Warren cocked his head and asked, "Do you have to be Jewish to feel guilty about divorcing your wife and giving up your children?"
"No, but it adds a certain dimension to the process." Charm managed the pained shadow of a smile.
I like the way she puts things, Warren thought. I always did. Suddenly he felt in all his parts the enormous weight of loss.
"Anyway," she resumed, "I'm not into ambivalence. We had it out, and he cried, and I wasn't exactly dry-eyed, and I finally said, 'You're a grown man, go back to New York, see Emily. Get your act together.' So he did, but then I went through a lot of soul-searching, the result of which was that I decided all this was a little too complicated for me, and maybe I hadn't been thinking all that clearly. Maybe my feelings for him were ambivalent too. I mean, I cared for him, but I wasn't up for all that Sturm und Drang. And then there was you. Jack was always jealous of my feelings there. I told Jack a lot about you."
"Oh?" Warren felt uncomfortable. And yet he was curious.
"He wound up thinking you were a pretty nice guy, even though you threatened to stomp him with your cowboy boots. He couldn't quite figure out why I'd left you."
Warren said nothing.
"So I called him in New York about ten days ago," Charm related, "and told him it was all over. I suspect in some way he was relieved. It had all happened too soon for him. I mean, too soon after his marriage ended."
"Well," Warren said, "life doesn't always work on a convenient timetable" — aware that he was skirting the deeper issue. He busied himself with his salad, picking out the last bits of feta cheese.
He looked up and saw that Charm was disconsolate. She lowered her head and raised one hand to press against her temples. She had hardly touched her food.
"I feel so shitty," she murmured.
"Because Jack's gone."
"Partly. Mostly because I walked out on you the way I did. Or kicked you out, as the case may be. I made a mistake. Now I'm paying for it."
She had said this without his being able to see her eyes. When finally she lowered her hand, he saw that her eyes were filmed with tears. He ground his teeth as some of her pain invaded him.
"I apologize," she said. She still was not looking directly at him; her eyes were lowered like a penitent's. She was sniffling. "For then, and for now. I shouldn't come to you like this and snivel like a schoolgirl. But I had to tell you."
"I don't know what to say, Charm." And that was true.
"You don't have to say anything. Well, maybe you do. Do you hate me, Warren?"
"No."
"Did you hate me?"
"Hate is the wrong word. I was angry. I was hurt. You can understand that, can't you?"
"Did you find another woman?"
"Yes, there is someone else."
"Shit," Charm said. She reached into her handbag and blew her nose sharply in a tissue. "Well, that's the way it goes, I guess. Is it serious?"
Warren said, "It's still in the fun stage."
Charm began stuffing things back into her handbag. "I'm going to let you pay for lunch. I'm leaving." She spoke nervously, softly. "I'm so ashamed of the way I acted with you. I didn't stop loving you, I just got fed up with our life. I came here to tell you that, and that other stuff, and to ask you if…" She choked a little and the echo of her voice crowded the air with melancholy. "And to ask if you'd come home. Not today, but when you were ready. Don't answer now. I know what you'd answer. I can see it in your eyes. And don't pity me. I'll be okay."
He wanted to say something, although he had no idea what words would come from his mouth. His mind was jammed, the circuitry overloaded with contradictory thoughts and emotions: pity and anger and tenderness, a burst of affection followed by a stab of disgust, even a flash-flood memory of what he had once called love. But he had no chance to voice any of them. He felt his lungs were filled with sorrow, not air. She fled from the restaurant.
Rising from his chair, Warren watched her reach the door and shove it open, vanish into the hot street. What a good-looking woman, he thought — what great legs, what a gorgeous ass. What heart, what soul. What a quick mouth. What a fool she was. And I don't want her back.
There it was, not to be denied. He looked at his watch. He had ten minutes to pay the bill and get to the courthouse for the cross-examination of his client.
===OO=OOO=OO===
Glancing at his notes, Bob Altschuler leaned back lazily in his chair at the prosecutor's table. He said, "Ms. Boudreau, I remind you that you're still under oath to tell the truth."
Johnnie Faye's hands were on her handbag in her lap. She met Altschuler's distant hard gaze without wavering.
"We'll start at the beginning, work our way gradually up to the night of the murder, just as your attorney did. Does that suit you?"
"That's up to you, sir," Johnnie Faye said.
Altschuler raised an eyebrow, then studied the yellow legal pad. "All right… I recall that you said drugs had killed one of your brothers. Did you say that?"
"Yes, I did."
"But you also said, earlier in your testimony, that both of your brothers had been killed in Vietnam. Which is it, Ms. Boudreau? Drugs or bullets?"
A mistake, Warren thought. She'll only get more sympathy from the jury. But he knew where Altschuler was headed.
Patiently, and in detail, Johnnie Faye explained what had happened to Clinton and then Garrett. She spoke directly to the jurors. Then she turned back to the prosecutor. "So what I meant was that Garrett was killed by Vietnam, even though he wasn't actually killed in Vietnam."
"In other words, when you were testifying you said one thing and meant another — is that a fair way to put it?"
"In a way. But about my brother Garrett, I didn't think that was important."
"It's only important insofar as this jury can see how your mind works, Ms. Boudreau, when you're asked to state the truth under oath."
Before Warren could object, she said, "I was telling the truth. I said later that my brother died of an overdose."
Two minutes into cross, Warren thought, and she's already being drawn into arguing with Altschuler. She'll get ripped apart. Warren stood, shaking his head sadly. "Your honor, the prosecutor is meant to ask questions of the witness, not badger her or lecture to the jury. Would the court be kind enough to remind him of that?"
"Is that an objection, Mr. Blackburn?" Judge Bingham asked.
"It is, your honor."
"Sustained. Don't do that anymore, Mr. Altschuler."
Warren glanced sharply at Johnnie Faye, hoping the message had got through. But she was leaning slightly forward in the witness chair, clutching her handbag. Her eyes were focused completely on Bob Altschuler.
Altschuler said, "Ms. Boudreau, you told the jury, didn't you, that back in 1970 you were proud to have represented Corpus Christi in the Miss Texas Pageant?"
"Yes, sir, I was."
Consulting his notes, Altschuler said, "Isn't it a fact that you made a speech at the Miss Texas Pageant, in front of television cameras, denouncing the pageant as a 'stupid and demeaning charade'? Aren't those your words, Ms. Boudreau?"
"They may have been, but that had nothing to do with how I felt about going there to represent my hometown."
Altschuler turned to Judge Bingham. "Your honor, would you please instruct the witness to answer yes or no if a yes or no answer is called for."
Judge Bingham nodded. "Please try to do that, madam."
Johnnie Faye said, "Your honor, I can't do that if he's going to twist the facts."
Warren's eyes rolled in their sockets. Now she was arguing with the judge!
Bingham ignored her and said, "Continue, Mr. Bob."
"Didn't you also say to the press at the Miss Texas Pageant: 'Virginal meat is the only kind the male chauvinist pigs will let you show off in this circus'? Aren't those your words?"
Johnnie Faye's fingers dug even deeper into the leather of her handbag.
"Yes, sir, I said that."
"Were those words meant to demonstrate how proud you were to represent your hometown?"
"That's not true."
"Excuse me, are you answering yes or no?"
"I'm trying to say that one thing had nothing to do with the other."
"Does that mean yes or no?"
"No," she said angrily. "Or yes. I don't even remember your stupid question."
Altschuler nodded, as if he had learned something of great moment. "Strike the stupid question," he said. "Now, Ms. Boudreau, in deploring the difficulties of your work at your nightclub, you said that God hadn't made a perfect world. Do you believe in God?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you go to church regularly?"
"Objection," Warren said. "Irrelevant."
"She opened the door," Altschuler explained, "when she brought up God."
"She opened the door to whether or not she believed in God," Warren argued to the bench. "She didn't open the door to her churchgoing habits."
"He's just splitting hairs," Altschuler snapped.
"I don't think so," said Bingham. "I won't allow it. Objection sustained."
Altschuler growled, "If counsel for the defense doesn't want the jury to know his client's so-called 'churchgoing habits,' I won't ask." He shook his head in apparent disgust.
If Altschuler was going to play the role of gunfighter, then Warren would play sheriff. Instantly he was back on his feet — "Your honor, I object. And I'm sure the jury can do without all these melodramatic facial gestures."
"Nonsense!" Altschuler barked. "We're looking for the truth! I think we have a right to know if we're dealing with a truth-teller or a hypocrite!"
With fervor that waltzed perilously close to gallantry, Warren turned to the judge and said, "Your honor, please! These are just speeches and innuendos." He might not have been so protective, he knew, if Altschuler hadn't been so personally aggressive. Lawyering is acting. If a lawyer gets a jury to trust him more than the other son of a bitch, he's home free.
The judge banged his gavel. "Stop this horseplay, both of you! Mr. Warren, your objection is sustained. Mr. Bob, go on with your cross-examination."
Calming himself, Altschuler asked, "Your nightclub, which I gather isn't part of God's perfect world, is that a topless nightclub?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Young women dance naked from the waist up?"
"Yes, sir."
"They sometimes approach as close as six inches to the customers and shake their breasts in the customers' faces?"
"Sometimes, yes."
"And do they ever perform any sexual services for the customers?"
"Not that I know of," Johnnie Faye said.
She was in control again. With his objections, Warren had bought her time. She had figured it out.
"You said, speaking of Dr. Ott's wife, 'Sharon had died so tragically.' Tell the jury, if you will — how did Mrs. Ott die?"
"I believe she was shot down outside an aerobics center back in 1987."
"Did you have any personal knowledge of those events, Ms. Boudreau?"
"No, I did not. Just what I read in the papers and what Clyde told me."
"Weren't you extremely friendly with a man named David Inkman, known as Dink, whom the police suspected of murdering Mrs. Ott?"
"Objection!" Warren cried. "No predicate, and it's irrelevant, and there's an outrageous implication!"
"Sustained," Judge Bingham said. "The jury will disregard the question and any implication. Get off that, Mr. Bob."
Disregard, but think about it.
"Ms. Boudreau, you owned three guns at one time, isn't that correct?"
"Yes."
"And one of them, a .32-caliber Colt, was unregistered?"
"Yes."
"Are you aware that's illegal?"
"Yes."
"That gun was given to you as a gift?"
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"David Inkman."
"A gift from a dead man." Altschuler sniggered. "Tell us," he said, veering again, trying to confuse her, "after the first time Dr. Ott allegedly struck you, were you concerned for your personal safety?"
"Yes," Johnnie Faye said.
"And didn't you begin carrying a .22-caliber pistol in your handbag so that if Dr. Ott threatened to strike you, you could protect yourself?"
"No, I always carried that pistol. It had nothing to do with Clyde. I believe I mentioned that someone once tried to rape me."
"Did you report that attempted rape to the police?"
"No."
Warren paid close attention. She was in trouble, but she was bearing up. Her hands were steady on the handbag.
"How many drinks did you have at the Hacienda on the night of May 7, Ms. Boudreau?"
"Two or three."
"And so Dr. Ott had at least seven drinks, and possibly eight?"
"Yes."
"Didn't you plan to drink just enough so that you'd stay sober, and didn't you encourage Dr. Ott to drink heavily?"
"No, I didn't do that at all."
"You admit to having a foul mouth, don't you?"
"Sometimes."
"But you have a quick memory?"
"I have a good memory, yes."
"Tell this jury the words you used at the Hacienda bar when you cursed Dr. Ott."
"I don't like to use those words in public, sir."
"Your honor, please instruct the witness to be responsive."
"You can answer, madam," Judge Bingham said.
"I called Clyde a cocksucker and a lying son of a bitch, because he'd told me he wouldn't use any more cocaine."
"Don't you yourself use cocaine and marijuana, Ms. Boudreau?"
"I have in the distant past used small amounts of marijuana. There's a lot of stress in my job. I've never used cocaine."
Altschuler's eyes were inky and threatening like those of a deep-water fish. "Don't you distribute and even sell cocaine to some of your personal friends at your topless nightclub, Ecstasy?"
"No, I don't do that."
"What time was it exactly when you came back to Dr. Ott's house from the Hacienda on the night of May 7?"
"Let's see… we must have left the restaurant around eleven. So call it close to eleven-thirty."
"You went upstairs with Dr. Ott?"
"Yes."
"You had sex with him then, didn't you?"
"Yes. He insisted."
"You mean you didn't want to have sex with him?"
"No. I mean that's right — I didn't want it."
"He insisted, and you didn't want it. He was drunk and under the influence of cocaine, and you were sober. Are you telling us, in those circumstances, he was able to force you to have sex?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Did he threaten you with bodily harm if you wouldn't do it with him?"
"No. He just shoved me down on the bed."
"But you knew, didn't you, when you went upstairs with him, that he wanted to have sex with you?"
"No, I didn't."
"You thought he just wanted you to tuck him into bed?"
"I thought he wanted to talk."
"You couldn't talk downstairs in the living room?"
"I'm sure we could have. But he wanted to go up. I was feeling sorry for him." Suddenly, amazingly, tears flooded Johnnie Faye's eyes. "Sir, I shouldn't have gone up and gone to bed with him to have sex." Her voice choked. "I'm ashamed that I did that, but I'm not perfect. People don't always do the right thing every hour of the day and night."
Altschuler hesitated. With a witness like Johnnie Faye Boudreau he would normally slash at her character, impeach her believability, approaching the task with the distaste of a man forced to clean out a blocked sewer. But now she bent with every blow like a pliant branch. Yes, her girls shoved their breasts into men's faces; yes, she had smoked marijuana; yes, she had called Clyde a cocksucker; yes, she had gone to bed with him. And now there were tears.
"So that night," Altschuler asked, "you had
sex with him completely against your will? He raped you?"
"No, he couldn't do it. That's what got him so angry."
"He couldn't perform, and that made him angry?"
"Yes, sir."
"He slapped you in the face?"
"Yes."
"Were you frightened when he got angry and slapped you?"
"A little."
"And so you rushed downstairs to get your pistol out of your handbag?"
"No, sir."
"You did rush downstairs to get your handbag, didn't you?"
"I got dressed and walked down in a hurry. I needed my handbag because my car keys were in it. I wanted to leave."
"You had left your handbag on the living room sofa, is that what you claim?"
"Yes."
"You knew your pistol was also in your handbag, didn't you?"
"I didn't think of that at the time."
"You always carried that pistol in your handbag, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Are you telling us that on the night of May 7 you didn't know your pistol was in your handbag?"
Jesus, Warren thought, he's good.
"I'm not saying that—"
"Stop. Is the answer yes or no, Ms. Boudreau?"
Johnnie Faye wiped her eyes and turned to Judge Bingham. "Your honor, that's like asking me, 'Do you still beat your dog?' I can't give a simple yes or no honest answer. I want to answer truthfully, but he won't let me."
"Answer as best you can," the judge said.
"My answer is: I knew it was in my handbag, but I wasn't thinking about it being there."
And she's good too, Warren thought. It was a contest worth watching. But he was not sure whom he was rooting for.
"She's answered," the judge said. "Move along, Mr. Bob."
"When you went downstairs to the living room and picked up your handbag with the pistol in it, Ms. Boudreau, you say that Dr. Ott followed you. You could have left the house then, couldn't you?"
"He came downstairs before I'd got the handbag."
"You're telling us that you were sober, and you couldn't have picked up your bag and walked or run out the front door before a drunken man clambered out of bed and stumbled down a long flight of stairs?"
"He was right behind me."
"How far behind you?"
"I don't know, I didn't turn around. I heard his footsteps behind me, and I heard him shouting."
Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller Page 29
