Dead in the Water

by Stuart Woods

  “Thomas,” Stone said, “there’s something I need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is Leslie Hewitt going to be able to get through this hearing without…you know?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. Leslie is very sharp when his mind is fully engaged. He’ll manage.”

  “God, I hope you’re right.” The phone rang, and Stone picked it up. “Hello?”

  “It’s Bill; I’ve got you a guy, but…has this client of yours got any money?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe won’t do it. This guy’s fee is a retainer of two hundred thousand pounds sterling against an hourly fee of two hundred pounds an hour, and travel time counts; he wants the retainer in his bank account before he even makes an airline reservation.”

  “That’s a fee of more than three hundred fifty thousand dollars plus more than three hundred fifty dollars an hour. He must be an absolutely fucking wonderful lawyer,” Stone said.

  “That’s what he tells me; what do you want me to tell him?”

  “If I had my druthers I’d tell him to go fuck himself, but I guess I’d better ask my client first.”

  “The fee is not out of line, Stone. After all, you’re asking a top-flight barrister to fly halfway across the world on short notice and to stay indefinitely. A top New York man would cost at least that. Oh, by the way, he’ll want to bring a clerk with him; that’s seventy-five pounds an hour.”

  “And he’ll want to fly first class, too, I suppose.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell him you’ll get back to him after I’ve talked to my client.”

  “Okay. When will you want him?”

  “We’ll probably get a trial date set today, and it could be soon; things move quickly here.”

  “I’ll tell him. See you.” Eggers hung up.

  Stone turned to Thomas. “Well, I hope her husband turns out to have had a hell of a lot of money.”

  Thomas Hardy pulled into the Government House parking lot simultaneously with Sir Leslie Hewitt, who was driving an ancient Morris Minor station wagon festooned with rotting wood paneling.

  “Good morning, Leslie,” Stone said, getting out of Thomas’s car.

  “Good morning, Stone, Thomas,” Sir Leslie called back. He reached into the rear of the little car and removed a long plastic garment bag and a small suitcase, then led the way into the building.

  They signed in to the jail, were searched for weapons, then were led to a small cell that held a table and four chairs.

  A moment later Allison Manning was led into the cell by a black matron. She was pale and rumpled and seemed to have had little sleep. She went to Stone and put her head on his shoulder. “I am so glad to see you,” she whimpered.

  Stone patted her back awkwardly, then introduced her to Sir Leslie. “Sir Leslie is going to represent you at the hearing and apply for bail,” he said.

  She shook the barrister’s hand. “Thank you so much for being here, Sir Leslie,” she said.

  “I am happy to represent you,” the little man replied. “Please sit down, and I’ll tell you what is going to happen this morning.” Everyone sat down, and Sir Leslie continued. “This will be a short meeting of the court at which the presiding judge will ask the prosecutor if he has sufficient evidence to bring a charge of murder to trial. Then we will ask for bail, and I’m told you have a yacht which might serve as your security.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stone said. “Won’t the prosecution have to present evidence of the crime? I was hoping we might get a dismissal.”

  “Oh, no,” Sir Leslie replied. “The judge will simply take Sir Winston’s affidavit that he has enough evidence for trial; it’s all very gentlemanly.”

  “It’s all very unheard of,” Stone said.

  “Stone, you must understand that although our court system is based on English law, over the years, in the interest of efficiency, certain procedures that the court thinks superfluous have been pared away from the process.”

  “Superfluous? This court thinks that the presenting of evidence in a preliminary hearing is superfluous?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sir Leslie said. “I assure you that if Sir Winston wants this to go to trial, it will go to trial, no matter what evidence might be presented, and no matter how we might challenge that evidence.”

  “Leslie,” Stone said, “this crime—I mean the alleged crime—occurred on the high seas, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Can’t we ask for a dismissal on jurisdictional grounds?”

  “Oh, no,” Sir Leslie said. “You see, many of the cases tried in our courts over the past two hundred years were based on crimes that occurred at sea. The local rule is that the defendant will be tried in the jurisdiction of the first port he puts into after the act.”

  Stone nodded dumbly.

  “Now, Mrs. Manning,” Sir Leslie continued, “I understand you have a yacht which might be used to secure your bail, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “What is the value of the yacht?”

  “I don’t really know,” she said. “I’m sure it’s expensive.”

  Stone spoke up. “A minimum of a million and a half dollars American.”

  “Oh, that should be quite sufficient. And where does the yacht lie?”

  “In English Harbour.”

  “Good, good.”

  “Leslie,” Stone said, “Mrs. Manning will need to live aboard the yacht until this matter is disposed of.”

  “I’m sure His Lordship would agree to that.”

  “Who?”

  “The judge, Lord Cornwall.”

  “Oh.”

  “Stone, did you ever see the film Witness for the Prosecution?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that is a pretty good model for how court is conducted. I expect you’ve seen other such films as well.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Oh, Allison, I brought you some things.” He shoved the duffel across the table. “I couldn’t find a…I hope these are all right.”

  Allison held up the dress and looked at it. “Well, at least you didn’t bring the sequined cocktail dress.”

  Sir Leslie opened his garment bag and removed two black robes, handing one to Stone. “You’d better get into this.”

  Stone stood up and put on the robe; it was ridiculously small on him.

  “And this,” Sir Leslie said, opening his small case. He handed Stone a wig.

  “You can’t be serious,” Stone said, regarding the thing at arm’s length.

  “Oh, yes, quite serious,” Sir Leslie said. “On second thought, just carry it; don’t put it on.”

  “Good,” Stone said. “I’ll carry it.”

  Thomas put a hand over his face and laughed quietly.

  Chapter

  9

  Allison was taken away by the matron, and Stone, Sir Leslie, and Thomas left the jail, walked upstairs, and found the courtroom. Thomas took a front row seat, and Sir Leslie led Stone to the defense table. Sir Winston and another man, probably his supporting attorney, were already seated at the prosecution table. Various people milled around the room until the bailiff stood and shouted for all to stand. A moment later a red-gowned, bewigged black man entered from a side door and took the bench. He was middle-aged, tall and thin, with short, graying hair under his gray wig.

  “Be seated,” the judge said. “Bring up the prisoner.”

  Stone turned and watched as Allison came up from a hidden stairway and entered the dock. She had pulled back her hair, and in her fresh dress looked quite normal.

  “Madam, would you like a chair?” the judge asked.

  “Thank you, yes, Your Lordship,” she replied, giving him a grateful smile.

  That’s it, Stone thought, pour on the charm for the judge; wouldn’t be the first time that had worked.

  “Sir Winston,” the judge said, “do you have a request for this court?”

  Sir Winston stood and handed a folder to the bailiff. “Thank
you, Your Lordship, yes. The government petitions this court for the trial on a charge of murder of one Allison Ames Manning, now present in the dock. We certify that we have sufficient evidence to bring this case to trial and to convict the defendant.”

  The judge accepted the folder, flipped through it for a moment, and addressed the middle distance. “All is in order; who will appear for the prosecution?”

  “I will, Your Lordship,” Sir Winston replied, “assisted by Henry Porter.”

  The judge turned to the court reporter. “Write down that Sir Winston Sutherland and Mr. Henry Porter will appear for the prosecution.” He looked over at the defense table. “And who will act for the defense?”

  “I will, Your Lordship,” Sir Leslie said, standing, “and I request to be assisted by Mr. Stone Barrington.” He turned to Stone and whispered, “Stand up.”

  Stone stood, feeling foolish in the tight robe, the wig in his hand.

  “I do not recognize Mr. Barrington,” the judge said.

  “Your Lordship, Mr. Barrington is an American barrister, a prominent member of the New York bar. I request that he be admitted to the St. Marks bar for the duration of this action, so that I might have his advice.”

  “Will he question witnesses?” the judge asked.

  Stone spoke up before Sir Leslie could. “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “Mr. Barrington, have you had the experience of defending in a murder trial?”

  “I have, Your Lordship, on four occasions.”

  “And how did you do?” the judge asked impishly.

  “They were all innocent, Your Lordship,” Stone replied with mock seriousness, “but only three were acquitted.”

  The judge smiled. “Three out of four acquitted, eh? But then, you have such a lenient judicial system, don’t you?”

  “On the contrary, Your Lordship, in a lenient system all four would have been acquitted.”

  The judge laughed. “Very well, Mr. Barrington, you are admitted to the St. Marks bar for the duration of this trial.” He turned to the reporter. “Write down that the defense will be represented by Sir Leslie Hewitt and Mr. Stone Barrington.”

  Sir Leslie leaned over and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Put on the wig.”

  “What?” Stone whispered back.

  “Put on the bloody wig!”

  Stone put the wig on and stood there, feeling extremely foolish.

  The judge smiled broadly. “Very becoming, Mr. Barrington. I’m sure you will do the St. Marks bar proud. You may be seated.”

  Stone sat down, but Sir Leslie remained standing. “Your Lordship,” he said, “the defense requests bail for the defendant to extend through the trial.”

  “Well,” the judge replied, “in a capital case, the bail would have to be substantial. Is the defendant possessed of a substantial sum of cash?”

  “Your Lordship, the defendant owns a large yacht moored in English Harbour, which I am assured is valued at in excess of one and one-half million dollars in U.S. currency. I request that the yacht secure her bail, and that she be allowed to live aboard the vessel until these proceedings are concluded.”

  The judge turned to the prosecution. “Sir Winston?”

  “I have no objection, Your Lordship, as long as the defendant has a clear understanding of the terms of her bail.”

  “Quite right, Sir Winston,” the judge replied. He turned to Allison, sitting in the dock. “Mrs. Manning, in St. Marks, bail is more than security, it is a sacred obligation. In order for me to grant bail, you must agree not to leave this island, and you should know that if you should do so, you would not only forfeit bail—in this case, your yacht—but under St. Marks law your departure would be tantamount to a plea of guilty to the charge, and you would stand convicted of murder.”

  Holy shit, Stone thought.

  “Do you understand the terms of your bail?”

  Allison stood. “I do, Your Lordship.”

  “Very well, bail is granted, and the yacht will be secured to the dock.” He looked down at his calendar. “Trial is set for Monday next, at 10:00 A.M.”

  Stone’s jaw dropped. “Your Lordship,” he managed to say, “that gives us only six days to prepare for trial.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Barrington,” the judge replied. “Any problem with that?”

  Sir Leslie spoke up. “The defense is satisfied with the trial date, Your Lordship,” he said.

  “But we have to get a barrister in here from London to conduct the defense,” Stone said. “If it pleases the court.”

  “Mr. Barrington,” the judge said, as if speaking to a backward child, “it is already in the record that the defense will be conducted by Sir Leslie, with your assistance. The record cannot be changed.” He stood.

  “All rise,” the bailiff called out.

  The judge turned and left the courtroom.

  Stone turned to Sir Leslie. “Leslie, what the hell is he talking about?”

  “What?” Sir Leslie replied, packing his wig into his case and removing Stone’s.

  “I thought you understood that we have a barrister coming from London.”

  “What?” Sir Leslie asked.

  “Leslie, you cannot conduct this trial; you said so yourself.”

  Sir Leslie turned on him. “To whom do you think you are speaking, sir? I have conducted the defense at five hundred and eighty-three trials in this court! This one will be five hundred and eighty-four! I will discuss my fee with you later.” He wheeled and walked out of the courtroom, carrying his robe and his wig.

  Stone turned and looked for the first time at Thomas Hardy in the front row.

  Thomas sat with his head in his hands, making a moaning sound.

  Allison came down from the dock. “All ready to go?” she asked cheerfully.

  Chapter

  10

  Thomas drove while Stone sat beside him and Allison took the backseat. For all of Stone’s life, extreme worry had caused him to become sleepy, and right now he was having a very hard time staying awake.

  “God, but I’m glad to be out of that place,” Allison said.

  “Were you treated all right?” Thomas asked.

  “Well, yes, and contrary to what I’ve heard about jail, the food was pretty good. I had a cell to myself, and except for the open toilet, it wasn’t bad.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Thomas replied.

  “I had some absolutely fascinating conversations with the woman in the next cell, too; she was in for shoplifting, and it wasn’t her first time, so she knew the drill. Stone, I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of there.”

  Stone stirred from his lassitude. “Don’t mention it,” he said.

  They pulled up at the restaurant, and Stone and Allison got out so that Thomas could park the car. An American-looking man was seated at the bar, drinking what looked like a gin and tonic; his suit and briefcase made him look out of place, made him look like an insurance salesman. He seemed to recognize Allison and approached her, handing her a card. “Mrs. Manning, I wonder if I could speak with you for a few minutes.”

  Stone turned to Allison. “If you don’t need me for a moment, I have some phone calls to make.”

  “Go right ahead,” she said to him, then turned to the other man. “Of course,” she said, “let’s take a table.”

  Stone went up to his new room over the bar, threw his newly acquired barrister’s robe at the wall, and called Bill Eggers.

  “Yes, Stone, are we a go for the London man?”

  “I’m afraid not, Bill; it seems I’ve wasted his time and yours.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Bill, I hardly know where to begin: I have this perfectly innocent woman for a client who it seems is being railroaded by the judicial system in this godforsaken island country, and unless I can think of something fast they’re going to hang her.”

  “Hang her?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Stone explained the chain of events thus far.

 
; “That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Eggers said when Stone had finished.

  “I wish I were hearing about it instead of living it,” Stone said.

  “And your barrister is gaga?”

  “At least some of the time; he appeared to be perfectly normal in court, except that he seemed to forget that we were bringing in the London man.”

  “Well, at least he knows the score down there; that’s worth something.”

  “I hope you’re right, but it’s Tuesday, and I’m going to have to be prepared to try this case next Monday morning.”

  “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Not right now; believe me, I’ll call in a hurry if there is.”

  “I’m here if you need me,” Eggers said, then hung up.

  Stone made another call, to Bob Cantor, a retired cop who had been helpful on a previous case.

  “Hello?”

  “Bob, it’s Stone Barrington.”

  “Hi, Stone; aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

  “I’d rather not talk about that; I’m in big trouble on a case, and I want you to do some things for me. Can you clear the decks for the next week?”

  “Sure; I’m not all that busy.”

  “Good. The first thing I want you to do is to get on a plane for the Canary Islands.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “It’s a Spanish possession a few hundred miles out in the Atlantic, off North Africa.”

  “Back up here, Stone; tell me what’s going on.”

  Stone related the events of the past few days.

  “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard,” Cantor said. “They want to hang her?”

  “That’s right. Now look, their last landfall before St. Marks was the Canaries; they were in Las Palmas, the capital, for some work on the boat, then they stopped on the southernmost island, which is called Puerto Rico, their last night before starting the transatlantic. I want you to go to both places and ask about the yacht, which is called Expansive.”

  “Got that,” Cantor said, obviously scribbling.

  “Talk to anybody who saw them, talked to them, had a meal with them, saw how they interacted.”

  “What exactly are you looking for?”