So she had come to terms with that, Warren thought, and decided to admit it — with a twist. Johnnie Faye's voice was sincere. Delicately, Warren smiled. Not a smile of encouragement but one of acknowledgment. He hadn't had to tell her what to do.
Time to test her.
"In Lorna Gerard's presence, Ms. Boudreau, did you ever say anything like, 'When Clyde gets mean and drunk and passes out, I'd like to cut his throat in his sleep'?"
Johnnie Faye blushed. "I did say that," she said calmly. "One afternoon Lorna was watching TV downstairs in Clyde's house, sitting in front of that big forty-inch Mitsubishi TV set, drinking about her sixth scotch on the rocks. She was usually drunk before noon. Chivas Regal, as I recall, in a crystal glass. I needed someone to talk to, because Clyde had walloped me again the night before, just before he passed out. Lorna was real involved in her TV program and wouldn't listen to me. So I had to grab her attention somehow, and that's all I could think of saying. Imagine, my saying such a thing in front of a man's stepdaughter! I tried right away to tell her I didn't mean it, but she put her hands over her ears, wouldn't listen. I was so ashamed afterward I cried. Just felt awful. I told Clyde about it later that day when he was sober and he said, 'Lorna hates you 'cause she's got this weird idea you're trying to convince me not to keep giving her money. Now you've given her another reason to hate you.'"
Neat, Warren thought. Again a nice twist. She must have been up half the night working all this out.
"Did you ever apologize to Mrs. Gerard?"
"Of course I did. But she was still upset and wouldn't listen. I didn't blame her."
You vicious bitch, you would have cut her throat in her sleep if you could have got away with it.
Warren moved forward to the evening of May 7, to dinner at the Hacienda restaurant. He asked if the dinner had any particular purpose.
Johnnie Faye said, "From my point of view it was a goodbye dinner. I just couldn't take it anymore. I figured, we go to a public place I can tell him we're through — too many people around for him to haul off at me like he usually did. But it didn't work out that way."
Warren remembered the transcript of Johnnie Faye's tapes with Scoot: "I wanted to marry him, but he kept stalling, and it goddam upset me…"
Well, she lied then — or was lying now. Or lying both times. No matter what Warren actually believed, there was no basis in fact for him to conclude she was perjuring herself. She was under oath now, and she hadn't been with any of her lawyers. It was not unethical for Warren to let her keep talking.
He reminded himself of that as he asked, "In the Hacienda, were you drunk too?"
"A little bit."
"Did you argue at the bar in the restaurant before you sat down to eat?"
"Yes, I was upset because Clyde told me he'd been snorting cocaine again. So I yelled, 'You lied to me!' Because he'd promised he wouldn't do that anymore. And I cursed at him too. I've got a foul mouth sometimes. Comes from running a nightclub — once in a while you have to deal with some mean people."
"At the bar of the Hacienda, and at the dinner table, did you try to get Clyde drunk?"
"He kept telling me to order new rounds of drinks. I said, 'I don't want to drink anymore.' He said, 'Just do what I say, woman.' So I did — I didn't want to get him any angrier than he was. When the drinks came he'd finish his real quick, then he'd say, 'If you're not drinking that, hand it over.' He could drink all night and not fall down."
"What happened after you left the restaurant?"
"I'd meant to take a taxi back to his place, on my own, because I had to pick up my car. But I figured if he drove he'd kill himself. So I drove him in his Porsche. And when we got to his house he said, 'Come on in, let's talk some more.'"
"Did you talk?"
"Well, we went upstairs for a while. Then he disappeared into the bathroom. He was in there maybe five minutes. When he came out I could see he was crazy. What he did in there, I don't know, but his eyes were red and he was sweating. And he was yelling again. He slapped me in the face. I ran downstairs and he followed me."
"To where?"
"To the living room."
"What did he do in the living room?"
She described how Clyde had screamed and cursed at her, how she had picked up the poker from the fireplace to keep him at bay, how he had twisted it away from her and raised it above his head.
"Please wait a moment, Ms. Boudreau," Warren said, holding up his hand. "Sergeant Ruiz has told this jury that when he arrived at River Oaks, you stated to him that you tried to get out of the house but Dr. Ott blocked your path." Warren waited a few moments, until she nodded. "Did that happen?"
"Oh, yes," Johnnie Faye said, "that happened before. I mean, when we first arrived. I wanted to leave then, and Clyde blocked the way. Of course I could have got round him — then. Sergeant Ruiz is absolutely right, it's a huge hallway. But Clyde wasn't going crazy then. He was begging me to stay and talk to him. I felt sorry for him, so I gave in. That's when we went upstairs."
Warren looked at her steadily. "You're saying that Dr. Ott didn't block your path after you both came downstairs, when you picked up the poker and he took it out of your hand?"
"That's right. Long before. I think I may have confused Sergeant Ruiz when I spoke to him later that night, because of course I was emotionally upset, to put it mildly."
"Then why, when you came downstairs later, knowing Dr. Ott was already angry and aggressive and, as you put it, 'crazy' — why didn't you then go straight out the door to the safety of your car?"
A spark showed in Johnnie Faye's eyes. A little coal of fury. But it was gone instantly after it glowed. Warren didn't think the jury had seen it.
"Because I'd left my handbag on the sofa in the living room," she explained. "My car was in the front driveway and the keys to my car — my Mercedes — were in my handbag. My brown handbag which I left on the white leather sofa before I went upstairs."
Details, Warren had told her. The Mitsubishi TV. The brown handbag, the white sofa. She was remembering, even if the details were part of a new fiction.
"I see." He took a moment to readjust, then moved closer to the jury box. He could feel the intensity of the jurors' concentration. "Ms. Boudreau," he said, having no idea what she would answer, "please tell us where you were after you came downstairs, where Dr. Ott was, what happened, and in what order."
Johnnie Faye obliged. She had come down the stairs and picked up her handbag from the sofa. Clyde yelled at her that he was going to beat the shit out of her. She picked up the poker to defend herself. He was a big, powerful man. He grabbed the poker from her and gave her a shove that sent her across the room, tumbling backward onto the sofa. Then he said, "Now I'll kill you, you bitch. You're just asking for it."
More new information. A new order of events. A creative mind at work.
Warren asked, "And then what did Dr. Ott do?"
"He rushed across the room toward me, and while he did that, I reached into my handbag — on the spur of the moment, you might say — and I took out my little pistol. That was just pure reaction, because I never intended to use it. My heart was beating so fast. Then he stopped, kind of skidded to a halt on the carpet, and stood still. He was maybe six feet away from me. I said, 'Don't come any closer, Clyde, or I'll shoot.' But I was just bluffing then."
"You were still sitting on the sofa?"
"Yes."
"And he was standing still, not charging at you?"
"That's correct. But then I managed to stand up. And he lifted the poker to swing it at my head. I knew he'd kill me or at least beat me senseless. You've seen that poker — it's big and heavy. So I pulled the trigger of my pistol. I didn't mean to kill him, just maybe scare him or wound him and put him out of action so I could get away safely. But the pistol kept firing. I didn't mean for that to happen, I couldn't control my finger. I guess I was panicked or something."
Clyde fell forward onto the sofa. She just barely managed to duck out of the wa
y. The poker fell to the carpet.
"And how did you feel at that moment, Ms. Boudreau?"
"Terrified. Horrified at what I'd done. Awful." Johnnie Faye put her head in her hands. She rocked a little in the witness chair, to simulate grief.
Judge Bingham asked Warren, "Would you like to take a five-minute break, so that the witness can compose herself?"
"No, thank you, your honor. If it please the court, when Ms. Boudreau recovers, we'll go right on."
The judge glanced at his court reporter. Maria nodded; she was fine.
Johnnie Faye reached into her handbag, not for a .22 this time, but for a Kleenex. She blew her nose.
"I can go on now," she said softly. She turned to the judge. "Thank you for your concern, your honor."
"Ms. Boudreau—" Warren leaned forward. "After the shooting, did you call a doctor or an ambulance?"
"No, sir. I started to, but there was so much blood that I suspected the worst. I felt Clyde's pulse. None at all. I realized he was dead. Then I did a stupid thing." She hesitated, lowering her head.
Now Warren had no idea at all what was coming. But he asked, "What did you do, Ms. Boudreau?"
"I picked up the poker from the carpet where Clyde had dropped it. I don't know why I did that. I guess I was frightened and a little hysterical. I kept working the handle of the poker around in my hands. Maybe I just needed something to hold on to. I almost put it back against the fireplace, but then I thought, no, that's even more stupid. I kept telling myself, you did a terrible thing but it wasn't wrong — you had to do it. So then I dropped the poker back on the carpet just about where Clyde had dropped it."
Warren almost smiled in appreciation of her arrogance. All the bases were covered, including the missing palm prints. If the jury believed her. He looked Johnnie Faye in the eye. Her head was raised now and her glance was unwavering.
"Please tell the jury: before Dr. Ott raised the poker over his head, did you threaten or provoke him in any way?"
"No, sir."
"When Dr. Ott raised the poker over his head, did you fear for your life?"
"Yes. I was frightened out of my wits."
"Where were you at that moment?"
"I was sitting on the sofa, where he'd thrown me. Then I stood up."
"Did you have anywhere to retreat?"
"No, sir. The sofa was very close against a bookcase. I didn't have anyplace to go."
"Did his actions happen quickly or slowly?"
"Very quickly."
"Did you mean to kill Dr. Ott?"
"That was the last thing on my mind."
"You were sober or drunk when you pulled the trigger?"
"Sober by then. On the drive home I sobered up."
"Ms. Boudreau, you were sitting in this courtroom when Mr. Harry Morse of Western America testified that you visited his pistol range and used a name other than your own. Why did you do that?"
"I value my privacy," she said. "And I didn't think there was any law against using a different name if you weren't out to cheat somebody. I didn't cheat Mr. Morse. I paid for my time and ammunition."
"Did you own as many as three pistols at that time?"
"I did then. One got stolen afterward, and the other, the .45, I keep at my club, in the office, in a desk drawer under lock and key. I'm the only one has a key."
"Did you have legal registration for all three pistols?"
"For the .45 and the .22, yes. Not the other one. Someone gave it to me as a gift. I forgot to register it."
"What did you need those pistols for?"
"Protection. We were held up about five or six years ago. And, like I told you, some weird people come to nightclubs. Someone followed me home once and tried to rape me. After that I carried a pistol in my car. That's the one that got stolen, the one that wasn't registered."
Not stolen. Thrown into a Dumpster, after you'd killed a man with it.
"One more thing, Ms. Boudreau. Mr. Morse also testified that when you were practicing at his pistol range, he observed you shooting. He said you were a good shot. Is that true?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm a very good shot."
"Then tell us, please, how you account for the fact that you meant only to wound Dr. Ott, and yet two of the three bullets you fired hit him in vital places and killed him?"
The coal didn't glow this time. She was in control of herself, prepared.
"I think he may have moved, just slightly. And I was in a panic. I had been thrown violently to the sofa. I was in fear of my life. My hands were shaking. It happened so quickly."
Warren had had enough. He said, "Pass the witness."
"We'll stop here," Judge Bingham said. "After lunch, Mr. Altschuler, if you care to, you can take the defendant on cross-examination."
Striding back to the defense table, from the corner of his eye Warren noticed a slender blond woman with high cheekbones sitting at the rear of the courtroom. Interesting-looking. She reminded him of Charm, except she was thinner, bonier. I should try to call Charm this evening, he thought.
"Good work," Rick said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Warren shook his head angrily. "You think I told her to say all that shit?" He began to gather up his papers and stuff them into his briefcase, when someone tapped him lightly on the arm from behind. He turned — it was the blond woman who looked like Charm. Only he had made a slight mistake: it was Charm.
He was appalled to think that he hadn't recognized her. His wife had become a stranger.
The weight she had lost caused the bones of her face to be more clearly outlined. It made her seem older, but it was becoming, as if the last generalized fat of youth had finally worn away to reveal the specific woman. She shook his hand with a gentleness and gravity that were unfamiliar.
"I called twice and left messages. You didn't call back. I needed to talk to you."
He didn't protest that he had called and the line had been busy. That seemed so flimsy.
"This is a bad time, Charm."
"I know that," she said softly. "I'm sorry, but I thought we might grab a quick lunch. I have to get back to the station in an hour. Can you do it?"
Warren hesitated. He had said to Johnnie Faye all that he intended to say. In the afternoon she would undergo cross-examination; he wanted time to ponder the holes in her story, to figure out where Altschuler might gain entry to rip apart the whole fabric. It was definitely the wrong time for a visit, an unnerving chat. Part of him wanted to say to Charm, "Go away." Part of him wanted to say exactly the opposite. And he owed her a thank-you — it was she who had pointed out the blue dent on Johnnie Faye's Mercedes — although there was no way he could pay it.
On the other side of the defense table, Rick cleared his throat. "I'll go with our client. No problem."
Johnnie Faye smiled at him. "I'm fine. Take your wife to lunch."
As they left the courtroom the reporters moved in like a platoon of infantry veterans occupying a conquered village. But Warren brushed past them almost roughly, murmuring over his shoulder, "No comment now. When the trial is over, I'll talk." Steering Charm by the elbow, he fled with her through the welcome closing door of a down elevator. The bone of her elbow was hard enough but in the gloom of the elevator, descending, he felt that he was with a ghost.
Warren knew he had been weak. He should have said no. He didn't want to hear any more accusations or details of her affair or enter into further debate on the division of property. She could have written him a letter; she could have had Arthur Franklin contact him.
The feeling that he had succumbed to pressure was an odd one, a new one. No, he realized — old. It was the feeling he had lived with for those three years since Virgil Freer. But during that time he had denied it, tamped it down into deeper parts of his being, where it had festered. He had convinced himself and Charm that it was otherwise. Again he amended that. Not convinced Charm, not in the end. She had seen through his denial, his confusion, his ennui. But she hadn't been able to help
him, and he surely hadn't been able to help himself, or hadn't wanted to with sufficient vigor. How odd, to see that so clearly now. Under the same skin was new resolve, new perception. He was not even the person he had been before Virgil Freer. The old person had assumed that there was logic to human events, that if you did a, then b would follow. If you worked diligently and imaginatively at something that gave you pleasure, you would succeed. If you married for love and were kind, you would be happy. If you raised children with discipline and loving guidance, they would turn out well and make you proud. Life was not like that. He had been naive, a child in a lawyer's gray suit. Life was an ongoing war against unseen and usually undefined enemies. Your own naivet� was one of those enemies. You had to battle it, and improvise, and guard your back. See things clearly even if it made you scream.
He took Charm to the little Greek restaurant. There was better food in other places near the courthouse, but those restaurants were always crowded, noisy with lawyers and court personnel, not places to bring your wife who was divorcing you and wanted to talk. On the way over he spoke succinctly about the case, and at his side Charm listened, apparently interested but for the most part silent. The Greek place had plastic tablecloths and thin, bent forks. The table was wobbly until Warren stuffed a folded paper napkin under one leg. He ordered a Coke and a salad, and Charm ordered something he couldn't pronounce. Warren leaned back in his chair.
"So? What's up?"
Charm said, "I've split up with Jack. That's the name of the man I was seeing. Jack Gordon. About two weeks ago."
Good, Warren thought. At the same time a part of him thought, not good at all. Not good for her and probably not good for me.
"I told you he was married, had three kids, and he was in the process of divorcing. That was all true. But maybe it wasn't as clear-cut as he made it sound. I mean, he's divorcing, but he still has a lot of ambivalent feelings about his wife — her name is Emily — and certainly about his children. He's Jewish. He feels a lot of guilt."
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Page 28
