[Barbara Holloway 02] - The Best Defense

by Kate Wilhelm

  “I really do want to apologize for this,” he said, handing her the bulky file.

  “Things happen,” she said. “Thanks. But this isn’t what I called about. Please, sit down so I can.”

  “Of course,” he said agreeably. He sat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She took one facing him. “All right,” he said. “What did you call about?”

  He was wearing a lightweight suit that looked to be more silk than wool; his shirt appeared to be silk, and his tie. His hair, looking more silvery than gold today, was as fluffy as a cloud, and he had a good tan. His face was set in a pleasant expression, like the going-to-Aunt-Maud’s-tea-party expression he must have worn a lot as a youth.

  “Let me tell you what I think happened,” she said. “You found yourself saddled with Paula Kennerman’s case, not a happy situation, but there it was. A day, two days, maybe a week later, you had a talk with an established attorney here in town who made what seemed like an incredible offer. No resume required, no application, just walk out one door and in through another.” His expression had changed as she spoke; it now was rigor-mortis blank. Not a muscle on his face twitched. He could have become deaf in the last minute or so for all the response he was showing. She continued, “And this prestigious attorney said it would be a good idea for him to supervise a case or two, watch you at work, give you a pointer maybe. You leaped at the chance. Who wouldn’t? A heaven-sent opportunity, lightning now instead of having to wait a few years. Did you celebrate? I imagine you did. I would have.” She smiled slightly, then became serious again.

  “When did you suspect you were being used? When that article appeared in Dodgson’s paper? I rather imagine that your new friend suggested that Paula needed a doctor, and it happened he knew the right one for her. Is that how it worked?”

  “Enough,” he said, an edge in his voice now. “I’ve heard about enough.”

  “No, you haven’t. Not yet. I’m not finished with my summation, you see. You were taken off the case and Fairchild was put on it and you asked to supervise him, a man with more years of trial experience than you have lived. What an arrogant suggestion that was, and a suggestion that probably didn’t originate with you. Did it? But then Fairchild was removed, and there were no more opportunities to spy on Paula and the development of her case. Were you scolded? Is that why you decided to leave town for a couple of weeks? Was the offer withdrawn, Mr. Spassero?”

  He flushed and stood up. “Last week I signed a contract to continue at the public defender’s office. So much for your fairy tale.”

  “I intend to take my fairy tale to Judge Paltz,” she said quietly. “I don’t intend to start a trial in his court with this hanging.”

  “Why did you tell me all this?” he asked, halfway to the door.

  “To give you the opportunity to go to Judge Paltz yourself, to admit you were taken in, that you had no idea at the time that Doneally was Dodgson’s attorney.” He stiffened when she said the name, and she let out a breath softly and finished. “To tell him that you’ve had time to think about what happened, and realize now that you were too trusting.”

  “You’re out to get me, aren’t you? Why? Just a little game you play?”

  She shook her head and got to her feet. “If I have to go to him, he’ll question you. You will either lie or you will admit the truth; in either case you’ll be ruined. If you go, you can save yourself.” She regarded him levelly; his look had turned bitter. “I’ll call him next Monday if I haven’t heard from him by then. Good-bye, Mr. Spassero.”

  * * *

  “Barbara,” Bailey said later that day, “I can tell you a little about the truck in the pictures, but probably not enough.” He looked at Frank questioningly; from his desk, Frank waved him toward the bookshelves. Bailey wandered to the section of shelves with the volumes from T through V, and opened the little bar by pushing against Tyrants. Frank had loved it when he had that addition made to his office. Now Bailey stood considering his options.

  Bourbon, Barbara knew. It was always bourbon if he had a choice; if there was no choice, he took whatever was there. “Just tell me,” she said with a touch of impatience.

  “Sure, sure.” He poured his drink first, closed the bar, and slouched into a chair. “Either Gallead or the guy who works for him, Terry Bossert, leaves after dark now and then in the truck, a Chevy van with no windows in the back, no markings. A couple of days later, before it gets light, the truck comes back. And then leaves again four or five days later for another two-day trip. It repeats just about every six to eight weeks. And that’s it. It heads south, maybe. We know that one time, at least, it either loaded or unloaded five guys in work clothes.”

  “Unloaded,” she snapped. The enhanced pictures showed five men heading toward the open gate, where another man was standing, evidently the one who had opened the gate. No features, no identifying marks, no way could it be told who they were, but they were five in number, and they were going in.

  “You’ve been watching for more than three weeks now,” she said, thinking. “If they’re keeping to any kind of schedule, in two or three weeks the truck will take off again. Are you sure Gallead isn’t on to your men out there?” Bailey shrugged. Who could be sure? She went on. “I don’t want him to change his routine. We need to talk to one of the men, Bailey. Are they regulars or new people each time? Do they have papers? Are they electronics people, drug packagers, pornographers? What? I need one of them.”

  He shrugged again. “We’ll do what we can. No guarantees about when it leaves again.”

  Frank made a growly sound. “I think it’s time to call in proper help. The state special investigation team, or the D.A.’s special investigators, or even the Feds. We’ve got enough to interest them.”

  They had been through this before. Barbara hardly even glanced at him. “No, not yet.” She knew a lid could be clamped down hard, that nothing to do with Dodgson or Gallead would be permitted out in the open, and her own case for Paula Kennerman might well be shot out of the water.

  Bailey’s source for the Dodgson Publishing Company had said they printed everything: newspapers, magazines, posters, bumper stickers, labels, postcards, letterheads… Some jobs even in other languages. The company got a lot of business by fax and modem. He didn’t think Dodgson wrote much of the stuff he ran. Nothing new, Barbara had thought, listening gloomily to Bailey’s report; it seemed that no matter what they found out, what theories they confirmed with a witness who would testify to the truth of the theory, all she had was a series of speculations, theories strung to theories. She was afraid that even if they got one of the men who had been delivered to Gallead, what he would tell them would be nothing more than what they already knew or suspected. Still, she told herself, she had to talk to one of them.

  Bailey was being extremely cautious, they all knew. If he slipped up now, the whole operation, whatever it was, might close down overnight, everything disposed of, nothing left to point to, and there would be very hard feelings about not notifying the proper authorities, very hard feelings indeed, possibly charges. Barbara shrugged away the worry. She had to talk to one of the men.

  On Friday Judge Paltz had his secretary call her. While she waited for his voice over the phone, she wiped her hands on a tissue.

  “Barbara, how are you?” he began genially. “It’s too damn hot, isn’t it? Maybe it will break soon.”

  She assured him that she was fine and hoped he was, and then he got down to the business of the call. “I had a little chat with Bill Spassero yesterday, Barbara. I’m afraid he’s been feeling quite perturbed over what turned out to be an innocent mistake. He confessed that he was the source for that article in the Dodgson rag. Bill believed he was confiding in a valued mentor, but it seems that his confidante was instead a snake in the grass and he only recently came to understand this. He rendered his most sincere apologies, and no doubt he will be in touch with you.”

  “I’m glad that’s been settled,” she said. “It was a worry.”
>
  “Yes, yes. I know. I think that young man will go far, Barbara. It took a certain amount of courage to face up to what he had done, and he was very forthcoming about it all. He’ll go far.”

  Barbara grinned.

  Ten days to blastoff, she thought a few nights later, staring at the aerial map of the Canby Ranch, the Dodgson property, the surrounding woods…

  Time became a curious ally and enemy all at once. They had to prepare Paula for the trial; she was going to hear the most gruesome forensic details about how her child had died in a savage, inhuman attack, how severely she had been burned, the condition of her flesh, her skin, her hair… She could not face all that without preparation; no one could. If she took the stand, another question not yet settled, she would face a grueling examination by the prosecutor; she had to be prepared for that. Few people were ever subjected to the kind of questioning that the witness chair permitted for hours at a time, days at a time.

  Lucille Reiner shopped for her sister. Nothing fancy, Barbara warned her. Simple lines, no frills, washable clothes would be fine in this weather, hose, low shoes. Just keep it simple, not black, no mourning now, but not wild prints either, and long sleeves, she had added. Lucille had nodded, awed by the amount of money Barbara gave her for the purchases: three outfits, one pair of shoes, panty hose, underwear, a light-weight jacket in case the weather changed.

  There was so much to do: review all the reports, listen again to all the tapes, watch one more time the video Janey had provided, reread the Dodgson papers, returned tempo-

  rarily to Bessie’s office to his great relief. ... It all had to be done in real time, without shortcuts. The days were too short, and, strangely, tomorrow with its new reports, new bits of information, new insights, tomorrow seemed unreachable, until all at once it had been there and was yesterday.

  On Friday before Labor Day she realized how scant her own wardrobe was for this season. She hurriedly shopped for herself—two skirts, two blouses, one dress—and then she picked out a beige silk and ramie jacket that would go with everything she owned, but that wasn’t why she bought it. She wanted it because the fabric was beautiful, the garment was well tailored, well designed, and most of all or maybe even the only reason was because she loved it. She grinned at herself in the mirror modeling the jacket, and knew this was not the sort of rationale that her father would understand, and it was not exactly the best way to hold down expenses, which she had agreed to do. But she loved the jacket.

  Then, because time was behaving so mysteriously, she had the impression that she no sooner took off the jacket to have it wrapped, to pay for it, than she was putting it on again, on Tuesday morning. Countdown had come to an end.

  TWELVE

  Jury selection was completed by the lunch recess on Friday; Barbara had held out for equality, half male, half female, and that was how it ended up. She had had no illusions about finding totally neutral jurors—the public had already found Paula guilty—but she had dismissed several people whose eyes appeared too glittery, and one man for no reason that she could have stated. She had not liked him. Reason enough. This week there had been few spectators; jury selection was a boring business for voyeurs. But they would come, she knew.

  Her three student researchers were there taking notes; she suspected that Brian O’Connor had assigned them this case to follow to the end. And Lucille was there, today accompanied by a thickset man who looked uncomfortable. She brought him to be introduced during the lunch recess—her husband, Dave Reiner. Would it look bad, he asked hesitantly, if he didn’t come every day? It was hard to miss work. Barbara assured him that it was understandable, that no one would think anything of it.

  Inwardly she was seething. He believed Paula was guilty, she realized; she would have rejected him for jury duty. And she certainly did not want her jurors to read his face, read the forced smile he directed at Paula. She hoped he stayed away altogether.

  After lunch on Friday Gerald Fierst rose to address I he jury. He was in his mid-fifties, gray-haired, and wore a gray suit and a bright blue tie. He was a quiet man without mannerisms, without fidgets or tics, just a cautious, methodical, almost plodding prosecutor who, if he had a sense of humor, left it at home when he went to work every day. He would have crossed all the (s, dotted all the is, Barbara thought appraisingly.

  The evidence would prove, he said, that Paula Kennerman struck and killed her child and then set an arson fire in an attempt to hide her crime. His remarks included only one item that Barbara had not anticipated: “Paula Kennerman spilled gasoline through the lower half of the house, lighted a fire in the kitchen, and then replaced the empty gas can in the barn in an attempt to hide her crime. When she returned to the house and tried to enter, a propane tank exploded and she was thrown to the ground outside the front door…

  Barbara nodded to herself, a man who dotted the z’s. No gas can had been found near the house, something no report had mentioned.

  When it was her turn, Barbara stood before the defense table, so that in looking at her, the jurors also saw Paula, who was deathly white. Speaking quietly, she stressed the fact that the burden of proof was on the state.

  Defense would prove that Paula Kennerman had been above reproach as a parent, that her only goal in life had been to secure a decent future for her child, and that she had absolutely no motive for the murder of Lori Kennerman.

  “Defense does not have to point the finger at another person. You will hear testimony that contradicts other testimony, and it is your duty to consider the motives of all those who appear on the witness stand in this procedure. Defense does not have to prove Paula Kennerman’s innocence; it must only raise the specter of doubt that the state has proven its case.”

  When she sat down again and looked at the bench, Judge Paltz was regarding her with a remote, unreadable expression. Gone was the grandfatherly attitude, the kindly, reminiscing, old family friend; he had turned into the jurist her father had warned her about: strict, scholarly, and unflappable. He looked like a stranger.

  He thanked her courteously, thanked Gerald Fierst, and instructed the jury regarding its duty in the coming days, and then called for a recess until Monday morning at nine.

  Over the weekend Barbara stewed about the missing piece she knew was somewhere in the mass of information they had gathered. She reviewed reports and listened once more to the tape made by Christina Lorenza, the woman in Silicon Valley, whose education had been financed by Craig Dodgson. “So I said, hey, it’s yours, too, you know. And he said, yeah, sure. I’ll take care of it. Honest, I will. ... I thought he’d want me to have an abortion, but I guess even back then he was dead set against it. Anyway, he wrote out what all he’d do and signed it. But I was too sick to care very much, you know. I guess my stomach was queasy, morning sickness that went on and on. We were going up to some islands out of Seattle, and I just kept getting sick. So he gave me some Dramamine, and that helped a little but not much. Two days later I said I had to go home, I was too sick for anything, and he gave me some more Dramamine, stronger this time, and we headed back. ... I was scared, and he was, too. Then I knew I was having a miscarriage… He was really sweet to me, really caring. Brought me tea and was anxious, you know, caring, and we made it back to Spring Bay. By then I was feeling better, and we stood at the rail and tore up the paper he had written and signed, and we even laughed a little. That’s when he said he’d like to do something for me, you know, send me to school or something. And that seemed okay to me, so we agreed that he’d pay for two years of computer school, and he did.” There was a silence; Winnie asking a question? Then Christina’s voice was back: “Look, I was twenty-one and he was twenty-four, but we were like two scared little kids…”

  Winnie had believed her, and Barbara had to admit that she did, too. Dead end. A sweet Craig Dodgson was the last thing she intended to introduce at this trial.

  The weather continued hot and dry; grass was dying, leaves turning brittle on the trees; a forest fire started in
the Willamette National Forest and smoke from it drifted across the valley, making the light a peculiar dirty yellow. Bailey had nothing to report about a truck leaving Royce Gallead’s bring range.

  Sunday afternoon she had a conference with Paula and warned her again about the bad days to come. “Are you sure you don’t want to use a mild tranquilizer? It would help.”

  “Dr. Grayling said he’d give me something if I needed it. I don’t want anything. You know, I feel sort of like I have to be there, really be there, for everything. I told Janey that and she understood.”

  Barbara nodded; she understood too, all too well.

  Every morning Barbara had driven to Frank’s house and they had walked the half mile to the courthouse. On Monday morning when Frank came out to meet her, she said, “I have stuff to carry.” He looked with interest at the K-Mart plastic bag she held, along with her bulging briefcase and purse. He took the bag, hefted it, then shrugged, and they began.

  Even his shady neighborhood was muggy that morning; it would be a hot walk home. They passed Yuppie Heaven, deserted at this hour, passed the brst two-tiered parking structure where automobiles were lined up to enter, stopping traffic. Ahead, across Seventh, a bre truck was diverting traffic as it backed into the municipal building fire department. That building and the courthouse across the street from it were like a matched pair, four stories high, stable looking with old well-weathered concrete and many windows. But the bre department really shouldn’t hold maneuvers at this hour, Barbara was thinking, when Frank caught her arm in a hard grip, drawing her to a stop. They were even with the middle of the county parking lot where another line of cars had come to a halt awaiting entrance.

  Framed between two cars, visible through an opening in the stopped traffic, was the courthouse entrance where twenty-five or thirty people were milling about, shouting, some with signs: death sentence for baby killers! let baby killer kennerman hang! One man had a heavy rope tied into a noose that he carried suspended from a pole. Television crews were there in force; police had put up a barricade and were trying to keep the demonstrators behind it. The traffic light changed, the cars began to move again, and the scene was obliterated.