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

by Clifford Irving

"No, sir."

  "Can you describe the car? The make? The model?"

  "Not really, 'cept it was big and looked new."

  "Before the woman in the car tore out of there, Mr. Dandy, did you notice if she had anything in her hand?"

  "Looked to me like a gun."

  "Can you describe the gun?"

  "Can't do that. Was just a gun."

  "Big or small?"

  "It wasn't nothin' gigantic."

  A great witness, Warren thought. He never speculated, never embroidered, and he told the truth. Warren looked again at Nancy Goodpaster. He saw in her face an intense concentration masking a growing amazement. But he also saw belief.

  "What did you do then, Mr. Dandy?"

  "Walked over to the wagon and looked inside. Man was dead in there." Jim Dandy sighed. "I took his wallet. He wasn't gonna need it no more."

  Warren nodded. "Did you hang around to see what was in the wallet?"

  "No, I skedaddled. I already seen there was money in it. Looked to see how much when I got round the corner."

  "Besides money, was there anything else in the wallet?"

  "A laundry ticket."

  "Did you take that out of the wallet?"

  "Put it in my pocket."

  "What did you do with the wallet?"

  "Threw it in a sewer."

  "What did you do with the laundry ticket?"

  "Well, a few days later, I figured, heck, dead fella don't need the clothes either. I still had some of the money left, so I went back there to the laundry and got 'em. Paid for 'em and took 'em away."

  "Do you remember who waited on you in the laundry and gave you the clothes?"

  "Indian lady."

  "Can you describe the clothes you got from her at the laundry?"

  "Nice gray suit. White shirts. Nice green sweater. Didn't fit too good — little tight. So I sold 'em down at the mission."

  Warren elected not to pursue that now; that would come later, and not in this court. His voice rising, he said, "Mr. Dandy, have you ever in your life seen the man sitting beside me?" He put a hand — a hand that almost trembled — on Hector Quintana's shoulder.

  Jim Dandy peered across the courtroom at Hector. "Not that I can recollect. Looks like a Messkin. I ain't got nothin' against 'em, but I can't always tell 'em apart."

  "You didn't see this man in the parking lot outside the laundry that night, or in the car that the woman with the gun was driving, or anywhere around the vicinity of the shopping mall?"

  "Nope."

  "Did you see anyone that night who might have even looked like this man?"

  "Nope."

  "Thank you, sir," Warren said. "Pass the witness."

  Nancy Goodpaster took Jim Dandy on cross for only fifteen minutes. She made him repeat most of his story; she focused mostly on the time frame, to make sure it was the night of May 19, and his certainty that it was a woman in the car. Warren never raised an objection. But Jim Dandy was certain. A person with long hair and lipstick was not a man. "I was drunk," he said, "and times have changed, but, ma'am, I ain't never that drunk I can't tell a man from a woman."

  Goodpaster hesitated, bit her lip, then said, "No further questions."

  To hammer in the final nail of innocence, Warren called Siva Singh as a witness for the defense. She quickly identified Jim Dandy as the man who had picked up Dan Ho Trunh's dry cleaning.

  "And could Mr. Dandy be the same man you saw running away from the car and out of the parking lot?"

  "That is possible," Singh said quietly.

  After Goodpaster declined cross-examination, Warren said, "May it please the court…" and called for a ten-minute break for counsel to confer.

  Goodpaster led Warren back to her office. She sat down behind her desk and said, "Give me a couple of minutes to work this damn thing out."

  Warren waited while she stared out the window at the heat bouncing off a distant white building. Finally she faced him. "I have one problem. How do we know that it wasn't your witness, this guy Dandy, who murdered Trunh? He had motive — the money. He had opportunity. How do we know his whole story isn't a cover-up?"

  "Then why would he be dumb enough to show up in court," Warren asked, "and take the risk you'd figure that out and nail his ass to the wall?"

  "I have no idea," she admitted.

  "He didn't do it, Nancy. I'm not guessing."

  Goodpaster frowned. "You know something about this case that I don't know. You always did. Now let's stop fooling around. What is it?"

  "I know that the woman in the car murdered Trunh. She threw the gun away in a Dumpster at Ravendale. Quintana was foraging there and he found it."

  "And there's more than that. I can tell. Spit it out."

  After a few moments, Warren said, "I know who the woman is."

  "You mean you think you know."

  "No." Again Warren hesitated. "She's admitted it to me.

  "Jesus Christ! Then stop playing games! Who is it?"

  "I can't tell you — it falls under privilege. When it's possible, you'll know. When you become my partner." He smiled briefly, exhausted. "And now let's wrap up Quintana. You're chief prosecutor in this court. You have the power. Will the state drop charges?"

  Goodpaster sighed. "I guess we have no choice."

  Warren said, "You always have a choice, Nancy. Don't sigh. Just be glad you're able to make the right one."

  "Believe me, I am." With her sleeve Goodpaster wiped a light sheen of sweat from her forehead. "This could have been my worst nightmare come true. That jury could have given your client the needle. I was sure he was guilty."

  "Don't feel badly about that," Warren said. "For a long time, so was I."

  Goodpaster laid a slim hand on his shoulder. "I want to tell you something, Warren. You're a hell of a lawyer, and I've been here five years and I've seen a lot. I never saw anyone fight so hard for a client. And I never saw anyone stand up to Her Worship the way you did. You made my week. My year."

  What she had said about fighting for his client made him feel that he had reached the zenith of his profession.

  "You must feel awfully good," Goodpaster said.

  "I do," Warren admitted. "But I'm damn tired." He suddenly felt he might cry. He had to turn away.

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  The law required a certain procedure. The facts would have to be presented formally to the Office of the District Attorney and the indictment quashed. Back in Judge Parker's courtroom, Goodpaster requested a continuance pending prosecutorial decision. "The state," she said, "is also willing to accept defense counsel's motion for bail on defendant's personal recognizance bond, if the defense so moves."

  "Defense so moves," Warren said.

  "Granted," said the judge, shaking her head in near disbelief. She rapped her gavel. "And will y'all go now, so I can dismiss this jury and get on with my docket?"

  Warren walked over to Hector Quintana at the defense table. "You can go."

  "Go where?" Hector said.

  "Anywhere you like. You're free, Hector. It's all over."

  Warren explained a few things, but he was not sure Hector understood them all. Hector murmured some phrases in Spanish, and then tears glittered in his eyes. He hugged his lawyer fiercely. "Thank you," he said. "Diós te pagará."

  God will reward you.

  Warren couldn't remember ever having been so glad. He cried and he laughed and he hugged and pummeled his client Hector Quintana at the same time.

  "I have no money," Hector said, when they had both recovered sufficiently to deal with practical matters. "Where should I go?"

  "I know just the place," Warren said. "And don't worry about money. Tomorrow I'll give you the money to get back to Mexico or to stay here, whatever you like. My pleasure. But do me a favor and come on along with me now. I have something to do. Something that can't wait."

  "I owe you one," Warren said, "and I'm here to pay. But first you have to indulge me and answer a few questions."

  Bob Alts
chuler's spacious sixth-floor office in the district attorney's building on Fannin was furnished in maple with imitation French provincial chairs. On his desk were photographs of his wife and three daughters, and Altschuler reclined in the kind of tall swivel chair that was usually the prerogative of judges and board chairmen. Hector Quintana was waiting outside in an anteroom.

  Altschuler nodded coolly. "Go ahead."

  "There was a murder in the mission about four or five nights ago," Warren said. "A bum, shot to death in the toilet. As far as I know, no one's been indicted — HPD probably doesn't even have a suspect. I don't represent anyone involved, and I haven't talked to anyone who's involved. But I think I know who did it. Before I tell you, I need a look at the offense report. Or else I need to talk to whoever's handling it at Homicide."

  Altshuler frowned. "One bum iced some other bum. What's the big deal? It's a nothing case."

  "I don't think so," Warren said. "I think it'll make you happy."

  For a moment or two Altschuler fixed him with an astute dark look. Then he reached for his telephone. Ten minutes later Sgt. Hollis Thiel sat in one of the French provincial chairs next to Warren, hands resting on the paunch under his brown suit.

  "Tell me what happened," Warren said.

  Thiel's eyes in his porcine face were narrowed and suspicious. He glanced over at Altschuler.

  "Tell him," Altschuler said.

  "Four o'clock in the morning," Thiel said. "It's a real zoo over at the mission. Guys come in and out all night, sleep a little, booze it up, smoke, shoot smack. There's no night and day. So around four o'clock this guy goes into the toilet. His name is Jerry Mahoney. Guy about thirty-five or so, comes from Galveston. A kind of classy bum. Little fuck sells dope when he can get hold of it, and plenty of guys have a hard-on for him. He's at the trough taking a piss when another guy walks in. Other guy stands next to him for a minute at the trough, looks Mahoney up and down. Mahoney starts to wriggle his dick around before he zips up, this other guy whips out a piece, puts two bullets in the unsuspecting bastard, checks Mahoney's pulse, then beats it. One head shot, one body shot, both through and throughs. Mahoney's dead by the time the ambulance arrives. Never says a word."

  "What was Mahoney wearing when he was killed?" Warren asked.

  Thiel checked his notes. "Green cotton sweater, white button-down shirt, no tie, gray pants, brown shoes with holes in both soles. Kind of preppy. I told you, he's a classy bum."

  "And there were witnesses," Warren said.

  "Yeah. The toilets don't have doors, which is supposed to stop guys from giving blow jobs to each other in the stalls, if they're that way inclined. Two bums are taking a crap when Mahoney is killed." Thiel looked at his notes again. "One black dude named Fred Poison, one illegal alien named Raul Fernandez. They see it all. Scares them shitless." Thiel chuckled. "Literally."

  "They give you a description of the killer? Don't tell me what they said. Just tell me if they gave one to you."

  "Yeah, but they don't know who he is. They never saw him before."

  "Let me guess," Warren said. "About thirty years old. Fair hair. Wore a black T-shirt and chinos. Tattoos on both arms. One's a dragon, the other says 'Rosie.' Tough-looking guy, with muscles."

  That was the pattern. The new boyfriend did the dirty work. Johnnie Faye had been in court on the day that Siva Singh testified to a man having probably witnessed the murder. A bum with a laundry ticket for a green sweater and gray suit. The dirty work needed to be done.

  Thiel's eyes narrowed to slits. Rustling his papers, he glanced up at Altschuler, who nodded his approval again. Thiel looked back at Warren.

  "Close, counselor. One tattoo on one arm is what they saw. Poison says the guy was about thirty-two. Fernandez isn't sure. Maybe older. They both saw the muscles. Black T-shirt is correct. Guy wore a hat so they couldn't see his hair."

  "You don't know who he is, right? No clue."

  "Not yet, but I got a feeling one's coming."

  "And you found the bullets in the walls," Warren said, "and the hulls were on the floor, probably behind and to the right. A .45 ejects behind and to the right."

  "I didn't say it was a .45," Thiel said slowly.

  "But it was."

  "Yeah," Thiel said, "it was."

  "Poison and Fernandez still around?"

  "They're around."

  "Why don't you pick them up this morning," Warren said, "so that they're sober and straight for the rest of the day. Then this evening you can take them to visit a few nightclubs." Warren handed Thiel a slip of yellow paper torn from a legal pad. "Here's a list of clubs. Tear it up before I leave this office. Look really carefully in the third one on the list. If you find the guy you're looking for, you have cause to search the premises. Bob will review the transcript of Boudreau — my direct examination of the defendant — and tell you where to look. The .45 may be there, or it may not. But the guy you find will know where it is, and he'll know who gave it to him and told him to ice a man in a green sweater and white button-down shirt. He's a tough little fucker — you may have to sweat him. But if you offer him the right deal for the right name, you're home free."

  Warren turned to Bob Altschuler. "I just tried a case in the 299th. Interesting case. You'd like it. If the state's not completely broke, you should pay for the court reporter to transcribe the trial. Talk to Nancy. Pay attention to two prosecution witnesses — Mai Thi Trunh and Siva Singh — and one defense witness — James Thurgood Dandy. You read carefully, they'll tell you why Mahoney was wearing a green sweater and gray pants." Warren spelled the names, while Altschuler diligently wrote in block capitals on a yellow legal pad.

  "Since you know so much," Altschuler asked, when he had finished, "why don't you just lay it all out on the table instead of making me jump through hoops and invest my valuable time?"

  "Because this way," Warren said, "you'll have a greater sense of accomplishment. And then you can leave me out of it. You never talked to me. I'm just another scumbag defense lawyer. I'm not a witness. I'm not a source. Can you live with that?"

  "Ah well." Altschuler smiled gently. "If things work out — why not?"

  ===OO=OOO=OO===

  That evening Warren dipped into his wallet and said goodbye to Pedro and Armando and Jim Dandy. He settled Hector Quintana, his new guest, onto the living room couch at Ravendale. After Warren put fresh sheets on his king-size bed and ran along the bayou with Oobie, he showered, made sure Hector had everything he needed, and then drove to Maria Hahn's house. He had called her earlier to set the hour.

  Maria's son, Randy, was home from Austin. Warren was glad. Maria fed Randy a veal roast and, while the boy ate, Warren discussed with him the plight of the second-place Astros. When Randy had rinsed and stacked his dishes, Maria sent him into his room to watch the ball game on television.

  She mixed two vodka tonics, then tucked her long legs beneath her skirt and curled into an easy chair. Her usually cheerful blue eyes were melancholy. Warren stood in the center of the living room, lifting his glass to inhale the aroma of grain and lemon.

  He said, "Good kid, Randy."

  "Yes, he is."

  Tangled lives, Warren thought. No deceit, but no less tangled.

  "How are you?" Maria asked tonelessly.

  "I won two cases in two days. I feel great. But I didn't like bumping into you that way. Yesterday, outside the courtroom."

  "So what happened with your wife?"

  Warren told her everything. He was a good lawyer, he had good recall. It took a while.

  "And what will you do?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I told her I needed time."

  Maria bit her lip. "I'm not happy about it, and I don't think you're doing the right thing, but I guess I understand."

  "I'm not doing anything."

  He remembered Johnnie Faye Boudreau's words: "The good Lord hates a muddle the way a judge hates a hung jury… 'Mr. Man, Mr. Lawyer, you can walk, you can run, you can lie down, but don't ever wobble.
'" The irony of taking advice from that quarter did not escape him. And so he struggled against it.

  "We never made any promises to each other," Maria said. "No declarations of love. And shit happens."

  "It wasn't shit. It isn't shit."

  "Sure. You know how I talk. That's just an expression."

  Warren wanted to hold her and comfort her, but he knew it wouldn't help. He felt a sadness of incipient loss. Not overpowering, but it was there. So must she feel it too. There was only one right thing to do.

  "Listen, I didn't come here to say goodbye. I came here to tell you I have a problem, that's all. I want to keep things clear. I don't want to hide anything. But I don't want to paint myself into a corner where I say something that I don't mean and that I'll regret. You follow? Probably not. I'm going," he said gruffly, angry at himself, setting his drink down on the glass coffee table in front of the couch where he had first kissed her. For a moment she bent her head, clasping slim ankles with slim hands. Then she looked up at him. Her eyes were cool.

  "Are you moving back in with your wife?"

  "That is exactly what I am not doing. Give me a break, Maria. Give me a merit badge for honesty. Maybe honesty is stupid in this kind of situation, but I like to think not. I'll call you, I'll let you know what's happening. And I promise you, for whatever it's worth, I won't play games. If I ever come back here, I'll be a free man." He paused at the door, turning. "You know something? You saved my sanity. You're a loyal friend."

  "I'm good at that," she said. "See you around, counselor."

  He went out the front door to his car, got in, and shut his eyes for a long minute. He had not meant to sweep her out of his life with a single blow like that of a leopard's paw. Yet it seemed that had happened. He felt stunned, pained — a little corrupt. He drove back to Ravendale.

  He found Hector watching television and drinking a beer. Warren mixed a strong vodka tonic and sat down with him. They talked about life in Mexico and life in the United States and they kept drinking. "Are you going back to El Palmito?" Warren asked.

  Hector said, "I miss my wife and children, but if I go back there I'll always be poor. I don't want to be poor." He shrugged. "Who knows?" He had told Warren the Mexicans had an answer to many difficult questions. That answer was "Maybe yes, maybe no. But most probably … who knows?"