In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “That I did it?”

  “Yes.” Sharon kept her voice calm, using the same tone of voice she’d heard the psychologist use on Melanie; while in the second grade, Melanie had had stress problems over not having a father like the other kids.

  Midge seemed deep in thought. “I told that other lawyer dude.”

  “Mr. Tubb?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyone else?” Sharon kept her attitude friendly, with no hint of accusation that Midge had done anything wrong. If the teenager felt rewarded, she would tell all, but if she felt she would be scolded for her actions, she would clam up, and no amount of threatening or pleading would get anything out of her. Sharon pictured herself, struggling to control her temper, coaxing Melanie at eighteen months to eat her applesauce.

  Midge pressed on a pimple. “A policeman that came to see me.”

  Russell Black said under his breath, “Christ.”

  Midge shot a glance at the older lawyer, and her expression changed instantly from one of wanting to please to one of secrecy. “I was only fooling you,” she said. “I didn’t tell. It was Susan. Susan told.”

  Sharon fought the urge to tell Black: Keep the hell out of this and let me handle it. Criminy, with the older lawyer berating this child, they could ask Midge questions until they were blue in the face and never get a straight answer. Sharon repressed her anger and said merely, “Susan?”

  “It’s her sister,” Black said.

  Sharon chewed the inside of her cheek. “Older or younger?”

  “Fourteen,” Midge said. “I hate that fucking Susan.” She shrilly raised her voice, and the force of her anger jolted like a rush of cold air.

  “Now, now.” Black tried the fatherly approach again. “She’s your only sister, Midge.”

  Midge screamed at the top of her lungs, “No, goddammit, I hate her.” The hallway door flew open and the guard burst in to take a long stride in Midge’s direction. Sharon held out her hand to the guard and shook her head. The guard halted in his tracks.

  “Midge,” Sharon said, “why do you hate Susan?”

  “Because she tells everything.” Tears of rage rolled down the teenager’s fat cheeks. “She’s always been a tattletale and she’s still one.” She looked wildly about her. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.” The small child’s ploy for avoiding unpleasant things.

  Black stirred, reached down to pick up his briefcase, and said to the guard, “I guess this is finished.”

  Sharon touched Black’s arm and imperceptibly shook her head. She had to have an answer right now. Later Midge would have had time to make something up. “Midge,” Sharon said quietly, “did you feel that your father liked Susan more than you?”

  The eyes went instantly deadpan, the fat lips formed a compressed circle. The lone unshackled hand came up; the index finger toyed with a pimple. “He liked fucking her,” Midge said.

  There was pin-drop silence, a full fifteen seconds of it. The guard’s breathing was loud and irregular.

  “Christ,” Black murmured.

  Midge lowered her gaze to her handcuffed wrist. “Can I go to the bathroom now?” she said.

  5

  “The state has two witnesses, Your Honor.” Kathleen Fraterno, professionally cool, arms folded under mildly puffed white sleeves, vest hugging her slim upper body, sitting erect, legs crossed in black knee-length skirt over matching high heels.

  “Very well. Call your first, then.” Kenneth Tucker, bald as soil in shade, huge bags underneath his eyes, lifelong county employee only recently promoted to family court master, delighting in juvie cert hearings because they gave him the opportunity to don judge’s robes and have lawyers call him “Your Honor.” Tucker’s voice was nasal and a bit raspy.

  Fraterno exchanged a glance with Milt Breyer, who was seated beside her at the prosecution table. Peculiar to Texas, lawyers remain seated in court, question witnesses from their respective tables, approach the witness only after requesting the court’s permission, and then only to have the witness identify a piece of admitted or prospective evidence. On the defense side, Russell Black sat nearest the prosecutors with Midge Rathermore between him and Sharon Hays. Midge had terrible body odor. Sharon had asked the guard to provide the huge teenager with a smock that fit. The guard had told Sharon with a snicker that the garment Midge wore was the largest available. Sharon had removed her own suit jacket and draped it around Midge’s hunched shoulders. The jacket didn’t help much, but at least covered the open button holes up the side of the smock. The sleeves to Sharon’s off-white summer-weight blouse were slightly puffed, like Fraterno’s sleeves, and Sharon had shoved the cuffs up to tightly encircle her forearms.

  Fraterno lifted her chin and raised her voice. “State calls Detective Stanley Green.”

  Well, fuck a duck, Sharon thought.

  Milt Breyer leaned back to peer around Russell Black, and showed Sharon an obvious smirk. Put a sock in it, Milt, Sharon thought.

  There was a rustling in the courtroom, heads turning, reporters scribbling, as the bailiff ushered the witness in. Stanley Green was medium height with a square build and a cowpoke’s slightly bowlegged walk. He wore a dark brown suit and had a golfer’s tan, face and neck bronze, right hand darker than the left. He showed mild amusement as the court reporter swore him in, then flowed athletically into the witness chair and folded his hands.

  “Please state your full name for the record.” Fraterno’s courtroom voice was clear as a bell and carried perfectly. In private, Kathleen’s speech took on a more husky, even earthy quality.

  “Stanley Randall Green.” A heavy Texas drawl, full brows over a wide nose and thin lips, an honest expression, believable as Will Rogers.

  “And what is your occupation, Mr. Green?”

  “I’m a detective with the Dallas Police Department. Crimes against Persons.”

  “And in that capacity, is homicide your specialty?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Green’s response was humble and respectful, which Sharon knew to be some somewhat of an effort for him. Down deep Stan Green was as sexist as they came.

  Fraterno picked up the pace. “Did you have occasion on”—she glanced down at her open file, then back up—“January 8 of this year to go to the home of Mr. and Mrs. William P. Rathermore, Jr.?”

  “Yes.”

  Fraterno performed another brief examination of her file. “Was the home at 3517 Lakeside Drive, in Highland Park?”

  Another yes. Court Master Tucker’s interest picked up. To Dallasites, a Lakeside Drive address was the be-all and end-all.

  “And approximately what time was that?” Fraterno said.

  Green seemed to consider his response, and Sharon, along with every other lawyer in the courtroom, knew that the detective was faking it. Fraterno and Green would have rehearsed at length, and the questions and answers would be committed to memory. “I got the call about two in the morning,” Green said. “So it would have been close to three when I got there. I didn’t get much sleep that night.” The detective smiled for Kenneth Tucker’s benefit, and the family court master nodded his round head.

  “And on your arrival, what did you find?”

  “It was a crime scene.”

  “Do you mean by that that the area was roped off? Officers standing guard? Laboratory technicians gathering possible evidence, things like that?” Fraterno said. Green answered yes to each brief question in turn. “What did you then do?” Fraterno said.

  “I went in the house.”

  “And what did you see inside the house, Detective?”

  “I entered through the living room. There was a blond lady on the sofa.”

  “Did you later learn that the lady was Mrs. William Rathermore?”

  Sharon nearly snickered out loud at that one. Linda Rathermore had once been Linda Haymon, the six and ten o’clock anchor
on Channel 8, and between the TV exposure prior to, and the social fundraisers following, her marriage to Bill Rathermore, Jr., possessed one of the better-known faces in the city. It was the first Mrs. William Rathermore, Jr., who had shunned the limelight. Sharon wondered briefly why Midge’s mom didn’t want it known that she was paying her daughter’s lawyers. If it had been Melanie in trouble, Sharon would have been at this hearing with bells on.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Green, deadpan.

  “Was anyone else present?”

  Green nodded. “Detective Burns from Burglary. Patrolmen Tanner and Wimberly, the officers who originally responded to the call. They were talking to the lady.”

  “And did you have conversation with Mrs. Rathermore at that time?”

  “Not then. No, ma’am.”

  There was a rattling of paper as Fraterno pretended to examine her file, and Green waited patiently for the next question. More Hollywood, Sharon thought. Even the apparently unexpected answer to Fraterno’s question would have been rehearsed, the “Not then. No, ma’am” response carefully designed to make the whole thing appear spontaneous. Kathleen Fraterno was pretty good at pretense, Sharon had to admit. Once, when she and Kathleen had tried the death penalty case, Fraterno had had the arresting officer misidentify the victim’s sister. The intentional slip-up hadn’t mattered in the overall presentation of the case, but had done wonders in convincing the jury that Fraterno and the cop hadn’t been in any sort of collusion. It was probably carrying things too far, Sharon thought, to go through the unexpected-answer routine in a hearing such as this, but with Kenneth Tucker on the bench in place of the real-life judge, the strategy should work pretty well.

  Fraterno pretended to finish the pretended examination of her file and lifted her chin. “Well, what did you then do, Detective?”

  “I went upstairs.”

  “To the master bedroom?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what did you find there?”

  “The lab techs were dusting for prints. I, let’s see, I don’t think the medical examiner’s people were there as yet. There was a body on the floor.”

  “The victim. No one had as yet pronounced the victim officially dead?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m pretty sure the ME didn’t arrive until five or ten minutes after that.”

  “And are you certain,” Fraterno said, “that no one had moved the body, touched it in any way?”

  Green thoughtfully scratched his nose. “Procedure would dictate that the lab techs not handle the victim until after the ME had finished. I’m pretty sure no one had. I know I didn’t touch the body.”

  “But did you get a good look at the victim?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I must have stood there a couple of minutes.”

  There were more papery rustles as Fraterno dug into her file. She stood holding a large photo, walked around front to the defense side, and handed the picture to Russell Black. Fraterno stood by and brushed imaginary lint from her sleeve while giving the defense a second to look over the photo.

  Black held the picture in front of Midge so that he, Sharon, and Midge could see. The corpse in the picture was a mess, a man in a purple robe and pajamas with one side of his head bashed in, face turned unnaturally to one side, eyes partially open in dead-man slits, blood totally obscuring one cheek and dripping gruesomely down to soak the robe and surrounding carpet. Sharon shot a quick sideways glance at Midge. The client sniffled and blew a spit bubble. Wordlessly Black returned the photo to Fraterno. Sharon briefly pictured the jurors’ pale expressions when the photo turned up at trial.

  Fraterno crossed slim ankles and lifted her face to the bench. “Your Honor, may I approach the witness?”

  Tucker leaned back. A spring creaked in his chair. “Yes, proceed.”

  Fraterno then carried the picture over to the clerk, who applied a gummed evidenced sticker. Then, photo in hand, Fraterno strolled up to the witness box, her gait leisurely and thoughtful, her manner confident. Sharon had done the town with Kathleen a few times, and remembered that Fraterno’s walk in good-time clothes was sensuous and even come-on earthy. Kathleen, Sharon thought, wouldn’t have made a bad actress. Fraterno handed the picture to Stan Green, who then pretended to study the victim’s image. Green, Sharon knew, had a memory like a minicam and knew every detail of the picture like he knew the route to his own apartment.

  “I show you,” Fraterno said, “what has been marked ‘State’s Exhibit Number One,’ and ask if you can identify it.”

  “It’s a photograph from our files.” Green’s mild brown-eyed gaze flicked briefly at Sharon, then darted quickly away. Sharon wondered with an inner laugh if she should stand and say hello. How you doing, big fella? Something like that.

  “Taken where?” Fraterno said.

  “It’s the body I saw in the bedroom, upstairs at the Rathermore home.” Green’s manner was casual, his tone informal. He made one of the best witnesses in the police department. Many cops came across on the stand as if they were reading from a procedures manual.

  Fraterno nodded, retrieved the picture from the witness, took a step forward, and handed the photo to Kenneth Tucker on the bench. “The State offers exhibit one, Your Honor,” Fraterno said.

  Tucker’s brows knotted as he looked the exhibit over, his lips curling in obvious revulsion. A real-life judge would have deadpanned it. Tucker cleared his throat. “Objections?”

  Sharon and Russ Black leaned forward as one to exchange glances around Midge. Black nodded and mouthed silently, “Go ahead.”

  Sharon halfway rose from her chair. “No objection.” She resumed her seat. Pointless objections were … well, pointless. Often the client would be upset because the lawyer wasn’t making more noise, which explained a lot of the pointless objections made in court as client pacifiers. Midge Rathermore, however, didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in what her lawyers were up to. She merely regarded her filthy nails as though her mind was somewhere far away.

  “So admitted.” Tucker gave the picture back to Fraterno, then folded his hands.

  Fraterno laid the photo on the rail in front of the witness. “Detective, did you later learn the dead man’s identity?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Green accompanied his answer with a quick nod. “Mrs. Rathermore provided identification.”

  “And was he William P. Rathermore, Jr.?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Thank you.” Fraterno gave the picture to the court reporter, who filed it away. The DA’s file would contain numerous additional prints: for the defense’s use, for admission into evidence at future hearings and, eventually, for the trial itself. Fraterno was through with the photo for now. She had into evidence that there had been a crime as brutal as they come, and that was all she had to prove for purposes of the certification hearing. She had revealed nothing which hadn’t already been in the paper, and hadn’t tipped any of her hole cards. Kathleen Fraterno, Sharon thought wryly, is one bitchin’ lawyer. Milt Breyer watched his assistant from the prosecution’s side, and Milt’s expression showed open approval. If Milt had been conducting the direct examination himself, Sharon thought, the pompous ass would be champing at the bit to show this air-tight case he had, and by now Sharon would have two or three pages’ worth of juicy notes. But with Fraterno in charge of the hearing, Sharon’s legal pad contained nothing so far but doodlings.

  Fraterno returned to her seat and faced the witness. “Detective, did you … ?” She frowned thoughtfully. “First, let me ask you, other than policemen, who was in the house when you arrived?” The pause and frown were more rehearsed theatrics, Sharon thought.

  Green shifted comfortably in the witness chair. “Only the lady. Mrs. Rathermore.”

  Fraterno intertwined her fingers under her chin. “Aren’t there children?”

  “Two,” Green said. “Daughters, both boarding
students at Hockaday.”

  “Hockaday School in far North Dallas?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So Mrs. Rathermore and her husband had been alone in the house.”

  “That’s what she told us.”

  Russell Black stirred and shot a questioning glance in Sharon’s direction. She slowly shook her head. Fraterno was getting into hearsay now, the detective’s recollection of what a witness’ statement had been rather than the testimony of the witness herself. In a certification hearing, though, hearsay was admissible, the theory being that the witness would be available for the defense to cross-examine at trial. Black sat back and expelled air through his nose.

  “Please tell the court,” Fraterno said, “exactly what Mrs. Rathermore told you in her interview.”

  Black hopped up from his seat. “Objection. Hearsay.”

  Sharon blinked. Evidently her head shake hadn’t gotten the message across.

  Kenneth Tucker immediately snapped, “Overruled.” He returned his attention to the witness.

  Black sat down with a bewildered look, like an NFL coach after a pass-interference call by the referee. Black looked at Sharon. She sympathetically raised her eyebrows and shrugged as if to say, I tried to tell you.

  Fraterno repeated her question. Green said, his expression more intense, “Mrs. Rathermore and her husband were getting ready for bed around midnight. Two boys came into their bedroom and beat him to death with a lug wrench.”

  Fraterno tilted her chin. “Boys?”

  “Young men. Teenagers, was Mrs. Rathermore’s description.”

  “But you’re certain that the first time Mrs. Rathermore and her husband saw the assailants was when they burst into the bedroom.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No one rang the doorbell,” Fraterno said, “and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rathermore let the assailants into the house.”

  “Not according to Mrs. Rathermore’s statement,” Green said.