Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller

by Clifford Irving

  "They are usually dark. Not very tall."

  "You are dark too, Mrs. Singh, and not very tall," Warren said, in his quietest audible voice. "I suspect your husband is also dark. Is either of you Hispanic?"

  "Most definitely not," she replied.

  "Do you have anything against Hispanics?"

  "Not in any particular way."

  Warren pounced: "You have something against them in a general way, is that what you're telling us?"

  "It is just that I have noticed that many of the unemployed and homeless men in our city are of Latin origin."

  "Just one thing more, Mrs. Singh." He saw her relax. "At 8 P.M. the parking lot outside your dry cleaners is relatively dark, isn't it?"

  "There are lights."

  "Are they bright?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the station wagon parked directly under one of them?"

  "Not precisely. But it was not too far away."

  "Yes or no, Mrs. Singh. Was it parked directly under one of them?"

  "No."

  "Do you know how far apart those lights are spaced in the parking area?"

  "Goodness, not really."

  "Would you say they're placed more than a hundred feet apart?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Singh, that they're approximately one hundred and twenty feet apart from one another along the outer perimeter of the parking area?"

  "I do not know."

  "Do you know how far the nearest light is from where you sat in the front of your store?"

  "It is not far."

  "How far is 'not far,' Mrs. Singh?"

  "I am not exactly sure."

  "Isn't it true, Mrs. Singh, that the nearest light is approximately forty-five feet from where you sat?"

  "That may well be."

  "And isn't it true, Mrs. Singh, that the station wagon was parked at least twenty feet from the base of the nearest lamp?"

  "That also may be."

  "You came from the back of the laundry a minute or two after you heard the gunshot?"

  "Yes."

  "Your husband was operating the dry cleaning machines in the back?"

  "Yes."

  "And it was hot and steamy back there?"

  "Oh, yes, near the presses, always."

  "Did you wipe your glasses, Mrs. Singh, to get the fog off them, before you looked out into the parking lot and saw the man running away?"

  "I do not remember."

  "The man who was running away, you saw him clearly?"

  "Quite clearly."

  "Mrs. Singh, in the Queen's English, which you learned in Jaipur and still speak, does the word 'quite' mean very, or does it mean sort of?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "When I asked you if you could see well at a distance without your glasses, you answered, 'Quite well.' And yet your glasses are to help you see things at a distance, aren't they?"

  "Yes, exactly."

  "So what you meant when you said 'Quite well' was really 'Fairly well' — isn't that so, ma'am?"

  "That is possible."

  "When Ms. Goodpaster asked if you saw the man's face when he turned toward you, and you replied, 'Quite clearly' — you actually meant 'fairly clearly.' Isn't that true, ma'am?"

  "I could see him," Singh said. "He was dark and scruffy-looking."

  "A Hispanic."

  "Well, I am not sure of that now."

  Warren took a shaky breath and paused to let that register with the jurors.

  "And then later, when Ms. Goodpaster asked if you were certain that the man you picked out of the police lineup was the same man whom you saw 'quite clearly' in the parking lot, you replied that you were 'quite certain.' You meant fairly certain, didn't you, Mrs. Singh?"

  "He was quite similar," Siva Singh replied softly, "if he is not the same man. And if he is not, then I am so terribly sorry. I will not forgive myself."

  "Do you think he will forgive you?" Warren asked.

  Mrs. Singh did not answer.

  He was torn between ending right there and going on. There were other areas to cover, but he was afraid now that they would prove anticlimactic. He glanced at the jury. They were with him. They would not forget.

  Just a little bit more, he told himself. He wanted to show the jury that Dan Ho Trunh could easily have been followed to the dry-cleaning establishment by someone who knew his habits. A red herring, but he needed it. There was the matter of the murder weapon in Hector's possession, a fact that he could not cast doubt upon the way he had cast doubt upon Siva Singh's positive identification.

  "Mrs. Singh, was Dan Ho Trunh also a regular customer, like Mrs. Morrison?"

  The witness brightened. The ordeal seemed to be over.

  "Yes, he came once a week. He picked up and delivered his things at the same time. A very neat man indeed. He was also a most satisfied customer, as Mrs. Morrison is."

  None of the jurors smiled at that now.

  "Mr. Trunh came always on the same day?" Warren asked.

  "That is correct. On Friday evening."

  "Let's say between 5 and 8 P.M.?"

  "That is correct."

  "And May 19 was a Friday?"

  "I believe that is correct."

  Thiel had testified that some dirty shirts had been found in the back of the station wagon. Warren was not quite sure where to head from here; he decided to amble along a little while until it came to him. If it did.

  "Do you know what he was going to deliver to you that evening, Mrs. Singh?"

  "No, sir — how could I know that?"

  "Which laundry or dry cleaning of his was in your store, that he was going to pick up? If you remember."

  "Ah, I do indeed remember," she said happily. "Five white button-down shirts, a gray suit, and a gentleman's green cotton sweater. He had left them with us the week before. They were picked up and paid for on Monday."

  Warren said, "I'm confused. Do you mean the Monday before the murder?"

  "No, sir. The Monday following."

  Warren frowned, still a little puzzled. "You mean they were picked up by Mrs. Trunh, or one of her family?"

  "It was most definitely not Mrs. Trunh or one of her family," Singh said. "But he had the proper ticket."

  Warren said, "I won't keep you much longer. Now, going back to Mrs. Morrison when you found her kneeling beside the car—" He stopped.

  "Wait a minute. Who had the proper ticket, Mrs. Singh? Who picked up the shirts and suits and sweaters?"

  "I had never seen him before," Singh said.

  "Describe him!" Warren demanded.

  Siva Singh looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  "Do your best," Warren begged.

  "I should say he was of medium height. Poorly dressed. He smelled dreadfully of alcohol."

  "Was he Hispanic?"

  She hesitated. "I cannot say with certainty."

  "Was he Asian?"

  "Most definitely not."

  "Was he black?"

  "No." She looked down into Warren's hot eyes. A little frightened by what she saw, she drew back a few inches into the safety of the witness chair. "He had the proper ticket," she bravely explained. "He paid."

  Warren wanted to hug her and kiss her. He wanted to dance around the courtroom and click his heels in the air.

  But he calmed himself. He said, "Thank you, Mrs. Singh. I have no further questions right now—" He turned swiftly to look up at Judge Parker. "But I ask that this witness remain on call today in the courthouse. And I would like a conference, your honor, in chambers."

  Light-headed, his mind spinning through the possibilities, Warren paced the floor of Judge Parker's chambers, moving in and out of dusty blocks of light that beamed through the high windows. The smell of fresh coffee, provided by the bailiff, filled the room.

  Warren halted and said emphatically, "I want to take Dan Ho Trunh's widow on a short voir dire, out of hearing of the jury. I'll ask her just one question. Did she or any member of her family ev
er have the dry cleaning ticket in their possession? If the answer is no, and I believe it will be no, then this is not a capital murder case. Some unknown white man stole Dan Ho Trunh's wallet, probably from his dead body, and three days later that same unknown man picked up the clothing. And he probably saw the murder take place."

  "What makes you think that?" Goodpaster asked. From a corner of the room, leaning against the bookcase, she was frowning. Warren suddenly understood why. His unspoken assumptions revealed that he knew something that no one else in the room knew.

  "Because Siva Singh heard the gunshot. A minute or two later she went to the front of the store, and there was the man leaning into or out of the car window. The woman's a lousy eyewitness, but she ain't completely blind. So whatever this guy was or wasn't doing, he was there. I mean, he was in the parking lot when Trunh was shot."

  Guardedly, the prosecutor said, "Let's assume for the moment that's all true. Why aren't you suggesting to us that this unknown man shot and killed Trunh?"

  "Well, he may have. Maybe he did." Warren had difficulty looking Nancy Goodpaster in the eye.

  "And why couldn't Quintana have shot Trunh and thrown the wallet away after he took the money out of it? Somebody else could have picked it up and made off with the laundry ticket."

  "There are a lot of possibilities," Warren said, "but only one set of facts." He turned to the judge, who sat behind her desk, still in her robes, chain-smoking. "However it turns out, if the widow never had possession of the dry cleaning ticket, I've got to find this man. I'll need a continuance. At least a week." He cracked his knuckles and flexed the muscles in his back. "I start trial this Monday in the Ott case. I'll need whatever time it takes to finish up in the 342nd."

  The judge tapped a blunt finger on her calendar book. "You expect me to tell this jury to go home and spin their wheels for two weeks?"

  "If that's what it takes," Warren said, "yes, I surely do."

  "You've got a hell of a nerve. I'm going to think on this," the judge said calmly. "Meanwhile, you take the Trunh woman on voir dire and ask your question. Maybe you won't hear the answer you want to hear and that'll put an end to this ruckus. Is she still in the courtroom?"

  "She'd better be," Warren said.

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  The bailiff provided a fresh pot of coffee for the jury, sequestered now in the jury room next to the court coordinator's office. In the courtroom, Mai Thi Trunh settled once more in the witness chair. Warren reminded her that she was still under oath even though the jury was not present.

  No, she said quietly, she had never seen the dry-cleaning ticket. She had forgotten all about it. Normally her husband carried such things in his wallet.

  "Permission to approach the bench!" Warren headed there, Goodpaster close behind.

  "Let's keep this off the record," Judge Parker said, waving away the court reporter who normally hovered nearby, her stenograph on a high tripod. The judge, the prosecutor, and counsel for the defense formed a tight huddle.

  Warren declared, "Your honor, based on the existence of a vital witness, I request a continuance until I finish the Boudreau trial."

  "No, I can't allow that," Judge Parker said.

  "I beg your pardon. What did you say?"

  "You're not deaf, counselor. If you want to halt this trial to produce a new witness, you've first got to show me that his testimony is relevant, material, and necessary. You can't do that. You don't know what this man will say, or if he even exists. And you have to show me a reasonable expectation that you can find him. How are you going to do that? You don't know his name, where he lives or what he looks like. He could have left town."

  With cold fury Warren said, "I know he's white and resembles Hector Quintana. He's probably a bum, so he won't leave town. I know he's got the victim's clothes and might be wearing them. I know that a man's life may depend on my finding him. And I will find him."

  "Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I have to balance your chances against the problem of letting this jury stew for ten days or more and forgetting every damn word they've heard. I might have to pick a whole new jury. Aside from that, when I get back from vacation, my docket is full."

  With a new jury, Warren realized, he would lose all that he had gained. Goodpaster would explain to Siva Singh the error of memorizing a description. He would have a new witness on the stand.

  Trying to bridle his rage, Warren gripped the edge of the bench. "The jury won't forget. As for your docket, your honor, that's your problem. You'll have to rearrange things."

  "No chance of that," Parker said. "I've ruled, and that's final. Let's get on with this trial."

  Warren said sharply, "I want the rest of this on the record." He beckoned to the court reporter, who obediently moved forward, fingers poised on the keys of her machine. "Your honor, I'm formally asking you to recuse yourself on this case. Step down. I want a new trial with a new judge."

  The judge bared her teeth. She took a few quick little breaths, like a sprinter in the blocks. "On what grounds?"

  "On the grounds of prejudice from the bench."

  "Because I overruled most of your damn fool objections? Because I won't let you hunt for a phantom witness? Wake up and smell the coffee, counselor. You're out of line again!"

  They were no longer whispering. The entire courtroom could hear.

  "Because of all that," Warren lashed back, "and a lot more. Because the first time we met to talk about my taking this case, you told me not to waste your court time. Hurry it up and plead it out, it's a whale in a barrel for the state — your exact words. You weren't supposed to know the facts of the case, but you weren't deaf or blind. And you repeated that in front of me and the prosecutor three weeks later. You thought we had our signals straight. Forty years pen time was a good deal for a man who claimed he was innocent! You threatened that if I went to trial with Quintana, I'd never get an appointment in your court again. You were out of line then. That's a clear violation of judicial canons. That's what you get away with, day in and day out, but not with me. I refuse to continue in this courtroom. I'm walking out."

  Quietly and coldly, Judge Parker said, "I can hold you in contempt now. Your reputation stinks. A contempt citation would stand up."

  "Try it. I have a witness right here." He flicked a finger at Nancy Goodpaster. "She remembers."

  Confidently, Judge Parker turned to her chief prosecutor. "You don't remember any of that, do you, Nancy?"

  Goodpaster took an unsteady breath, and said, "Yes, I do."

  The judge's face turned a mottled pink. "I said what he says I did? You claim you heard that?"

  "Yes," Goodpaster said. "You said it all, your honor."

  The judge spun on the court reporter. "Get out of here! This is off the record. All of it was off the record."

  The court reporter retreated in haste.

  Warren said quietly, "If you won't recuse yourself voluntarily, I'll file a motion in another court for your recusal. Right now, this afternoon. We'll have an open hearing. I've never been disrespectful to a judge, but there's a first time for everything. I'll nail your ass to the wall."

  "Fuck you, counselor," Judge Parker whispered. Her eyes were the color of smoking charcoal. She adjusted her robes. She drummed her fingers again on the court calendar. Warren glanced up at the wall clock behind the bench. It said nine minutes to three. In steady, silent jerks, the second hand worked its way around the white face. A minute passed.

  Judge Parker said, "Look for your witness. The law requires you to exercise due diligence. If you can't find him before your other trial's finished, that's it. We resume. Same jury."

  "Thank you, your honor," Warren said cordially.

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  When he left the courtroom at a quarter to four, Johnnie Faye was waiting for him in the corridor by the water fountain. She looked tired, he thought. Her lipstick was fresh but some of the makeup had faded. Her broad white hat was slightly askew.

  Warren asked, "You
were there?"

  "I heard it all. You were real good with that Indian lady. And you've got guts — I heard you blast that judge too. I picked the right lawyer."

  "Thank you," he said flatly.

  "Can we go have a cup of coffee and talk?"

  "Not now. I have work to do."

  "When are we going to talk about my case, counselor?"

  "Monday morning at eight o'clock in Bingham's courtroom. We'll be picking the jury and we'll want your help."

  "You're going out now to hunt for this guy that Mrs. Mahatma Gandhi says was in the parking lot?"

  "Yes."

  "Good luck," she said. "Oh, by the way," she asked innocently, "how should I dress on Monday for court?"

  Warren looked her up and down. If she wore what she was wearing now, any jury would give her sixty years without parole. "Wear what you'd wear for church," he said.

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  That evening, after he had changed into jeans and poured a drink, he saw in the bathroom mirror the bleary, red-eyed look of a lawyer on trial. I need time out, he decided. A little injection of good energy before I start hiking around town in search of a man who might not be there. There were five full days before jury selection began. He punched out Maria Hahn's number. Ten minutes later, with Oobie curled in the back seat gnawing on a tennis ball, he drove out to Maria's condo near River Oaks. On the way he stopped off to buy a bottle of decent zinfandel.

  Maria cooked lasagna. She wore old jeans and a blue cotton cowboy shirt with nothing underneath it except flesh. When she got up from the kitchen table to bend over and check the oven, he found himself staring like an adolescent at the globes of her buttocks pressed against the worn jeans. There, or at least in the vicinity, he thought, is Nirvana and Lethe all in one package. Could life be that simple?

  "How did it go for you today?" she asked while they ate.

  "Good." He gave her a synopsis.

  "So now you have to find this guy."

  He waited until he finished chewing a mouthful of lasagna. "But not tonight."

  "You have a plan?"

  He knew that she loved plans. "I'll come up with one," he promised.

  "You need help? Like a wheel man?"

  "The last time you were my wheel man it didn't work out so well. Next time I might get killed."