by Kate Wilhelm
Sgt. Durham: “And when you reached Mrs.
Kennerman, then what did you do?”
Annie: “I don’t know.”
Sgt. Durham: “You told her something, didn’t you?”
Annie: “Yeah, I guess so. Mom was coming.”
Sgt. Durham: “Did you tell them where Lori was.'
Annie: “Yeah. Sleeping. We watched television and she went to sleep. She sucked her thumb.”
Sgt. Durham: “And you told them that?”
Annie: “Yeah, I guess so.”
Ms. Lancaster: “Did you tell Mrs. Kennerman that?”
Annie: “Yeah. I told everybody. And me and Fern made some more crowns.”
Spassero was not quoted as asking anything.
Judge Paltz called for a ten-minute recess, and when he was gone, Paula whispered, “She didn’t tell me that. She didn’t.”
“Shh,” Barbara murmured. “We’ll get our turn. Go take a break for a minute. Remember, we’ll get our turn.”
That their turn was coming was all Paula could cling to now, Barbara thought, watching her being escorted from the courtroom by a police matron. Paula knew how damning that one little point could be: Had she known Lori was downstairs sleeping in front of the television instead of upstairs in bed? Paula was so pale—jailhouse pallor—but she walked out with her back straight and her head up. Good girl, Barbara thought at her. She was seething at Spassero, who had stood mute while that inane questioning had been taking place.
“Let’s get some coffee,” Frank said close to her ear. “The Dodgsons have arrived in force, all three of them.”
FOURTEEN
Bad timing, Barbara thought, at ten minutes before four when Kay Dodgson was called by the prosecution. She walked briskly to the front of the courtroom and swore to tell the truth, and seated herself. She was dressed in a dusty-rose, raw silk suit with perfectly dyed shoes and hose to match. Her blouse was creamy white. She had a lapel pin with rubies, and earrings with rubies, and rings on several fingers. She was trim, moved like a dancer or an athlete, very attractive, with dark hair skillfully coiffed, skin a touch too swarthy for the delicate colors she wore, but beautifully made up. The jewelry was overkill, the makeup perfect. A very rich-looking lady, Barbara thought.
But it was bad timing. Whatever Kay Dodgson said would go undisputed overnight, leaving a long time for the jurors’ minds to assimilate it, to embed it in concrete.
Gerald Fierst was not exactly deferential to her, but his tone was not what it had been with Emma and Angela, either. He treated this witness with a respect they had not received.
He led her through the background of purchasing the land, building a house, how long they had been there, what she and her husband did, the fact that their son, Craig, lived at home with them.
He led her to the day of the fire and asked her to tell, in her own words, what she had done that morning.
“Like most Saturday mornings,” she said, “Craig was swimming laps, and that morning Rich was mowing the grass when I went out to take my walk.” She filled in the rest briefly.
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, for the record, did you notice what time you left the house, when you met Angela Everts?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just didn’t notice. It was just so routine.” She looked regretful. Then she brightened and said, “Oh, yes, it had to be after eleven when I got back to the house. Mrs. Melrose had arrived; her car was parked in the driveway.”
Barbara jotted a note and handed it over her shoulder to Frank. What did she do before Dodgson? Actress? Model? Something that gave her a public poise that few people had, something that made her aware of timing, of gestures, that let her control her expression too artfully.
“Mrs. Melrose is your housekeeper?”
“She was. She always arrived punctually at eleven.”
“Very well,” Fierst said. “When you were walking, in which direction were you going when you met Angela Everts?” He finally left the table and crossed to stand in front of the jury box, so that, in facing him, she was also facing them. It was a way of saying, Now we come to the important part.
“Toward the end of the road at the pond. I was almost there.”
“And you went to the end of the road?”
“Oh, yes.”
“What did you do then?”
“As I said, I turned around and went the other way, to the other end where the pavement stops. And then I went back home.”
“So you were facing in the direction of the Canby house and the length of the road?” He crossed to the map. “Ms. Holloway has kindly furnished us with a map of the area.” There was not a trace of irony in his voice. “If you were walking this way, the entire area of the Canby property was visible to you, was it not?”
“Yes. Up to where the woods start.”
“Did you see anyone other than Angela Everts that morning?”
She shook her head. “No, I did not.” She smiled and added, “Except Rich, out on his mowing machine.”
“It has been suggested, Mrs. Dodgson, that you and your husband objected to the use of the Canby Ranch as a ref uge for women. Is that correct?”
“No,” she said indignantly. “May I explain our position?”
“By all means, please explain.”
“Well, when Mrs. Canby told us what she planned, we discussed it among ourselves at home and decided there was no harm in it as long as the women were quiet and well behaved. They might not have been the neighbors we would have chosen, but we made no objections then, and later when there were minor incidents, Rich went directly to Mrs. Canby to talk them over. We never printed a word against using the ranch like that. We never talked about it with anyone. We accepted the situation. We believe very strongly that one should have the right to use personal property in any way he chooses, without interference, unless he creates a public nuisance or a danger to others.”
She said this in a rush that left her almost breathless, as if her indignation had overwhelmed her.
“I see,” Fierst said. “Did you spy on the Canby property?”
“Of course not! We believe in the sanctity of marriage, as very few people seem to these days, and we feared that the domestic squabbles that made women run away from home might follow them to the ranch and cause trouble that could possibly spread. As it turned out, we were right.”
“Objection,” Barbara said. “I ask that the editorial be stricken from the record, and that the witness simply answer the questions put to her.”
“Sustained,” Judge Paltz said before Fierst could speak. “Everything following ‘Of course not’ will be stricken. Mrs. Dodgson, please, just answer the questions.”
“Exception, Your Honor,” Fierst said with his first show of anger.
“Noted,” Judge Paltz said. “Now, let us move on.”
“Mrs. Dodgson, did you hire someone to look out for your property?”
“Not hire, not in the usual sense in that she was a paid employee on a regular basis. We asked a neighbor to keep an eye out for trouble and let us know if there was any when we weren’t there ourselves to protect our property. That certainly is not spying.”
“Did you pay her?”
“We gave her a little something now and then. Certainly. She is practically bedrid—”
“Objection!” Barbara snapped.
“Sustained. Mrs. Dodgson, just answer the questions,” Judge Paltz said in a voice so soft and low it sounded ominous.
“Mrs. Dodgson, are you acquainted with Paula Kennerman?” Fierst asked, as courteous as before, but without the note of deference.
“No. I never laid eyes—” She glanced at the judge, clamped her lips, and shook her head.
“Did you know Lori Kennerman?”
“No.”
“No more questions,” Fierst said and nodded to Barbara. His face was expressionless.
So he disliked his witness, Barbara thought as she rose. Too bad. But stitch by stitch
he was sewing up the Canby property nice and tight.
Before she could speak, Judge Paltz said, “In light of the hour we will adjourn until nine tomorrow morning.” It was four-forty.
“Be careful with him,” Frank murmured after the judge left, and the others in the courtroom rose and started the usual buzz. “Lewis doesn’t like her and her crew, and that will make him be fairer than fair.”
She nodded. Like Angela, she remembered, stopping just because she disliked Mrs. Dodgson so much. She turned to give Paula a few words of encouragement. “Still their inning, but hang in there. I intend to fry that … woman.”
“Bitch,” Paula muttered.
“You got it. See you in the morning.”
Outside, the police were keeping the demonstrators back with ropes. There seemed to be a lot of uniforms, and a lot more yelling people, still with signs that waved back and forth dangerously. They could brain each other, Barbara thought with disgust. She ignored the TV cameras, the news reporters shouting questions. The bailiff went with them to introduce their driver, Heath Byerson, a cheerful lanky police sergeant, out of uniform for this mission. “You tell me where to, and that’s it,” he said when they entered his car.
“Home,” Frank said, and gave the address.
“Okay. We’ll just drive around a few minutes first.” He whistled softly between his teeth as he drove in the wrong direction.
“I need to get out of these clothes and take a long brisk walk, maybe even a run, and I have to look up something at the office,” Barbara said.
“You will need dinner eventually. Pick you up at the office later? Seven-thirty?”
She nodded. She could almost see the citation she wanted.
“What I need is a glass of very good wine,” Frank said as they drew near his house.
Heath Byerson slowed down and surveyed the street carefully before he stopped. “See you in the morning. Quarter to nine okay?”
They said it was and got out; he left.
“Honey, if you tell me what it is you want to look up, maybe it will come to mind,” Frank suggested when they walked to her car in his driveway.
“Back East somewhere, a witness lied so often that finally all his testimony was thrown out. State appellate upheld the decision. That’s all I can think of right now.”
“You mean Stanley,” Frank said with a grin. “Good old Stanley. State of Rhode Island versus Stanley, back around ’forty-eight or so. Everyone knows good old Stanley.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek.
As she got into her car, he said, “Bobby, the catch to Stanley is that first you have to prove the lies. Remember that.”
“How many does it take?”
“More than one or two. Pick you up around seven?”
She nodded and drove home.
Bill Spassero was waiting for her at her house. She recognized him instantly; at least, she corrected herself, she recognized his hair, which looked like a dandelion gone to seed. He was on the porch, stiffly upright, watching a neighborhood happening: a dozen or more people had gathered to paint the Delgados’ house. There was loud music from a boom box, a keg of beer on a table, and a lot of children running around. She waved to her neighbors, and Spassero came down to meet her at the car door.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. I just feel we should talk, if you’re not too beat.”
“I’m going to change clothes and take a long walk,” she said, heading for the house with him at her side. “That’s about all I’m in the mood for. Sorry.” Now she saw his car, a low, sleek Nissan-something that cried money.
“Let me walk with you, then.”
She eyed his expensive suit and shoes. “You’re not really dressed for a walk on the bike path, are you?”
He nodded. “I’ll wait here and let you decide. Okay?”
She shrugged and entered her house and locked the door behind her. Now what? she thought irritably.
She took off her silky jacket and hung it up, eyeing it with dismay. Of course, it would wrinkle like that, she told herself, and took it to the bathroom to steam later. She would have to press it, she knew, and pretended not to know. She hung up her skirt and tossed the blouse and panty hose into her laundry basket and dressed again, this time in jeans and a T-shirt. When she went back out, ready for a brisk walk, he was waiting.
She led the way, set the pace, and he stayed at her side without speaking. She didn’t look to see if he was taking in his surroundings. The hell with it, she thought, but if she had spoken, she would have said, This is where most of your clients come from, bozo. Look! In silence they crossed the train tracks; a short distance away a freight train was being tortured with great crashes and screams of metal on metal. She had not heard the switching yards for a long time; today it was eerie, like being in a futuristic world where the metal beasts were dominant and coupled with shrieks of anguish. At last they reached the bicycle path, which led off in both directions. She turned left. The path paralleled the river, and they had to keep to the edge because of the cyclists, the people running dogs on leashes, and hordes of teenagers who appeared in a dead heat and passed them the same way. It was relatively cool here, and the river sparkled and was beautiful, giving no hint of the continuing drought that was plaguing the county. A pall of smoke discolored the sky.
At last he said, “I keep thinking that any day now you’ll tell me what you want.”
She didn’t respond. She was walking faster than she would have done if she were alone; a film of sweat covered her arms; she could feel it on her face, down her back. It felt good.
“I keep trying to figure it out,” he said. “I looked you up. I know everything there is to know that’s public knowledge, and it’s no help.”
“Look, Mr. Spassero, I don’t want anything. So you can go now.”
“Why did you do it, then?”
She nodded to a man and woman approaching. The man had a small boy on his shoulders; the child had both hands full of the man’s hair. They were all grinning.
“I tossed a coin,” she said. “Heads you were in collusion, which I probably never could prove; tails you were bone ignorant. Tails won. I’d have done the same thing for a kid brother. Now go home.”
“I’m thirty-two,” he said.
“You’ve been sheltered.”
“That’s true. Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“No.”
“But I want to. The day after I got the Kennerman case Doneally showed up. You called it: They had been watching me; they were interested; they wanted a new man in the office, the whole works. I was flattered. And, yes, bone ignorant. It simply never occurred to me to question why this had come up now.”
Barbara maintained her steady, too-fast pace and didn’t even glance at him. Now and then she nodded at others on the path, and now and then moved aside to let others pass her, and now and then noted the ripeness of the blackberries that still clung to the brambles that were thick along the side of the path.
“Okay,” he said, “I should have suspected something; I can see that now, but there wasn’t any reason to at the time. I thought Kennerman was guilty. I still think she’s guilty. I believed Doneally was giving me guidance; no one had ever done that before. Doneally told me Copley was his own doctor; I never even questioned what he was prescribing.”
He lapsed into silence, and she began to get a sense of how difficult this was for him.
“Then, after you got the case, I took the file and went away to think. I read everything again and again, and it still didn’t make sense, not until I got back and did a little research on Dodgson and found out that Doneally was his attorney.”
She looked at him now. He was walking steadily, his gaze on the ground before him, frowning.
“I still don’t understand it,” he admitted. He caught her arm. “Could we take it a little slower? This isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done, and I need all my breath.”
>
She slowed down thankfully.
“So I called Doneally and told him I’d reconsidered and decided to stay on at the public defender’s office. He said that was just as well, because they had decided not to expand after all, not just now.”
She remained silent. He had not told her a thing she had not already known or guessed. She waited for the hook.
“Then you did what you did. Judge Paltz was really very generous, you know? I didn’t expect that. I met him in the hall a couple of days ago and he asked me if I’d spoken to you.”
Now we have it, she thought, regret tinged with bitterness. If the judge asked again, he could answer yes and look schoolboy innocent.
When he spoke the next time, his words were slower, more hesitant. “I realized that you hadn’t said a word to him when he called you. I didn’t expect that, either.”
He touched her arm again and stopped walking; she stopped also. “Look,” he said, “I know I’m bugging you. You need time alone, to think, to relax. I’m sorry. I just want to tell you that I’m extremely grateful. Not that I won’t still be waiting to see what you want, but there it is. I’m grateful. Thank you.” He looked as if those words cost him more than he could pay. Abruptly, he turned and almost ran in the opposite direction.
She watched him for a second or two, and then continued on her walk. What was he after?
Later, when she told her father about the meeting, he said, “Maybe he said what’s on his mind—he’s sorry, he was wrong.”
“Right,” she said. “Why didn’t he come forward when he knew what was up?”
“Scared, probably. A decade of life gone down the tube. When you’re his age, a decade is one third of your life. That’s hard.”
She made a snorting sound that even to her ears sounded exactly like the kind of noise he made when disgusted.
“You know,” he went on, “most of the time it’s easy enough to spot when you’ve made an enemy, but it takes a lot of experience to recognize when you’ve made a friend.”
