by John Foxjohn
“Oh, yes. On many occasions.”
“How did you accomplish this task? Did you get her keys and open the car doors?”
“No, ma’am. There was no need for that. Ms. Estes never locked her doors. I told her many times someone would steal her things, but she didn’t care.”
“Did you ever see Ms. Estes’ gun in the console of her car?”
“Yes, ma’am. Many times. She never locked that, either.”
“Ms. Thorne, on the night the murder took place, you told the court that you were at your own home with your daughter and grandson because you were off. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. I have Wednesdays and Thursdays off.”
“Ms. Thorne, who washed Ms. Estes’ clothes on the days you had off?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know if anyone washed them. Sometimes I did them when I came back to work.”
“Ms. Thorne, can you say with absolute certainty, that the defendant never washed any clothes on your two days off, the times you were on vacation, or even before you came to work for her?”
“No, Ms. Nugent. I was not there during those times and have no way of knowing this.”
Kayla smiled. “Thank you, Ms. Thorne. I appreciate your honesty and I’m sorry you had to be here. Your Honor, I pass the witness.”
“You were awful nice to that old bitch. I wished she hadn’t quit so I could have fired her.”
Kayla didn’t say anything, but flipped to the back of her legal pad to a blank page and wrote, Shut the hell up! Then pushed it so her client could see it.
The court recessed, and then Proctor brought forth his expert witnesses. He planned to end with them and he chose this route because Kayla couldn’t do anything with them, and he hoped they left a lasting impression with the jury.
Proctor called the medical examiner first, and his long, detailed report left most in the courtroom half asleep. The only news that stirred the court was the fact that when she died, Michelle McCrery was three months pregnant.
Loren leaned close. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Kayla, who acted busy for the jury, said out of the side of her mouth, “I didn’t believe you would care. It isn’t important in our defense.”
“I don’t care. Would have liked to have known, though.”
Kayla frowned and raised an eyebrow, looking up at the ceiling a moment as Loren said something she didn’t hear or care to hear.
She scribbled a note on a sheet of paper, tore it off, and folded it, handing it to Marvin.
Marvin read the note, glanced at Kayla. “Now, or after court is over?”
Kayla considered his question. What she’d said to Loren gave her an idea—a far-fetched one that wouldn’t mean a thing, but who knew down the road. She’d rather know now and not be able to use it, than find out later she needed it, and not have it. She leaned close to Marvin. “It’s slow in here and will continue that way. Let’s do it now.”
“What was that about?” Loren asked when Marvin left.
“An idea that probably won’t work.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
Kayla took a deep, exasperated breath. “I said it probably won’t work. I don’t know and won’t know until I get the information. I’m trying to cover all bases.”
As the day wore on, Proctor brought in a fingerprint expert to testify to the prints on the gun. This one only confirmed what Satterwhite had said. When Proctor passed the witness, Kayla asked, “In your experience with fingerprints, do you find it a common occurrence that the person who owns an object has their prints on that object?”
He leaned toward the microphone. “It is a high probability that the owner of an object has prints on the object.”
“Mr. Southward, do the prints on the gun in this case indicate who fired the shot that killed Michelle McCrery?
“No, ma’am, and not in any case could they do that.”
Kayla passed the witness, but Proctor didn’t redirect. Loren’s lips tightened. “Is that all you’re going to ask him?”
Kayla turned to face her. “What would you like me to ask him, Loren?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Some of your lawyer stuff.”
Kayla rolled her eyes as Proctor called the ballistic expert.
The monotonous monotones of the witness that she couldn’t do anything with anyway, and the fact that Kayla got little sleep caused her biggest problem during this time—staying awake.
At one point, she objected to something just to rise for a moment. Ballard, of course, overruled her, but looked almost pleased that she had objected and gave him a reason to wake up, too.
When Proctor passed the witness, Kayla said, “Mr. Cummings, you’re without a doubt one of the most knowledgeable people in the world in ballistics and firearms. Is that correct?”
“Without bragging and patting myself on the back, I’d say that is true.”
“Good—then you can answer a question that we all want and need to know.”
“I will certainly try my best.”
“Mr. Cummings, who took my client’s gun out of her car, shot Michelle McCrery to death, and put the gun back in the car for the police to find?”
Murmurs passed from person to person in the audience. Judge Ballard glared and banged his gavel.
“Ma’am, I have no way of answering that question.”
Kayla frowned, tilted her head, and rested her cheek on her thumb and index finger. “Why not, Mr. Cummings?”
“Ma’am, the only way I could answer that question is if I was at the scene when it happened, and I can assure you I wasn’t.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
After a slew of other experts and former maids of Loren’s, Proctor rested his case. The judge told Kayla she could give her opening statement at nine the next morning.
Her time at the plate had arrived. Everything depended on what she did with the bat. If she came out swinging, she had a chance to hit a home run. If she didn’t swing at the pitches, she’d strike out for sure.
* * * *
The next morning, Kayla rose to face the jury, her palms wet, stomach rumbling, and knees weak. She marched to the podium, back straight, head held high. With her every move planned, she hadn’t taken a single note with her.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I intend to have a brief opening, but please don’t think of it as unimportant because it lacks a bunch of words intended to lull you to sleep.”
She paused as laughter rippled through the courtroom and jury. “The prosecutor began this trial with an opening statement that he’d prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that my client, Loren Estes, did in fact murder Michelle McCrery.”
Kayla held up an index finger and shook it as Proctor had done. “Listen to me. Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” she mimicked Proctor.
She half-turned and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to laugh at Proctor as his face changed to the color of a blood clot.
“If this was the prosecutor’s goal, he has already failed in that attempt. If this case ended at this moment,” she drew her index finger across the jury as if pointing to each and every one of the jurors, “You would have a solemn duty to vote my client not guilty. The reason for that,” she turned and pointed to Proctor, “the DA has failed to prove my client guilty.”
“Let’s look at what he has proven. My client’s gun killed someone. There are people who don’t like my client. That is what he proved.” Kayla pointed to herself. “Fortunately for me, and maybe some of you, having people not like you or me isn’t a violation of the law.”
She again waited for the laughter to die down. “If it was, I don’t think we could build jails fast enough to put everyone in them that violated this law.”
Kayla stepped closer to the jury box. “My client isn’t charged with not being liked. They may convict her on that, but they charged her with murder. The prosecutor tried to present a motive to you why my client killed Michelle McCrery.”
&n
bsp; She half-turned and pointed at Loren. “He says that my client is guilty of murder because the victim accused her of plagiarism. Did my client do this? We don’t know because the prosecution has presented no evidence either way about his so-called motive.”
Kayla took another step closer to the jury. “You heard the lead investigator on this case testify, and I know you’re smart enough to know that this investigation has holes, lots of holes in it.”
Her voice rose a little to emphasize her next point. “We have questions that haven’t been answered and need to be.
“You heard what investigative tunnel vision is. You and everyone else in the world knows now that is exactly what happened in this case.” Kayla held her index finger up. “The investigation focused entirely on one person.
“They never looked at another suspect although the detective told you that a high percentage of murders are committed by relatives. In the next part of this trial, I want you to keep that in mind. There are people in this city that have far more reason to want and need Michelle McCrery dead than my client.
“These people were never questioned, suspected, or anything.” Kayla held up two fingers. “Two of these people the police don’t even know about.”
A ripple of noise passed through the courtroom and Kayla paused to wait for silence. Her voice lowered. “It took my investigator a week to find them, and it wasn’t that difficult.”
She took the last step to the jury box and rested both palms on the rail. Now, with a voice almost too soft to hear, she finished. “Here is the question for you to think about. Did my client use her gun to kill Michelle McCrery? This is the problem. The prosecution proved that my client’s gun fired the bullet that killed. He hasn’t proven that my client pulled that gun’s trigger and caused her death. This is what he must prove.
“Thank you for your attention.”
As she strolled back to her table, muscles in Proctor’s jaws bulged and grinding sounds emitted from his clenched teeth.
She’d nailed it, and if she didn’t screw this up, Proctor would have his first defeat in the courtroom. The man handled success well. She didn’t believe he’d do well in defeat.
* * * *
When Darren hung up with Kevin, he couldn’t help but shake his head. The questions that boy asked. Like all kids, he had an insight into adults that most grown people didn’t. Darren’s grandmother had always said, “If you want to know what kind of a person someone is, look at how children react around them.”
It hadn’t taken his son long to see right through Kayla Nugent. Now, he demanded to know when his dad would take her on a date and marry her. Marriage had not entered Darren’s thoughts too much, but other things had.
He didn’t think he should explain those feelings to his ten-year-old son.
No one, including his son, could stay around Kayla and not fall for her. All those private detectives following her for free didn’t do it out of civic duty. She’d put a spell on them, as she had him and Kevin.
When his cell phone rang, he didn’t recognize the number, and a man’s voice asked him if he was Darren Duval, the private detective.
“Uh-huh, I am, but I want to tell you that I don’t have time to take any more clients on right now.”
“Good,” the deep voice on the other end said. “You have one client that would like to see you right away. The one who paid you fifty thousand dollars.”
McMasters. What did he want now? He guessed the old man figured he could come out in the open. “Where does he want me to meet him?”
“At his office as soon as possible, but preferably within the next hour.”
The phone clicked on the other end, and Darren stared at his phone. People of few words and many demands. He figured he might as well go straight over. He didn’t have anything to do at the moment because he had reached a stalemate finding that missing laptop. Finding one laptop in the city of Houston and the surrounding area proved harder than finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.
With only the brand name and serial number, he didn’t think he had a shot at finding the thing. He put out feelers and of course offered a reward, had tons of calls about it from people wanting the reward, but none of the ones who called had a laptop with the same serial number.
McMasters’ secretary told him to go straight in. Darren found the old man standing with his back to the door, looking out the window. Darren shut the door, but waited because McMasters didn’t acknowledge his presence for a couple of minutes.
When Darren cleared his throat, the old man turned—no surprise, he’d known when Darren came in.
He indicated a chair. “Have a seat. Appreciate you coming right over.”
Darren crossed his leg, again wondering why the summons. “Actually, It sounded urgent.”
“Not really. Just wanted to talk to you. I assume you know who I am and why I paid you to protect Kayla.”
Darren puckered his lips and nodded. “Yes, I know. You’re Kayla’s father. That does explain a lot that I wondered about.”
“I hear that you and Kayla are getting along pretty well, and not in a professional relationship.”
Darren scratched beside his right eyebrow. Did McMasters decide he’d try to play the father figure now? He hadn’t talked to Kayla about this, but this situation bothered her, as it would most people. “I respect Kayla as a person and a professional. I like Kayla Nugent other than a working relationship. I’m not sure you need to know more. Do you?”
McMasters reached into his drawer, removed a box, opened it, and offered Darren a cigar. When he declined, McMasters selected one, clipped and lit it, then sent up a blue spiral of smoke.
He leaned back in his seat. “Let me tell you a few things about me. I’m an old man, as you know, and my health isn’t the greatest in the world. I could live for another fifteen years or die in the next minute.”
He took a drag on the cigar and expelled another cloud. He indicated the cigar. “Doctor told me these were going to kill me. Of course, he told me that almost forty years ago. The doctor was a couple of years older than me at the time. He died about twenty years ago.”
Darren relaxed. He hadn’t called him here to chat and he didn’t see any way to get him to hurry to the point. He inspected the bookshelves while the man pondered.
“What you may or may not know, young man. I never married, and all my family is dead. Except for Kayla, I have no one. I know, I don’t really have Kayla, either.”
He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. Without looking back at Darren, he continued. “I do hope Kayla and I can come to an understanding before I go, but I know what kind of predicament this places her in. You think I don’t know the internal turmoil she has boiling inside? I do.”
He looked at Darren now and pointed his cigar at him. “I have more money than ten people could spend if they tried to spend it all for the next thirty years. I’m not about to insult Kayla and leave it to her. If she is anything like me, and I suspect she is, she wouldn’t take it anyway.”
Darren adjusted himself in his seat—wanting McMasters to get to his point. He could care less about how much money the old man had, what he’d do with it, or anything. He bet the old man was right about Kayla, too.
“You might think I’m sitting here bragging about all my money. I planned to give most of it to charity, but I wanted you to know that I have set up a special trust fund with quite a bit of it.”
The way McMasters paused and the expression on his face caused Darren to sit straight. Something flashed in the old man’s eyes and he didn’t believe he’d like what would come next.
He pointed the cigar at Darren. “I fully believe my daughter has fallen in love with you. If you hurt her in any way, and it doesn’t matter if I’m dead or not, you will die within a month. That is a guarantee.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Darren thought about that special trust McMasters had talked about when he left the building. A contract on his life with conditions is w
hat McMasters had done. He’d hired someone and paid him, and if Darren screwed up in the eyes of the hit man, the professional would kill him. He shuddered. He thought he loved Kayla, but he didn’t know if love could erase the queasiness he now felt.
As he exited the ramp leaving the law offices, something occurred to him and he frowned. He did a U-turn and tapped on the wheel as he drove. Finding a place to park in downtown Houston proved to be a problem, but he did, and trudged up the steps of the police department.
When he asked to see Detective Satterwhite, the receptionist called, and a minute later, hit a buzzer to let Darren in and directed him to the office. Satterwhite lolled behind his desk and didn’t bother to rise when Darren entered.
“You know, Duval, you have some nerve to come here with what your boss did to me on the stand.”
Darren flopped in a seat even though no one had invited him to. “Uh-huh, she isn’t my boss, but she’s damn good.”
Satterwhite grunted. “What the hell do you want?”
Darren crossed his leg. “Actually, I’d like to ask you a favor.”
The detective’s brows arched. “I was right. Your balls must be the size of basketballs. Why would I do you a favor?”
Darren spread his hands out to the side. “Professional courtesy maybe. What could it hurt to listen to me for a minute?”
When Satterwhite told him to go ahead, Daren asked, “You know anything about Kayla Nugent’s ex-husband’s suicide?”
Satterwhite, who had reclined before now, leaned forward, head cocked. “I know everything about it. I worked it. What interest in this do you have?”
“Actually, just curious as to why he might have killed himself.”
Satterwhite didn’t say anything for several minutes, apparently sizing Darren up. He took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t talk to you about this, and if it comes back to me, I’ll make your life miserable, but he didn’t kill himself. Pure outhouse murder any way you look at it.”
“You’re shitting me. Kayla believes it was a suicide.”
“We told people when it happened that it appeared to be self-inflicted. We never believed it for a minute. We looked long and hard at your boss, but she had an unbreakable alibi. She was in the courtroom at the time of the death. The murderer did it clean, no mess—no witnesses—nothing. A professional all the way. One that doesn’t come cheap.”
