by A. W. Gray
Black stood, ambled bearlike over to the prosecution side, and dropped the top photo in front of Fraterno. It was standard procedure prior to the introduction of evidence, but Russell Black made the gesture seem like the climax scene in a gunfighter movie. He stood grandly back while Fraterno examined the picture. Her eyes widened. She drew in a breath. She favored her witness with a glare that might easily wilt roses. Fraterno stood. “Objection. This isn’t on their list of physical evidence. The rules of procedure—”
“Your Honor.” Black stepped toward the bench and spread his hands, palms up. “This is rebuttal evidence I got here. The witness has testified that he barely knows this woman.”
Griffin motioned, and Black and Fraterno did double-time marches to stand before the bench. Fraterno handed the picture to the judge, whose eyes widened as she looked the photo over. One juror, a dark-haired man in a plaid shirt, nearly fell out of the box in his effort to see what was in Judge Griffin’s hand. She murmured something which only Black and Fraterno could hear, then said loudly, “Your objection is overruled, Miss Fraterno.” She handed the picture to Black. Sharon breathed an audible sigh, which brought her a sharp look from the judge.
Black now handed the picture to the court reporter, who applied an evidence sticker as Black put hands on hips and showed Troy Burdette a broad smile. Burdette squirmed like a four-year-old in church. Judge Griffin admitted the photo and handed it over to the bailiff for passing around in the jury box. Some of the jurors frowned as they looked. One young woman giggled. The matronly gray-haired lady who’d nearly fallen asleep earlier now glared at Burdette as if she’d like to spank his bottom.
When Black finally got his hands back on the photo, he smiled at the judge. “Your Honor, can I approach the witness?”
Griffin nodded. “Proceed.”
Black laid the picture on the rail in front of Burdette, then leaned over in a buddy-buddy attitude. “Mr. Burdette, you recognize anybody in there?” he said. He glanced at the court reporter. “For the record, that’s Defense Exhibit Four.” The court reporter dutifully rattled the keys on the shorthand typewriter.
Burdette picked up, then dropped the picture like a hot potato. “I … She was giving me a ride.”
Black snorted. “You mean, she just got through givin’ you a ride.”
Laughter rocked the courtroom. Two of the jurors doubled over in glee, and even the bailiff laughed out loud. Burdette glumly regarded the floor as Fraterno testily folded her arms. As Sharon glanced over her shoulder, Troy Burdette’s father looked about to choke. Griffin banged her gavel, obviously repressing a grin of her own. “Mr. Black,” she said in the same tone she’d likely use in saying, “Oh, what a kidder you are.”
“I apologize, Judge.” Black’s eyebrows moved closer together in a scowl. “She was givin’ you a ride from where to where, Mr. Burdette?”
“She was …” Total panic now, Burdette’s gaze whipping back and forth between Kathleen Fraterno and his father. Sharon wondered briefly which of the two Burdettes was the most concerned over the question. Finally the witness said, “To school.”
Black smiled from ear to ear. Just you and ol’ Russ Black, son. He pointed at the photo. “To school. Well, tell me, Mr. Burdette. And the jury. Just what is it you were learnin’ inside that motel room?”
As whoops and giggles from the spectator section shook the rafters and Sandy Griffin’s gavel banged like gunfire, Sharon reached out and patted Midge Rathermore’s hand. She then turned in her chair, looked toward the aisle seat, second row, and showed Deborah North an undisguised thumbs-up sign.
Sharon peeked out into the corridor to find out if her witness had arrived. She thought, Oh, God, she’s here.
And there she was, all right, the desk clerk from the Windjammer Motel in all her splendor, wearing a shapeless print dress which resembled a dressing gown, her gray hair like a rat’s nest, puffing on a Camel while sitting beneath the no-smoking sign, hacking up phlegm in between exhaling clouds of smoke. She was the only occupant of the bench, and passersby gave her a wide berth while wrinkling their noses. In making up her witness list, Sharon had had to call the Windjammer to ask the woman’s name. Gertrude Reems. Just perfect, Sharon thought. She waggled her fingers at Gertrude and smiled. Gertrude sneered at her.
Sharon retreated down the aisle and through the gate. She said to Russell Black as she sat, “We’re in luck. She made it.”
He was examining his file, having just finished working Troy Burdette over and now preparing to do the same to Christopher Leonard. “Has the old crone bathed?” Black said.
“I wasn’t close enough to smell her,” Sharon said, “but I doubt it.”
“Well, hopefully,” Black said, “Mr. Leonard will ’fess up that he took his buddy out to that motel, and we won’t have to use the dear old lady after all.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Sharon said. “If we do have to put her on, she’s your witness, boss.”
The bailiff had escorted Midge out to the toilet during the break, and now returned her to her seat. Judge Griffin called order. On the prosecution side, Kathleen Fraterno half rose. Her gaze locked with Sharon’s for an instant, and Sharon detected a distinct smirk in her expression. What’s going on? Sharon thought.
She wasn’t long in finding out. Fraterno faced the bench. “The state calls,” she said, “Dr. Gregory Mathewson.”
And Sharon thought, What the hell … ? She looked to Black, who shrugged helplessly.
Of course, Sharon thought. Kathleen had just reared back and tossed another curveball, breaking perfectly into the corner of the strike zone. Whatever Kathleen had stooped to in her personal life, she was still one bitchin’ lawyer. During the break Fraterno would have grilled both Leonard and Burdette, found out the real skinny on the motel trysts with Linda Rathermore, and made the decision that she didn’t want to throw Leonard out for Russell Black to dissect until the young witness had plenty of coaching. Gruntin’ Gregory Mathewson would take up the balance of the day, and tonight there’d be yet another rehearsal. They’ve got more on-set script changes than most movies, Sharon thought.
Mathewson, his paunch even bigger than Sharon remembered from Midge’s certification hearing, pretty well repeated his testimony from that proceeding. Several times. His testimony went on and on. Midge, according to Gruntin’ Greg, was a bright, mature sixteen-year-old who well understood the difference between right and wrong. If there was ever a girl who knew murder was wrong, Mathewson said, that girl was Midge. Sharon waived cross-examination, partly because she was afraid she’d fly off the handle with the phony psychologist, but mainly because she didn’t feel any need to shoot holes in his testimony. Sheila Winston would do that when she took the stand as the defense expert. Mathewson registered surprise that no one took him on cross, then regained his composure, such as it was, and waddled from the courtroom.
So it was that at just before five o’clock in the afternoon, Griffin dismissed the jury for the day. Kathleen had bought her rehearsal time, though Sharon doubted that the extra evening would do the state’s cause much good. Unless Fraterno somehow pulled a rabbit out of a hat, Midge was going to win. As Sharon gathered her things up to leave, she impulsively leaned over and kissed her client on the cheek. Midge smiled fleetingly at her lawyer, then returned her total attention to her mom.
So charged up was Sharon over the way the trial was going that when she told Gertrude Reems she’d have to come back tomorrow, and that the defense wasn’t certain whether her testimony would be needed or not, and Gertrude, Camel bouncing up and down in one corner of her mouth, said, “You assholes are putting me to one fucking helluva lot of trouble,” she smiled sweetly and slipped the old crone twenty bucks out of her own pocket for her trouble.
Sharon’s elation lasted about two minutes, long enough for her and Russell Black to exit the courtroom and make it halfway down the hall to the el
evators. She was high as a kite, her heels beating a merry tattoo on corridor tile. It was likely, Sharon thought, that her current heady feeling was in part overreaction to her personal problems—which really weren’t all that weighty, she thought, only a dead guy and a few little murder charges to worry about—but she was so happy that she didn’t care. She even smiled at Andy Wade as the reporter went by, then regretted her friendliness as he turned around and followed her, begging for an interview. She told him over her shoulder that he’d have to wait until the verdict was in.
She even gave Russell Black’s chain a small tug. “I don’t get it, boss,” she said. “You’re in there mowing ’em down and you look like you just lost your only friend in the world.”
Black kept pace with her, head down. “Whatever can go wrong in one of these trials,” he said, “will go wrong. Count on it, Sharon.”
As if on cue, the elevator doors opened and Anthony Gear emerged. He was in a hurry, one arm swinging, his sports coat folded over his other arm. His expression was drawn. Russell Black said, “He don’t look good. What’d I, tell you?”
Gear halted in front of the two lawyers, glanced past them down the corridor, and motioned. “Come on over here. We can’t let them hear this.”
Sharon glanced behind her. “Them” was Kathleen Fraterno and Milt Breyer, who stood in animated chatter twenty feet away. Kathleen was reading Breyer a riot act of some sort, her eyes blazing, her backside twitching as she stood first on one foot and then the other. I’ll bet they’re not discussing the trial, Sharon thought. She followed Gear and Black to a spot beside the windows. Visible on the other side of Stemmons Freeway, the glistening green ball atop Reunion Tower was shrouded in haze.
Black folded his arms and regarded his feet. “Have we got trouble, Mr. Gear?”
Gear looked from Black to Sharon and back again. He lowered his eyes. “The worst,” the detective said. “It’s Leslie Schlee. She’s not going to testify.”
41
Sharon’s bangs drooped. Her ankles ached. She removed her spike-heeled shoes and rubbed her feet. She closed the Southwestern Reporter in disgust, padded in stocking feet across the hall to Russell Black’s office, and sank dejectedly into a visitors’ chair. “There’s no way out,” she announced to the room at large. “Midge is going to have criminal responsibility unless we can come up with some evidence of abuse.”
Russ Black mumbled something under his breath and drummed his fingers on his desktop. Anthony Gear sat forward on the sofa, undid the top button on his shirt, and rolled his eyes. Deborah North sat on the other end of the couch with her legs drawn up beneath her. She adjusted her position and put both feet on the floor, and sipped black coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Misty-eyed, she said, “You’ll have to spell that out for me. From where I sat in the courtroom it looked like y’all were kicking ass.” Visible over her shoulder through the window, the sky was midnight black. Street people shuffled along here and there on Jackson Street, peering down into the gutter in search of anything useful.
Sharon expelled air from her lungs and massaged her forehead. “We’re all going to have to take our heads out of the clouds, Deb. Here’s the law. We’re pretty sure that we’re going to prove Linda gave the boys the new security code without Midge knowing about it, and that Linda was in on her husband’s murder. That’s going to put Linda’s fanny on the burner, but it’s not going to get Midge out of the fire. Midge did contract with those little hellions, and the fact that Linda was behind it doesn’t matter. A murder-for-hire conviction doesn’t hinge on whether the deed was done successfully, and all the state really has to prove is that Midge tried to have it done.
“Our only legal defense,” Sharon said, “is that Midge was only protecting herself and Susan from further abuse. The judge has already ruled that we can get into that, and she’ll instruct the jury that if they find abuse, they’ve got to vote for acquittal. Getting that point across was only half the hurdle; now we’ve got to produce evidence of the abuse. And the burden of proof is on us. Unless we put on evidence, the judge won’t give the instruction.” She smoothed her skirt. “Without Leslie Schlee we’re dead in the water. Absolutely … dead.”
Deb’s eyes were glassy. “Good God.”
Black’s ankles were crossed on one corner of his desk. He sipped Coke through a straw from a Whataburger cup. “By the numbers, Mr. Gear, one more time. And don’t leave anything out. You never know what’s gonna be important.”
Gear carried his coffee cup to the small refrigerator inside Black’s credenza, squatted on his haunches, and poured a ribbon of Half ’n’ Half from a pint carton. He stood and refilled his cup from the Mr. Coffee. “It’ll take awhile,” he said.
Black removed the plastic top from his cup and crunched on ice. “I don’t think any of us are gonna be sleepin’ much tonight, anyhow.”
Gear took a paper napkin from a stack and carried his coffee back to the sofa. “I called in some accounts to get this, guys still with the Bureau that owe me. We can’t get any of them involved.”
“We wouldn’t waste the time,” Black said. “FBI agents are the only people in the world immune from subpoena. Not legally, but you just try hauling one of ’em into court. Take an act of Congress.”
Deborah North stared off into space, her expression vacant. There was a painful lump in Sharon’s throat which she couldn’t quite swallow away.
Gear sat down and crossed his legs. “I smelled a rat when I was calling our witnesses this afternoon, you know, to make sure they were going to appear and whatnot, and every time I’d call the Schlee house and I’d get the maid and the runaround. In that order. Only information she’d give was that Leslie was out of town, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Schlee would call me back. That’s when I started checking around.
“Back when I first started on this case,” he said, “there were some hot and heavy rumors floating around about Curtis Schlee, Leslie’s father. Once we’d made contact and Leslie’d agreed to testify for us, I didn’t see any real point in following up, but now I did.”
Gear blew on the surface of his coffee, sipped, and made a face. “This guy at the Bureau I called, one time I helped him track a guy one of my clients was looking for. He verified on the QT that the FBI’s had Curtis Schlee under investigation for months. He’s the lawyer for”—Gear stroked the edge of his cup with his thumb—“three savings and loans. Used to be savings and loans before the FSLIC moved in and took them over, what, ’89? Two or three years. The auditors turned up a few things, some of which landed the presidents of all three S&L’s in federal prison camps. One discrepancy was, Curtis Schlee wasn’t getting any legal fees for representing those fine institutions. Since Brother Schlee isn’t exactly known as a charitable guy, this made the FBI sort of curious.
“What Schlee was doing,” Gear said, “he was taking loans in lieu of fees. Big tickets, three and four million at a pop, developing land in Plano. Ever hear of Crosscreek Country Club?”
Black frowned and shook his head, and Sharon permitted herself a small grin. If it wasn’t on the sports or crime pages, Russ Black didn’t know about it. She said, “I’ve heard of it. Typical development, homes a half-million and up. If you buy a house you get a country club membership to boot. Wasn’t there some talk about moving the Byron Nelson Classic to Crosscreek at one time?”
“Bullshit talk,” Gear said, “instigated by the developers as a come-on. They filed for bankruptcy and left a bunch of homeowners holding the bag with unpaid liens from subcontractors. Big-time bankruptcy. Curtis Schlee was the prime owner, along with a couple of guys who, coincidentally, happened to be on the boards of all three bogus savings and loans.”
Black scratched the back of his hand. “That’s all federal stuff. What’s it got to do with us?”
“I’m getting there,” Gear said. “It takes time, like I told you. I don’t have to tell you lawyers that what Schlee was doing was ill
egal as hell, both from the standpoint of having the S&L officers involved in his development and forgoing his legal fee in return for getting the loans. It took the feds a few years, like everything else they do, but they were just getting ready to drop the hammer on him. The city police and county DA, they knew about all this. My buddy at the FBI says there was a meeting four nights ago.”
“After the first day of the Rathermore trial,” Black said, glancing at Sharon. “The day we gave the prosecution our witness list.”
Deb North stared at her cup, started as if just realizing she held it, and took a sip of coffee. Sharon had invited Deb to the meeting under the pretext that it was her money paying for the defense, but the real reason was to get Deb’s mind off her little girl down in the jail. Don’t suppose we’re helping her state of mind, Sharon thought. Deb had confessed to Sharon that she hadn’t slept a wink in three nights. She certainly looked the part, dark circles under her eyes, her movements wooden as she produced a Virginia Slim, looked around the room, then poked the cigarette back in the pack to nestle beside its brothers and sisters.
“The witness list featuring Leslie Schlee,” Sharon said.
“Right on,” Gear said.
Black raised a cautioning hand. “Hold on. If you’re tryin’ to say the feds and the state cut some kind of deal to keep Leslie from testifyin’, you’re sayin’ a mouthful. The feds don’t usually care what happens in state cases. They browbeat county DA’s for information on people that the FBI’s interested in, but it dudn’t work the other way around.”
“You’re right, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred,” Gear said. “But this one’s got a hook to it. There’s a federal snitch, a black guy in South Dallas name of Roscoe Blade. Now, old Roscoe’s a lovely dude. He’s a pimp and a dope dealer, has been for years, we used him even back when I worked for the Bureau. He told us a lot of things … well, you name it, nothing went down in South Dallas that Roscoe didn’t know about. In return for his cooperation he get anonymity, a few bucks, and, the main thing, he’s got no sweat on getting busted as long as the information keeps flowing.
