In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  43

  Sharon entered the Crowley Courts Building in the depths of despair the following morning, head down, shoulders sagging. She dreaded giving Russell Black the news that she’d failed miserably with Virginia Schlee, and even more she dreaded facing Deborah North. She didn’t know how she was going to look at Midge. The pitiful teenager wouldn’t understand what was happening to her. Not yet, anyway. Morosely Sharon mounted the escalator, grasped the handrail, and rode upward with her satchel resting against her hip.

  She’d slept barely a wink, staring into the darkness of her bedroom and racking her brain. Regardless of the picture of Linda Rathermore painted for the jury’s benefit, without evidence that Midge and Susan had been abused, Midge’s defense was dead. As she reached the head of the escalator and crossed the lobby toward the elevators, Sharon’s feeling of defeat had already progressed to the point that she was mentally rehearsing arguments in mitigation of Midge’s punishment.

  As Sharon pressed the Up button and stood back to wait, assistant district attorney Edward Teeter passed her line of vision. Teeter was engaged in conversation with a uniformed sheriff’s deputy, and he didn’t look in Sharon’s direction as he followed the officer onto the escalator headed down.

  So intent had Sharon been on the Rathermore case, Bradford Brie had been shoved into the far reaches of her mind. But the sight of the persecutor brought Brie’s image back into sharp focus, his ugly sneer as he rose from the couch and rushed toward her. As she entered the elevator car, her body shook with a violent tremor of fear.

  “So I’m afraid that’s it, folks,” Sharon said. “Leslie’s not going to be available.” She sat on a pew in the spectator section with Deborah North on her left and Anthony Gear on her other side. Russell Black was one row forward, directly in front of Sharon. He was turned around with his arm draped over the seat back. It was a half hour before court was to convene, and the bailiffs hadn’t admitted any spectators yet. Up beyond the rail at the state table, Kathleen Fraterno and Milt Breyer went over some documents as Stan Green watched intently over the prosecutors’ shoulders. At the sight of the trio Sharon’s lip curled.

  Deb North wore pressed green slacks and a tan blouse. “Tonight we can visit Susan. Maybe …”

  “I think we should,” Sharon said. “But don’t get your hopes up. Sheila says that Susan’s blocked out everything having to do with the abuse, and this is one time I wish Sheila wasn’t such a crackerjack psychologist. She’s rarely wrong, Deb.”

  “I’m not for throwin’ in the towel,” Black said, “until we’ve tried everything. Mr. Gear, I still want you to take a shot at locatin’ Leslie. We can subpoena her if we have to.”

  “And have her suddenly remember zero when she does testify?” Sharon said.

  “I didn’t say it was much,” Black said, “but it’s all we got. Two days, I figure, for the state to put on the Leonard kid and whoever else they’re goin’ to. Our expert witness and the guy from the security company can take up another day. I think you got three days to come up with her, Mr. Gear.”

  Gear shrugged, his expression hopeless. “Sure, I’ll do what I can.”

  He left the courtroom double-time, and the two defense lawyers left Deborah North seated alone and proceeded down the aisle and through the gate. Sharon had made it halfway from the gate to the defense side when a firm hand wrapped around her forearm. She turned with inquisitive raised eyebrows.

  Stan Green’s chin was on a level with her nose. The detective wore an iridescent gray suit which was far too flashy for the courtroom. On him, Sharon thought, any suit would look cheap to me.

  “Look,” Green said, “when this is over, you think we could—”

  Sharon’s eyes flashed sudden fire. “Hi, Stan. You know someone named Roscoe Blade?”

  “Do I … ?” The corners of his mouth twitched.

  “How about someone from the FBI who might be interested in Leslie Schlee’s father, Stan? You know somebody like that?”

  Green folded his hands in front and smirked his best policeman’s smirk.

  Sharon rose on the balls of her feet and got in the detective’s face. She was livid. “Fuck you, Stan. You hear me? If you ever even speak to me again, I’ll knock your teeth out.” She stepped back and blinked. “You can call my bluff if you want to, you big, strong man,” she said.

  As the bailiff called the courtroom to attention for Judge Griffin’s ascension to her throne, Sharon stood alongside Midge Rathermore with her emotions firmly tied in knots. She’d done her best to smile encouragement as Midge’s keeper had led the puffy teenager into the courtroom, but Sharon was afraid her smile hadn’t showed much conviction. Judge Griffin instructed all present to sit. Sharon sank into her chair and examined her notes, Midge’s breathing loud in her ear.

  We’ve got about three days, Sharon thought, to try to get Leslie Schlee into court. In the meantime, she told herself, you’re not going to help anything by going around in a trance. Concentrate, Sharon. Christopher Leonard’s upcoming testimony had to be uppermost in her mind, and she had to do anything she could to help Russell Black turn the kid into mush during cross-examination. She steeled herself to take down everything the Leonard boy had to say, and to find every single hole in his testimony that she could.

  And listened to the voice inside her say, Sure, kid. Just forget that your star witness has disappeared, and that the poor child on your right is going to jail no matter what you do.

  She is not! Sharon said under her breath. I won’t let her.

  Oh yeah, the voice told her, and try not to think about the guy you murdered the other night. Just put it out of your mind.

  And Sharon whispered fiercely, “Shut up!” Black turned to look at her with his mouth agape. She said sheepishly, “Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

  Judge Griffin folded her hands and said, “The state will call its next witness.”

  Sharon bent fiercely over her legal pad, pen clutched tightly.

  Kathleen Fraterno stood and faced the bench. “Your Honor,” she said firmly, “the state rests.”

  And Sharon thought, Huh?

  Judge Griffin’s eyebrows lifted. “Am I hearing you correctly, Miss Fraterno?”

  “You are, Your Honor,” Fraterno said. “The state rests. We have no more witnesses to call.”

  As Fraterno resumed her seat and Milt Breyer watched the defense table with an obvious smirk on his face, Russell Black expelled air through his nose. Sharon turned and gave Deborah North a helpless shrug. Deb looked terrified. Sharon didn’t blame her.

  They know, Sharon thought, alternating her gaze between Kathleen Fraterno and Milt Breyer. As long as we don’t have Leslie Schlee to testify, they simply don’t need any more evidence. They might have to go through the motions of indicting Linda Rathermore at a later date, but with no evidence of abuse, Midge would be convicted.

  Russ Black now stood. “Your Honor, this was sort of unexpected. We need some time to get our folks together.”

  “Your witnesses,” Judge Griffin said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Assuming your case is already prepared,” Judge Griffin said, “that should take only a few phone calls.” She checked her watch. “I’ll give you until after lunch, Counsel.”

  Black opened his mouth as if to say that until after lunch wasn’t nearly long enough, then closed his mouth and finally said, “Okay, Judge.” Arguing, Sharon understood, would be pointless. Anthony Gear’s three days to find Leslie Schlee had dwindled in seconds to a great deal less time than that. Something less than twenty-four hours, Sharon thought.

  44

  Sharon thought that Sheila Winston, pretty features attentive, wearing a brown business dress along with light tan flats, had made about as good a witness as the defense could hope for. As she neared the end of Sheila’s direct examination, the question of race entered Sharon’s m
ind for the first time. Only three of the jurors were black: a schoolteacher, a computer-equipment salesman, and an airplane mechanic. Gregory Mathewson, the state’s hired gun, was white. Sharon herself seldom noticed Sheila’s race anymore, but this was Dallas County, Texas. There was an infamous story which had been repeated around the courthouse for years. The story concerned Joe Brown, the judge who thirty years earlier had presided over the Jack Ruby trial, and who’d been dead himself for going on twenty years. It was said that Judge Brown used to delight in giving wet-eared, fresh-out-of-moot-court attorneys the jurist’s sagest advice. “Son, you show me a nigger,” the old judge used to say, “an’ I’ll show you a sumbitch that’s fixin’ to steal somethin’.” The unwritten Joe Brown law had ruled Dallas County for years, and was still in force even though no one would own up to it. So as Sheila waited for the next question, Sharon glanced toward the jury box. She was pleased to note that Sheila seemed to have the jurors wrapped around her little finger, especially the men. That Sheila was beautiful didn’t hurt her credibility one iota.

  As Sharon pretended to study her notes, she glanced at her watch. She and Sheila had done their jobs not only in presenting the psychologist’s testimony as to Midge’s mental capacities, but in stringing Sheila’s stint on the stand into sort of a filibuster as well. It was almost five. Sharon could now bring the direct examination to a close, give Fraterno time for a brief cross, and go home knowing she’d bought Anthony Gear one more day. Not that it’s going to be enough, she thought with a lump in her throat.

  Sharon pushed her notes aside and prepared to sum up. “So, Dr. Winston, in your professional opinion, do Midge Rathermore and her sister, Susan, exhibit the characteristics of sexually abused children?”

  “Most definitely,” Sheila said. Her Phi Beta Kappa key shone on her breast pocket. In her warm-up testimony her educational and experience credentials had exceeded Gregory Mathewson’s a hundred to one.

  “And Dr. Winston,” Sharon said, “once more in your professional opinion, what would Midge’s reaction to her father be?”

  “She was deathly afraid of him. Neither Midge nor her sister would resist him because they were terrified.”

  Sharon folded her hands. “Physically terrified?”

  “Yes,” Sheila said.

  “And also in your professional opinion, given your extensive examination of Midge Rathermore, under what circumstances would Midge kill?”

  “Only to protect herself and her sister. Or if she believed she was protecting herself and Susan from further abuse.”

  “In self-defense?” Sharon said.

  “Yes.” Sheila’s answer was calm.

  “And if she was going to kill, say, her father,” Sharon said, “what method would she use?”

  “She’d be too afraid to confront her father. She’d either sneak up on him from behind, or possibly try to have someone do it for her.”

  Sharon coughed daintily into her cupped hand, then said, “And she wouldn’t do it for profit? To, say, gain her inheritance?”

  Sheila looked directly at the jury box. “Midge has dull­normal intelligence. Given her age as well, money means nothing to her.”

  “And is that your professional opinion, Doctor?”

  “It is,” Sheila said.

  Sheila, if your new boyfriend doesn’t kiss you, I might, Sharon thought. “Pass the witness,” she said. In addition to watching the jury, she had been observing Kathleen Fraterno’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. Kathleen hadn’t taken a single note, really offbeat behavior for a prosecutor during expert-witness testimony.

  Fraterno sat up straight in her chair. “Dr. Winston,” she said, “where do you live?”

  Sheila recited her East Dallas address.

  “And where,” Fraterno said, pointing, “does Miss Hays, the defense attorney, reside?”

  “I don’t know her exact address.”

  Fraterno uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Well, approximately.”

  “It’s right down the street from me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Sheila appeared slightly miffed. Bad show, Sheila, Sharon thought, don’t blow your cool.

  “Right down the street from you,” Fraterno said. “Dr. Winston, is your first name Sheila?”

  “I’ve already testified that it is.”

  “True. You have. Doesn’t Miss Hays, the defense attorney, normally call you by your first name?”

  Sheila permitted herself an irritated blink. “That’s right.”

  “Dr. Winston,” Fraterno said, “do you have a daughter?”

  “I do,” Sheila said. Sharon tried to make eye contact with Sheila, tried to give Sheila a cool-it look, but Sheila’s gaze was testily on Kathleen Fraterno.

  “Please tell the jury,” Fraterno said, “how does your daughter get to school?”

  Sheila now glanced at Sharon. I can’t help you here, old pal, Sharon thought, Fraterno’s question is right in line. Sheila lifted, then dropped her shoulders. “Sharon takes them in the morning. I pick them up.”

  “Sharon?” Fraterno said. “That’s the defense attorney, Miss Hays?”

  “It is.”

  Fraterno assumed a skeptical tone. “You and the defense attorney carpool?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Well, in view of that,” Fraterno said, “is it fair to say that you and Sharon Hays are more than passing acquaintances?”

  “You could say that.”

  “In fact,” Fraterno said, “you are best friends, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose,” Sheila said.

  Fraterno pretended to mull over Sheila’s answer, then shot a knowing glance in the direction of the jury box. “Pass the witness,” she said.

  Sharon chewed her lower lip. To hell with it, she thought, I have to. She leaned forward. “Your Honor, I have redirect.”

  Judge Griffin lifted her eyebrows. It was the first redirect of the trial. “Proceed, Counsel,” she finally said.

  “Sheila,” Sharon said, then grinned like an imp and said, “Now that we’re exposed, you can call me Sharon, okay?” the jury twittered. Surprisingly, Fraterno didn’t object. Griffin gave Sharon a sharp look but kept quiet. “Sheila,” Sharon said, “have you ever testified in a criminal trial before?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “With your credentials, no one has ever asked you to appear as an expert witness in the past?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Sheila said proudly. “I get calls all the time.”

  “Then why haven’t you agreed to appear before?” Sharon said.

  “I have an aversion to being an expert witness for a fee. The fee compromises one’s opinion.” She spoke modestly but with confidence. A couple of the jurors exchanged surprised glances, as if it was news to them that expert witnesses received money for their testimony to begin with.

  “And are you receiving a fee for testifying in this case?” Sharon said.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Unlike,” Sharon said pointedly, “Dr. Mathewson, who testified for the prosecution?”

  “Objection.” Fraterno practically came out of her chair.

  “Sustained,” Judge Griffin said.

  “Pass the—” Sharon said, then did a double-take and said, “Oh. One final question.”

  Sheila sat attentively.

  “Sheila,” Sharon said, “inasmuch as we’re friends, have I ever used your professional services?”

  Sheila brightened. “Once.”

  “And what did that occasion have to do with?”

  “You were concerned about your daughter, Melanie. She was born out …” Sheila paused and looked concerned.

  “Go ahead,” Sharon said. “We want to be open here.”

  Sheila cleared her throat. “Your daughter was born out of wedlock. You were worried about her reaction
to that, and what you should do about her questions pertaining to her father.”

  A couple of the female jurors appeared stunned. One male juror looked at Sharon and grinned. Sort of a hungry grin, she thought, like, Come wid me to ze casbah.

  “Sheila,” Sharon said, “what was your advice to me?”

  “I told you she should see her father, and the sooner the better. I said you should make every effort to contact him.”

  “Exactly the way I remember it,” Sharon said. Fraterno sat up as if to object, then relaxed. “Did I take your advice, Sheila?” Sharon said.

  “You certainly didn’t,” Sheila said. “In fact, you quit speaking to me for a week.”

  “And why didn’t I take your advice?”

  Sheila frowned. “You want my opinion, or the reason you gave me?”

  Sharon smiled and made a grand gesture. “You’re the expert witness, Doctor. Your opinion, by all means.”

  “Well, all right,” Sheila said. “I think you were rationalizing because you didn’t want to have anything to do with the guy. What you said was that I wasn’t giving an unbiased opinion because I was too close to the subject. Shssh.” She rolled her eyes.

  “And, Sheila, if you recall,” Sharon said, “what did I tell you about using your services in the future?”

  Sheila got it. She grinned. “You said that the only way you’d ever use me again,” Sheila said, “was on a case where I wasn’t personally involved.”

  “Where your opinion wouldn’t be prejudiced?”

  “That’s right, as I remember it,” Sheila said.

  Sharon restrained a giggle. “Pass the witness,” she said.

  All elation Sharon had felt over Sheila’s testimony flowed out of her, leaving in its wake a soggy lump of despair as she sat outside in the garden at Havenrest Sanitarium and listened to Sheila’s conversation with Susan Rathermore. Sheila, bent forward from the waist in a listening attitude, occupied one end of a bench with Deborah North on the opposite end and Susan, pretty in a baby blue school dress, in between the two women. Sharon and Russell Black sat about ten feet away from the trio and exchanged worried looks. The session wasn’t going well. It was after eight o’clock, the hot summertime sun dipping below the treetops as dusk settled.