Red-faced, Cathy Lewis did as she was asked. When she was again seated in the witness chair, Altschuler asked, "Do you have a receipt for that $25,000 in cash that Dr. Ott supposedly gave you, Ms. Lewis?"
"No, sir."
"So we have to take your word for it, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"You've been a cocktail waitress for most of your adult life, isn't that right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ever do it topless?"
"For a while."
"Ever go to bed with men for money?"
"Not really," she said, before Rick had a chance to spring up and shout an objection. Altschuler's booming laugh echoed in the big courtroom.
"You never fired a gun at Dr. Ott, did you?"
"No."
"Do you carry a gun?"
"No."
He passed the witness. On redirect, Rick got her to say that a few of the men she had slept with, including Clyde, had given her gifts, paid some bills. Sometimes the gifts were cash. But there was no direct equation between the gifts and sex.
A witness on cross-examination, Warren had long ago realized, is like the target in a knife-throwing act, except in the courtroom the one who throws the knives is a stranger.
"That Altschuler is some clown," Rick said during lunch. "He treats this like a circus."
"It is," Warren said.
After lunch Warren put on a man who owned a gun store in southwest Houston. Qualifying as a weapons expert, the witness was shown the old .22-caliber pistol that had ended Clyde Ott's life. Difficult to handle, he said, in the sense that continued pressure on the trigger could do a great deal of damage. Yes, you could fire it without cocking the action, although it would fire more quickly if you cocked it. And yes, of course you could fire single rounds from it if you immediately released the trigger after each round.
The last two witnesses of the day were former patients of Dr. Clyde Ott. Before the first could be sworn in, Altschuler sprang from his chair to demand an offer of proof: a debate without the jury present. "The only possible reason these two women can be here," he complained, "is to cast slurs on a dead man. But a dead man's not on trial!"
The judge called both lawyers to the bench for sidebar. Warren argued quietly that it was a major issue before the jury whether or not Clyde Ott was violent.
"Are these women going to say he beat them up?" Altschuler demanded.
"We'll find that out, won't we?" the judge said. "I'll allow them to testify, Warren, as long as you stick to what's relevant. We'll take the objections as they come, Bob."
Patricia Gurian — a shapely blond woman of forty, married, a social worker — took the stand. Normally, she said, she would see a gynecologist twice a year for checkups. On her second visit to Dr. Ott, the nurse left the room to take a telephone call. Dr. Ott began to fondle Mrs. Gurian's clitoris, asked if it was sensitive.
"Objection!" Altschuler yelled. "It's not only irrelevant, it's prurient!"
Warren said, "Your honor, it's a line of questioning leading to show the character of Dr. Ott relative to the defendant. It also explains what happens next. Absolutely necessary."
The judge sighed. "All right, but get to it quickly."
Did Mrs. Gurian think Dr. Ott was out of line?
"Absolutely," she said.
Had it ever happened with a previous gynecologist?
"Never."
Warren moved close to the jury box, and stood next to one of the prim woman jurors in the first row. "What did you do when that happened, Mrs. Gurian?"
"I decided to leave."
"Did Dr. Ott try to stop you?"
"Yes, he did."
"How?"
"He blocked my path. Put his hands on my arms."
"Were you frightened?"
"Not really, I knew I could call for the nurse. And I had Mace in my handbag."
"Did he strike you?"
"No."
"Did he threaten you physically?"
"No."
"Pass the witness," Warren said.
"Sidebar!" Altschuler cried, and drew Warren with him to the bench for another private conference. "Judge," he gasped, "that was crazy! The woman didn't claim violence! So where's the relevance?"
"You should be glad she didn't claim it," Warren said.
Altschuler said in a harsh whisper, "He did that just to get in that crap about playing around with her snatch. Judge, that's outrageous! You can't let him put the second patient on the stand. I won't hear of it!"
That seemed to miff Judge Bingham. "Bob, you won't hear of it, but I may." He turned to Warren. "Will this be relevant, young man?"
"I'm not clairvoyant, your honor, but I can promise relevance."
The judge said, "Nice word, almost as good as prurient. All right, put her on."
Maria had been standing nearby, taking it all down on her stenograph. From the corner of his eye, Warren saw her trying to hold back laughter.
Judith Tarr — redheaded and in her mid-thirties, a divorcee who ran a catering service — took the oath. She was also attractive and outspoken. She had been a patient of Dr. Ott's several years ago. They had had an affair.
"How did it begin?" Warren asked.
"I was on his table, in the stirrups, and he started to play around with me down there—"
"Objection!" Altschuler yelled, and was overruled.
"—and then Dr. Ott said to me, 'Do you mind? Do you like that? You've got one of the prettiest pussies I've ever seen.'" Ms. Tarr shrugged. "I was lonely at the time. I like doctors. So I said, 'No, I don't mind, and thank you.' And that's how it started."
Warren glanced at the jury. There had been some quick intakes of breath and two of the women were frowning. The only laughter came from the reporters' bench.
"Was Dr. Ott married at the time?" he asked.
"Yes, it was about half a year before his wife was killed."
"How long did your affair last?"
"Four months or so."
"Was he ever violent with you?"
"He was a rough man. He drank a lot and took cocaine in my presence. I didn't like that. But no, he was never actually violent. I mean, he never hit me."
"Pass the witness," Warren said.
Altschuler, steaming, asked for a ten-minute break. He grabbed Warren by the elbow and steered him to the hallway that led to Judge Bingham's chambers. He was almost hopping up and down in his black cordovans. "What kind of shit was that?" he snapped. "You're not clairvoyant, but you 'can promise relevance.' What kind of schoolboy stuff are you trying to pull?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
"It was damn close to unethical!"
"Fuck you too," Warren said quietly.
He went back to the defense table. Johnnie Faye reached up and squeezed his hand. "Counselor," she said, "you're in high gear. I've got faith again."
===OO=OOO=OO===
Finished for the day, he sat with Johnnie Faye in her car in the San Jacinto Street parking lot. She was driving a rented Chevrolet. Where the Mercedes was, Warren had no idea. Repainted and sold, he guessed. He made no comment.
"Tomorrow morning I put you on the witness stand," he said, "so listen to me now. Dress conservatively, and go easy on the eye makeup. You may be nervous, but I won't ask any serious questions for the first five minutes until you get used to being up there. You can talk at length, if you care to, on anything that seems important and in your favor. Look at the jury from time to time but don't smile at them like you're trying to win friends. You can repeat anything that Clyde said to you. That's not hearsay. If I ask you what someone said, give it word for word, as best you can. Say, 'He said…' and then go on to quote him, or her. That always impresses a jury. And give details. Don't skimp. If you mention a TV set, don't just say 'a TV set.' Say 'a forty-inch Mitsubishi TV,' or whatever it is. That way the jury will learn to trust your memory for details. You understand?"
"I'm with you, counselor."
"When it comes time for cross, Altschuler
will try to pull your chain. Don't get trapped into arguing with him. Be calm. Look him in the eye, and if it's an important answer and you're feeling particularly confident, speak directly to the jury. Don't ever look to me for help — the jury will notice and mark it against you. Keep your hands in your lap. Hold your handbag if you have to. If you don't know the answer to a question, don't guess. Say so. Most of his questions will force you to say yes or no and you've got to do it. But if he asks something like 'Do you still beat your dog?' — you've got a right to say, 'I never beat my dog.' If you're not sure whether the answer is yes or no, say something like, 'I don't think I can give an honest yes or no answer to that, sir.' If you don't understand a question, ask him to repeat it. If you think I should object and I don't, there's a good reason. Trust me. If I do get up to object, don't answer the question unless the judge tells you to. Is all that clear?"
"Like crystal."
"Do you have any questions?"
"I got about a hundred," Johnnie Faye said. "I've been listening to all those witnesses, same as you. What about this missing palm print — how do I account for that? What about those lies Lorna Gerard told about how I threatened Clyde? What do I say about whether or not Clyde was coming at me across that living room, like he was? What about after I came downstairs, my trying to get past him and out of the house, when I couldn't? And that bullshit about my being such a hotshot with that teeny .22? What do I say?"
"I keep telling you and you don't listen," Warren said. "You just tell the truth…"
He omitted the second part of Rick's dictum to witnesses: "… but you testify however you think you should." Warren made distinctions. He had to live with himself when this case was over and he returned to save Hector Quintana's life, if he could.
===OO=OOO=OO===
He went back to Ravendale at seven o'clock. Except for his dog lying on the sofa with a tennis ball gripped in her teeth, the apartment was empty. He took Oobie for a run along the bayou, fed her, washed the dishes in the sink, scrubbed the ashtrays, put out the garbage and straightened up the mess around the TV. He noticed a new cigarette burn in the sofa. The message light on his answering machine was blinking.
The first voice on the machine was Pedro's.
"Callin' in, like you say to do. We talk to a guy knows this Jim. He says he almost for sure left town. Gone home. Some place called Beaver. Call you later. Viva Mexico, patron."
The second message was from Charm. She said in a calm tone, "Please call me at home or at the station, Warren. I need to talk to you. I called yesterday too, left a message with one of the handymen. Thanks."
Maria's voice came on the tape. She hadn't had a chance to talk to him in court. "You were great today. Bob's nose was really out of joint, you should have heard him carrying on afterward with the judge. Are you coming here for dinner? No rush, but let me know. See you around, counselor."
Warren dug his old Rand-McNally Road Atlas out of a carton and paged through to the back, to the list of Texas cities and towns. There was no place called Beaver, or anything that sounded like it. There were Beeville and Bellville. He turned to the map and traced the coordinates for Bellville. It was far to the north near the Louisiana border. Beeville he knew: about two hundred miles southwest from Houston on Route 59, the road to Laredo and the border.
He called Maria to tell her he would be at her apartment between eight and eight-thirty. He would shop on the way, broil some swordfish steaks. He set the phone down, drumming his fingers lightly on the tabletop. The last time he had spoken to Charm had been weeks ago, sitting on the hood of Johnnie Faye's Mercedes. He had expected to hear from her after his visit to Arthur Franklin, but what followed was silence. No word or papers from Franklin. Now she had called him twice.
Whatever it is, I don't need it. Let Franklin tell it to me.
He showered and changed his clothes, set out a fresh suit and other things for tomorrow to take to Maria's. Every morning between seven and eight he drove Oobie from Maria's house to his apartment and let her in the door without waking his Mexican guests. "You can leave her here," Maria said. "I can feed her if you get back late." He explained that Oobie was used to running along the bayou in the evenings. It was his way of maintaining a measure of independence. Not too much domesticity, not yet. These were his thoughts, not things he explained. But he knew that Maria understood. At least she never argued or commented.
"What's with you and Tall Maria?" Rick had asked yesterday.
"How do you mean?"
"I've got eyes. And not just me. Someone who lives near her saw you guys together a couple of times. Word gets around."
Warren didn't define what was happening with him and Tall Maria. He wasn't quite sure. Didn't want to speculate. Or know.
He was ready to leave the apartment, about to gather up the clothes neatly laid on the back of a chair by the front door. He hesitated. Charm had called on two successive days. If I don't call back I'm going to think about it and wonder. I'm going to feel guilty. She still has that power. Ridiculous, but true.
He tapped out the familiar number. The line was busy. For a few minutes he threw the tennis ball, and Oobie compulsively chased it across the carpet, retrieving it, dropping it at Warren's feet, panting and wagging her tail. He tried the number again. Still busy. He left the apartment.
"How old are you, Ms. Boudreau?" Warren asked pleasantly.
"Exactly forty. I'll be forty-one next month, on the fourteenth of August." She looked directly at a woman of approximately her own age sitting in the first row of the jury box, and smiled.
"And where were you born and brought up?"
"Odem, Texas, down near Corpus Christi. Just a little town. Cotton, goober, scrub oak country. My daddy had a gas station, an Exxon. My mama helped him run it. I worked there for a while pumping gas. I can change the oil on a car. Daddy was a part-time preacher too — taught me scripture. Passed away about five years back."
"You have brothers and sisters?"
"Two brothers, but they got killed in Vietnam. I guess they were what you'd call unsung heroes. One sister, and she still lives back in Odem near my mama. I visit every chance I get."
"Tell us what happened to you after you left Odem."
Altschuler objected: "Your honor, we're not here to listen to a paperback romance. The defendant is accused of willful murder."
"Yes, and so let's hear her," Judge Bingham said.
Johnnie Faye, wearing a simple dark-blue high-collared silk dress, told the story of her life to the jury and the packed courtroom. An early mistake in marriage. Struggles to educate herself, although she was basically a working gal. A wonderful experience at the age of twenty-one, when she was lucky enough to win a beauty contest. She'd been proud to represent Corpus Christi in the Miss Texas Pageant.
She talked about coming to Houston, a frightened country girl. She had to support herself so she danced for a living. Sent money back to her mama, who had a heart condition. Made another mistake in marriage. She shifted her gaze to the jury. "My fault. Chose wrong. I haven't been lucky with men."
No children. That was an ache inside her. She wished she'd had them but now it was too late. Finally, a good break: a chance to run a nightclub. Which she still did. It was hard work, the hours were strange, you met weird people. But life was full of compromises, God hadn't made a perfect world.
"How did you meet Dr. Clyde Ott?"
He had come to her club about four years ago. He had a girlfriend who danced there. He had introduced himself to Johnnie Faye. They had become friends.
"At first you were just friends?"
"Oh, yes. I wasn't a kid anymore. I didn't want to rush into things. And I knew he was married."
"But then you became intimate?"
"After a while. Yes, very intimate."
"How did you feel about the fact that Dr. Ott was married?"
"I felt bad, but he told me he was very unhappy with his wife. I was always a sucker for a sad story. I fell in love with him.
I couldn't help myself."
"Love is a powerful emotion," Warren said. "Tell us, if you will, what your relationship with Dr. Ott was like."
Sharon had died so tragically. Johnnie Faye helped Clyde get through that. But he drank a lot, and smoked marijuana and sniffed cocaine, both of which she hated because drugs had killed one of her brothers. She advised Clyde on his investments and his health: sent him to an herbologist for a series of colonic irrigations, put him on rolled oats and alfalfa sprouts, begged him to slow down his ingestion of the flesh of dead cows and pigs. Tried to persuade him to stop smoking dope and sniffing the white powder. To little avail.
Clyde wanted to marry her. But she wasn't sure it was the right thing to do. He had a violent side to him. Once, in front of mutual friends, he threatened to kill her. Several times when he was drunk, he hit her. She begged him to go on the wagon. He tried once or twice but couldn't stick to it. Go to AA, she said. He refused, called it Mickey Mouse stuff. And then last December he struck her again, breaking her cheekbone. He was starting to accuse her of looking at other men, of actual involvement with them, and none of that was true. But he became even more jealous and threatening. That's when she realized the love affair was doomed.
But Clyde relied on her for so much. Let him down easy, she thought. Let's be friends, she told him. She wanted to help him get over her.
"And so you kept seeing him?"
"From time to time, if he promised to stay sober."
"Did he always keep his promise?"
"No, but I cared for him, so I saw him."
"Did you still sleep with him?"
"Now and then. I was weak, I guess. And he was very dominating."
"What were his relations like with his stepchildren, as far as you were able to observe?"
"He dominated them too. He said, 'Lorna's a lush, worse than me, and Ken's a middle-aged junkie.' At a restaurant in Dallas we had this big argument. Clyde told them he wanted to marry me, and that got Lorna all worked up. He was afraid she was going to embarrass us all at the dinner table, so he backed off and said, 'Well, maybe we won't get married. We'll see.' I got angry, and I cursed at him and walked out of the restaurant. That was dumb. I regretted it right away."
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Page 27
