The Case of the Unhealthy Health Club

by David Staats

  “Barbecuing!” I said.

  Dure asked Kniffe to check with the Dom Dormeur vintner to try to determine whether the particular bucket could be traced from its being placed in commerce to the last person to have owned it.

  Chapter 12. The Deposition of Vanessa

  The deposition of Vanessa Hargrave was finally taking place. The lines kept going through Dure’s head: “The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of a king.” The only difference, he told himself, was that it’s a deposition, not a play, and a queen, not a king.

  He could not justify the expense of having Ms. Bonneville sit through the deposition, so he conducted the deposition by himself. He was used to being alone and on his own. He sat at a conference table in attorney Wakefield’s office, with Wakefield and Vanessa sitting on the other side. The court reporter sat at one end of the table.

  Dure considered that, if he gave credence to the suspicions and intimations he had received during his investigation, he might be sitting across the table from a murderess. Surely she did not look like a murderess. According to the information in his file, she was 28 years old. She had a well-proportioned oval face with striking hazel-green eyes. An enormous quantity of dark honey-gold hair grew up and back from her forehead, the center of which was punctuated by a pronounced widow’s peak. Barely perceptible wrinkles at the corners of her mouth gave her face a certain tender appearance, almost an appearance of vulnerability.

  “On the record?” he said, looking at the court reporter. She nodded and administered the oath. Vanessa Hargrave swore to tell the truth.

  Mrs. Hargrave, what is your full name?”

  “Vanessa Jean Hargrave.”

  The first half hour of the questioning was tedious, getting certain basic facts on the record. Mrs. Hargrave was a charming witness. A jury will love her, thought Dure. I’ll have to try to keep men off the jury.

  When Dure entered into the subject of her knowledge of her deceased husband’s financial affairs, he was delighted to hear her admit that she knew about the life insurance policy and that she guessed that she stood to inherit several million dollars, perhaps as much as five million or more, under his will. He was careful in his questioning to make sure that she testified to having held this expectation as of a time before her husband’s death.

  He did not fare quite so well when he asked about another element which could show motive for her to have murdered her husband. “Mrs. Hargrave, you stated you had worked at the health club for five years. For how much of that five years has Blake Culler worked there?”

  “I think he started about a year after I did.” No blushing or hesitation in the answer.

  “You worked together then for four years at the health club?”

  “Yes.”

  Wakefield put in a late objection. “Objection for vagueness. What do you mean by ‘worked together’?

  “Your employment was coterminous with his employment at the health club for a period of four years?” said Dure.

  “Yes.”

  “And you and he would at times both work at the same time in the health club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take an average over the four years: how much time did you spend in the club together per week?”

  “Objection,” said Wakefield. “ ‘Spend time together’ is vague, and I object to the relevance of the question. What does that have to do with your client’s negligence in operating the sauna?”

  “Your objection is noted,” said Dure. He thought: I’m drawing a lot of objections from Wakefield on this topic. That suggests I’m hitting a sensitive topic. To Mrs. Hargrave he said, “Please answer the question.”

  “It’s hard to say. Over that length of time.” She made a charming gesture of shrugging her shoulders. “I would say maybe six to ten hours a week. As an estimate.”

  “Over the course of four years, six to ten hours a week,” said Dure. “Would it be fair to say that you got to know him well?”

  “Objection.” said Wakefield. “What does this have to do with negligence?”

  “I’m laying a foundation for questions about this witness’s knowledge and observations of Mr. Culler’s practices and competence in operating and overseeing the sauna,” said Dure. This was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Good enough, however, to blunt Wakefield’s objection. “Please answer the question,” he repeated to the witness.

  “I got to know him as a co-worker,” she said. Her manner was natural and innocent.

  Dure put a series of questions which would both establish that she knew Culler well, and have the appearance of some relevance to the case. Wakefield fought him every step of the way with objections and statements for the record, and even got to the point where he threatened to call the judge and get a ruling that the questions were irrelevant and abusive. Two things became clear from the series of questions: Vanessa knew a lot about Blake Culler; and Wakefield really did not want him asking Mrs. Hargrave about Blake Culler. This amounted to something, but it was far from the kind of admission for which he was hoping.

  Besides questioning her about the necessary matters relating to the negligence case and possible damages, Dure asked another series of questions relating to a possible defense: the question whether Hargrave had committed suicide.

  “In the period of time leading up to the unfortunate death of your husband, did he appear to be worried or concerned about anything?”

  Wakefield: “Objection. The question is too vague.”

  Dure, to Mrs. Hargrave: “Please answer the question.”

  “Not that I would say.”

  “Had anything been troubling him at work?”

  “Not that I was aware of?”

  “Did he appear depressed in any way?”

  “Of course not.”

  Dure moved on to another subject. “Have you had any training about the use of saunas?”

  “What do you mean by ‘training’? She was becoming more cautious and apparently had picked up on this trick from Wakefield.

  Dure was thus forced to go through a tedious set of questions from which he ultimately drew out the key fact that he wanted, namely, that she knew that drinking excessive amounts of alcohol could be dangerous for someone about to go in the sauna.

  Next, by careful questioning, he established how many bottles of champagne had been present, how many toasts had been drunk, how full the glasses were, what time they had been drunk. (He had already secured one of those glasses from the bar next door to the health club so and had measured its capacity: eleven ounces, brim full.) Finally, with all of this foundation laid, he was ready to go for the kill shot: the fact that she had given her husband another two large glasses of champagne right before he went in the sauna.

  “After all the toasts had been drunk, your husband indicated that he was going into the sauna, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And as he was walking to the men’s locker room for that purpose, you called him back, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When he came back to you, you gave him some more to drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, you gave him, and insisted that he drink, two large glasses of champagne?”

  “No.”

  “No?” Dure echoed back her answer. If she lies about it, that’s even better, he thought. It will show consciousness of wrongdoing.

  “No. I gave him two large glasses of carbonated vitamin water. I knew he was going into the sauna and I wanted to make sure that he was hydrated.”

  Vanessa met his gaze. Emerald eye shadow. The upper eyelid descended in slow motion, falling, falling over the deep black well of the dilated pupil. When the upper eyelid met its lower partner, a thundering crash resounded, like the slamming of a heavy crypt door. In the blink of an eye, the case had been transformed.

  “Where did you get this vitamin water?” asked Dure, as soon as his hearing recovered.

  “From the vending machines tha
t were right there. I got a 20 ounce bottle of lemon-flavored vitamin water.”

  “Did your husband drink the entire bottle?”

  “I gave him two glasses. They must have been about eight or nine ounces each because there was just a bit left in the bottle.” She smiled at him with condescension.

  “These were the same glasses that you had been using to drink the champagne.”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that just before the health club closed that evening of July 3, you and some others were standing at the desk near the exit door, is that right.”

  “Yes.”

  Dure got her to name all the people who were standing there together, and what had been said, as well as she could recall, and what time it was, and who had left, and whether anyone had come in.

  “Didn’t you tell the other people there,” asked Dure, “that your husband had left the club?”

  “I may have.”

  “Can you recall?”

  “Not exactly. But if somebody else says I said that, I don’t know that I could disagree.”

  “Why did you say that your husband had left?”

  “I thought he had.”

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “I – I don’t know.” Water came to her eyes and she began to sniff. It was apparent that she was trying not to cry.

  Lord help me, thought Dure. A beautiful woman in tears. The jury will kill me. If I have to be an ogre, now’s the time to do it, not in front of a jury. “I don’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Hargrave, but I have to ask, did you or did you not see your husband leave the health club on that Friday afternoon?”

  She stared at the conference table top in front of her. She was sniffing irregularly. With exaggerated solicitousness, Wakefield asked her if she wanted to take a break. She shook her head. “If I could have a Kleenex,” she said.

  Wakefield scrambled out of his chair and got a tissue from a credenza against the wall. She dabbed her eyes.

  Dure was thinking: If I feel like rushing over to her side of the table and comforting her, what’s the jury going to feel like? This is going to be a tough case, regardless of the merits.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, raising her eyes and looking at him with sad bravery as she sniffed and swallowed hard. “What was your question?”

  “Did you see your husband leave the club?”

  “I’m just not sure. You see, Rich had to be at the train station before six. And he’s never late for something like that. (sniff) So I knew he would be leaving well before then, and I guess I was busy talking with someone and mistook someone else going out for him. That’s the only thing I can think.”

  “Alright, thank you,” said Dure. The sad expression on her face would have softened the heart even of a Mohammed Atta. Dure continued, “Alright. But I understand that you can say with definite assurance that you did not see your husband come back into the club after the time you said he had left?”

  “No. No. I never saw him come back into the club.”

  “In the sauna where your husband was found, there was a champagne bucket on the floor. Do you remember that?”

  “I remember seeing it on the day – when – when, Richard’s body was found.”

  “Do you know how it got into the sauna?”

  “How it got in the sauna? No, no I don’t know.”

  “Had you ever seen it before?”

  “Not that I can recall … or” – she shrugged her shoulders – “not that I am aware of. I mean, I’ve seen champagne buckets before, but I never look closely at them.”

  “Do you know to whom it belongs or belonged?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t say.”

  “Do you know who put it in the sauna?”

  “Objection!” said Wakefield. “Asked and answered.”

  Dure and Wakefield argued over this, Dure insisting that asking “how” was not the same as asking “who.” Finally Wakefield told Mrs. Hargrave that she could answer the question.

  “What was it again?” she said.

  Dure had the court reporter read back the question from her tape.

  “I have no idea,” said Vanessa.

  When Dure finished his questioning, Vanessa Hargrave let out an audible sigh and her glance darted about the room, everywhere except at Dure. Wakefield said something to her in a low tone and she immediately got up and walked out. Dure was packing up his papers. “Hang on a minute, Walter,” said Wakefield. Dure finished putting his papers is his briefcase, then sat quietly. His body felt listless and heavy.

  Wakefield was leaning back in his chair watching the court reporter pack up her steno machine. She smiled. “A copy for each of you, right?”

  “Electronic,” said Dure.

  “Yep, me too,” said Wakefield.

  As soon as the court reporter left, Wakefield said, “Let’s settle this case. Give us the health club … and $250,000 in cash … and the case is over.”

  Dure grimaced and shook his head. “I’ll pass on the demand to my client.”

  “It’s a small price for a life,” said Wakefield. “As you can see, my client is still distraught. I think a jury will be sympathetic. Think it over.”

  Chapter 13. Dure flounders

  “Come to my office,” Mr. Dure said to me. I sat in the client’s chair in front of his desk. I had been disappointed that I could not attend Vanessa Hargrave’s deposition. He said, “Vanessa Hargrave testified that she gave her husband two glasses of vitamin water, and denied that she had given him two glasses of champagne. If she really did feed Hargrave vitamin water, not only did she not try to get him drunk so that he would die in the sauna, it would appear she was actually trying to keep him hydrated so that he would suffer no ill effects from the sauna. This turns my theory of homicide precisely on its head.” He bent his head in thought and drew his right forefinger back and forth across his lower lip. “We could lose this case,” he said. “Vanessa’s testimony, if true, doesn’t give a death blow to Mr. Wright’s suicide theory, but it doesn’t do it any favors either.”

  I realized at that moment that I had been just assuming that we were going to win. The good guys always win in the end, and you just assume that your team is the good guys. I felt for a moment as if I had been in a fog, not really understanding the significance of the evidence. I was racking my brain to think of something helpful. The only thing I could come up with was something which Mr. Dure had hinted at when he said “if true.” “Maybe she is lying about that,” I said. “I mean, our client, I mean Ms. MacCreedy, said she, I mean Mrs. Hargrave, had given him two extra glasses of champagne, and she was quite emphatic about it. Remember? Something like, ‘he gulped them down like an obedient little boy’?”

  “So we have conflicting testimony,” he said. “Meaning, if we want our client’s testimony to prevail, we’ll have to impeach Mrs. Hargrave’s credibility. But unfortunately, I have the sense from her demeanor that she was telling the truth – and the jury is probably going to tend to believe the prettier woman – at least the male jurors. The women might go either way. What do you think, as a young woman, as between Vanessa Hargrave and Elizabeth MacCreedy, just on appearance, who is the more believable?”

  This was an embarrassing question. Was it possible that I was envious of Vanessa Hargrave? The way that men, even Mr. Dure, I thought, paid a kind of deference to her in subtle ways. Even though that kind of look or leer or showing off was rarely directed at me, I recognized it when I saw it. She was the stereotypical trophy wife. Maybe I was prejudiced against her because she was on the bad guys’ team. And Ms. MacCreedy? Did I somewhat dislike her because she didn’t seem to care for me? Or was it that she seemed to flaunt wealth in the clothes and jewelry that she wore – or not really wealth per se, but the impression that she thought she was higher class than you. “I think,” I said, “that women could go either way, but probably you’re right, Mrs. Hargrave probably has the edge, just on appearance, that is.”

  “It is possible,�
�� he said, “that no one is lying. Lemon-flavored, carbonated vitamin water could look like champagne, a pale, yellow, bubbly liquid. Ms. MacCreedy might have interpreted a glass of that as being champagne.” Again he lowered his head and appeared lost in thought. The finger traveling back and forth across his lower lip partnered with the thumb and pinched and pulled at the lip. “If I’m right about Hargrave having been murdered, but wrong about Vanessa,” he said, looking up, “then it must have been done by some other person. There have been hints in what we have learned that there might have been – might be – some sub rosa relationship between Vanessa and Blake Culler. Put on your soap opera hat. Suppose that Vanessa was disenchanted with marriage to a much older man. Suppose there was an attractive younger man at her place of employment. Suppose some romantic attachment developed. Suppose she wanted to be free, and rich, and suppose this younger man wants to help her. Or even suppose this younger man wanted her to be free, and rich, whether she wanted to be free or not. I think we should look more closely at Mr. Blake Culler.

  “Also,” he said, “I need to figure out the means, how it was done. It has something to do with that champagne bucket. I want to know who put it in the sauna, and what was in it. It could have been filled with ice and a bottle of champagne that might have been just champagne, or something additional might have been in it. The ice would have melted and evaporated pretty quickly in the sauna, but what happened to the champagne bottle? If we could find it – if there was one – we could test the residue in the bottle.”