Due Justice

by Diane Capri

  My arrogance, and too much television, made me believe that under pressure he would name a killer who would never be charged otherwise.

  If I hadn’t been so tired I’d have recalled his elan since the murder. Maybe then I’d have avoided the horrible final scene.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Tampa, Florida

  Monday 5:30 p.m.

  January 25, 1999

  I SET IT UP carefully. I’d be spending half an hour alone with a nasty tempered man who was an accessory to murder.

  I don’t know whether it’s easier to kill when you’ve got nothing more to lose, but I wasn’t interested in testing the hypothesis.

  Unlike Dr. Morgan, I’ve never had the patience for science.

  My clerk scheduled our meeting for 5:30, after the trial day. My bailiff would be close by. Security in Federal Buildings is tight since the Oklahoma City bombing. I was sure he wouldn’t be able to bring in a gun or a knife, and I also thought I could probably take him if I didn’t let him sneak up behind me again. Long enough for the bailiff to arrive, anyway.

  Belt and suspenders: I scheduled Ben Hathaway for 5:45. Clever, eh? That’s why they pay me the big bucks.

  O’Connell arrived ten minutes early. I made him wait five minutes past his appointment time before I allowed my secretary show him in. Business as usual.

  When he walked in, he looked around the room as if he was expecting someone else to be there.

  I said, “O’Connell, please, sit down.”

  Waved toward one of the green leather chairs. I didn’t need the elevated platform under my desk to enable me to tower over the normally nervous chair inhabitants. But I occupied the office my predecessor had decorated it. He was only about five feet tall, and I’m sure you’ve got your own ideas about little men with a little power.

  In this instance, though, I confess that I felt more confident being a foot taller than I otherwise am.

  O’Connell looked up at me from his chair. It put him a little more off balance, unsure.

  “Judge Carson.” He nodded.

  Was he that cool, or reverting to forty years of training?

  He said, “Good of you to see me. What can I do for you?”

  Smooth.

  But I had no intention of allowing him to take over this time.

  Put two people in a room who are used to having complete control over their lives sometime and watch what happens. It’s a little like two male lions in the same cage. Right now we were circling. He watched for clues.

  He hadn’t dared to ignore my “invitation” with a case currently in trial in my courtroom. But he wanted to know why I’d summoned him here and he wouldn’t ask twice.

  I let him simmer a while longer. “Excuse me one minute while I review this order, O’Connell. I’ll be right with you.”

  One of my former partners used to sit in a room with one other occupant in complete silence. Nature abhors a vacuum, he would say. Pretty soon, most people will talk to fill up the silence. O’Connell Worthington was too old and too crafty a player to chatter without purpose. But the silence worked its magic. He began to perspire; a little damp above his upper lip, but it was definitely there.

  “Too warm in here for you, O’Connell?” I asked him, letting him know I’d noticed.

  “I’m fine, Judge. Thank you.”

  He clearly wasn’t fine.

  I was winning round one, and we both knew it.

  “O’Connell, I asked you here because I need a little advice.” I said, after ten more minutes of silence, putting the order I’d been revising to one side.

  He crossed his legs and put his arms on the chair’s arms. Giving advice was a role he was all too familiar and comfortable with; I sensed him relax.

  I said, “I heard something and I’m wondering how I should handle it. I thought you might be able to help me.”

  Ah, the irresistible damsel in distress.

  “I’d be delighted to help you in any way I can, Wilhelmina. What is it?” Gallant, chivalrous O’Connell asked me.

  He smiled.

  He struggled to look normal.

  But he wasn’t.

  I looked directly into his eyes. “I know who killed Michael Morgan.”

  What had I expected? Tears? A breakdown?

  His poker face was perfect. Not a twitch.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He seemed unconcerned about whether I knew who the killer was; calculating whether I could prove it.

  Lawyers know: if you can’t prove it, it didn’t happen.

  A fine sheen of perspiration now covered his face.

  I kept silent, waiting him out.

  After a while he cleared his throat and said, “Are you sure?”

  Up until that moment, some part of me had doubted Carly’s word, doubted Morgan’s blackmail story, doubted those damn pictures on the piano.

  I wanted O’Connell Worthington to be what I had thought he was. An honorable gentleman, an ethical lawyer with a lovely wife and beautiful family.

  Like I’d told Carly, some “perfect” lives only seem that way to outsiders.

  Now I knew O’Connell was none of the things I had believed him to be, and it saddened me more than I’d expected.

  He was at Morgan’s house that night. He did put the gun in his pocket, and he was driving a large, dark sedan. I could feel it. This time, Carly was right.

  But I was also right: he wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be. My judgment just couldn’t be that wrong. Again.

  I said, “Yes, I’m sure. I’ve had testimony from an eye witness.”

  “Who’s the witness? Are you sure he’s credible?”

  “She. I believe her; and I’ve had quite a bit of experience with prevaricators.”

  I’d kept a steady eye on him as we talked.

  He’d started to squirm, but you’d have to know O’Connell to notice it.

  He slowly pulled out his monogrammed linen handkerchief and wiped his brow. Silly, but my thought was that George isn’t the only man who still carries one. O’Connell re-crossed his legs and held onto the handkerchief in his left hand, settled himself more evenly in the chair.

  He was stalling, testing me. How much did I know? The best defense—deny, deny, deny.

  My intercom buzzed. “Judge Carson, Chief Hathaway is here,” my secretary said over the speaker, right on cue and loud enough for Worthington to hear it.

  “Ask him to wait, Margaret, thank you.” I continued to look at Worthington. “What should I tell him, O’Connell?”

  He cleared his throat, twice, before he got it out. “I’m sure your witness is lying, Wilhelmina. Why don’t I volunteer to represent her?”

  “I’ve always admired you, O’Connell. When we first arrived in Tampa, you sponsored us at the club. You supported me when I was nominated for my appointment. It was largely because of you that the other big firms in town endorsed me. Your work with the bar has been exemplary. You have been ‘Mr. Ethics’ to every young lawyer in Tampa.”

  This was one mournful moment and I allowed my voice to convey the sadness I felt. Not an accusation, but a realization.

  He started to fold into himself, diminished by his guilty knowledge. I’d reminded him of what he’d thought he was; what all of us believed him to be. He was remembering the plaque the Hillsborough County Bar Association gave him just last fall naming him Lawyer of the Year. His ego wall covered his entire office. Forty years of life in the law, all gone now. He felt his world collapse.

  In the end, his training didn’t desert him. He sat tall and proud, held his head high, and said, “Please invite Chief Hathaway in, Judge Carson. I’d like to surrender myself to his custody.”

  That statement wasn’t enough for me. I craved confirmation. “Sure, but just one more thing I’d like to know. Why did you search Carly Austin’s apartment and what did you hit me with?”

  His chest puffed up with indignation. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never hit a wo
man in my life, including you.” He could still be regal when the occasion demanded.

  So we called in Ben Hathaway, and O’Connell surrendered.

  But he hadn’t confessed, and I knew he wasn’t Morgan’s killer after he was arrested any more than he was before.

  Then, feeling like I owed Frank Bennett, I called and told him O’Connell had surrendered. He could cover the story in time for the 11:00 news.

  Maybe now that Carly was out of trouble, I could leave the investigating to the professional investigators. Wishful thinking. Again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 5:00 p.m.

  January 28, 1999

  THREE DAYS LATER, GEORGE and I shared an outside table at the Sunset Bar. He studied next week’s menu; I stared at the calm waters of Hillsborough Bay, marking time, now and then rubbing the sore spot on my head and wondering who bopped me with that bowling ball.

  “Head’s up,” George murmured. Unfortunate choice of words. “Hathaway’s at the bar.”

  “Ummm,” I said, lowering my lids to avoid eye contact. What I thought was, “Finally.” Maybe if I ignored Ben, he’d go away. Maybe the whole mess would go away. I’d read Morgan’s research several times, but his theories were short on details for erasing screw-ups through mind control.

  No luck. Felt the opposite chair groan when Ben plopped his heft onto the seat; heard him slurp a long pull of Ybor Gold out of the frosted mug.

  George said, “Good afternoon, Ben.”

  “In what universe?” was his sour reply.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” I confirmed a little too enthusiastically.

  Crunched my eyelids tighter, still focused on eliminating Ben as the personification of my errors. Not working.

  I said, “I can’t tell you how sad I am that O’Connell Worthington’s in jail.”

  He should have been out by now. Learning my heroes have clay feet might not be the most disappointment I can experience in life, but its right up there with discovering my own stupidity in other respects.

  Truth to tell, I was more disappointed that Christian Grover wasn’t in custody instead of O’Connell. Not only because I liked Grover less (a lot less), but because Carly liked Grover too much. Grover would cause indigestion around the Thanksgiving Dinner table for years to come.

  Definitely not a peaceful thought.

  Tried again to focus.

  Ben said, “Stay tuned.”

  George responded. “What?”

  Hathaway slurped and swallowed and slammed his empty mug on the table. “We can’t prove Worthington actually killed the guy. His lone confession won’t cut it with a jury of his peers. I expect him to walk, if the State Attorney bothers to indict him.”

  “What do you mean?” I hoped I’d managed the perfect note of curiosity.

  Ben Hathaway’s creative crime solving skills were weak; he’d taken way too long to realize he’d arrested the wrong man for murder.

  But it was my fault. I’d misjudged O’Connell Worthington. When I set him up, I’d expected him to save himself by naming Morgan’s killer.

  So far, I’d been dead wrong.

  “Well, we can’t find any trace of a murder weapon, although we’ve checked the house and his office. He drives a white Cadillac, but his wife drives a black one. Neither vehicle contains any trace of physical evidence in the trunk or anywhere else. And we just can’t figure out how he’d have physically been able to move the guy, tie him up, and dump him in the gulf. Dead bodies weigh a lot more than you think.”

  No kidding. It took three days to figure that out?

  Ben ordered a second beer, gulped again. “There’s no physical evidence of any kind linking Worthington with the body. The problems with the case go on and on. Sloppy crime, but the cover-up is as close to perfect as anything I’ve ever seen.”

  He drained the second mug, set it down softly. Delivered what he’d come here to say. “The big problem is now that Worthington’s dead, we’ll never know who killed Morgan.”

  What did he say?

  I popped my eyes open and stared.

  “Dead?” George and I said simultaneously.

  “Suicide. In his cell a couple of hours ago. I thought you’d want to know.”

  I was speechless. And responsible. My head dropped into open palms, fingers splayed through my hair, rubbing the sore spot harder, pressing the pain.

  After a few moments, George asked, “How did it happen?”

  Ben stood, crossed arms over ample belly, leaned against the deck rail, ignoring the old wood’s groan. “Investigated too many cases over the years himself, I guess. He knew what to do. He tied his socks together and climbed onto the sink. He tied one end of the socks to the bars on the windows and the other end around his neck. Stepped off. That was it. If he’d been a bigger man, he would have pulled the bars off the window. But he was so slight, they held.”

  Tears pooled in my eyes. How could O’Connell be dead? How would I ever live with myself?

  George took my hand, squeezed tight.

  “He was a proud man, Willa. The shame. Tampa’s a small town that way. He’d have felt an outcast in a home he once owned.” He squeezed my hand tighter. “Really, what else would he do?”

  George meant to comfort us all but his words failed.

  My stupid idea put O’Connell in jail. He wouldn’t have been there otherwise. He’d still be alive.

  Now two men were dead and the killer, I believed, still free.

  Although I wasn’t so sure it mattered anymore. At some point, enough has got to be enough.

  O’Connell paid for Morgan’s murder. A life for a life. Carly was out of the woods, I had dodged the impeachment bullet.

  I needed to let it go. But could I?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tampa, Florida

  Thursday 5:45 p.m.

  January 28, 1999

  SUNSET TONIGHT WAS PROJECTED for 6:07 p.m. Now, the huge orange ball lingered near the horizon, glowing around Ben where he stood propped against the rail, head bowed. O’Connell had stood precisely there many times. Was it possible he’d never do so again?

  Squeezed my eyes shut to hold tears in check; felt the hot trickle on my cheek and brushed it away. Crying would be done in private.

  Ben had raised his gaze to mine when I’d controlled myself well enough to look again. When he spoke, I glanced away immediately.

  He said, “I hate to ask you this, but would you come with me when I tell his wife?”

  “Pricilla doesn’t know yet?” George asked.

  Ben wagged his head slowly, side to side. “Someone she knows should be there. She’s bound to take it hard.”

  I definitely did not want to witness when Cilla learned O’Connell was gone; I could tell George didn’t, either.

  George stood, pressed my shoulder. “Willa, you’ll want to wash your face. Let me get my jacket, Ben. We’ll be right back.”

  George held my hand and we went upstairs to make ourselves somewhat more presentable. I don’t know why we felt we had to look composed to deliver such terrible news, but we did.

  George drove and Ben followed in his own car. Behind us, orange sun fell below blue horizon as we crossed our bridge onto the mainland.

  We held hands for the three-mile trip to the Worthingtons’ Bayshore mansion. Absently, George stroked my palm with his thumb pad. I remembered happier visits; balls and cotillions, old-fashioned parties; Cilla’s southern charm and O’Connell’s courtly manners. None of this could I voice and retain composure.

  George parked in the circular drive. We emerged from his Bentley into the breezy dusk as Ben Hathaway drove up.

  He joined us, touched my arm gently, patted George’s shoulder, straightened his own posture and buttoned his jacket.

  “Thank you both for doing this,” he said, quietly, as if he couldn’t have faced Pricilla alone. Ben was a cop. Delivering bad news was a part of the job. But our mission tonight was different.


  No matter what had come before, from this point forward, Ben Hathaway would be counted among our friends as long as he would have us be so.

  Three abreast, feeling nothing like crusaders, we trudged the long driveway and reached the front door much too quickly.

  Ben rang the bell.

  The housekeeper opened the door as she had a thousand times before.

  George said, “Good evening, Mrs. Beason”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Carson. Was Mrs. Worthington expecting you?” Lucille asked.

  Ben replied, “We’d like to see Mrs. Worthington, if we may.”

  Lucille must have been curious, but she was impeccably trained. “Certainly,” she said. “Please come this way.”

  She escorted us into the old-fashioned parlor where Worthingtons had greeted guests for more than a hundred years.

  “Mrs. Worthington will be right down” she said, as if we were welcome visitors. She departed, leaving the door open. I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

  A few moments later, from the second floor, the housekeeper’s screams reached our ears. George and Ben ran up the staircase toward Lucille’s screams.

  I reached the master bedroom seconds behind George, but light-years behind O’Connell Worthington.

  Lucille Beason’s face was buried in George’s shirt while he made vain attempts to calm her.

  Ben stood beside the four-poster where Cilla reclined fully clothed in the dress she’d worn to Michael Morgan’s funeral.

  Ben checked Cilla’s carotid artery for a pulse while deliberately punching buttons on her phone with his left thumb. He made no effort to resuscitate. He responded to quick questions, finally saying, “No need to hurry.”

  The room was high ceilinged and spacious. Front windows overlooked Hillsborough Bay, and I could see our home, Minaret on Plant Key, clearly.

  Cilla was born in that bed, as all four of her children had been. It was there she’d slept with O’Connell for forty-seven years. Maybe she just couldn’t sleep there without him.

  Did Cilla kill herself because she knew her husband was dead? Or had she thought to prevent him from suicide? Or had they planned joint suicide? We’d never know.

  Two envelopes and a wrapped package rested on Cilla’s dressing table. I slipped the envelope addressed to Carly and the small package with my name on it into my pocket.