by A. W. Gray
“Susan, did your daddy spend a lot of time with you?” Sheila said.
Susan twisted her hands in her lap. “Oh, yes. He took me to a lot of places and bought me things.”
Deb North caught Sharon’s eye and imperceptibly shook her head. According to Deb, William Rathermore had virtually ignored both Midge and Susan up until the divorce.
“You mean, when you were little?” Sheila said.
“Yes, ma’ am. I remember we went to Six Flags and rode all the rides.”
“And how did you feel about that?”
“I loved it. Loved my daddy.” Susan closed her eyes and smiled like a four-year-old. Her voice went up a decibel.
“And when you were older?” Sheila said.
The grin dissolved into an expression of hopeless confusion. “When I was … ?”
Sheila threw Sharon an exasperated glance, then said to Susan, “Let’s say, when you were twelve. How did your daddy treat you then?”
Susan’s eyes narrowed and her mouth drew up in a pout. “My daddy’s gone.”
“Gone where, Susan?”
The pout became at once a cunning grin. “Just away. He went away.”
Sheila sighed in frustration. “Susan, what is the last thing you remember about your father?”
Susan looked far away, down the path in the direction of the highway. She raised her arm and pointed. “Can we go down there? Sometimes just at sunset you can see robins. Oh, can we?”
Sharon sniffled, lifted her hand, and brushed away tears.
“To try to have Susan testify,” Sheila said, “would be a total disaster. First of all, she’d tell you nothing about the abuse. You saw her reaction. Her mental state right now is such that I don’t know if she’d ever recover from the trauma of facing all those people.”
The four now stood on Havenrest’s front porch, in between two majestic white pillars. It was dark; behind them lights shone through the lobby windows, and in the parking lot a spotlight beamed down to illuminate the roofs of autos. Just moments earlier, Susan had gone in for the night, had stopped in the foyer and desperately hugged her mom.
“And what about using Midge?” Sharon said. She was certain the question was hopeless, but …
“I think that would be even worse for you.” Sheila fiddled with the strap on her shoulder bag. “First of all, Midge actually believes she had her father killed. You’re the lawyer, but I don’t think you’re going to get her to say anything different on the stand. Midge has come a long way emotionally, but she still thinks that hiring those kids to commit murder makes her somehow more acceptable in the eyes of her peers. As for the abuse … Well, you told me what she said the first time you talked to her, that her father liked … you know. Midge simply won’t be of much help in that regard. She’ll refuse to relate specific instances.”
Russell Black cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Any word from our detective?”
“He left a message,” Sharon said. “Says he’s running into a series of stone walls. Even his buddy from the FBI won’t talk to him about Leslie Schlee’s whereabouts.” She folded her arms and looked down. “I’m afraid we’re out of luck there.”
“Damn,” Deborah North said suddenly. “Damn, damn, damn you lawyers and all your bullshit. We’re talking about my child.”
Sheila hugged herself. Sharon and Black looked in silence at Deb for a moment, then Sharon said, “We’re doing what we can.”
“You’ve already brought out that that … woman was going to bed with teenage boys. Why can’t you … ?”
“I know this is hard for you to understand, Deb,” Sharon said. “Criminy, the law is hard enough for lawyers to understand at times. But nothing we’ve brought out lets Midge off the hook. She did promise to share her inheritance with those kids if they’d kill her father, and regardless of what happened unbeknownst to her afterward, that makes her guilty of solicitation of capital murder. Our only defense is that she did it out of fear for her own and her sister’s safety.
“But what we’ve done by raising the abuse issue,” Sharon said, “is shift the burden of proof. It’s up to the state to show that Midge solicited those other kids for purposes of committing murder, and they’ve presented evidence to that effect. It’s now up to us to prove the abuse. If we don’t, the judge won’t even instruct the jury that if they believe the kids were abused, they have to acquit.” She moved in close and put her arm around Deb’s shoulders. “I wouldn’t blame you for hating us right now, Deb. Just please believe we’re doing everything we can.”
Deb started to say something, but her words dissolved into a sob. Sharon grimaced hopelessly, first at Sheila, then at Black.
Black cleared his throat. “Seems like our Mr. Gear finding Leslie is about our last straw.”
“Looks that way to me,” Sharon said.
45
Exhausted from yet another sleepless night, Sharon sat morosely beside Midge Rathermore the following morning and waited for Russell Black to conduct another filibuster. They’d agreed before the trial had convened to give Anthony Gear as much time as possible. Try as she might, Sharon couldn’t shake the feeling that all the time in the world wouldn’t help.
Black stood at the defense table wearing a slightly rumpled gray pinstripe, cleared his throat, and said loudly, “The defense calls Steven Gallagher.”
Through the dreary fog in her head, Sharon got a small lift from the apprehensive rustling in the courtroom and the quick, hushed confab between Kathleen Fraterno and Milton Breyer. Steven Gallagher’s name had never appeared in the newspapers; when Gallagher had shown up on the defense’s witness list, with no address, Andy Wade of the News had asked both Black and Sharon umpteen times who Gallagher was, but they’d stonewalled the reporter. Sharon had suspected that the prosecution would have a bitch of a time getting a line on the mystery witness, and she’d been right. Fraterno’s and Breyer’s expressions told her that they hadn’t a clue. Sharon turned just as Gallagher came in from the corridor and headed down the aisle. Her gaze fell instantly on Rayford Sly, the second-banana movie guy. Sly was seated near the center of the second row from the back, and his eyes were wide with curiosity. Sharon wondered briefly whether Gallagher could make it to the witness stand before Sly offered him a movie deal. Surely not right in the middle of the trial, she thought. She’d bet a month’s pay, however, that as soon as the session was over, Sly would wait in the corridor with pen and business card ready.
The packed house found out about Steven Gallagher in a hurry. He was around fifty, with a few sparse hairs sprouting from the top of his head, and the cords in his neck sagged like those of someone in his seventies. Gallagher wore a dark blue suit and sported a middle-aged potbelly. He raised his hand for swearing in, assumed his seat in the witness chair, and gave his full name with an address in Kansas City. Kansas, not Missouri, he emphasized.
“Tell us if you will,” Black said, “what it is you do for a livin’.”
“President,” Gallagher said. “Securico Companies.” The man was a study in contrasts. While his sagging throat made him appear much older than he was, the strong and forceful voice was that of a man in his thirties.
“That’s a …” Black said. “That’s a security company, idn’t it?”
Fraterno straightened in her chair. Milt Breyer’s gaze was on the back wall, as if he wasn’t listening. Wifey on his mind, Sharon thought.
“Yes, it is,” Gallagher said.
“Burglar alarms?”
“The best.” Gallagher practically strutted in the sitting position.
“I’m sure they are,” Black said, “but I’m not in the market right now.” Titters rippled through the audience. When they had subsided, Black said, “Mr. Gallagher, did y’all install a burglar alarm at 3517 Lakeside Drive, here in Dallas, out in Highland Park?” There was no phony referring to notes now; Black was
honing in, all humor gone from his tone.
“That’s right,” the witness said.
“Do you people … ? If there’s an alarm turned in to the police under your system, are your people notified?”
Gallagher chuckled. “We’re notified before the police. The alarm goes into us, over the phone lines, and we forward it electronically to the authorities.”
Sharon watched Fraterno. Stan Green would have told Kathleen about the pointed questions concerning the alarm system during the defense’s crime-scene examination, and she would first have given the cops instructions against letting the cat out of the bag, then would have sat and wondered why the defense hadn’t subpoenaed any police records. Now she knew why, but it was too late for her to do anything about it. She twisted nervously in her chair.
“Okay,” Black said. “Do your records show that there was a break-in at the Rathermore house on December 21 of last year?”
“There was an alarm turned in,” Gallagher said. “Our records don’t reflect whether or not it was an actual break-in. You’d have to go to the police for—”
“Right,” Black said. “Uh, that was about a week after school let out for Christmas, wadn’t it?”
Gallagher seemed puzzled. “I live in Kansas City, sir. I don’t have any idea when Texans break for Christmas.” Sharon repressed a grin. Vintage Russell Black, honing the jury in on the date when the killers had supposedly gotten the code from Midge, but at the same time seeming to have asked a bumbling question.
Grinning apologetically, Black now gave the throng another tad of humor. “Or San Jacinto day, either, I guess,” then waited like a pro for the subsequent laughter to die down and said, “After an alarm goes in, Mr. Gallagher, what’s your policy then?”
“You mean, in regard to the security system?”
“Yes, sir. The alarm.”
Gallagher cleared his throat. “We tell the customer we’re changing their security code.”
“Now that’s,” Black said, looking confused, “that’s the numbers you punch into the panel to shut the thing on and off, idn’t it?”
“Right,” Gallagher said.
“You tell the customer?” Black said. “Or you ask ’em.”
“Well,” Gallagher said, “the system comes with certain warranties. If they refuse to change the code it voids the warranty.”
“Okay,” Black said. “Do your records show that you changed the code at 3517 Lakeside Drive after the December 21 break-in? Excuse me, you already said you don’t know if there was a break-in or not. After the alarm was turned in on that date.”
“Alarm, yes,” Gallagher said. “And yes, we did.”
“Now, Mr. Gallagher,” Black said, scratching his nose, “how do you go about changin’ the code?”
“We make the adjustments in our office, then forthwith deliver the new code to the customer.”
“Forthwith,” Black said. “You mail it to ’em?”
“Oh, no,” Gallagher said. “We’re security professionals.”
“Glad to hear it, but I ain’t buyin’,” Black said, then waited for his laughs, got them, and then said, “Okay, forthwith, how do you deliver the new code?”
“In person. By our own messenger. The customer signs for the new code.”
“The customer. That mean just anybody that’s home? Like this little girl over here?” Black indicated Midge, who exhibited a shy smile.
“No. The recipient must show identification. Picture ID,” Gallagher said.
“Okay,” Black said. He raised his voice. “Tell the jury, please, sir. Who signed for this new code?”
“Our records state,” Gallagher said. “Mrs. Linda Rathermore.”
“Nobody else?”
Gallagher produced a small white card form his breast pocket and looked at it. “We compare the signature, sir. No mistakes. That’s why we’ve been in business these past thirty years.”
Silence. Testimony sinking in, jurors looking at one another, getting the point. “Come to think about it,” Black finally said, “maybe we should talk. My security folks don’t go to all that much trouble.” He grinned. “No further questions, Judge.”
Sharon felt a surge of elation and turned in her seat to give Deborah North a knowing wink. She froze. Anthony Gear stood just inside the back courtroom door, his expression grim. He zeroed in on Sharon, shook his head, and spread his hands. “I can’t find her,” he mouthed silently.
She bent over the table, picked up the yellow pencil which lay on her legal pad, and broke the pencil in two.
Fraterno waived the opportunity to cross-examine Steven Gallagher, which brought some puzzled looks to jurors’ faces and a sinking feeling in the pit of Sharon’s stomach. Kathleen knew exactly what she was doing. She wasn’t likely to do much in the way of tearing the security man’s story down, but that wasn’t the main reason she didn’t have any questions. The glances which she exchanged with Milt Breyer spoke volumes. They knew of the race to locate Leslie Schlee, and wanted the trial over with.
Russell Black fiddled with his notes as he said to Sharon out of the side of his mouth, “Want to have another go at the lady?”
“You notice Mr. Gear back there?” Sharon said.
“I saw him,” Black said. “We need Linda back on no matter what. We can do enough damage with her so’s the jury might not give Midge much of a sentence even if they convict her.”
Sharon shrugged. “Bring her on, then.”
Black nodded and stood. “Defense recalls Linda Rathermore.” His heavy basso carried to the back and shocked the spectator section into dead silence.
Fraterno popped up at the defense table. “Your Honor, may we approach?”
Griffin’s plucked eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Come ahead.”
“Linda’s your witness, Sharon,” Black whispered. “You better get in on this.”
Sharon gave Midge’s arm an affectionate squeeze, pushed her chair back, got up, and followed the older lawyer to stand alongside Kathleen Fraterno before the judge. Sharon noted that there were dark circles under Kathleen’s eyes.
Fraterno folded her arms and placed one foot slightly before the other. “Judge, Linda Rathermore’s disappeared. We’ve had people looking for her for two days.”
Sharon started, swiveled her head to study Fraterno. She wasn’t lying. So old Linda had seen the way the trial was going and headed for the hills. Sharon softly closed her eyes. Christ, she thought.
Black expelled air through his nose. “Well, just how hard have these people been lookin’?”
Fraterno stared helplessly at the bench and didn’t answer.
The corners of Sandy Griffin’s mouth turned downward. “I don’t understand. I instructed the witness to be available.”
“So did we, Judge,” Fraterno said. “She’s simply gone. Her luggage is gone, a bunch of her clothes—”
“Judge, I’m wonderin’,” Black said, “how tough she’d be to find if it was the state wantin’ to talk to her.”
“I think Mr. Black is out of line with that remark,” Fraterno said, squaring her shoulders.
“I think the state is out of line not keepin’ track of their witness,” Black said.
“Be that as it may,” the judge said, “what would you have me do? The court can’t make Mrs. Rathermore appear out of a bottle.”
“Well, I’m askin’ for a recess,” Black said, “until the witness can be located.”
Fraterno drew herself up to her full height. “We’d oppose that, Your Honor. It would cause unnecessary delay.”
Black glared at Fraterno in a manner that shocked Sharon to the balls of her feet. She’d never seen her boss go toe to toe with a female before. “Unnecessary, hell,” he said. He looked at the judge. “They’ve let this witness slip away from them, and we’re entitled to more time.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll remind the court,” Fraterno said, “that the witness is no longer ours. I don’t say we’ve done the best job of keeping up with Mrs. Rathermore, Judge, but it was the defense who wanted to recall her. Not us. Keeping up with a recall witness is the recaller’s responsibility.”
Griffin looked at her watch, used a thumb and forefinger to wind the stem. One corner of her mouth tugged to one side as she canted her head. “I’m afraid she’s got you there, Mr. Black. Why didn’t the defense have someone watching her?”
For once Black was stumped. He lowered his head. “Our investigator’s been busy elsewhere.”
Griffin said, almost tenderly, “I’m afraid that’s not the court’s problem, Mr. Black. The trial has to go on.”
Black looked up at the ceiling. He bent sideways and whispered to Sharon, “Any ideas?”
Abject despair caused her to look toward the defense table. Midge was turned around, once more shooting loving glances at her mom. Sharon turned back to the older lawyer. “See if we can get enough time to have a go at Midge.”
“Christ, Sharon,” Black said, “your psychologist has already told you …”
Sharon steadied her gaze. “I know that, boss. We’ve got to try.”
Black sighed. “Yeah, I guess we do.” He looked at the judge. “Judge Griffin, can we have fifteen minutes to talk to our client?”
“I can grant that,” Griffin said, then raised a warning finger. “But no longer than a quarter hour, Mr. Black, under any circumstances.”
“We understand, Judge,” Black said dejectedly.
As Griffin advised the jury of the delay, the lawyers headed for their respective tables. Halfway to her seat, Sharon did a sudden column-right and headed directly for the prosecution side. Black followed, gripped her arm, and said, “Where you goin’?” Sharon shook the hand off and continued grimly on her way.
