Dead in the Water

by Stuart Woods

  “I won’t have room for dessert,” Stone said.

  “I’m dessert,” she replied. “And you’d better have room.”

  They lay together in the aft cabin, kissing and stroking each other tenderly. They both had things to forget, Stone thought—he, Arrington; she, that he might be the last man she’d ever have. There was a moon filtering through the portholes, and in its light, with her fair hair and skin, she was as white as marble. Stone bent over her and his tongue found its way through the soft, blond pubic hair into the warm sweetness beneath. He was gentle, not pressing her, and she ran her fingers through his hair, encouraging and directing him until she shuddered and came quietly.

  Then she reversed their positions, taking him into her mouth, caressing him with her tongue and fingers, drawing him to his fullest—teasing, tempting, but never allowing him to climax. Finally, when he was nearly mad, she mounted him and pulled him into a sitting position. They were mouth to mouth, nipple to nipple, he deeply into her. She brought her feet behind him so that she could pull him even farther inside her.

  They stayed that way for what seemed like hours, then Allison began moving more rapidly. Stone moved with her, and, locked tightly together, they came noisily, finally toppling over onto the sheets.

  “If that has to be my last time,” she panted, “I won’t have any complaints as to how well it went. I honestly don’t think sex can be any better than that.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me,” Stone panted back.

  They lay in each other’s arms for a while, then she surprised him by bounding out of bed. “Come with me!” she cried.

  He followed her into the saloon, then up the companionway and into the cockpit, oblivious of the two startled guards on the dock. She flung herself over the lifelines and into English Harbour, with Stone right behind her, matching her stroke for stroke.

  She stopped and treaded water. “Do you think they think I’m making a break for it?” she asked.

  “I think they’re too astonished to think,” Stone replied, laughing.

  They swam out into the harbor, the moon sparkling on their wake, then back to the yacht, climbing aboard again. Then they went back to bed and started over.

  Chapter

  49

  The drive to Government House, with Thomas at the wheel, was silent. Stone sat in the front, reading the opening statement he had written, merely for something to occupy his mind. Leslie Hewitt would probably ignore it anyway. He glanced occasionally at Allison, who sat in the backseat, gazing absently out at the St. Marks landscape, seemingly calm and self-possessed. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, at Stone’s request, and she wore a mostly blue, floral-printed silk dress. She looked about twenty-one, Stone thought.

  They arrived in the official parking lot nearly simultaneously with Sir Leslie Hewitt’s ancient Morris Minor station wagon. Everyone got out and shook hands, smiling, attempting good spirits. With Hewitt in the lead they entered the building through the police door and climbed the stairs to the second floor, passing through a short corridor to the door used by guards, lawyers, and defendants. To one side was a small robing room, and Stone and Hewitt donned their robes and wigs. Once again, Stone felt foolish.

  They entered the courtroom. Stone had forgotten that Allison would have to stand in the dock, several feet behind the defense table; he would not be able to confer with her when court was in session. He felt very much out of his element. In New York he would have been at home in any courtroom and in at least partial control. Here he felt like an intruder, and he worked hard at not letting Allison know it.

  Spectators were filing into the gallery, which was raised in tiers like a college lecture room or, more aptly, London’s Old Bailey. The room was not paneled, simply painted, and the paint had begun to fade and peel. Stone saw Frank Stendahl, the insurance salesman, enter and take a front-row seat not far from the dock.

  At the front of the room, elevated above the defense and prosecution tables, was the bench; to the judge’s right was the witness box, and beyond that, the jury would sit. Stone and Sir Leslie sat down at the defense table. A moment later Sir Winston Sutherland swept into the courtroom, his robes flowing, followed by his assistant.

  “Leslie,” Stone asked, “did you have an opportunity to study the opening and closing statements I wrote?”

  “I read them,” Hewitt replied.

  “There were a number of very important points, particularly in the opening statement, that I thought should be included in your opening.”

  “I’m aware of that, Stone,” Hewitt said, arranging his robe. “Please don’t concern yourself with my opening.

  Stone sighed and tried to make himself comfortable in the hard wooden chair.

  A moment later, the bailiff entered, stood at attention, and cried, “Hear ye, hear ye, all rise for the Lord Cornwall.”

  All rose, and the judge, resplendent in red robes, his black face contrasting sharply with the whiteness of his long wig, entered and sat down at the bench in a high-backed, ornate leather chair, with a gilded crown set at the top, a remnant of Her Majesty’s rule. “Good morning,” the judge said.

  Hewitt was on his feet. “Your Lordship,” he said, “a small request before we begin.”

  “Yes, Sir Leslie?”

  “We have a long day ahead of us; I wonder if the prisoner might have a chair?”

  Stone’s stomach lurched at hearing Allison so described.

  “Of course, Sir Leslie. The bailiff will provide a chair for the prisoner.” The bailiff found a chair and set it in the dock for Allison, who thanked him sweetly, eliciting an unexpected smile.

  Stone hoped that was a harbinger of things to come.

  “The court will come to order,” the judge said. “I will hear from the minister of justice.”

  Sir Winston stood, cleared his throat, and spoke. “Your Lordship, today we hear the case of the people of St. Marks against the prisoner Allison Manning, on a charge of murder. We are ready for Your Lordship to select the jury.” He sat down.

  “Call the first juror,” the judge said.

  “Call the first juror!” the bailiff cried.

  A door opened at the rear of the courtroom and a man entered. He was elderly and thin and he was wearing a three-piece wool suit that fit him very well. He took the first seat in the jury box.

  “State your name and occupation,” the bailiff said.

  “I am Charles Kimbrough,” the man said. “I am a tailor by trade, and I am recently retired.”

  “Mr. Kimbrough,” the judge said, “are you in good health and of sound mind?”

  “I believe I am, Your Lordship.”

  “Are you acquainted with the prisoner or any members of the court?”

  “I am acquainted with Sir Leslie Hewitt and yourself, Your Lordship, as I have made suits for both of you in the past.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “I know Sir Winston, though I have never had the pleasure of his custom.”

  “Yes. Have you heard anything about this case?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Lordship,” the man said. “I have read all about it in the newspapers.”

  “Have you formed an opinion of the prisoner’s guilt or innocence?”

  “Well, Your Lordship, I think she might have done it, but then again, she might not have.”

  “He’s okay with me,” Stone murmured.

  “Keep your seat, Mr. Kimbrough,” the judge said. “You’re the foreman of this jury.”

  Kimbrough sat down, and another man was brought in. He was not so finely dressed, but he was clean and neat. He was a bartender at a local hotel, and he was soon seated. He was followed by a taxi driver, an apprentice shoemaker, who could not have been more than twenty, a street vendor, and a white merchant, all of whom were briefly questioned and rapidly seated.

  “We have a jury,” the judge said.

  “Only six?” Stone asked Hewitt.

  “It is all we need,” the barrister repli
ed.

  Stone was dissatisfied with only the taxi driver, who looked at Allison with something like contempt, as if he had seen her kind before, but only in his rearview mirror. But on the whole, he thought, he had tried cases before worse juries.

  “The foreman is good for us,” Hewitt whispered. “He is a very kind man and will not hang a woman lightly. The others will respect his opinion because he is so well dressed.”

  Stone hoped so.

  “The bailiff will read the charges,” the judge said.

  The bailiff stood and read from a single sheet of paper. “The prisoner, Mrs. Allison Manning, is charged with murder, willfully taking the life of Mr. Paul Manning, her husband, on a date unknown between January first of this year and the present day, on the high seas, having departed the port of Puerto Rico, in the Canary Islands, a Spanish possession, and not yet having arrived at the port of English Harbour, in St. Marks. Be it known to all present that the crime of murder is a capital offense in St. Marks, and that if convicted, the prisoner will suffer death in the prescribed manner, which is hanging.” He sat down.

  Short, but not very sweet, Stone thought.

  “Now,” the judge said, addressing the jurors, “I will explain how we will proceed in this courtroom. The prosecuting barrister, Sir Winston, will make an opening statement of his case, then he will be followed by Sir Leslie, who will make an opening statement in defense of the prisoner. Thereafter, Sir Winston will call witnesses and question them, followed by a cross-examination by Sir Leslie. When the government has completed its case, Sir Leslie may call witnesses and question them, and Sir Winston may cross-examine them. Items may be entered in evidence by either side. When the defense has concluded its case, Sir Leslie will make a closing statement, followed by a closing statement from Sir Winston. When he has concluded I will charge the jury, and the jury will retire to the jury room to consider their verdict, which must be a majority verdict. While we are in the courtroom the bench will make all rulings on the admissibility of statements and other evidence, and the decision of the bench will be final in all matters. Is there any one of you who does not understand what will take place?”

  No member of the jury moved, let alone spoke.

  “In that case, we will begin with the opening statement of the people of St. Marks, who are represented by Sir Winston Sutherland. Sir Winston?”

  Sir Winston rose, smoothed his robes, adjusted his wig, shot his cuffs, cleared his throat, and began to speak.

  Chapter

  50

  Sir Winston bowed to the bench, and his voice boomed over the courtroom, stentorian and didactic. He might have been instructing the jury without waiting for the judge to do so. “Gentlemen of the jury,” he began, though he was looking at the packed gallery rather than at the jurors, “we come here this day to avenge the death of a human being. Paul Manning was a gentleman in the prime of life who had made for himself a successful career, becoming famous and rich. He owned a large house; he owned an expensive yacht; he owned a life insurance policy with a death benefit of twelve million dollars. It was for this wealth that he was murdered by his wife.” He gestured dramatically at Allison in the dock.

  “You might not think that she looks the part of the murderess, being demure in appearance, but we will show today how she took the life of her husband, how she cruelly and heartlessly consigned him to the depths of the ocean and watched him die as his yacht sailed away from him. You will hear Paul Manning speak from the grave,” he intoned, and the apprentice shoemaker’s eyes became large and round. “His words recorded in his own handwriting.” He held up the leather-bound diary, and the juror looked relieved.

  “You will hear how she plotted his death over many months, biding her time until the moment came when he was helpless, and then she took his life.” He paused and looked witheringly at Allison, as though his eyes were sufficient to punish her. Allison returned his gaze and shook her head slowly.

  Good girl, Stone thought.

  “When you have heard the evidence against Allison Manning,” Sutherland continued, “you will reach the only verdict that the evidence will permit: you will find her guilty of willful and deliberate murder.” Sir Winston bowed to the bench and sat down.

  The judge turned toward the defense table. “Sir Leslie Hewitt will make the opening statement for the defense,” he said.

  Stone turned and looked at Hewitt. The little man appeared to be dozing. “Leslie!” Stone whispered sharply.

  Hewitt’s eyes popped open. “Eh?”

  “Do you want me to give the opening statement?”

  “Certainly not,” Hewitt replied, looking around the courtroom. He rose to his feet and bowed to the bench, then, ignoring the gallery, turned his full attention to the jury. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly. Two or three of them nodded in response. “I trust Sir Winston has not clouded your minds,” he said with a chuckle. “The defense has quite a different view of his so-called evidence, as you might imagine, and as you will come to see during the course of this trial.”

  He indicated Allison with a warm smile. “Here we have a young woman who, with her much-loved husband, set off on the adventure of a lifetime, sailing across the Atlantic from America to Europe, just the two of them. This is not the act of two people who do not love each other—to be confined for weeks at a time at sea with only each other for company. This was a positive act, showing that these two people were happy together. You will hear from her own lips how they enjoyed their adventure and how, on the voyage back to the Americas, her husband suddenly fell ill and died, struck with an illness about which he had been warned by his doctors, but which he had taken none of the prescribed steps to prevent. You will hear how his death endangered the life of his young wife and how with courage and fortitude she managed to sail a large yacht alone across the sea, to make landfall on our island.”

  Sir Leslie cleared his throat and rearranged his robes. “Finally,” he said, “when this trial has been concluded, you will see how this charge of murder is spurious and should never have been brought.” He gestured toward Sir Winston. “You will wonder at the motives of the prosecution in bringing it. And you will have the opportunity to set things right, to return this dear young woman to freedom and her native country, to live out her life as best she can without the sorely missed companionship of her beloved husband.” With a flourish he bowed to the bench, returned to the defense table, and sat down.

  Not bad, Stone thought, for a periodically senile old man who had recently been asleep in the courtroom. While it may not have been all he had wished, Hewitt’s opening was at least the equal of Sir Winston’s, maybe even a little better. He was relieved that Sir Winston had not mentioned any witnesses or evidence in his opening statement that the defense didn’t know about. The playing field was level, and that was as much as he could wish for at this point.

  The judge turned to the prosecution table. “Sir Winston, call your first witness.”

  Sir Winston rose and spoke. “Call Mr. Frank Stendahl,” he said.

  Stone sat up straight. “What the hell?” he said aloud.

  The judge looked at him sharply.

  Stone tried to look ashamed of his outburst. He turned to look at the gallery as Stendahl left his seat and walked toward the witness box. He caught a glimpse of Hilary Kramer and Jim Forrester watching him, looking as puzzled as Stone was.

  Stendahl stood in the witness box.

  “Take the book,” the bailiff said, offering a Bible and a card, “and read from the card.”

  Stendahl grasped the Bible and read, “I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give in this court will be the truth.”

  The bailiff relieved him of the Bible and the card.

  Sir Winston turned to the witness box. “State your name, address, and occupation for the record,” he said.

  “Frank Stendahl, 1202 Old Brook Road, Lynn, Massachusetts, U.S.A. I am the chief claims investigator for the Boston Mutual insurance compa
ny.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Stone whispered to himself, earning a rebuking glance from Sir Leslie. He hadn’t seen this coming.

  “Mr. Stendahl, did your company, Boston Mutual, insure the life of Paul Manning?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “In what amount?”

  “In the amount of twelve million dollars.”

  There was a stir in the jury box and raised eyebrows among the men who sat there.

  “Is this, in your experience, a large sum of life insurance?”

  “Indeed it is,” Stendahl replied. “In fact, it is the largest policy my company has ever written on an individual life.”

  “And how old is your company? Was it recently formed?”

  “Boston Mutual was founded in 1798.”

  “And in the nearly two hundred years since its founding, it has never written a policy as large as this?”

  “Not on an individual life, when the individual was himself paying the premiums. We have had corporate policies that were larger, when a company was insuring the life of, say, its chief executive.”

  “What steps did your company take before insuring the life of a person for such a large sum?”

  “We did what we do for any large policy, that is, we investigate the background, the reputation, and the net worth of the applicant, and we have him examined by a doctor of our choosing. I personally conducted the background investigation of Mr. Manning.”

  “And what did you learn about Paul Manning during your investigations?”

  “I learned that Mr. Manning was an important author with a large income; that he had an excellent credit record; and that he was known to be a person of good reputation in his community.”

  “And what did the medical evaluation of Mr. Manning reveal about his health?”

  “May I consult notes?”

  “Yes.”

  Stendahl took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and read from it. “I quote from the report: ‘Paul Manning is a forty-year-old writer who is in excellent health and who does not have any history of cancer, heart disease, diabetes, or any other serious illness. Neither is there any history of serious disease in either of his parents, both of whom died accidentally in their sixties, in an automobile accident.”