  Stella looked away. She didn’t,know what to say. She couldn’t tell him that he had just dropped several notches in her eyes, that what he had described was dangerously close to the exact allegations Holly Oppenheimer had made. In the area of sexual harassment, women sometimes had a different slant, and Stella’s sympathies fell on Holly’s side of the fence. Even though she could be difficult on occasion. Holly was a good attorney and from what Stella remembered, she had always done her job and done it well. Regardless of their personal relationship, Growman had had no right to demote her and force her into resigning her position.

  “There’s only one thing I can tell you about Holly Oppenheimer,” he said, standing to leave. “The woman is a mind-fucker, Stella. She’ll use anything and anyone to get what she wants. I might have been in love with her, but she wasn’t in love with me. She used me to further her career. I gave her the best cases, the most prestigious office, helped her become recognized and respected.” He paused and then added, “You must not trust her.”

  Stella tossed back, “I don’t agree, Ben. Just because you had an affair with her and it turned out bad doesn’t mean she’s a mind-fucking viper. You’ll see when we get to Houston. This is some kind of misunderstanding. Either that, or someone higher up forced her hand as I said.”

  He exploded, shaking his fist at her. “Don’t think for a second that this woman is your friend. For all we know, she could be going after you just to get back at me. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” she said. “We just don’t agree on this one.”

  “Who do you think called and informed me they were reopening the case?” he shouted. “Who do you think gloated when she told me my star prosecutor was about to be arrested and charged with murder?”

  “Who?” Stella sa
id, her eyes expanding.

  “Your friend,” he said, letting the words hang in the air before he strode to the door.

  Jackson Boyd Fitzgerald had a large corner office on the tenth floor of the Fannin Street complex that housed the Houston D.A.‘s office, but it reeked with a musky odor and what Stella recognized immediately as cigar smoke. As soon as she stepped in the door, her sinuses clogged up and her eyes started watering. She exchanged glances with Mario and then waited for Growman to make the introductions.

  Once the formalities were over, Fitzgerald motioned for them to take a seat in a grouping of chairs that faced his desk.

  The office was decorated with heavy oak furniture and Western bronzes, and Stella noticed that none of it had apparently been dusted in quite some time. Fitzgerald was almost as old and dusty as one of his bronzes. At sixty-nine he was past his prime, yet such a fixture in Houston politics that any contender for his job didn’t stand a chance. His hair was a yellowish gray, his eyes small, watery orbs in his heavily lined face, and his bushy mustache drifted too far below his lip. Dressed in a white summer jacket and a bow tie, he reminded Stella of a character out of the Old South. All he needed was a white straw hat.

  Growman began, then quickly handed off to Stella, encouraging her to tell the Houston D.A. her suspicions that Tom Randall had been the one who set the fire. “He was there,” she said, “and he was the only person who had a motive.”

  “How’s that?” Fitzgerald said.

  “I was pregnant and my father wouldn’t allow me to have an abortion. Tom had just been awarded a football scholarship to Notre Dame. If my father had forced him into marrying me, he wouldn’t have been able to accept it.”

  Stella went on to recount what she remembered from the night of the fire. When she had finished, Mario told his side of the story. Unlike Stella, he was plainly angry. “The man’s a damn liar,” he said. “He even told the police he carried me to safety, when it was my sister who rescued me. He didn’t even call the fire department and report the fire. He just left us there to die.”

  Fitzgerald leaned back in his chair and bit down on his black cigar. “Well,” he said slowly in a thick Texas drawl, moving the cigar around in his mouth as he spoke, “I don’t know, my friends, but it seems I might have an overzealous prosecutor on my hands.”

  “Great,” Growman said, glancing over at Stella and then back to the district attorney. “So, you’ll call off the dogs and let this poor woman get a decent night’s sleep?”

  “Now wait just a minute, Growman,” Fitzgerald said, fidgeting in his seat. “That’s not what I said, is it? I said it seems that Ms. Cataloni’s story is truthful, but I’m not prepared to make any promises until I confer with my people.”

  Growman’s voice escalated. “Do you know how agonizing this has been for this woman? Put yourself in her shoes, Jack. Would you want to sit around and wait while your future was on the line? Hell, give us a break. At least let the woman know your intentions. Her responsibilities at my office are considerable and I have to know what she’s up against.”

  The older district attorney rubbed the side of his nose with a gnarly finger, his large gold ring reflecting the light from the window. “This is what I’m prepared to do,” he said, puffing out a cloud of cigar smoke. “Give me a phone number and I’ll confer with my people, sleep on it, and get you an answer first thing in the morning.”

  Growman had hoped the trip would have accomplished more. “You’re making a serious mistake if you pursue this,” he said. “If you do, you’ll be prosecuting an innocent woman.” Wanting to add even more fuel, he said, “For the record, my office will stand behind Stella one hundred percent. That means full use of our investigators and anything else she might need.”

  The ramifications of this statement registered in Fitzgerald’s rheumy eyes. If Growman backed up his belief in Stella with the full force of his agency and position, prosecuting her for any crime would be a formidable task, let alone a crime as serious as the one she had been charged with. “I think that’s mighty nice of you,” he said, not wanting Growman to know he was intimidated. “It’s always good to see a man stand by his employees.” He peered over at Stella. “You’ve got yourself some high-placed friends, little lady.”

  “Looks like I need them,” Stella said, sighing.

  They all stood to leave. Stella wrote down her brother’s number and placed it on Fitzgerald’s cluttered desk. She had decided to spend the night and see what happened in the morning. If they didn’t decide to drop the charges, she would have to begin interviewing defense attorneys in Houston right away. Although she had many contacts in Dallas in private practice, it would be far too costly to have a Dallas attorney represent her in another jurisdiction.

  “Tell you what,” Mario said once they were outside in the lobby, “I’ll treat you both to dinner at Lone Star Steaks. It’s on NASA Road, so it’s a little bit of a drive from here, but they’ve got the best beef in town.”

  “Tonight’s my daughter’s birthday,” Growman said, “but I’ll be happy to take you up on your offer another time.”

  Stella informed Growman of her decision to stay in town, and he agreed it was wise. “I rented a car,” she told him. “You didn’t have to call a cab, Ben. I would have driven you to the airport if you’d only asked.”

  Mario excused himself to go to the bathroom, reappearing just as Growman’s cab pulled up in front of the building. Before he left, the district attorney pulled Stella aside. “It’s going to work out,” he said. “Trust me, Stella. By this time next week, your problems should all be behind you.”

  Mario was leaning against a column in front of the building, moving a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Why give her false hopes?” he said, spitting the toothpick out on the ground. “That old goat didn’t look convinced to me. No, man, not at all,” he continued, shaking his head. “If you ask me, he’s like a rattlesnake, just waiting until your back is turned to strike.”

  Growman frowned, unhappy that Stella had to be exposed to this kind of negativity. “It’s best to remain optimistic, son, don’t you think?”

  “Optimistic, huh?” Mario said, his dark eyes flashing. “Maybe you can be optimistic, Ben, but then you’re not about to be charged with murder now, are you?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Stella and I don’t work that way, see,” he continued, agitated and nervous. “When you’ve lived the life we have, it’s better to expect the worst. That way you’re prepared.”

  For a few moments they just stood there staring at each other. Then Mario grabbed his sister’s arm and together they walked away, leaving Growman standing on the curb next to the cab.

  The men were assembled in folding chairs in a large room inside the Immaculate Conception church for the monthly meeting of the Houston chapter of the Knights of Columbus, a fraternal organization similar to the Masons or Shriners.

  Clementine Cataloni was on the podium about to conclude his talk. He wasn’t a tall man, more wiry and compact, but even at fifty-seven the retired police captain was still a formidable presence. His strength was carried in his eyes, dark and penetrating, his stubbornness revealed by the set of his mouth and his squared-off jaw. Although a few strands of gray were visible, most of his hair was dark and thick, slicked back and controlled with some type of hair product that sparkled in the overhead lights.

  “We’ve now raised over ten thousand dollars for the Westchester Children’s Home,” Cataloni said, his voice booming out over the microphone. “We’ve surpassed our target goal this year. Next year, we’ll do even better.”

  A round of applause followed and Cataloni stepped down. He headed to the back of the room and in no time found himself surrounded by men. “Hey, Captain,” a large red-faced man said, “you got any news for me?”

  Cataloni was laughing at a joke one of the other men had told. He instantly fell serious, grabbing the man’s arm and yanking him aside. “When I know something, Elders, I’ll be in touch
. Right?” he said, the word hissing between his teeth.

  “Right, sure,” the man said, dropping his eyes. “I just thought—”

  “Don’t think,” Cataloni barked, the muscles in his face twitching. A few moments later, he smiled, slapping the man on the back. “That’s my job, Charlie. Just relax and let me handle things. How are the wife and kids, by the way? You keeping that redhead you’re married to in line?”

  “Things aren’t that good at home right now,” Charlie Elders responded, his voice strained with emotion. Cataloni turned to speak to someone else, though, and Elders just stood there with a dejected look on his face.

  Carl Winters elbowed his way into the grouping of men, tugging on Cataloni’s sleeve to get his attention. “I tried to call you back this afternoon, Captain,” he said. “Guess you were out. Did your wife give you my message?”

  “Not now, Winters.” Cataloni glanced at the other men gathered around him. “Why don’t you guys get some coffee. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Winters tipped his Stetson back on his head, waiting until the men had dispersed to continue speaking. “Stella Cataloni,” he said. “The rumors you heard are true. Looks as if your favorite niece is going down.”

  Cataloni’s dark eyes blazed. He swept his tongue over his lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it. You’ve been making promises for sixteen years, Carl. When I make a promise, I deliver. So far, you’ve been batting zero.”

  “Well, get out your binoculars,” Winters said, chuckling, “‘cause this time, we’re going all the way. Randall’s back. He’s agreed to testify.”

  The captain said, “Is he credible?”

  “He’s not the best witness I’ve ever seen,” Winters shrugged, “but I don’t think he’s the worst, either. It’s the first break we’ve had in the case. I thought you’d be pleased.”