by A. W. Gray
“Spare us the suspense, okay?” Black said.
Gear set his cup down and intertwined his fingers. “She did Little Theatre. Small productions. I got some clippings in here”—patting his satchel—“of reviews, from newspaper archives. The critics raved about her in The Lighthouse. It’s a Walter Erskine play that never made it to the big show.”
“I did that,” Sharon said. “Old theater way down in SoHo that the fire marshal should have condemned. We did an el foldo after two nights.”
“So great,” Black said. “If we want to discredit her on the stand, we can say she was in a bad play.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Sharon said. “You need a few breaks is all.”
Black sounded as if he might have a seizure. “Listen, get on to the—”
“I started looking up the reviews,” Gear said, “after I checked up on her criminal record.”
Black closed his mouth. He looked at Sharon. She looked back at him. Both lawyers returned their attention to Anthony Gear.
“No convictions,” Gear said. “Two indictments, later consolidated into one and pled to. Maryland has a form of probation where if you keep your nose clean, your record gets expunged. That’s why there’s no conviction on her sheet.”
“We’ve got that in Texas, too,” Sharon said. “Deferred adjudicated probation.”
“Which means,” Black said, “that we can’t cross-examine her on her record.”
“We can’t bring up the indictment,” Sharon said. “But we can bring in outside testimony to attack her credibility. Somebody from Baltimore that knows her history can tell what she did without saying she was ever charged with a crime.”
“The complainant in both criminal cases against Linda,” Gear said, “was the same guy. Donald Weiss. I checked on him and found out he’s chairman of the Baltimore Theatre League. Was then. Still is.
“Weiss,” Gear said, “had a thing going with her. He was and is married. To the same woman. Thirty years. He gave me an afternoon on the condition that I wouldn’t make any waves for him locally.”
“Would he come down here to testify without a subpoena?” Black said.
“Probably. We’re far enough from Baltimore that it wouldn’t have to make the papers up there.”
“Come on,” Sharon cut in. “Hard Copy, A Current Affair, all the tabloids …”
“They’d cause him a problem,” Gear said. “But I made sure he understood that the likelihood of his appearance in Dallas making Baltimore news was less than the likelihood of my getting his name in the papers up there if he doesn’t testify for us.”
“Sometimes you have to play a little rough,” Black said.
Gear nodded. “I’ll say one thing, the lady must give one helluva—” He glanced at Sharon. “Must be something in the bedroom,” he finished. “Weiss was ready to pack up and move in with her. Give up everything.”
“All you have to do is look at her,” Sharon said.
“He moved her into a condo,” Gear said, “in preparation for dropping the bombshell on his old lady. Even took out a life insurance policy, naming her.”
“Naming Linda?” Sharon said.
“Right. Two hundred grand, and I couldn’t get out of Weiss whether the policy was his idea or hers. I suspect the latter from what went on.
“Weiss had a son,” Gear said, sipping more coffee, “that he used to bring around all the theater productions. Let the kid help out with the scenery, whatever. I bet you can guess what happens next.”
“Christ,” Black said. “Linda seduced the boy.”
Gear pointed a finger. “You get an A.”
“How old was Linda then?” Sharon said.
“Her Baltimore birth record says she was born in ’51. This happened in ’78, so that would make her twenty-seven. Weiss happened by the old condo one summer afternoon unannounced, and there Linda was with his kid in the old sackeroo. She’d just happened to offer the kid a lift after rehearsal, only they hadn’t quite made it home yet.
“Weiss hit the ceiling, naturally,” Gear said. “He decided, come hell or high water, he’d give Linda some grief over it, and filed a statutory rape complaint against her with the Maryland cops. That was the first indictment against our girl. According to Weiss, he nearly lost his wife when she found out, but they’ve patched things up over the years.”
“And I suppose,” Sharon said, “that they worked out a plea bargain for probation because Mr. and Mrs. Weiss didn’t want their son to have to testify against her.”
“Not exactly,” Gear said. “Both parents were ready to throw the book at Linda. But they never prosecuted the first charge because of the second indictment against her.”
Black favored Sharon with a confused scowl. She shrugged. Gear went on.
“The second case,” Gear said, “was really a weirdo. In the middle of the investigation into the statutory rape charge, a detective found out in questioning the kid that he and Linda had actually been doing it on the sly for several months. The afternoon incident was a long way from being the first time. The kid breaks down and admits to the cop that Linda had talked to him about killing his father. The insurance policy, you know?”
“The boy doing it,” Black said. “Not Linda herself.”
“Right,” Gear said. “Linda had even gone as far as buying a pistol and having the kid chart his old man’s daily movements. Sound familiar to this case we’re working on?”
“Sure sounds like a pattern,” Sharon said. “I’m just wondering how much of this we could get into evidence.”
“That’s you lawyers’ problem,” Gear said. “That second indictment, conspiracy to commit murder, that’s the one the parents didn’t want the kid to testify to. The prosecutors had no case without the boy’s testimony, of course, so had to agree to consolidate the charges and let Linda plead out. The boy had nine thousand yards of counseling after that, and according to Weiss he’s okay now.”
“Mr. Gear,” Black said, “you’ve got a new assignment. Beginning now, I want to know what Linda Rathermore is doing twenty-four hours a day. If she has any contact with Chris Leonard or Troy Burdette, I want to know about it.”
“That’s already on my calendar,” Gear said. “At my hourly rate.”
“That certainly explains why she changed her name,” Sharon said. “Sweet Jesus, she’s got a thing for adolescents.”
Gear drained the dregs from his coffee cup. “Well, at least she’s upgraded some, if what we’re all thinking turns out to be true. The kids in the Rathermore case are fifteen and seventeen. If you can believe this, the Weiss boy was thirteen years old at the time.”
28
Sharon’s walk showed brisk, all-business purpose as she approached the receptionist at Havenrest Sanitarium. She leaned over the counter and presented her business card. “This is Susan Rathermore’s mother,” Sharon said. “Here to see her daughter.” She gestured toward Deborah North, who stood hesitantly just inside the entry.
The receptionist was a bleached blonde in a starched white uniform. Her dark roots showed and she was too heavy. She wore thick red lipstick. She looked the card over and laid it aside, then rattled computer keys and squinted at the monitor. “I don’t have your name on Susan’s visiting list.”
“Well, I’d suggest you produce Susan,” Sharon said. “Unless you’d like me to come back with a court order and a sheriff’s deputy.”
“I don’t have the authority—”
“Then find someone who does,” Sharon said.
“Oh, my,” the receptionist said in a confused tone. “Listen, you’ll have to wait a minute.”
“A minute’s about all I’ve got,” Sharon said, “before I head for the courthouse.”
The receptionist got up and carried Sharon’s card through double doors to the rear. Her fat bottom wiggled. Sharon winked at Deb, looked furt
ively in all directions, then leaned over the counter to examine the still open computer screen. The numbers and characters were blue against a pale orange background. There were three names listed as authorized visitors for Susan Rathermore: Linda Haymon Rathermore, Kathleen Fraterno, and Milton Breyer. According to the record, none of the three had yet visited the child. Sharon sighed in disgust. Any doubts she’d had about whether the prosecution knew that William Rathermore had been diddling his own daughter went flying out the window.
In less than a minute, the double doors parted and the receptionist poked her head out between them. “Come back here, please.”
Sharon started around the counter with Deb following. The receptionist shook her head. “Just the attorney, if you don’t mind.” Deb had a seat on a low cloth divan in the corner. Sharon followed the receptionist down a hallway past a Mr. Coffee which hissed and dribbled hot brown liquid into a pot, and entered a small office. Having played escort, the receptionist left.
The woman seated behind the glass-topped desk was in her fifties. She was thin with bony forearms, and was on the phone. Her name plate identified her as MARJORIE PULLEN, OFFICE MANAGER. She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and said in a slightly hoarse voice, “Are you Ms. Hays?” She pronounced “Ms.” as if it ended with a z. Sharon nodded. The woman offered the phone across the desk. “Our attorney wants to speak to you,” she said.
Sharon hesitated, then said firmly into the receiver, “Sharon Hays.”
“Orville Watts, Miss Hays. Watts and Gilmore. Is there something I can help you with?” Deep voice, Harvard smugness mixed with an educated Texas twang.
“You can help me, Mr. Watts, if you’ll tell these nice ladies to let Susan’s mother see her. Otherwise we don’t have much to say to each other.”
“I can’t authorize such a … Susan’s committed by order of the court, Miss Hays.”
Sharon had just a second to reflect that none of these people, the receptionist, the office manager, or the lawyer, had to refer to any files when talking about Susan. Milton Breyer and his henchman had drilled every one of them. “I’ve been to the courthouse, Mr. Watts,” Sharon said, “and reviewed Susan’s case. The commitment order is signed by Linda Haymon Rathermore, who doesn’t happen to be Susan’s legal guardian. Her father’s divorce decree gives him permanent custody, but there’s no provision in the event of his death. Susan’s mother has automatic custody now, and that’s who wants to see her.”
There was a pregnant pause, after which Watts said, “Look, let me call you back.”
Sharon blinked and watched Marjorie Pullen. The office manager’s mouth was slightly agape. Sharon said into the phone, “I don’t have time to wait, Mr. Watts. Look, I’ll help you out. Your instructions are to call Milton Breyer or Kathleen Fraterno if you have any questions about Susan, am I right?” She waited. Watts said nothing. Sharon went on, “Well, when you get ahold of them, they’re going to tell you to stall me any way possible. That’s not going to work. If you don’t give this lady the green light for us to see Susan right now, I’m headed downtown. I’d have to review the law, but I think holding Susan here without the proper commitment order constitutes lawbreaking of some sort. Kidnapping or whatever. You’re the sanitarium’s attorney, Mr. Watts, so you probably know the law on that without looking it up. Tell me. What do the statutes say?”
Sharon listened to faint humming and crackling noises for a full fifteen seconds. Watts finally said, “I suppose we’d better let you see her.”
“You know what?” Sharon said. “I think you had.”
Sharon wished that she could hire Sheila Winston as a permanent adviser. Every crisis in the Rathermore case seemed to hinge on the best way to handle emotionally disturbed teenagers, and Sharon felt as if her decision-making process was nothing more than one coin flip after another. The afternoon visit to Havenrest was a good example. Much as she realized that Susan Rathermore needed quality time with her mother, Sharon understood as well that Susan knew things which were critical to Midge’s defense, and that the time left before trial was running out in a hurry. So, friend Sheila, Sharon thought, when would be the best time to ask Susan a few questions? Sharon didn’t have the slightest idea. She’d finally decided to let Deborah North visit with Susan alone, and mentally crossed her fingers in hope that she’d done the right thing. She checked her watch. Visiting hours ended in five minutes. She rose from the plush waiting room sofa and went to the window.
Rolling lawns and thick oak groves extended from the colonial-style porch to Forest Lane, a full half mile in the distance. On the other side of Forest Lane, mansion rooftops loomed. There was a long, curving gravel drive leading from the street to Havenrest’s main building; at the sanitarium entry stood a tall green archway. To the right of the archway was a bronze sign on which the name HAVENREST stood out in glistening bas relief. Late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and cast shadows over the freshly mowed grass.
Deb North, clad in simple yellow slacks and blouse, sat beside Susan Rathermore on a white wrought-iron bench decorated with snowy oak leaves. Identical benches dotted the rest of the grounds, and visitors sat with patients on all but two or three. As Sharon watched, Deb and Susan exchanged timid smiles. Susan wore knee-length shorts and a plaid short-sleeve shirt. She had passed within five feet of Sharon as she’d walked with her mother through the sanitarium lobby, and Susan’s wounds had caused Sharon to mentally wince. Recently healed scars crisscrossed Susan’s arms from elbow to wrist, and more ugly raised welts showed on the backs of the teenager’s legs.
The grief surging through Sharon’s veins on seeing Susan heightened her compassion for Midge as well. Susan had the figure of a gymnast, tiny frame, square shoulders, and lithe muscular legs. Her face was a younger version of Deb’s, slim, straight nose, delicate pointed chin. For any adolescent to be as obese as Midge Rathermore was cruelly unfair; for the same girl to have a sister—particularly a younger sister—as perfectly formed as Susan would make the older sibling’s plight even more of a tragedy. Even in a normal family home, consisting of real parents with real love for their kids, Midge would have had severe inferiority problems. In the twisted Rathermore environment the problems would have multiplied a hundredfold. Christ, but these children had needed a solid father figure.
Which is exactly what you’re trying to keep Melanie from having, Miss Lawyer Britches, a voice inside Sharon suddenly said.
Our circumstances are different, she thought.
Oh, yeah? Says who?
I’m not having this discussion, she thought.
Sure, toots. Just keep it all blotted out. I’m sure that’s what Deborah North has done the past eight years, and look where it’s gotten her. One of those visitors’ benches will certainly fit your little fanny when you come to see Melanie in the sanitarium.
Sharon forced the voice out of her mind and concentrated on the scene outside the window. Susan and Midge Rathermore did have one thing in common. The haunted, vacant look on Susan’s face matched Midge’s permanent look exactly. Since she’d been having regular contact with her mom, Midge had been smiling more of late. Sharon hoped for the same for Susan.
And the same for Melanie? the voice inside Sharon said.
“Shut up!” she said aloud, then turned to face the lobby. The receptionist was staring at her. Her cheeks reddening, Sharon gazed once more onto the lawn.
The entire sanitarium bit caused Sharon to grind her teeth. Breyer and Fraterno had simply rushed Susan to the outhouse in order to get her out of the way until after the trial, and Linda, lovely person that she was, would have considered having Midge’s sister out of her hair a windfall. Not a single visit in all this time, Sharon thought.
She managed a tiny grin as she pictured Breyer and Fraterno once they learned that the defense knew Susan’s whereabouts. The prosecutors (in between rolling in the hay together, Sharon thought) would run around the
Crowley Courts Building like chickens with their heads cut off as they prepared a gang of phony psychologists to say that Susan wasn’t competent to testify for the defense. Well, that suited Sharon to a T because the defense had no plans to use Susan as a witness, and Milt and Kathleen would be wasting their time. The defense now had Leslie Schlee, and she could provide all the child-abuse testimony needed to knock the prosecution for a loop. Assuming that the judge let them get into the abuse issue at all, which was far from a given. Sharon wrung her hands.
A bell pealed suddenly across the sanitarium grounds. Visitors and patients stood to embrace goodbyes. Deb and Susan walked up on the porch with their arms entwined, and Sharon went through the door to stand a few feet away. After the coolness inside the building, the heated shade of the porch felt even warmer than it was.
Deb brought Susan over. The former Mrs. William Rathermore’s eyes were misty, but she was smiling. With an obvious catch in her voice Deb said, “Sharon Hays, I want you to meet my younger daughter. Susan, Sharon’s the one responsible for my getting to see you.”
Sharon extended her hand. “Hi, Susan.”
Susan’s grip was desperately firm. “Bring my mom back to see me. Please. I’ve been awful lonesome in here.”
29
On Friday afternoon, eleven days before the Rathermore trial was scheduled to begin, Sharon swallowed her terror of firearms and bought a gun. It was a choice, she thought, between keeping some artillery close at hand and never getting another wink of sleep. Night after night she’d lain awake, picturing Bradford Brie creeping through her house, and made up her mind once and for all that her fear of guns could never match the trauma of being alone and unarmed through the night.
She selected one big kahuna of a .44 Bulldog with a coal black handle in a pawnshop. The Bulldog packed twice the kick as the .38 police special she’d borrowed to qualify once a year on the sheriff’s firing range when she’d been a prosecutor—or had failed to qualify, actually, depending on the kindness of the instructor (who likely figured, What the hell, she’s a woman and a lawyer and not likely to be called to duty anyhow) to let her slide by—and she chose the weapon because she wanted enough firepower to stop an elephant if necessary. Before she went to bed, she stowed the .44 in her nightstand drawer.
