Dark Lady

by Richard North Patterson

  Betty looked away. To cover this, Caroline clasped her shoulders, and kissed her softly on the cheek. Her lips barely touched her sister’s skin.

  Turning, Caroline drew a breath and walked to the defense table.

  The courtroom was small and plain, with the American and the New Hampshire flag at each side of the judge’s bench. The press began to cluster in the back, and the slow gathering of a courtroom reaching critical mass began—Jackson shuffling papers at the prosecution table; a bailiff coming through the judge’s door at the back of the room, the court reporter sitting at her machine in front of the raised bench where Judge Towle would sit. The murmur of onlookers grew quieter.

  Caroline folded her hands beneath the table. At the back of the courtroom, a second door opened, and then Brett appeared with a deputy.

  She wore the simple blue dress Caroline had selected for her, and her hair was pulled back from her face. The effect

  was demure; Brett’s eyes seemed to widen at the courtroom, and her bright green gaze sought out Caroline. And then she smiled a little and came to her directly.

  Feeling strangely light, Caroline stood. This was what she was here for.

  Brett gazed up at her. “Hi,” she said.

  Her voice was close to normal. “Are you all right?” Caroline asked.

  Brett smiled again. “Anything to get out of there.”

  The joke did not quite work; for a moment, Caroline wished that she could hug her.

  “Well,” she said in her calmest tone, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  They sat together. Caroline squeezed Brett’s hand beneath the table. Then Carlton Grey joined them, and she let go.

  “All rise,” the bailiff called out.

  District Judge Frederick Towle appeared. He was plump and brown-haired, no older than Caroline and no taller. He took his time, his round, amiable face solemn and a little abstracted, as if he was aware of being watched. Assuming the bench, he looked at Jackson.

  Jackson did not look happy. Caroline knew why: at seven-thirty that morning, Judge Towle had brought the lawyers in to take care of preliminary motions. Carlton Grey had moved Caroline’s admission for the purposes of the case; graciously, Judge Towle had welcomed her back to New Hampshire, and then he set the rules for the hearing. His sole purpose, he went on, was to determine whether the prosecution had probable cause to pursue a charge of murder in the first degree: Jackson would be allowed to put on hearsay evidence, asking the police to testify as to knowledge gained from other witnesses. But after argument from Caroline, Towle ruled that Jackson could not show probable cause solely through the lead investigator. Instead he must himself call four of the prosecution witnesses whom Caroline had subpoenaed—the arresting

  officer; the lead investigator; the medical examiner; and Megan Race. Jackson had protested vigorously—is, he said, would present the defense discovery not permitted by New Hampshire law. But Towle held his ground: the purpose was not discovery, he responded, but establishing probable cause in a matter that relied on the credibility of Megan Race and on medical evidence—including photographs—too complex for hearsay testimony from lay witnesses. Jackson had looked astonished; watching, Caroline could feel her father’s presence, though he was nowhere near the courtroom. Now, still facing Jackson, Towle nodded. “Mr. Watts,” he said, and the hearing began.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Watching Jackson rise, Caroline wondered if this would be her last appearance in a courtroom. The sense of emptiness frightened her—who would she be if not a judge or lawyer. And then she felt Brett beside her. Get a grip, Caroline told herself. What Brett needed now was for Caroline to be as good as she ever had been. Passing before the cramped spectator section, jammed with media, a young policeman in uniform took the stand. Officer Jack Mann of the Resolve police was much as Brett had described him: stocky, well built, barely in his twenties. His brown hair was cut short on the sides, Marine-style, emphasizing his square chin and prominent nose. But his face seemed hardly written on, and his eyes were guileless: the effect was of someone decent, striving to fill his role and almost painfully sincere. Caroline could see why Brett had trusted him. Jackson stood near the witness box in his prosecutor’s outfit: navy-blue suit, white shirt, subdued tie. The sober spokesman of law and order, soberly examining its first line of defense. Quickly, Jackson disposed of the preliminaries and got to the critical facts. “That night,” he asked, “when did you first encounter Brett Allen?”

  “I saw her Jeep.” Mann glanced quickly at Brett. “It was stopped by the side of the county road, with the headlights on. I thought someone might be needing help.” Next to Caroline, Brett sat with her head bowed. She made herself look up at Mann; in Caroline’s line of vision were two young profiles—Brett gazing at the policeman; Mann facing Jackson. “So you stopped?” Jackson asked. “Yessir. And went to the car.” Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets. “And what did you find?” “At first I couldn’t see anyone. So I went to the driver’s-side window with my flashlight.”

  “And?” Mann stared straight ahead now. “There was a naked woman inside. She was hunched down behind the wheel, face pressed against the car door.” His voice carried the memory of puzzlement. “Sort of curled up in the fetal position, like she was trying to hide.” Brett’s face reddened. Caroline touched her arm. “I called to her through the window,” Mann went on. “After about the third time, she opened it.” He paused a moment. “She tried to cover herself. But I could see the blood and vomit on her.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Only that she was sick. I could smell it tooalong with marijuana and maybe wine.” Caroline glanced about. An odd decorousness had settled over the courtroom: Judge Towle studied nothing in particular, and reporters soberly scribbled notes. But Betty and Larry were rigid in profile, and her father’s stare was fixed. Caroline turned back to Jackson. He was moving closer to Mann. “Did she tell you how she’d gotten that way?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing about a boyfriend?”

  “No.” Eyebrow raised, Jackson skipped a beat. “Or a murder?”

  “Nothing like that, sir. She didn’t say anything about him.” In Brett’s eyes was the sudden film of doubt—all at once, Caroline sensed that Brett herself was not sure of

  what had happened. She wondered if this was better, or worse, than the settled knowledge of one’s guilt. “Did you search the car?” Jackson asked Mann. “No, sir—I didn’t have a warrant. But there were certain items on the passenger seat, in plain view.” The young cop’s voice was stiff now—he wanted to show how well he had stuck to the rules. As if to affirm this, Jackson nodded before asking, “What were those items?” “A wallet and a knife.” Mann’s voice lowered. “The knife had blood on it. From the looks of it, the blood hadn’t dried yet.” The process had begun, Caroline thought: the slow accretion of fact upon fact to establish Brett’s guilt. Brett herself was still, attentive. “Did you ask her about that?”

  “I asked if anyone was hurt.”

  “And what did she answer?”

  “I don’t remember, exactly. But what it amounted to was ‘no.””

  “And how was her demeanor?”

  “It was like she was so scared she was numb. But her eyes followed me—I could see she understood my questions. When I asked her name, She told me.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “Told her I was taking her in, for DWI.” Mann’s voice turned defensive. “I didn’t know what else had happened, but it was pretty clear she was drunk or maybe stoned.” The next question, Caroline knew, was critical. Jackson paused before asking it, and each word was slow and distinct. “At the time you arrested Ms. Allen, Officer Mann, did you believe that a homicide had been committed?” Mann fidgeted in his chair, but his voice was firm. “I had no idea what had happened, except that there was blood in the car, and someone might be hurt. At first, I thought it might be her blood. But she wasn’t telling the a thing.”

  �
�So you took her to the station in Resolve.”

  “Yessir. I gave her my jacket and drove her in. Then I booked her for DWI and put her in a cell.”

  “What did you do then’?.”

  “I went through the wallet and found a driver’s license with a man’s picture and a name—James Case. That was the first time I was sure the wallet wasn’t hers.” Jackson nodded. “Did that concern you.”?”

  “Yessir.” Mann’s shoulders hunched together, and his forehead creased; with a certain detachment, Caroline watched the young policeman gather himself to give the answer he and Jackson had rehearsed. “I was worried that someone might be hurt somewhere and needing help. I mean, that’s one of the reasons you take this job—to help protect people. You have to consider all sorts of things, like maybe there’s a killer out there who might hurt someone again if we didn’t find him, who even might hurt Ms. Allen. But the first thing was this guy on the driver’s license, and was he hurt and still out there.” It might even be true, Caroline thought; at least Mann was young enough to believe it. Next to her, Brett stared at the table. Caroline whispered, “Keep looking at him. No matter what.” Brett did that. But she could not look at Caroline. “So at the time,” Jackson was asking, “your concern was public safety’?.” “Yessir. And maybe saving a life.”

  “And you did not believe that a homicide had been committed, or that Ms. Allen had committed it?” For the first time, Caroline rose to address Judge Towle. “Objection,” she said in a calm, clear voice. “To both questions, actually. I don’t want to interrupt Mr. Watts’s testimony, but he shouldn’t be telling our nominal witness what his answers should be. After all, these proceedings should have at least some spontaneity.” Towle’s owlish look at Caroline said that he understood perfectly: that Jackson, unsure of his witness, was steering

  him through a trap Caroline wished to spring—that he had waited too long to read Brett her rights for a charge of murder. And that Caroline must cut this off. “Sustained.” Towl turned to Jackson. “Let’s have this in Officer Mann’s own words. And thoughts, if possible.” Jackson looked unruffled; his question had already provided Mann with the answer, and Caroline’s objection had underscored how central it was. “Did you show the license to Ms. Allen?” he asked. “Yessir.”

  “And what, if anything, did you say to her?”

  “What I just said—that I was afraid someone out there might be hurt, might get worse if we couldn’t help him.” Jackson nodded in approval. “And did she answer you?”

  “She did. She told me to look out by Heron Lake.” Turning to Brett, he finished quietly, “When they found him, his throat had been cut with a knife.” Brett’s face was white. Beneath the table, Caroline touched her knee. Jackson let a moment pass. “Between the time of Ms. Allen’s statement and the time James Case was found dead, what did you do?” Slowly, Mann’s gaze returned to Jackson. “I called the state police. At their instructions, I took her to Connaughton County Hospital and then drove back to the station.”

  “And when did you next see her?”

  “After they’d found the body, and we’d called the Major Crimes Unit of the state police. They called from the hospital and said she wanted to see me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Waited for Sergeant Summers from Major Crimes in Concord. When he got there, he had them put her in a room with both of us.”

  “And at that time, did you give Ms. Allen her Miranda warnings?” “Sergeant Summers did. It’s all on tape.”

  “And how did she seem to you?”

  “Pale and upset. But sober—anxious to talk.”

  “Did she seem to understand her rights?”

  “Yessir. On the tape, she says that doesn’t matter—that she wants to talk,” Jackson paused a moment. “How long,” he asked slowly, “had it been since you picked her upT’ “It was nearly six. I’d picked her up at approximately eleven-thirty.”

  “Did she seem coherent?”

  “Yessir.” Jackson nodded. “We’ll introduce the tape through Sergeant Summers. But could you describe the essence of her statement as to how James Case had died?” Mann nodded. “She told us that someone else had killed him. And that she found him like that.”

  “And in the course of her statement, did you ask Ms. Allen about her relationship to Mr. Case?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “He was her boyfriend.” All at once, Caroline could see what was coming. She had an objection—that the tape spoke for itself. But to raise this would only make things worse. Pausing, Jackson gave Mann a long, considering look. “And did you then ask her if Mr. Case was involved with any other women’?”

  “Yessir. “And what did she answer?” As he turned to Brett, Caroline saw the girl brace herself. “Ms. Allen said, ‘Of course not.”” Pausing, Mann seemed bemused. “It was the only time she sounded angry.” Caroline felt the implications in the pit of her stomach: that Brett was sober enough to lie. And that she had needed to lie about Megan Race because she needed to lie about everything. In an involuntary reflex, Brett looked down. Turning to Caroline, Jackson said with grave politeness, “Your witness, Counsel.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Walking toward the witness, Caroline took a moment to gather herself. She saw her family watching her, her father’s grim inspection. Most of all, she felt Brett waiting behind her. “Let’s take this from the beginning,” she said. “You found Brett Allen in her Jeep, by the side of the road. Naked.” Mann gave her a wary look. “That’s right.” “Spattered with blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “Specked with vomit.”

  “Yes.”

  “And, it seems fair to say, disoriented.” Mann shook his head. “I don’t know if I could say that.” Caroline appraised him. Take it slow, she told herself. Quietly, she asked, “You had no doubt she was intoxicated, right?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “And what did you base that on?”

  “Like I said, I thought I could smell wine and marijuana. Plus she’d thrown up.”

  “Is that all?” Mann leaned back in the witness stand. “I think so, yes.” Caroline raised an eyebrow. “She was naked, wasn’t she?”

  “How many other naked drivers have you arrested?” Mann hesitated, and then shrugged. “None.”

  “And yet you testified that at the time you picked her up for DWI, she seemed to understand you. Was that based on anything she said?”

  “No.”

  “Because she didn’t respond at all, did she?”

  “Not that I remember.” Caroline moved closer. In a flat voice, she said, “Indeed, after you told her you were taking her in, the next thing she did—the very next thing—was throw up.” Pausing, Mann looked troubled. “She did that, yes.”

  “And on the way to the station she said nothing, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “So your entire basis for believing that this naked, blood-spattered, nauseous, and intoxicated young woman was nonetheless not ‘disoriented’ was that she could tell you her name. Oh, and that her eyes ‘followed’ you when you asked questions.” Mann glanced toward Jackson. I guess so,” he said at length. “But how do you know that she understood you?” Mann’s brow furrowed. “I can’t know that.”

  “Or even that she knew what had happened to her?” Mann glanced at Brett. “She told us she did later. She gave a whole statement about what happened.” It was a good answer. Caroline felt it break her rhythm; in that moment, she knew why Jackson had let this go. She drew a breath. Quietly, she asked, “Have you ever been intoxicated, Officer Mann?” Jackson was on his feet at once. “Objection, Your Honor. Officer Mann’s personal experience in this regard—if any—is irrelevant to Ms. Allen’s conduct here.” Caroline faced Judge Towle. “Your Honor, Officer Mann has offered an opinion—at least a surmise—on Ms. Allen’s state of mind from the moment of arrest until she finished her statement. Unless he has a medical background, that opini
on is based solely on practical experience. Perhaps including his own.”

  Towle propped his chin on one hand, glancing quickly toward Channing Masters. Almost absently, he said, I’ll allow it.”

  “Have you?” Caroline asked Mann. Mann flushed. “I would say so, yes. A few times—always whiskey.”

  “Ever get so drunk that you didn’t know where you were?” Mann looked down; a painful attempt at honesty seemed to tighten his face. “Once. After a bachelor party.”

  “And do you remember everything that happened that night?”

  “Most of it …” His voice trailed off, and he looked at Caroline with sudden comprehension. Quietly, she finished for him. “But not until later.” He nodded slowly. “That’s right. And not everything.” That last comment, Caroline realized, was far too close to home. “At the time you arrested Ms. Allen,” she asked abruptly, “was her hair wet?” Mann blinked, surprised. “I think so, yes.”

  “On what do you base that?” Mann thought for a time. “Like I said, I gave her my jacket. When I put it over her shoulders, her hair felt wet.” He scrutinized Brett briefly. “Her hair was curlier and tighter than it looks to me now.” Caroline paused. “So that later, when she gave her statement, there was at least one part you believed. When Brett told you she’d gone swimming.”

  “I guess so, yes.”

  “That must have been before James Case was killed, correct?” Mann hesitated, and then spread his hands. “How would I know?”

  “Because when you arrested her, Officer Mann, her face and neck and torso and hair all were flecked with blood.” Mann looked surprised. “That’s true …. “

  “So that it’s quite possible that—just as she told you—

  Brett Allen was in the middle of Heron Lake at the time James Case was killed.” There was a first murmur from the press. Instantly, Jackson rose to object. “Your Honor,” he said. “That may be Counsel’s argument. But how and when Ms. Allen’s hair got wet is well beyond the knowledge of this witness.” That, Caroline knew, was utterly correct. “Not so,” she answered tartly. “Not when there was blood on Ms. Allen’s skin and in her admittedly wet hair.” Towle permitted himself a smile. “It’s not the ‘wet’ part Mr. Watts objects to. It’s the ‘take’ part. Objection sustained.”- Caroline did not argue; she had made her point. Turning back to Mann, she asked, “Would you characterize the blood spatter on Ms. Allen’s skin and hair as heavy?” Mann seemed to search his memory. “No, I wouldn’t say ‘heavy.””