by A. W. Gray
Now Milton Breyer spoke up. “Judge, we’re not really prepared to—”
“Two hours, Mr. Breyer. Then I’ll give my ruling. I’m going to spend the time in the law library myself, to see what I can come up with. I’ll see you back in court at four o’clock, counselors.” The corners of Griffin’s eyes crinkled as she looked at Breyer, glanced at Sharon, then looked back. “It shouldn’t be that much of a problem for you, Mr. Breyer. You’ve locked horns with Miss Hays before. At least that’s my understanding.” She grinned at Sharon. “I’m going to give your brief very careful attention, Miss Hays,” Judge Griffin said.
They gathered on a hallway bench outside the courtroom, Sharon Hays, Russell Black, Anthony Gear, Deborah North. Newspeople milled about on all sides and did what newspeople do during breaks in trials—compared notes, groused about their salaries. They’d pretty well learned that any attempt to pry a statement from a member of the defense team was a waste of time, so aside from occasional glances toward the bench they left the foursome alone. Sharon made jittery small talk with Deborah North while Gear filled Russell Black in on his contact with the Rathermores’ security company. Anything to break the tension.
Sharon had sat out jury deliberations by the score—so many, in fact, that waiting for verdicts had become old hat during her final days as a prosecutor. While the jury had voted in the Donello case, Sharon had returned to her office and taken a nap. This was much, much different. Judge Griffin’s pending decision had Sharon wound up like the twine in the innards of a baseball.
“What’s your gut feeling?” Deb said.
“Hmm?” Sharon fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “I can’t say that I have any gut feeling, Deb. Honestly? We were tickled to death to draw Judge Griffin for this case because she’ll at least consider what we have to say. But judges are politicians, and she’s not that different from the rest. She wants to do two things: move her docket along and get convictions. Too many acquittals give the opposition ammunition for the election.”
Deb lowered her lashes.
Sharon placed a hand on Deb’s forearm. “It doesn’t mean she’ll automatically deny us, Deb. But she’ll grasp at any straw. I think my research is thorough enough that she’ll have a hard time dodging around us.”
“And if she denies you?”
“She does. We can still attack Linda with both barrels to hurt her credibility, but I’m afraid that any evidence about the sex abuse won’t be allowed. Ballpark, I’d say an adverse ruling will hurt us about fifty percent.” Sharon felt a twinge of conscience; she was putting Deb on. Fifty percent was conservative as hell. As Sharon glanced down the corridor, a clerk from the DA’s office hustled by carrying a stack of papers, did a hasty column right, and entered the courtroom. That would be the state’s answer to Sharon’s brief. She checked her slim gold watch. Three-thirty on the nose.
“How much longer do you think?” Deb said.
Sharon watched her lap. The tightness in her throat restricted her breathing.
“How much longer?” Deb said.
Sharon reached up and anxiously fluffed her bangs.
“Sharon?”
Sharon started, then turned on the bench. “I’m sorry, Deb. What did you say?”
Jurors in drawn-out trials eventually grow to function as a unit, trooping in and out of the box like robots, their faces impassive. When the bailiff led the Rathermore panel back into the courtroom at exactly four, Sharon read the signs that they’d conformed to the pattern. For the duration of the trial they were no longer individuals. They were a body. The jury, nothing more. Walked as one, sat as one.
The jurors seated, the bailiff stood at attention and bellowed, “Awl rise.” Clothing rustled and throats cleared nervously as the ensemble stood, women smoothing their skirts behind them, men watching the judge’s entry with impassively folded arms. The spectators and lawyers had lost their identities as well; for the time being they were as much a part of the courtroom as the walls and benches. Judge Griffin entered and ascended to her throne.
Sharon searched her face for a sign, any sign, a twitch of the eyelids, a change in the set of the judge’s mouth. Griffin met Sharon’s gaze, then looked quickly away. Oh, my God, Sharon thought, she’s denying us. She’s not going to let us … Impulsively Sharon squeezed Midge Rathermore’s limp, clammy hand.
“Please be seated,” Judge Griffin said. The audience sat, as did the jury. Linda Rathermore crossed her legs in the witness box; her skirt rode up to reveal six inches of tanned and solid thigh.
All that work, Sharon thought. This poor retarded baby doesn’t have a ghost of a …
Judge Griffin stoically addressed the jurors. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ladies and gentlemen, but there are certain things that the law dictates the jury can’t hear. And I’m afraid we’re going to inconvenience you further, because it’s unavoidable. We’ll be in session today until after six.”
The jury accepted this without emotion. Two days earlier, back when they’d all been people of flesh and blood, they would have bitched and moaned openly about dinners to be put off, husbands and wives to call. Now they were merely the jury, the arm of justice serving in silence.
The judge now let her gaze rest first on the defense side, then on the prosecution. She nodded imperceptibly at Kathleen Fraterno. Sharon thought, We’re beaten. She lowered her lashes.
“The prosecution’s objection,” Judge Griffin said, “is overruled. You may proceed, Miss Hays.”
And Sharon thought, Huh? She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
Griffin smiled. “I’ve overruled Miss Fraterno’s objection, Miss Hays. You may go forward.”
Kathleen Fraterno fidgeted in place. “Your Honor …”
“Overruled, Miss Fraterno. The cross-examination of this witness will continue.”
Sharon was weak in the knees, and very nearly flopped down into her seat in exhaustion. She took a firm grip on the edge of the table and looked at the witness. Linda Rathermore’s eyes widened. Sharon permitted herself a tiny, grim smile. Hang onto your panties, cutes. Little Sharon’s about to rip them into shreds. She took her seat at the defense table and hastily examined her notes. Russell Black triumphantly nudged her with his elbow. Elation made Sharon absolutely giddy.
She opened her mouth to speak, then paused. Get ahold of yourself, Sharon Jenifer Hays, she thought. The adrenaline currently pumping could cause her to blow the whole thing if she wasn’t careful. She gently closed her eyes, then regarded Linda with a look near total serenity. Linda’s gaze darted nervously to one side.
“Mrs. Rathermore,” Sharon finally said, “before the break I asked you, ‘How long after you were married did William Rathermore begin to have sexual relations with his younger daughter?’”
Linda cleared her throat, looked down at her lap, darted a helpless glance in Kathleen Fraterno’s direction. Finally she said, “I don’t recall …” Then, as Fraterno offered no relief, suddenly interested in some lint on her sleeve, Linda stammered, “There wasn’t any …”
“For the time being,” Sharon said, “I’m going to withdraw the question, but—”
Linda sagged in relief.
“—I am reserving the right to bring the issue up at a later time.”
Judge Griffin now had a curious tilt to her mouth, and Sharon didn’t blame her. After all that folderol, the judge was likely thinking, Why isn’t Hays pursuing the issue? Sharon pretended to read her file, calming her mind, getting over the shock of the judge’s favorable ruling. Sharon had changed course because she really didn’t expect Linda to answer—or expected her to lie if she did reply—and her sole purpose in raising the sex-abuse issue when she had was to get her brief and Midge’s defense out in the open. Now that she had the court’s permission to go ahead, Sharon wanted to approach the issue a little differently. Her plans firmed, she now smiled at the witness.
&nbs
p; “Mrs. Rathermore, you testified that you were a television commentator, is that right?”
“A news anchor person. Yes, I did.” Linda reverted to a programmed response; Sharon had touched briefly on Linda’s past during the examining trial, so Fraterno would have had ample time to coach her witness on how to deal with her name changes.
“As Linda Haymon,” Sharon said. “But Haymon isn’t the name on your birth certificate, is it?”
“No. Harmon is,” Linda said matter-of-factly. She now waited patiently for the question she was certain was coming next, the query as to why she’d changed her name. That wasn’t the question Sharon had in mind, however. No way.
Sharon worked up saliva and prepared to toss a spitter. She examined her notes to find the name of the theater director up in Baltimore, then said, “Are you acquainted with a man named Donald Weiss?”
Linda’s sharp gasp was audible to those in the back row, and probably to folks out in the corridor as well. Sharon wasn’t watching the witness, though; she was checking Fraterno’s reaction. At the mention of Weiss’ name, Kathleen turned to Breyer and regarded the chief prosecutor with a puzzled frown. So they don’t have any information on Weiss, Sharon thought. She wasn’t surprised; in fact, it would have been shocking if Linda had owned up to that one. That her fling with a thirteen-year-old was news to the prosecution made things even better. Sharon squared her posture and prepared to take Linda Rathermore on a long and uncomfortable ride.
“Do you, Mrs. Rathermore?” Sharon said.
“Do I … ?” A ray of light glistened from Linda’s slightly trembling lower lip.
“Do you know Donald Weiss?”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has. Do you know Donald Weiss?”
“I believe I remember him.” Linda accompanied her answer with a nervous laugh, and didn’t do a half-bad job of regaining her composure. This chick took the wrong fork in the road someplace, Sharon thought. She could have been up for Oscars.
“Well, what do you remember about Mr. Weiss?” Sharon said.
“Up in Baltimore, he … was with the theater.”
“He was with the theater? Mrs. Rathermore, wasn’t Donald Weiss the chairman of the Baltimore Theatre League?”
Linda’s eyes grew big and oh-I-remember-now round. “That’s right, he was.”
“While you were an actress, working up there?”
“Yes. He was of great assistance to me.”
I’ll just bet he was, sugar, Sharon thought. “Didn’t you and Mr. Weiss work very closely together?” she said, letting a tad of sarcasm drip.
“Objection.” Fraterno sounded unsure of herself. “Your Honor, unless counsel for the defense can tell us where she’s going with this …”
“I was thinking the same thing, Miss Hays,” Judge Griffin said.
Sharon swiveled her gaze to the bench. “It will be clear very shortly, Your Honor. If the court please.”
“All right, Counsel, but we’d best see the fruits of this line very quickly.”
“Certainly.” Sharon stopped short of throwing the judge an open wink, and returned her attention to Linda. In the corner of her eye she watched Milt Breyer frantically search the defense’s witness list, then nudge Fraterno and point out something on the page. They’ve located dear old Donald Weiss, Sharon thought. She repressed a grin. Sharon said to Linda, “Did Mr. Weiss’ great assistance include the payment of rent on a condo where you lived?”
“Donald was a man of means. He helped a lot of actors.” Fraterno’s objection had given Linda time to prepare the answer, but it didn’t come across quite as she’d obviously planned. A couple of the jurors smirked at one another. Still, her ability to keep from backing into a corner gave Sharon an odd sense of admiration for the woman.
“Well, during the time Mr. Weiss was helping you,” Sharon said, “did you become acquainted with other members of his family?”
“Why, yes,” Linda said without batting an eyelash, “Mrs. Weiss came to a lot of rehearsals.”
“Mmm-hmm. And his children?”
Linda’s gaze flickered. “His children? I don’t …”
“His son, Mrs. Rathermore. His thirteen-year-old son.” Now the jurors were on the edges of their seats.
“I seem to remember he had a son,” Linda said.
Christ, Sharon thought, this could take weeks. Judge Griffin’s face showed a scowl of impatience. Okay, Sharon thought, let ’em beat me up a bit. “Mrs. Rathermore,” Sharon said, “are you aware that Mr. Donald Weiss is prepared to be a defense witness in this case?”
“Objection.” Fraterno jumped up as if someone had yanked her chain. “Your Honor, this is so out of line.”
Sandy Griffin said angrily, “It certainly is, Miss Hays, and you should know it. Objection sustained, and you may consider this a warning, Counsel.”
Sustain and warn away, toots, Sharon thought. She felt a twinge of conscience at pulling the stunt in Griffin’s courtroom, but then had a fleeting glimpse of Midge from the corner of her eye, and her regret faded at once. The jurors exchanged astonished glances, and Linda’s face rearranged itself like Play-Doh. Her mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed. Her teeth clenched in pure hatred. Ugly is as ugly does, Sharon thought. Linda’s monster face dissolved in an instant, replaced by the serene Florence Nightingale expression, and Sharon had a sudden flashback to her own acting career.
She’d been doing a matinee performance of The Peasants in a moth-eaten old theater on 19th near Sixth Avenue when, in between acts, she’d made a backstage call to the doctor to learn that she was indeed pregnant. Act II had opened with Sharon’s character alone by the hearth. The script had called for a loud knocking sound to come from the wings, and her line was supposed to have been “Hark, my darling. The king’s men cometh.” But the news of her rapidly approaching motherhood had totally rattled her, and when the sharp banging had sounded right on cue, Sharon had looked straight into the audience of two dozen or so and proclaimed in her finest stage voice, “What on earth was that noise?” She’d composed herself in seconds and gone right on with the performance as if nothing had happened, just as Linda Rathermore was doing right now. Embarrassing as it had been, Sharon considered the botched line and subsequent recovery to be her finest moment in show biz. Linda’s cheeks, Sharon noticed, were a tad flushed, but otherwise the grieving widow had fallen right back into character. Break a leg, kid, Sharon thought.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Sharon said sheepishly, then firmly said to Linda, “If you recall that Mr. Weiss had a son, do you recall the boy’s name?”
“I don’t believe I do,” Linda said.
Sharon thumbed testily through her notes. “Well, do you recall,” she said, “an incident, specifically on July 19, 1978, when Donald Weiss came by the condo unannounced to find you—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Miss Hays …”
“—there in bed with his son?”
“The jury is instructed,” Judge Griffin said, partially rising, her voice quavering, “to disregard that question in its entirety. One more time, Miss Hays …”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sharon lowered her lashes, and decided she’d gotten about as far off on the wrong foot as she dared. She looked up. “I will rephrase the question, though, with the court’s permission.”
Griffin blinked impatiently. “Go ahead.”
“In July of 1978,” Sharon said to Linda, “do you recall a day when Mr. Weiss’ son was doing some work at the theater, and you offered him a ride home?”
On Sharon’s left, Russell Black drew a quick, shallow breath.
The witness regarded Sharon without the slightest hint of uncertainty. “That was years ago. I might’ve.”
“Well, do you—?” Sharon began, then halted as Russ Black placed a hand on her forearm. She leaned over and
he put his lips close to her ear.
“Let her go for now,” he whispered. “She won’t admit to a damned thing, and the jury’s going to get bored with this.”
Sharon frowned. “But I think—”
“Don’t matter what you think, or what I think. What those people in the box think, that’s all that’s important.” He winked. “Let her go, Sharon. We can bring her back later. You got ’em champin’ at the bit to hear the rest of this. Let ’em wait.”
Strong resentment flowed through her, followed quickly by uncertainty. Was she carrying this too far? The jury seemed mesmerized, all right, but the man on her left hadn’t boxed the DA’s ears in the courtroom over and over without having a pretty good sense of when to charge ahead and when to back off. And more verbal sparring with Linda—which would elicit nothing from the witness but a series of denials—would likely turn the twelve tried and true completely off. Thank God for small favors and Russell Black, Sharon thought. She gave her boss a quick nod.
“After Leslie Schlee,” Black said. “After Leslie, we’ll bring her back.”
Sharon faced the bench. “Your Honor, I have no further questions at this time, but we will be recalling this witness during the defense’s presentation.”
Griffin’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, then she leaned forward and addressed the witness. “Do you understand that, Mrs. Rathermore?”
Linda started. “Do I … ?”
“It means,” the judge said, “that you may go for now. But you are still under oath, and you are to remain on call. Is that clear?” Griffin hadn’t missed the implication contained in Sharon’s line of questioning, and the judge’s tone of voice said that if the instructions weren’t clear to Linda, she just might be spending some time as the guest of the sheriff.
Linda stepped confidently down and exited. As she passed the defense table her gaze met Sharon’s, and her forehead tightened in a worried frown. The frown melted in less than a second, but it had been there, Sharon had seen it, and Linda had known that Sharon had seen it, which gave the two of them an understanding as to what was likely to come. One cool, conniving bitch, that one, Sharon thought.
