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

by Clifford Irving

  "You're really able to do that?"

  "Of course."

  "And you have to move back and forth between your different customers, don't you, to take new orders and mix drinks?"

  "Yes."

  "So you weren't watching Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau all the time, were you?"

  "No."

  "Do you listen to all your customers' private conversations?"

  "Of course not."

  "You're too busy, isn't that true?"

  "That is true."

  "And you certainly weren't listening to Dr. Ott and Ms. Boudreau all the time they talked, isn't that true?"

  "Yes, that is true."

  "However, you did hear an argument between them?"

  "Yes."

  "But you didn't hear every single word of that argument, did you?"

  "I cannot say. The bar is noisy."

  "So that if Dr. Ott had cursed at Ms. Boudreau, or insulted her before she cursed at him, you might not have heard it — isn't that a fact?"

  "That is possible," Sanchez said.

  "Have you heard many arguments at your bar in your long experience as barman?"

  "Many."

  "Did you ever hear one person argue with himself or herself?"

  "I don't understand."

  "Strike the question. How many people does it take to argue?"

  "Two," Sanchez said.

  "No further questions."

  Daniel Villareal, the table waiter, took the stand. He had served six margaritas at the table, he told Altschuler: three to the gentleman and three to the lady. The lady had ordered them. The lady, he noticed, only drank one of hers. She pushed the others across the table to the gentleman.

  "And he drank them?"

  "I didn't see him drinking all of them, but all the empty glasses were in front of him."

  "What did the lady drink during all that time?"

  "A lot of water. I had to fill her glass twice."

  Warren looked at the jury and for the first time understood how clever Altschuler had been in selecting them. The women jurors all had a certain prim look. They would assume that seven or eight margaritas would put a man under the table, at least make his head reel. Certainly render him incapable of halting the exit through an eighteen-foot-wide vestibule of a woman ten years younger, a hundred pounds lighter, and in control of her faculties.

  Johnnie Faye's face at the defense table was as wooden as the plank on which she rested her elbows. Rick whispered in Warren's ear, "We're getting killed. Don't do any cross on this guy either. It'll only get worse."

  "I've got to try," Warren said.

  He asked the waiter, "Please describe Dr. Ott."

  "A big man. Lot of hair, going gray. Red cheeks."

  "Did he tip well?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Then you had waited on him before?"

  "Yes."

  "He always drank a lot, didn't he?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he ever fall down or stumble?"

  "No."

  "Did he become incoherent? Did he talk in a way that you couldn't understand him?"

  "No."

  "Have you noticed that big men who are regular heavy drinkers have a greater capacity for alcohol than is normal?"

  "Objection," Altschuler interrupted. "Calls for an opinion."

  "Sustained."

  "No further questions," Warren said.

  Altschuler called the last witness for the state: Harry T. Morse. A middle-aged man with thinning hair and a beaked nose, Morse identified himself as the assistant manager of Western America, a pistol and rifle practice range seven miles north of the city. They also sold guns and ammunition.

  Morse carried a bundle of papers wrapped in rubber bands, and Warren wondered what they were.

  "Do you see anyone in this courtroom who ever came to Western America, Mr. Morse? Besides myself to interview you, that is."

  "Yes, two people. That woman in the gray suit is one — the woman sitting over there." He pointed to Johnnie Faye Boudreau. "And the judge is the other."

  Judge Bingham clapped a hand to his lined brown forehead. He carried a .38 Saturday Night Special in his waistband. He had been threatened several times by convicted felons, and someone had once pulled a knife on him in front of his church.

  "Never mind the judge," Altschuler said, smiling. "We'll concentrate on the lady in the gray suit. Why are you so sure it's she whom you saw at Western America?"

  "Object as to relevance," Warren said desperately. He remembered asking Johnnie Faye if she had ever practiced with the pistol. "Once, five years ago, when I bought it. I don't even think I hit the target more than two or three times." He had a feeling that was about to be contradicted.

  "Overruled. You can answer, sir."

  "Good-looking lady," Morse said. "Kind of memorable."

  Morse said that he had seen her practice at least twice at the pistol firing range.

  "Did you observe what kind of pistol she used?"

  "She had three. A .32-caliber Diamondback Colt, an ivory-handled Colt .45, and what looked like a .22-caliber semiautomatic."

  Warren's heart beat a little faster in his breast. He leaned forward intently, resisting the urge to look at Johnnie Faye.

  "Three?" Altschuler's mouth gaped in feigned surprise.

  "Yes, sir."

  "How are you able to identify those three guns so positively, Mr. Morse?"

  "She laid them down on the counter when she registered to shoot. I noticed them. We don't get that many ladies, and I never saw one bring three pistols before."

  "When did all this take place?"

  "The first time, maybe a year or so ago. The last time, not so long ago."

  "Can you be more specific about the last time?"

  "Wish I could. April or May's my best guess."

  "Don't guess. Think about it. When was the last time?"

  "Late April. Maybe early May."

  Johnnie Faye pushed a note at Warren. Do something!!

  Without taking his eyes from the jury, he wrote under her words: Nothing to do — yet.

  Altschuler said, "Mr. Morse, do you have your registration sheets for the last eighteen months with you today in court? I'm referring to the names and addresses the people give to you when they come to practice at Western America.

  Morse offered the thick bundle of papers wrapped in rubber bands, and they were entered into evidence for the state.

  "Have you and I studied those registration sheets together, Mr. Morse? On two separate occasions?"

  "Sure have," Morse said.

  "Does the name Johnnie Faye Boudreau appear anywhere on those sheets?"

  "No, sir. And we looked hard for it."

  "Can you account for that, Mr. Morse?"

  "Well, I saw her sign in each time. So she must have used a fake name."

  Warren objected as to relevance; he was overruled.

  "Just a few more questions, Mr. Morse, and then you can go back to Western America." Altschuler walked over to the jury box, where, one hand on the railing, he paused for dramatic effect. "Did you ever watch the lady in the gray suit — the lady sitting over there, who is the defendant in this murder case — shoot with her three pistols at the targets on your range?"

  "Both times. I was interested."

  "And what did you observe?"

  "She hit that bull's-eye a lot. Almost always hit the target."

  "Was she equally skilled with each weapon?"

  "She had trouble with the .45. It has a lot of kick. It's an army weapon."

  "You saw her fire the semiautomatic .22?"

  "Yeah, but it wasn't semiautomatic. Probably had the sear filed down. You pull the trigger and don't let go, it goes right on shooting."

  "In your opinion, based on your eyewitness expert observation, was she comfortable with that .22? Did it look like she was aware of its automatic capability?"

  "She was aware. She looked comfortable, like she knew what she was doing. Bang bang bang.
Like it was fun."

  "Pass the witness," Altschuler said, glaring at Johnnie Faye Boudreau.

  Hopeless, Warren thought. He had a client who never told him the truth. But he strode forward with confidence into the well of the courtroom, halting a fair distance before Harry T. Morse.

  "Sir. You just said that Ms. Boudreau fired the pistol like it was fun. You did say that, didn't you?"

  "I may have."

  "Did you or didn't you? I can have the record read back to you if you're confused."

  "I said it," Morse replied, glowering a little. "I'm not confused."

  "What's your definition of fun, sir?"

  "Having a good time, I guess."

  "Do you equate having a good time with serious intent?"

  "Not usually."

  Warren glanced at the jury. Their faces were like stone.

  "You do have people who come to Western America just to have a good time, don't you?"

  "Sure."

  "You wouldn't characterize your customers as potential murderers, would you?"

  "Hell, no," Morse said.

  "You wouldn't characterize Judge Dwight Bingham as a potential murderer, just because he goes to your firing range to practice with his pistol?"

  "Absolutely not," Morse said. "The people have a right to bear arms. Says so in the Constitution. Can't bear arms safely unless you know how to use them."

  "Thank you, Mr. Morse. No more questions."

  Altschuler stood and said gravely, yet with an air of triumph: "The state rests its case."

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  The clouds were low-lying, the sky elephant-gray. A tornado danced along the western regions of the county. At five o'clock Warren and Rick ducked into a small Greek restaurant near the courthouse, where Warren ordered a Greek salad and an espresso. He had not eaten lunch and he was hungry. Rick drank a double scotch on the rocks.

  "Look, here's the problem," Rick said. "Despite all the shit that got thrown at us today, our case hinges on whether or not the jury will believe the dragon lady when she gets up there to testify. She says Clyde threatened her life, and now it turns out she threatened his life. She says she was drunk and had no way to get out of the house — the restaurant people say she was sober and kept shoving drinks across the table at Clyde, and Tommy Ruiz swears you could have driven a Mack truck on either side of the good drunken doctor through that hallway. She says Clyde was coming at her with the poker — the medical examiner claims he was shot standing still. Worse, Kulik says there should be palm prints. Then this last guy gets up there and paints Miss Corpus Christi as a cross between Annie Oakley and a moll from Murder Incorporated. And we still haven't got to that funny little business of the poker winding up on the wrong side of the sofa. What I'm saying is, the black widow is headed for life in the penitentiary. If we want to win this case, you have to talk to her. You do want to win it, don't you?"

  Warren had no idea how to answer with any full measure of truth. Rick was an energetic man who always did his best. And yet he was no moralist. A younger lawyer in his office had once asked him, "Do your clients call you Rick or Mr. Levine?" Rick had replied, "Depends on the size of the fee. If it's high enough, they can call me asshole."

  In the restaurant Warren put down his espresso and asked, "Do you remember when we first started out? When we passed the bar and took the oath? Do you remember how we felt?"

  "I was scared," Rick said.

  "So was I, but that's not what I mean. I felt I was on the side of the angels, a regular little Don Quixote. We were going to help people and have a good life at the same time. Be proud. We used to talk about the philosophy of justice, remember? I felt I was going to do so much. You did too."

  "Yes," Rick said, "I remember that."

  "And now we deal with scumbags, we help scumbags stay out of jail. Because it pays. Because it's a job."

  "Your client, this Hector, doesn't sound like a scumbag—"

  "He's not. He tried to rob a Circle K with an unloaded gun, but he's a decent man. Of course, I thought that about Virgil Freer. I'm older now. Maybe I make better distinctions."

  "That's the answer." Rick nodded sagely. "Grow older. Make better distinctions."

  Warren said, "I wish that I owned a shoe store like my grandfather. The worst you can do is pinch someone's bunions."

  "No, you don't wish that. You love what you do, just like me, even when you hate it. Keeps you off the streets. You just wish life was simple black and white. But it's not. Never will be." Rick allowed himself the whisper of a sigh. "I know what you mean, but if you think about it too much, you go nuts. Do your job, enjoy your life. Like they say, this isn't a dress rehearsal. It's all we've got. Don't go nuts on me, boychik."

  Warren nodded, trying in his mind to separate the concepts of what was ethical, what was practical, and what a man needed to do in order to preserve sanity and self-respect.

  "Let me remind you of something," Rick said. "A lawyer's client in trial can't be guilty until a jury says so. Guilt is a technical, legal concept. A lawyer says to his client, 'I'm instructing you to tell the truth. But you testify however you think you should.'"

  Warren still said nothing; his mind still churned.

  "Jesus Christ!" Rick, in alarm, watched Warren's face reflect his thoughts. "You're not going to sell her down the river, are you?"

  "No. I want to win. I'll talk to her."

  "Then get her ready." Rick raised an eyebrow. He said quietly, "There are ways."

  "I know there are."

  "You want me to handle it?"

  Warren shook his head emphatically. "I said I'll do it."

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  On his way to the jail to see Hector again, the pillar of rain beat mercilessly on Warren's head. He kept thinking of Harry T. Morse, who had casually mentioned that he had seen Johnnie Faye fire the gun that had killed Dan Ho Trunh. For a moment Warren had been thrilled, could think of nothing else. But if he brought Morse into Parker's court to try to identify the Diamond-back Colt, at some point he would have to admit his own knowledge. He could not do that.

  "This can't be happening," he said aloud, in the rain. "This is fucking insane."

  Later, from Maria's bedroom, he called his apartment for messages. Pedro picked up the telephone.

  "What the hell are you doing there?" Warren said angrily. "It's not even ten o'clock!"

  "Take it easy, patrón."

  The mission had been closed since early morning, Pedro explained. Full of policia. Late last night some bum was shot to death in the toilet. Blown away, man. No one knew why. Two other men sitting in the open stalls saw it happen, had even seen the man who killed him. Another bum, they thought, but they didn't know him, had never seen him before. The cops had been asking questions of everybody all day.

  Warren drew in a deep breath. He listened to the rain, still slapping against the roof and pouring through its gutters. He heard far-off thunder. He asked, "It wasn't Jim, was it?"

  "No," Pedro said, "I tole you, they never seen him before."

  "I mean the man who was shot and killed."

  That wasn't Jim either. Pedro had thought of that. Lot of people knew Jim and no one had seen him for days. Might have left town. He did that sometimes, one guy said. Went south toward the border, had a common-law wife down there. No one knew which town.

  "Did this guy you spoke to know Jim's last name?" Warren asked.

  "Jus' his nickname. They all call him Jim Dandy. Suppose to mean something, but I doan know what."

  They promised to go back the next day, if the cops were gone. "And your wife call you here, little time ago," Pedro said, with an understanding leer in his voice. "Say for you to call her."

  "My wife? Are you sure? Did she give her name?"

  "No, she just say, 'Ask him to call his wife.'"

  Warren hung up. Another murder. Too much death, too many lies. A man wasn't meant to deal with this shit all his life. He was meant to plant his seed and mow his lawn and work
at something that gave him pleasure. Wondering if that would ever happen, he walked into the living room, where Maria was watching television. He wondered also what Charm had wanted, then realized he didn't care.

  The rain ended, the storm veered northward, and on Thursday morning the city sweltered under the pressure of ninety-degree wet air. It pressed a clammy hand against Warren's forehead. Sweat slid down his cheeks. Rick waited for him on the fifth floor of the courthouse outside the walnut-paneled halls of the 342nd.

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "Not yet," Warren said impatiently. "But I will. Give me a break, will you?"

  Cool air blew. The sweat dried slowly, leaving a sticky film on his face and the small of his back. His jockey shorts surrounded him like a coat of mail.

  The first witness Warren called for the defense was Dr. George Swayze, the intern who had treated Johnnie Faye the previous December at Hermann Hospital. In a clear voice Swayze read a copy of his diagnosis and treatment for the broken cheekbone, and then, under questioning, said, "She told me that her boyfriend had done it to her."

  "Did she describe the boyfriend?" Warren asked.

  "She said he was a big man. And he'd been drinking."

  On cross, Altschuler asked the doctor, "Did she say which of her several boyfriends had hit her?"

  Warren objected to several boyfriends.

  "Please rephrase, Mr. Bob," the judge said.

  When Altschuler did, the doctor answered, "No, she never named the man."

  The next witness was Cathy Lewis, former waitress at the Grand Hotel. Rick had finally tracked her down through the Department of Motor Vehicles; he took her on direct examination. Over Altschuler's constant objections that they were trying Johnnie Faye Boudreau for murder and not Dr. Clyde Ott for past indiscretions, Cathy Lewis told the tale of her affair with Clyde, and his swatting her in the mouth "with his big hairy paw," so loosening three front teeth that she had to have them replaced.

  Cathy Lewis said that Clyde had paid the dentist's bill, and had also given her $25,000 in cash.

  "For what?" Rick asked.

  "Kiss-off money, and so I'd shut up."

  Bob Altschuler said to the judge, "Your honor, I'd like to approach the witness. I'd like to see her teeth close up."

  When he looked into her open mouth, he said, "They look terrific! Would you do me a favor and go over to the jury box and show each and every one of the jurors what a fine job that dentist did?"