“Can you confirm the rumor that McNaughton’s widow has hired a hitman to take out your client?”
A woman Ben recognized as one of the evening newscasters grabbed his arm. “Are you aware that polls show over eighty percent of all Tulsa citizens believe your client is guilty? How can you continue to defend her under these circumstances?”
Ben stopped. This was one he couldn’t let pass. “You know,” he said, trying not to look into the minicams, “there’s a reason why our founding fathers instituted the jury system. It’s so the accused could be tried based on evidence, rather than based on public opinion. Because public opinion can be so easily manipulated—especially by people like you.” He gazed out into the throng. “But you can’t respect the way the system is supposed to work. You want to convict people before the trial has started. You want to hang them based on rumors and polls and the suspicions of a populace that gets its information from your slanted ratings-hungry broadcasts. Everything you do disrupts what should be a simple process and makes it more complicated. Can’t you see what a gigantic disservice you’re doing?”
Ben’s lecture did not appear to have much impact. “What can you tell us about your client’s alleged sexual perversities?” someone shouted. “Is it true the chains were a regular part of their satanic lovemaking rituals?”
Ben shook his head. It was hopeless.
“When you look in the mirror, do you see a monster staring back at you?”
Ben stopped again. This was a question he hadn’t heard before. “Only when I’ve been up all night watching Xena reruns.”
“How amusing. I guess this is all one big joke to you. A fun way to bring home a big bucket of cash. You sicken me.”
Ben turned toward the raven-haired woman positioned before the courtroom doors. She was in her midforties, although she looked younger. She was tall and still quite attractive, her beauty marred somewhat at present by her red puffy face. She had been crying—judging by appearances, for days.
Ben knew who she was, although he wished he didn’t. She was Andrea McNaughton. The victim’s wife. Widow, now.
“Mrs. McNaughton,” Ben started, “I know this must be hard for you—”
“Don’t patronize me.” She raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face. “I don’t have to take that from you.”
Ben pressed his hand against his stinging cheek. Behind her, he saw the news cameramen jockeying for position. It seemed they were going to get something special for the six o’clock news after all. “Mrs. McNaughton, I understand your feelings. But please try to understand that I have a duty—a duty to provide a zealous defense for my client.”
“Don’t try to justify your poisonous existence to me!”
Ben sighed. “Mrs. McNaughton, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t attend the trial—”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to give your conscience a break. Well, I’m not going to do it, do you hear me? I won’t let up for a moment. I’ll be in that courtroom every day. Every time you try to humiliate a witness, I’ll be looking over your shoulder. Every time you pull one of your flashy courtroom tricks, I’ll be watching. I’ll be in your dreams—and your nightmares. I’ll never let you rest.”
And a good day to you, too, Ben thought. He stepped around her and walked quietly into the courtroom.
It got easier with time, in a way. And in a way, not. Certainly he was used to the media’s efforts to encapsulate the truth in tidy melodramatic snippets, their inclination to focus on the most exploitative details. Certainly he was used to the popular denigration of defense lawyers and the all-too-easy right-wing refusal to acknowledge the importance of their work. And certainly he was used to the tumult and outrage of those close to the deceased, who inevitably assuage their grief, and possibly their guilt, by latching their hatred onto whoever the police first suspect.
It did get easier to handle. But it didn’t make him like it.
The prosecution’s first witness that afternoon was Detective Sergeant Arlen Matthews, the Tulsa P.D. detective who led the team that conducted the initial search of Keri Dalcanton’s apartment.
“After I got the warrant from Judge Bolen,” Matthews explained, “I took two uniformed officers and drove to Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment just off Seventy-first Street.”
“Was the suspect at home?” Assistant D.A. Dexter asked.
“Yes, she was.”
“Did she admit you into her apartment?”
“She didn’t want to. But I had a warrant. She didn’t have any choice.”
“So what did you do, once you were inside the apartment?”
“We split up.” Matthews was a short, compact man with a direct, no-frills demeanor. His hair was close-cropped and he had a square, slightly protruding jaw. “It was a small apartment—just a central living area, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. We each took a room.”
“What was Ms. Dalcanton doing while you and your men conducted the search?”
Matthews drew in his breath. “Throwing a hissy fit, if you know what I mean.”
Ben made a note on his legal pad. Hissy fit—was that a Tulsa P.D. term of art?
“She was screaming, calling us names, getting in the way. She scratched one of my men with her fingernails.”
“That was an accident,” Keri muttered under her breath.
“She was wild-eyed and red-faced—she’d lost it,” Matthews continued. “She was crazy-actin’. I thought she must have some kind of mental problem—either that or she was very worried about what we might find.”
Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection.”
Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. The witness will restrict his testimony to what he saw and heard—without speculating.”
“She was like a banshee,” Matthews continued, utterly unrepentant. “She jumped on me, piggyback style, trying to pull me back. She pounded me with her fists, on my chest, and the sides of my head. If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Keri murmured quietly. “They were tearing my home apart. Breaking everything in sight. They knew about me and Joe and they hated me. They were intentionally trying to humiliate me.”
Ben nodded. He understood her side of the story. But he also understood the impact this testimony was having on the jurors—every one of whom was currently staring at Keri.
“Were you able to proceed with your search?” Dexter asked, continuing the examination.
“With some difficulty, yeah. At one point, she threw herself in front of me, trying to stop me from looking under her bed.”
“Were you able to look under the bed?”
“Oh yeah. That’s where we found the proof.”
“The proof?” Dexter took a step closer to the witness stand. “What was that?”
“The suit. This black leather bondage getup. Dog collar and everything. Soaked in blood. We believe it’s what the victim was wearing when he was killed.”
“And this was found under Ms. Dalcanton’s bed?”
“You got it.”
“Did you find anything else noteworthy in the apartment?”
“Yeah. We found chains that matched those used to strap the victim to the fountain in Bartlett Square.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. We found Joe McNaughton’s badge and wallet, also under her bed.”
“I see.” Dexter turned toward the jury. Ben knew this was going to be one of those improper—and unstoppable—summations in the form of a question. “So you found bloodstained clothes, the victim’s wallet, his badge, and matching chains—all in Ms. Dalcanton’s possession.”
“We did, yes.”
“Did Ms. Dalcanton have any explanation for these discoveries?”
“Eventually. At first, she claimed she didn’t know anything, didn’t know who Joe McNaughton was, he’d never been to her place. So forth. But after we showed her everything we’d found, she began to crack. Started to confess. We read her rights, and
she waived counsel. In writing. She started crying, wailing. Kind of fell apart at the seams. Then we began to hear some truth.”
“Objection,” Ben said again.
Judge Hart nodded. “Again I will remind the witness that he is to give an account of what he saw and heard, without attempting to characterize it.”
“Sure,” Matthews grunted.
“The jury is instructed to disregard the witness’s last remark.” Hart peered sternly toward the witness box. “I do not want to have to give you this reminder again, Detective.”
“Got it.”
Dexter resumed his questioning. “How long did you interrogate Ms. Dalcanton?”
“At that time? About an hour.”
“Did you make a record of the conversation?”
“Yeah, we taped it. And I took notes.”
“Do you have those notes here with you today?”
“I do.”
“Feel free to consult them as necessary to refresh your recollection.”
“Sure.” Matthews reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Thanks.”
“Please tell the jury what Ms. Dalcanton told you on this occasion.”
He nodded. “Like I said, after we showed her everything we had, she changed her story. Admitted that she’d been having an affair with Joe McNaughton. Apparently she met him at this strip joint on Thirty-first where she works. He’d gone in with some of the boys after work one night and … one thing led to another. He was married, of course, but as you can see, Ms. Dalcanton is a seriously attractive kid, and being a stripper, she knew how to do things that … well, I don’t think she left Joe much of a chance.”
This time, Judge Hart didn’t wait for an objection. “Is that what she said, Sergeant?”
Matthews peered up. “Not in so many words, but I—”
“Seen and heard, Sergeant. That’s all we want to hear about. What you’ve seen and heard.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Judge Hart raised her gavel and pointed. “I mean it. One more slip and I will excuse you from the courtroom.”
“All right. I’ll be careful. Uh, sorry, ma’am.”
Ben was less than overwhelmed by Matthews’s display of repentance. But before he could blink twice, the prosecution had marched ahead.
“Did Ms. Dalcanton have any explanation for the presence of the victim’s badge and wallet?”
“Not really. She said that after they first met, he started coming over to her apartment a lot. To hear her tell it, she became like some kind of sex addict. She just couldn’t get enough of him, and of course, he didn’t mind too much. Toward the end, he was coming over two, sometimes three times a day.”
“And would they have sexual intercourse during these visits?”
“Oh yeah. That was pretty much all they’d do. Lots and lots of sex.”
“Did she provide any explanation for the chains and the blood-soaked garments?”
“Sort of. Said they used that stuff in their … um, sexual activities.”
“Excuse me?”
“They liked kinky sex. Kinky and rough.”
The buzz in the gallery was discernible—part dismay, part tittering.
Dexter frowned. “Very rough indeed. Judging from the quantity of blood on the leather suit. Did she provide any details regarding their … activities?”
“Your honor!” Ben said, jumping to his feet. “Relevance?”
Judge Hart nodded. “I think we’ve all got the general idea, Mr. Dexter. Let’s move on.”
“As you wish.” He glanced down at his notes. “I suppose she claimed he left the badge and wallet during one of their trysts?”
“She did. But there’s a problem with that.”
“Oh?” Dexter said, cocking an eyebrow. Ben loved the way he could appear surprised during testimony that had no doubt been rehearsed repeatedly. “What’s the problem?”
“She claimed he wasn’t at her apartment that night—the night of the murder. But several officers—including me—saw Joe at work earlier that day. And he had his badge. He couldn’t have lost it until that night after he left work. And just before he was killed.”
Dexter nodded thoughtfully. “Had there been any … alteration in the relationship? Prior to Sergeant McNaughton’s death?”
“Yeah. Joe McNaughton broke up with her just before he was killed.”
Ben knew this would be the time when the prosecution would try to establish motive. The next few minutes were not likely to be pleasant ones for the defense. Especially since the prosecution’s ultimate source was Keri’s own admissions.
“What happened?”
“According to the defendant, Joe’s wife got wind of what was going on and she read him the riot act. Told him in no uncertain terms she would divorce him and clean him out if he didn’t break it off.”
“Despite the fact that Joe McNaughton worked as a police officer, it was well known that he was quite wealthy, wasn’t he?”
“Very wealthy. Trust fund from his grandparents.”
“So McNaughton tried to break off his relationship with Keri Dalcanton.”
“That’s what she told us. He didn’t want to. He was stuck on her but good. But under the circumstances, he felt he had no choice.”
“How did Ms. Dalcanton take this news?”
Matthews thought before answering. Ben had a pretty good idea why. If he said what he wanted to say, the judge would shut him down—and possibly strike his entire testimony. He had to be more subtle.
Matthews leaned back in his chair, a grim expression set on his face. “I think the subsequent events speak for themselves.”
Dexter nodded. “Indeed. So do I.” He glanced up at the judge. “No more questions.”
Ben jumped to his feet, not waiting for an invitation from the judge. He wanted to appear eager and ready to go, as if he had many important points to make that would leave the prosecution’s case in tatters.
The truth was rather less promising. He’d listened to the audiotape of Keri talking to Matthews. He had twisted and stretched it a bit, but on all the critical points, he had accurately characterized what she said.
“Sergeant Matthews,” Ben began, “you told the jury about the clothes and the chains and the wallet. Where did you find the murder weapon?”
Matthews was nonplussed. “We didn’t find the murder weapon.”
It was Ben’s turn to feign surprise. “Excuse me? You didn’t find the murder weapon?”
“You know perfectly well we didn’t.”
“Why?”
Matthews shrugged. “Knives are small and light and fungible. They can’t be tracked or traced or registered. They’re easy to hide. Or to dispose of.”
“So she got rid of the knife but kept the bloodstained suit?”
“I dunno. Maybe she hid it somewhere.”
“Sergeant Matthews, you’ve been on the force eighteen years. Wouldn’t you say the murder weapon is a critical piece of evidence in any murder prosecution?”
“I’d say it would be nice to have. But it isn’t required. We’ve got an airtight case against your client. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Not really proper testimony, but Ben supposed he had asked for it. “Another thing I didn’t hear you mention was Keri Dalcanton’s confession, although you used the word ‘confession’ repeatedly. When did she admit she killed McNaughton?”
Matthews did his best to appear bored and unfazed by the defense tactics. “She never confessed to the killing. As you know.”
“Never confessed? But according to you, she had broken down completely and was finally telling the truth. You called it a confession. How could she possibly omit that one detail?”
“She’d broken down, but she hadn’t totally lost her mind. She wasn’t suicidal, if you know what I mean. Don’t be fooled by the stripper thing—she’s a very smart lady.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Detective, that the reason she didn’t confess might be that she didn’
t do it?”
“To be honest, yes. But how do you explain the clothes, the blood, the chains? No, she’s the one. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”
Ben heard an anguished sobbing behind him in the gallery. Even though he knew he shouldn’t look, he couldn’t resist.
It was Andrea McNaughton, the widow. Apparently this testimony had been too much for her. She was bent forward, her head pressed against her hands.
Ben returned his attention to the witness. “But she never admitted committing the murder, did she?”
“No.”
“ In fact, she denied it.”
“That’s what she said, yes.”
“But you arrested her anyway.”
Matthews allowed himself a smile. “If we never arrested people who denied committing the crime, we’d never arrest anyone.”
Good point, Ben thought. Just wish he hadn’t made it during my cross-ex. “How did you establish probable cause for the warrant?”
“Same way I always do. I told Judge Bolen everything we knew. About the relationship between Joe and the defendant. The fact that they’d been seen together and were believed to be intimate. That there was believed to have been a breakup that could give rise to a motive for murder. That we thought her car had been used to transport the body.”
“What was the scope of the warrant?”
Matthews sighed wearily. “The first warrant only gave us the right to search the defendant’s car. I realized that wasn’t good enough, so I went back and got a second warrant that allowed us to enter and search her apartment. I presented both warrants to the defendant at the appropriate time. We did everything strictly by the book. I’m telling you, counsel—you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
Wouldn’t be the first time, either. “Was Judge Bolen satisfied that you had established probable cause?”
“Evidently. He issued the warrants.”
“Then why didn’t he give you the right to search her apartment the first time?”
“It was just an oversight. What does it matter? Like I said, he issued the second warrant in due time.”
For some reason, Ben wasn’t ready to let this go. “It still seems odd—two warrants for one search.”
“There’s nothing odd about it.” Matthews was beginning to get testy. He grabbed the evidence notebook from the rail before him. “The first time, Judge Bolen gave us a warrant to search her car. See?” He held the warrant up and waved it before Ben’s face. “I didn’t even realize when I got it that it was limited to the car, but as soon as I noticed, I went back and got another warrant. See?” He held up the second one. “We had both warrants at Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment before we discovered any of the evidence. Got it?”
Murder One Page 2
