Natural Suspect (2001)

by Brad Meltzer

  "You'll be missing a lot more than your pearls if Daddy visits that attorney, Mother." Marilyn whipped her head around to face Morgan. "Do you understand how serious this is?"

  "I'm trying, but my concentration is dulled by lack of nutrition. Where's the food?"

  Julia waved her hand in the air. "Ask your father."

  "Maybe this is how he's going to punish us. Maybe he's going to starve us to death."

  "That's the way it always is with you, Morgan. Me, me, me. So selfish."

  "Why? Because I want food on Thanksgiving?"

  "Even as a toddler, you were never satisfied. Constantly crying. Drove your nannies to distraction."

  "Maybe there's some food in the refrigerator?" Sissy offered, trying to be helpful.

  Morgan wasn't encouraged. "There isn't. I've already looked."

  "We could have a pizza delivered."

  "On Thanksgiving?" Morgan slapped his forehead with his hand. "Its Thanksgiving, heart of my heart. No restaurants will be open. Or supermarkets."

  "What about that big freezer in the basement?" Marilyn asked. "You got that to store food, didn't you, Mother?"

  "I always meant to," Julia said. "I thought if I bought food in large quantities, I wouldn't have to go to the grocery so often."

  "Mother, you haven't seen the inside of a grocery store in twenty years."

  "Well, the freezer was on sale and I couldn't resist. But I've never put any food in it."

  Morgan was becoming wild-eyed. "So you're telling me we have a gigantic food freezer with no food in it?"

  "There he goes again. Selfish, selfish, selfish."

  Morgan covered his face. "God help me."

  "But I think it came with something," his mother continued. "Three frozen pizzas. That's part of what made it such a bargain."

  "Good enough." Morgan jumped out of his chair and started toward the basement.

  "Morgan!" Marilyn said. "Those pizzas will be something like six years old."

  "It's that or cannibalism."

  Julia held up her hand. "You'll need the key." She wobbled into the kitchen, took it off a hook on the wall, and returned.

  Morgan snatched the key from her and disappeared. They heard the basement door slam, and after that heard nothing at all. Until they heard Morgan scream.

  "Morgy!" Sissy leapt out of her seat and headed downstairs. Her scream was loud enough to be heard in the suburbs.

  "Good God, what is it?" Almost grudgingly, Marilyn pushed herself away from the table. Her scream was much more controlled, more like a repressed cry for help. But that was Marilyn's way.

  Julia frowned. "I suppose I'm obliged to go look." She wobbled downstairs, using the wall for support whenever possible. The basement steps were particularly treacherous, but she finally managed to make it to the far corner where the other three were still huddled around the open freezer.

  Inside the freezer, spread out, faceup, and covered with a thick layer of frost, she saw the frozen remains of her husband of thirty-seven years, Arthur Hightower. His eyes were open, his lips were parted--and he had her triple-A imported cultured pearl necklace clutched in his right fist.

  "Great," Julia said. "Leftovers again."

  It may have looked as if Devin Gail McGee was sitting calmly at the defendant's table, but in fact her brain was rehearsing her canned opening statement for at least the sixteenth time since breakfast. She'd been working on it all week, but there were still a million unresolved variables. Should she refer to her defendant--that is, her client--as Julia, or Mrs. Hightower? Julia seemed more personal, and suggested that Devin liked her and felt intimate toward her, but the honorific reminded the jury that the woman had been married for thirty-seven years and was a member of one of the most prominent families on Long Island. Should she reveal Julia's alibi--such as it was--now, or save it until Julia was on the stand? Should she describe what a miserable human Arthur was and suggest that he deserved to die, or save that until closing? And on and on and on . . .

  And none of these questions were trivial. As well she knew, cases were won and lost in opening statements. Juries' first impressions often remained unchanged. She had to make a decision--and she had to choose correctly. Julia had placed her trust in Devin. She couldn't let the poor woman down.

  The prosecution's table was still unoccupied, which was a definite cause for concern. Day before yesterday, Kent Conrad, the assistant D. A. who was handling the case, went to the hospital with appendicitis. Rather than delay the trial, the D. A. announced he would assign another lawyer, but as of last night, they still couldn't tell Devin who would serve as lead counsel. This murder was so high-profile that virtually every lawyer in the office had been working on it in some capacity. And there were some Devin would rather be up against than others.

  Devin glanced at Julia, who was sitting beside her at the table. She was wearing a simple blue dress with buttons down the middle, as per Devin's instructions. There was no point in denying that Julia was obscenely rich--especially now that her husband was dead. But there was no reason to flaunt it, either.

  Julia was a grab bag of nervous mannerisms--a scratch, a twitch, a flutter with her hands. Devin supposed she had every right to be tense. Who wouldn't be, when they were accused of such a heinous crime, and their very life was at stake?

  Devin was distracted by a commotion in the back of the courtroom. The gallery was already packed, so the only likely incoming traffic would be . . . yes. Her esteemed opponents. The D. A.'s team was finally putting in an appearance, and standing front and center was--oh, dear God, no

  Devin swiveled back around, her hand pressed against her forehead. Was this some sort of cosmic karmic revenge? What could she possibly have done to deserve this? Was it that time she was playing with her mother's makeup and got mascara all over the carpet? Or that time when she was nine and she wouldn't let her cousin Megan bounce on her trampoline? Or did Fate just generally hate her size-six guts?

  Trent Ballard was lead counsel for the prosecution, damn it. She hadn't seen him since the trial lawyers' conference at Barkley Beach in May. And actually, she hadn't seen him there, except for Saturday night, late, in the hot tub, when she was wearing that new form-fitting swimsuit she'd gotten from J. Crew and she'd had way too much to drink . . .

  "Hiya, Devin. How's tricks?"

  Devin stood and simulated something like a smile. "Hello, Trent. Uh--it was Trent, wasn't it?" She almost winced. What a stupid thing . . .

  He grinned. "Yeah, no name change since May."

  "So you're handling the Hightower case?"

  "Lucky me, huh?" The ambitious sparkle in his eye told Devin he really did consider it a lucky break. "I thought for sure McCandliss would keep it for himself, but at the last moment he passed it down to me. I guess he decided it was too politically charged to be desirable, even if the press is likely to be all over it." He took a tiny step closer to her. "But enough shop talk. How have you been? You look great."

  Devin deflected the compliment by pretending it was addressed to her clothes. "Oh, you like this suit? It's new."

  Trent wasn't that easily avoided. "I wasn't talking about your suit. I was talking about you. You look great. And that business suit can't hold a candle to the hot pink Speedo number you were wearing at Barkley." He flashed a smile that could charm the petals off a daisy. "Although this is probably more appropriate for the courtroom."

  Why was he flattering her? It's not as if there were a hot tub in the back of the courtroom. Devin instinctively distrusted people who tried to flatter her. No matter what anyone said, she was never happy with the way she looked. When friends told her she was pretty, she didn't believe it. That's why they're friends, she told herself quietly, every time she heard a compliment. She'd done the best she could this morning with her straight, dark, auburn-tinted hair, but somehow it never came out looking like the women in those magazines. She was wearing her new suit, but new or not, women's business suits weren't really designed to be flattering.
No matter what she did, she felt frumpy.

  "Look, Trent, if you're going to be handling this trial, it would probably be best if we kept this on a professional basis."

  Trent stiffened, and his face took on a mock seriousness. "Of course. I understand completely. We'll keep this clinical." He winked, then returned to his own table.

  Devin closed her eyes. Why did it have to be him? Once a man has frolicked with you in the Jacuzzi, there's no chance he's ever going to take you seriously. He'd be patronizing, at best. Maybe even drop sly remarks to the judge, hinting at their dirty secret. Why, why, why?

  She flopped down in her chair, feeling exhausted. And the trial hadn't begun yet.

  "How're you holding up, Julia?"

  Julia tried to smile, but her expression didn't change much. Too many face-lifts, Devin suspected. "Not as well as I'd be doing if that pitcher on the table was filled with martinis."

  "Sorry, Julia, but it's strictly water in the courtroom. And please don't try anything sneaky. We don't want the jury to think you're an alcoholic. If they think you were drunk and out of your head . . ."

  Julia made a sniffing noise. "As if I would have to be drunk to kill Arthur."

  "Mummy!"

  Turning, Devin saw that the family had arrived. She had reserved seats for them in the front row of the gallery. She liked the jury to see that the defendant still had the support of her loved ones, although with this family, she considered making an exception.

  "How do you feel, Mummy?" Morgan said, grasping her by the shoulders. "We've been so worried about you."

  "Stop slobbering, Morgan." Julia shoved him away. "I'm going on trial for murder. How do you think I feel?"

  "Mummy, I want you to consider changing lawyers. Joe Kellogg said he'd be willing to take on your case, even this late. I've asked him to be here this morning, just in case."

  Devin looked away and tried to pretend as if she weren't listening. Son of a . . .

  "Stop interfering, Morgan," Julia shot back. "If you want to use Joe Kellogg when you're fighting for your life, fine. But I like Devin, and I'm sticking with her. Why do you think I chose her in the first place?"

  Actually, Devin had wondered about that herself. No one had been more surprised than she when Julia strolled into her tiny office on Fourteenth Street. There were hundreds of capable lawyers in New York. If she'd had a reason for choosing Devin, she'd never shared it. But given the way Devin's business had been going lately, she wasn't about to turn the lady away.

  "Mummy, please reconsider. This is very serious. If you're convicted, they could--could--"

  "Stop stuttering, Morgan. They could execute me. Fine. We all have to die sometime. But I spent fifty thousand dollars on specialists to cure you of that stutter, and I don't want to see it all go down the drain."

  Marilyn wedged herself against the table. "Is there anything we can do for you, Mother?"

  "You could smuggle me in some booze."

  "Now, Mother ..."

  "Maybe you could hide it inside a cake, like in those old movies."

  "Now, Mother ..."

  She jerked her thumb toward Devin. "The prison warden here says I can only have water in the courtroom. Can you imagine? Water. The very thought makes my stomach do flip-flops."

  Devin patted her arm. "You'll get used to it."

  "No doubt. And you'll get used to having your client throw up all over the table."

  Judge Hardy--yes, that was really his name, and no, he wasn't related to Mickey Rooney--was a solidly built man in his early sixties. His hair was gray, but it was all there, close cropped in the prototypical 1950s style. As Devin knew from experience, he conducted a no-nonsense courtroom and rarely so much as cracked a smile.

  "This court is called to order," he growled as soon as he emerged from chambers. "Please be seated." He quickly rattled through the preliminary matters. "The first case on the docket today is HO 1-982, The State versus Julia Conners Hightower. Are all the parties ready to proceed?"

  They were. Actually, Devin wasn't, but she was as ready as she was ever likely to be.

  "Good." Since the jury had already been selected, the judge was eager to get on with it. He issued a few preliminary cautions to the jurors and the spectators in the packed gallery. Then he called for opening statements.

  Devin watched as Trent rose solemnly and approached the jury box. His manner was calm, assured, charismatic. Everything Devin wasn't.

  "Arthur Hightower's body had been in the freezer for more than three weeks when it was found. His skin was blue, but you could barely see it, because he was covered by a thick layer of frost. Chipping him out took almost a day. He was so brittle his right arm broke off as they removed him from the freezer. In short, he was not only brutally murdered, but afterward, his body was callously cast aside and mistreated as well. And the woman who committed this heinous offense"--he turned and pointed--"is sitting right over there."

  Devin tried to look confident, since she knew most of the jurors would be looking her way. Trent had predictably started with the most lurid--and best-known--aspect of the case. The papers were calling Julia the "Cryogenic Killer."

  "Julia Hightower's motives for murdering her husband are well-known and not in dispute. He was planning to cut her out of his will-- and to divorce her. After thirty-seven years of living in one of the most wealthy families in the state, she would be utterly penniless. She couldn't handle it. She tried unsuccessfully to talk him out of it. They had a fight, probably fueled by her constant and abusive use of alcohol. One thing led to another--and ended with Julia clubbing her husband on the soft part of his skull with a blunt instrument. Forensic work has been complicated by the corpse's lengthy stay in the freezer, but as you will hear, the coroner believes death was probably instantaneous. After he was dead, Julia dragged the body to the basement and hid it in the freezer. There it remained until it was discovered by her son on Thanksgiving Day--giving him a holiday surprise he likely never would forget."

  Trent provided a few more details about the crime and the subsequent investigation, but Devin was impressed by how sparing his remarks were. Some D. A. S droned on forever, as if the race would be won by the attorney who filibustered the longest. But Trent was smarter than that. He knew the importance of capturing and keeping the jurors' attention--and he knew the dangers of boring them.

  "One last thing before I sit down. In a moment, you will hear from the attorney who is being paid to represent the killer, Julia Hightower. She will likely have all sorts of excuses and will try to get you to believe any manner of things. All I ask is this--please use your common sense. Don't believe everything you hear. Don't get confused. Keep your mind focused where it should be--on the frozen assets in the basement."

  Devin was not pleased. This, she thought, must be what it feels like when a fresh young comic has to go on after, oh, say, Bette Midler. Trent had been fabulous--succinct, dramatic, effective. She wanted to believe the jurors still had open minds, but she knew Trent had effectively closed them, at least a little bit, with his sterling opening. And now she had to stumble up behind him and try to think of some way to yank those minds back open again.

  She rummaged through her briefcase looking for her notes, but all she could find was last night's unfinished grid. She'd just have to wing it. She tried to find the friendliest face in the box. Mrs. Miller, perhaps, the divorcee in her mid-fifties who worked at the checkout counter at Piggly Wiggly? Mr. Kimball, the hardware store owner? She settled on Jack Powell, a black man in his thirties who was trying to open his own sandwich shop. He must've seen some trouble in his lifetime. Surely he could sympathize with someone who was in trouble now.

  "Let's get one thing straight right off the bat, okay?" Devin looked levelly into the jury box, focusing her attention on Jack Powell. "I'm not here to get anybody off. That's not my job. My job is to provide a defense to the as yet unproven claims of the prosecution. Everyone has a right to a defense, and I'm usually pleased to provide it. But in
this instance, it's a particular pleasure to defend Julia Hightower--because she's not guilty. And I'm not saying that because I'm being paid. I'm saying that because it's true."

  She took a step sideways and let her eyes drift to the other men and women in the box. Their expressions ranged from politely interested to openly hostile. "Now, a few of the things Mr. Ballard told you are in fact true. Julia does have a problem with alcohol. Of course, when you hear what her life has been like these past many years, you'll wonder that it isn't worse than it is. And it is true that her husband threatened to divorce her a few weeks before he died, although he had made the same threat on many previous occasions and hadn't ever taken Step One toward actually doing it. You see, the late Mr. Hightower liked to threaten. That was his way of keeping everyone in the family under control, and he was very into control. But if this practice was a motive for murder, he would've been dead eleven years ago--because that was when he first made the threat."

  She paused, scanning their eyes, trying to gauge whether she was making any impact. "You may have noticed that, although Mr. Ballard proclaimed with certainty that Julia was guilty, he didn't tell you how he was going to prove it. He didn't give you a laundry list of all the evidence he would stack up against her. Why? Because they don't have any. Not much, anyway. They can't link Julia to the murder weapon. In fact, they don't even know what the murder weapon was. Mr. Ballard coyly referred to a 'blunt instrument,' because in fact they don't know what caused Mr. High tower's head injury. There are no fingerprints linking Julia to the crime. There are no eyewitnesses. All they've got are three mildly incriminating facts--that Julia had the key to the freezer, that some of the victim's blood was found on one of her dresses, and that his frozen hand held her pearl necklace. But those minor details can be explained. They do not prove guilt. And they certainly do not prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

  "Because that's the standard, you know. Mr. Ballard didn't mention it; he hopes you'll forget all about it. But I'll never let you forget it, and neither will the judge. In order to convict Julia, you must find her guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. That's a very high bar to vault. If you are not entirely convinced, if you possess a reasonable doubt--then you have no choice. You must acquit. That's the law. More important, that's your duty. Julia Hightower is presumed innocent. And when this trial is completed, that presumption will remain intact. Because she is innocent. Because she did not kill her husband."