Barton flipped back two sheets on his legal pad and scanned his notes. “First, the judge will want to know why we think learning about the Fabergé egg snow globe will help solve the murder.” His eyes shifted to Ellis. “Chief Hunter will explain that part. Second, he’ll want to know why we think Drake Milner has material knowledge about the object.” He pinned me with his gaze. “That’s where you come in.” He leaned back in his chair. “If I say, ‘Why do you think this man has knowledge of the Yartsin Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe?’ what will you say?”
“Mr. Milner told me he appraised a Fabergé egg last week. I think it’s this one.”
“Why?”
“Because the Yartsin Spring Egg is missing. For two Fabergé eggs to be in play at the same time would be a nearly inconceivable coincidence.”
“At this point Milner’s lawyer will jump in. ‘So, Ms. Prescott, let’s be clear. You’re saying that you have no actual evidence that Milner has material knowledge about the Yartsin Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe, is that correct?’ He’ll turn to the judge, righteous indignation written across his face. ‘Your Honor, this is an outrage.’ How can you confute him?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Ms. Prescott?” he prodded. “What will you say?”
I pressed my lips together, stymied.
Barton turned to Ellis. “We’re in trouble. Big trouble.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rocky Point’s new courthouse was built of wood, fieldstone, and glass. It was contemporary in feel, yet stately. I spotted Ellis and Barton by a soaring stone column in the lobby, just past security. Once I was through, I joined them.
Ellis smiled as I approached. “Hey, Josie.”
ADA Barton’s tension was evident. His brow was wrinkled, his shoulders stiff, and there were ash-colored smudges under his eyes.
“I’m ready,” I told him. “I know I messed up yesterday. I won’t mess up today. I promise.”
A big man, both tall and wide, wearing a charcoal gray suit and a red and black striped tie, stopped short. “Rusty, you old dog. Don’t tell me they’ve assigned you to this loser.”
“Dale … how do you know which case I’m on?”
“I don’t. But if you’re on it, it’s going to be a loser.”
“Nice, nice. You’re still Mr. Personality, I see. What are you doing here?”
“Up from Boston to protect the right to privacy. Rocky Point vs. Milner.”
“Then we are going to be meeting up soon.” Rusty leaned toward Dale and lowered his voice. “Except this time, you’re going to be the loser.”
Dale chuckled and wagged his index finger in Rusty’s face. “You were always good for a laugh, Rusty. See you in chambers.”
He strode across the lobby. Barton watched him until he turned the corner and disappeared from view.
“Dale Morrison,” Rusty said staring after him, “epitomizes the worst of the law. He’s both amoral and articulate, a dastardly combination.” He turned to me. All signs of tension had disappeared. Now he looked angry. “He’s a master at making witnesses feel foolish and look inept.” He faced Ellis. “This applies to you, too.”
“I’m a righteous man,” Ellis said. “When it comes to telling the truth, I fear nothing.”
Rusty nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s exactly the right approach. Take the high road.” He looked at me. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes. I’m righteous, too.”
“I hope so,” he muttered, not believing it.
“Really,” I assured him. “I’m prepared.”
He looked at me straight on and lowered his voice. “Meaning you’re ready to answer the question that stumped you yesterday?”
I spoke softly. “Yes. After I left, I went home and wrote out what my reply should have been, the one I should have been able to deliver with calm confidence instead of going completely blank.” I shook my head, wincing at the memory. “I felt awful freezing like that. I went ahead and thought of every question I might be asked and prepared notes on my replies. After dinner, I read and reread them until I darn near memorized it all. I promise you that I won’t forget the points I want to make.”
“I wish we had time to go over it,” Barton said. “Keep your answers responsive and short.” He glanced at Ellis. “Both of you.”
We nodded, then headed out, following the route Dale Morrison took. Our footsteps echoed on the stone flooring. Blinds blocked the view while allowing light. I wondered if the halls were wide and the ceilings high simply to make mere mortals feel small. It was working with me. We walked three abreast without filling half the corridor width.
Midway down the hall, Barton stopped and looked at me. “I’ll do my best to keep the brunt of Dale’s attack off of you, but no matter what, don’t let him get to you. Stay cool. It’s all right to take a few seconds to think.”
“Okay,” I said, swallowing hard.
“You, too, Ellis. Dale is going to try to bait you.”
“Let him try. He won’t succeed.”
We took the elevator to the third floor and turned right, then right again. Rusty paused at the third door on the right. The top half of the door was frosted glass. JUDGE MATTHEW Q. RUTHERSON was lettered in gold, outlined in black. Barton opened the door and held it so Ellis and I could enter first.
A petite redhead older than me sat at the desk facing the door. To the right was a conference room with a long, narrow table covered with stacks of books, piles of file folders, and what seemed to be reams of paper. Some sheets had been crumpled and tossed aside. Three men and a woman, all in their early thirties, all in suits, sat around the table. They weren’t talking. Two were reading; two were writing on legal pads. To the left was a hallway. At the end I could see an alcove containing a photocopier and a coffeemaker. Three doors ranged off the hall, all of them closed. Five blue upholstered chairs were positioned against the side wall.
Barton stepped up to the desk and greeted the receptionist by name, Ms. O’Neill.
At first I thought he’d been here before, but then I saw a brass plate affixed to a wooden stand on her desk. Her first name was Olive.
“I’m ADA Russell Barton. These are my witnesses.”
“How do you do? Have a seat for a moment, please.”
Barton turned away but didn’t sit. I did. Ellis did a slow 360 taking in the scene. His scar looked darker under the fluorescent lighting than it did in natural or incandescent light.
Ms. O’Neill picked up the phone and pushed a button. “Mr. Barton and his witnesses are here … Yes, sir.”
She stood up, smiling at us with practiced professionalism. “This way.”
She led us behind her desk to a vestibule, opened a heavy wooden door, and announced, “ADA Barton.”
“Sit, sit,” the judge said.
Judge Rutherson was tall and thin, with the leathery brown skin of an outdoorsman. Four chairs were lined up in front of his desk. Barton stood in front of the chair closest to Morrison, then pointed at the most distant one and looked at me. I sat. Ellis sat between us. A court reporter sat off to the side in front of a metal wheeling table.
“This is going to be very informal,” the judge said with some kind of drawl, Texas maybe. “I have to be in court in thirty minutes, and I’m giving you fifteen of them. Don’t mess up. Here’s my plan. I’ll ask you a few questions, and you’ll answer them simply and clearly. And quickly. We’re not going to have a lot of posturing or pontificating. Do you understand that, Counselor Morrison?”
Morrison paused before answering. “I assume I’ll have sufficient time to present my client’s point of view, is that correct, sir?”
The judge flipped his palm at Morrison, irritated. “Of course, of course.” He moved his eyes to Barton. “Do you understand it, too, Mr. Barton?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I appreciate brevity,” the judge said, sending his eyes around. He glanced over his shoulder. “You got that, Priscilla?”
The court reporter, an older woman with a thin face and curly brown hair, said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good, good. State your names for the record.” After we finished, the judge picked up a blue-covered document, then dropped it. “Let me summarize. You gentlemen don’t agree on whether I should compel testimony from a Mr. Drake Milner, a Russian artifacts expert from Boston.”
“That’s right.” Morrison crossed his legs and smiled, man to man. “Your Honor, we’ve both read this absurd application, and I’d like to say—”
“Be quiet, Dale,” Judge Rutherson said, his tone stern but not hostile. He looked from one of us to the next, starting with me, meeting each person’s eyes for a good three-count before moving on to the next person. At the end, he moved back to Barton. “What is it you think this man Milner knows?”
“Chief Hunter will address that, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Milner appraised a Fabergé egg that we believe is relevant to a murder investigation.” Ellis described the connection, then added, “I don’t think Milner has guilty knowledge. I think he’s simply protecting a client.”
“He wants to be able to tell his client he had no choice,” the judge said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your Honor!” Morrison said. “This is outrageous! They’re going on a fishing expedition.”
“Maybe,” the judge said. He turned to Barton. “Give me one reason I should grant this application, why I should believe that you have evidence, that you’re not just throwing toddlers into the swimming hole to see who makes it out. Do it now. Do it quick.”
“There are too many coincidences for it to be anything other than cause and effect.”
“Good answer. Explain.”
“Your Honor!” Morrison objected.
“Be quiet!” the judge said, raising intensity, not volume. He turned back to Barton. “Continue.”
Barton leaned forward and turned toward me. He smiled, the first time I’d seen him do so. He looked back at the judge.
“Josie Prescott is an antiques expert. She spoke to Drake Milner about his appraisal. I’ve asked her to describe the many coincidences she noted and tie it all together for us.”
“I read your statement about Ms. Prescott’s qualifications and am ready to certify her as an antiques expert,” the judge said.
Morrison sat forward. “Your Honor! Ms. Prescott is neither a Russian decorative arts nor a Fabergé egg expert. You can’t certify her.”
“I’m an antiques appraisal process expert,” I said, “and that’s what’s relevant here.”
“I agree,” Judge Rutherson said. Morrison expelled air, a sharp hissy sound of disapproval. “Proceed.”
“I’ve been asked to appraise a previously undocumented Fabergé egg, an extraordinary occurrence.” I explained about the rarity of Imperial eggs and Fabergé’s escape using the snow globe ruse. The judge’s eyes never wavered from my face. “The egg I examined was a fake. The real egg is missing. Drake Milner appraised a Fabergé egg last week. His egg was also undocumented and lacked provenance. That, Your Honor, is, in my expert opinion, impossible.”
Morrison smiled at me, a nasty one. “Didn’t I read an article in the Seacoast Star about an undocumented Van Gogh you located?” He turned to the judge and shrugged. “Finding rare, previously unknown masterpieces happens.”
“That’s right, but those two situations aren’t analogous. Van Gogh was so poor, he often traded paintings for food. He kept no work records. Contrast that with Fabergé. He worked for the Russian tzar and was paid top dollar. He kept meticulous work records. For two previously unknown Fabergé eggs to surface at the same time stretches credibility. There’s more.” I continued talking without pause, ignoring Morrison. “Both Milner’s egg and mine were purchased from stores that closed about seventy years ago. Both owners have an appealing, though wholly anecdotal, narrative to explain their acquisitions.” I shook my head. “It’s not a coincidence. It’s a pattern. They’re the same egg.”
“If I may?” Morrison asked the judge.
Judge Rutherson made a circling motion with his index finger.
“Thank you.” Morrison smiled at me. This one was smarmy. “Ms. Prescott, my understanding is that fewer than ten percent of antiques come with clear provenance. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but—”
He cut me off. “If you please.” He turned to the judge. “Your Honor—how can we possibly think Milner’s testimony is material with that kind of a statistic? That both eggs share a lack of provenance isn’t a coincidence. It’s the way of the world.”
“You’re mistaken,” I said to Morrison. I smiled at the judge. “It’s an example of an accurate statistic leading to an inaccurate conclusion, and if I recall correctly, that’s called sophistry. That ten percent statistic encompasses everything from two-dollar collectibles to multimillion-dollar antiques. If Mr. Morrison asked me what percentage of multimillion-dollar antiques come with clear provenance, the statistics reverse—nearly ninety percent do. Few people would risk paying that kind of money if they didn’t have absolute knowledge about an object’s pedigree. Consider all the elements my egg and Milner’s egg share.” I ticked off my points by raising fingers on my left hand. “One: Two Fabergé eggs brought in for appraisal within a week of each other. Two: There’s no record of either one, whereas no undocumented Fabergé egg has ever before been validated. Three: Neither comes with clear provenance. Four: Neither comes with a sales receipt.” I raised my left thumb. “Five: Both were purchased from stores that closed more than seventy years ago.” I started on my right hand. “Six: Both owners provide a charming explanation of the eggs’ histories. And you’re to believe this is a series of coincidences? Hogwash. No one element may be sufficiently persuasive on its own, but look at the six together and the pattern becomes clear.”
“I said it was absurd at the start,” Morrison said, bridling with amused contempt, “and I’ll say it again now. This is all creative fiction, pure speculation based on minor and commonly found elements.”
“No, counselor, I agree with Ms. Prescott. I know cause and effect when I see it.” Judge Rutherson signed the certificate and handed it across the desk to Barton, then stood up. “I’m late. We’re done.”
The judge hurried out, leaving the door open. Two seconds later, Ms. O’Neill appeared at the doorway.
“This way, please,” she said, and we filed out.
Morrison paused in the lobby to extend a hand to Barton. Barton shook it without comment.
“Well played, Rusty, old boy. My client instructed me to inform you that in this eventuality, he will not be appealing the judge’s decision.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
I was surprised Barton didn’t call him a loser. Morrison left. We stepped toward the guest chairs, out of the way.
“Well done, both of you,” Barton said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to get this certificate to Massachusetts.”
Barton marched down a hallway to the left. Ellis and I went out the way we’d come.
“Now what happens?” I asked when we reached the street.
“I’ll ask you to join the meeting once it’s set up—now that you’re a certified expert.” He smiled. “Thank you, Josie. We wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wes called me at seven in the morning, just as I was scooping cornflakes for breakfast. I had an eight o’clock appointment with a woman thinking of consigning her collection of antique gentleman’s gadget canes and a ten o’clock appointment at the Rocky Point police station to listen in to Ellis’s interview with Drake Milner, and I was running late. A spring snowstorm had sprung up overnight, catching me by surprise. Driving would be slow going. Already there was a thick coating, two inches deep, maybe three.
“I only have a sec,” I told him as I sliced a banana onto the cornflakes. “I saw your article online. The photos look good, huh?”
“That’s why I’m calling
. I just got off the phone with Peter Yartsin. He’s going to sue the paper—and me.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think he knows exactly. He was ranting something about privacy, then something about obstruction of justice.”
“Peter has anger issues. Once he thinks it through and talks to Chief Hunter, he’ll calm down.”
“He says he’s going to sue him, too.”
“I don’t think you can sue a police official.”
“He also said he was going to sue you. That the photos you sent me were his sister’s property and you had no right to allow them to be published without her permission.”
My mouth went dry. I coughed.
“What did he—” I broke off, coughing again. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think.
I poured a glass of water and sank onto the bench behind my kitchen table. I looked out the window past my patio, over the meadow, to the forest beyond as I drank. The grasslands were solidly white, the pines dotted with snow.
When I didn’t say anything, Wes added, “I’ve already spoken to the paper’s lawyer. He says we’re clear, but you may not be.” He cleared his throat. “That’s why I’m calling. To give you a heads-up.”
A robin landed on the flagstone patio, which was protected by an overhang, pecked at something, then flew away.
“Thanks,” I said. I drank some more water. “Are you going to write about Peter’s threats?”
“If he actually files suit, or if Ana does, that’s news, and we’ll report it. Until then, no.”
“Okay. Thanks, Wes.” I hung up.
* * *
I found my lawyer’s home phone number in an old-fashioned address book I keep in a drawer of my eighteenth-century lady’s writing desk, and dialed. Max’s wife, Babs, answered, said a cheery hello when she heard my name, and told me to hang on.
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