by David Staats
He stretched his long legs straight under the desk, put his head back and stared at the ceiling. After a long while, he sat up, slapped the desk with his left hand, and got out of his chair. He walked across the street and had another talk with Lt. Wisdom.
Chapter 19. Christmastime
Friday, December 18th, I finished my last exam. It was rough. I was already tired from having taken four exams that week, and my exam in Evidence was from 2:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. on Friday, the last exam day. I was shocked to see some students handing in their books and leaving at 4:00 already. I finished at 4:45 and spent the last fifteen minutes checking over my answers. Exhausted, I went back to the dorm, did some packing, went out for pizza dinner with friends, and then slept until ten o’clock Saturday morning.
I arrived back home in Canterbury late Saturday night. By Monday morning, I was starting to recover. Tuesday afternoon I decided to drop by Mr. Dure’s office. It was three days before Christmas, and for some reason, I thought he would not be busy.
Kara was so nice. Her face lit up when she saw me. “Christine! How are you?” She came around the desk and gave me a hug as a greeting. We spent some minutes catching up and I was able to complain about how much work law school was and how anxious I was about my grades. “Oh, you’ll do fine,” she said. As our excitement wound down, she lowered her voice and said, “You’ll want to talk with Mr. Dure, of course. He may not have time right now. He’s going across the street in a few minutes. Vanessa Hargrave is going to formally enter a plea.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Vanessa? To murder?”
“From what I understand,” she said, “the deal is a plea to second-degree murder with the prosecution recommending a sentence of no more than fifteen years.”
I was astonished. “She confessed?” I said.
“She’s going to, I understand. From what I gather,” said Kara, “she wanted to be free and rich, and she was tired of being married to an old man, or maybe she was just tired of being married.”
I had a lot of other questions, but realized that probably Kara wouldn’t be able to answer them. “Oh, it’s too bad,” I said. “I only have this plain everyday dress on. It’s kind of faded. I don’t think I could go into court like this.”
Just then Mr. Dure came out into the reception. On seeing me, he started. “Christine!” he said.
He called me Christine. That was a surprise.
“Law school all done?” he said.
I told him yes.
“Come into my office and I’ll bring you up to date.”
After we sat he said, “I forget how much you know. Some things have happened since you left.”
“You figured out how it had been done,” I said, “by liquid nitrogen, but you didn’t know who had put it in the sauna.”
“Okay. Kurt Kniffe found out that Mr. Hargrave himself had borrowed a dewar of liquid nitrogen from the science center, the biology lab, the day before he died. At first, that made it look like he might have committed suicide after all. But I went over in my mind all the evidence and testimony on that issue, and rejected that idea. And moreover, if he had taken the champagne bucket into the sauna, the gloves would also have been found in the sauna. So, he borrowed the liquid nitrogen, and someone else put it in the sauna – How could that have happened? Suddenly, it came to me. The scene as it must have occurred just popped into my mind. He got the liquid nitrogen for his wife:
“Honey, can you get me some liquid nitrogen? I’ve been watching some videos on the internet, and I want to try some of those tricks.”
“What?”
“Would you get me some liquid nitrogen from school? I checked. They use it in the Biology lab. It’s just across the street from Sloan Hall.”
“Alright, alright. How much do you need?”
“And so on,” said Mr. Dure. “I went across the street to see Lt. Wisdom again and explained exactly how the murder was done. He was, of course, skeptical.”
“ ‘My case is over,’ I said. ‘I never needed you to investigate my case anyway, but I certainly don’t need it now. You need to find a small dewar and possibly a pair of heat-resistant barbecue gloves. They’re probably in the home of Vanessa Hargrave. My statement and explanation to you are enough that you can get a search warrant.’ ”
“He got the warrant. The police found both the dewar and the gloves hidden in the basement. The case developed from there.”
Just at that moment, Kara buzzed. Dure answered. “Alright, put him on,” he said. He listened. His lips twitched once or twice, as if a smile was attempting to come to his face, but it failed. He ‘hmphed’ as if reacting to a poor joke. “Alright, I’ll do it. Will a contingent fee of 20% be agreeable?” He listened again for a time. “Twenty percent is standard for collection matters,” he said. “And if you don’t collect, you don’t pay… . Alright, I’ll have my secretary send you papers. Good-bye.”
I looked at him with curiosity. He smiled smugly. “The Fidelicity Insurance Company has just retained me,” he said, “to recover the million dollars life insurance proceeds they paid to Vanessa. Should be an easy case, if she still has the money. But maybe she used it to pay for her criminal defense.” After a pause he said, “La belle Vanessa is going to think that I am persecuting her. … If you’re not busy, you can come over to court – if you’re interested. I’m just on my way. She’s going to plead guilty to second degree murder.”
“Kara told me. Yes, I want to go – if you think I can go into court like this?” I grasped the skirt of my dress and stretched it out for show.
We walked across and up the street to the Justice Center.
The courtroom on the third floor was hushed. Ms. MacCreedy, and John and Stephanie Hargrave, and some man I did not recognize, filled one bench of the seating. Mr. Dure and I sat on the bench across the aisle.
They brought Vanessa in. I could not help feeling sorry for her. She wore shapeless, drab prison clothes, her hair was short, and she seemed to have put on weight. She avoided looking at any of us in the observer seats.
The proceeding was longer than I expected. The judge had a lot of questions. Had she consulted with her lawyer? Did she understand the charges she was admitting to? Was she on drugs? Had she taken any medications? Was it her free and voluntary act? Had anyone promised her a specific sentence? It was almost as if the judge was looking for any reason not to take the plea. But she and her lawyer, a lawyer I hadn’t seen before, got through it all and the judge said he would accept the plea.
“Proceed with your proffer, Mr. Preston,” said the judge to the prosecutor.
A tall, patrician-appearing man, stood up. “Your Honor, had this case proceeded to trial, the Commonwealth would have proven the following facts: that the defendant on or about July 2nd of this year persuaded the victim to obtain for her a dewar containing about ten liters of liquid nitrogen; that early in the morning of July 3rd she entered the University Health Club where she worked and secreted behind the sauna in the men’s locker room this dewar together with a large champagne bucket which she had taken from the marital home; that she knew that her husband had planned to visit the health club that afternoon to take a sauna bath; that later that afternoon when her husband, Richard Hargrave, did in fact arrive at the health club, and did in fact enter the sauna, she went into the men’s locker room, where she filled the champagne bucket with liquid nitrogen, and using a pair of barbecuing gloves as insulation, carried it to the sauna. Opening the sauna door, she set the champagne bucket on the floor of the sauna and purposefully tipped some of the liquid nitrogen onto the floor which caused it to rapidly vaporize, suffocating her husband. She quickly left the men’s locker room.”
“Does the defendant admit to these facts?” asked the judge.
“Yes, Your Honor,” said the lawyer for Vanessa.
“I appreciate your desire to help the Court,” said the judge, but I want the defendant herself to admit to these facts.” Addressing Vanessa, the judge said, “Does the def
endant admit these facts?”
The lawyer put his hand under Vanessa’s right arm and helped her to stand. In a quiet voice she said simply, “Yes.”
The judge scheduled sentencing for two weeks later. The two women bailiffs took Vanessa out of the courtroom, the judge banged his gavel and adjourned the court, and we all stood as the judge disappeared through a door behind the bench.
The prosecutor, a Mr. Preston, on his way out of court, stopped to tell Mr. Dure that his deposition questioning of Vanessa, showing that she knew that she stood to inherit a lot of money and get insurance proceeds upon her husband’s death, was helpful evidence on motive and helped him persuade her to a plea bargain. “You’re welcome, Roderick,” said Mr. Dure.
The six of us remained. The atmosphere reminded me of a funeral, not that I’ve been to many funerals, but there was an awkwardness and a lot of quiet murmuring that just reminded me of that.
“You were right all along,” said Ms. MacCreedy to Mr. Dure.
He made an open-handed gesture which modestly declined any praise. “I understand the police found the dewar, and the gloves in the basement of her house,” he said.
It seemed strange to me that the family appeared fascinated by this detail, rather than depressed.
“If she was able to get the dewar out of the men’s locker room, after she did what she did, why didn’t she get the champagne bucket out?” asked Stephanie.
“I don’t know that we’ll find that out,” said Mr. Dure. “But it’s a good thing, I suppose. That is what led me to suspect foul play in the first place. I’ve pondered that very question. It could be that in a subconscious desire to be caught, she forgot about it; or it could be that she was in a hurry, under time pressure, remember, she didn’t want to further risk anyone seeing her in the men’s locker room – it would have been too remarkable. Also, what I think is likely, she didn’t want to open the sauna door again and see Mr. Hargrave actually dead. As long as she didn’t see the corpse, it was a neat, antiseptic murder.”
“Why didn’t Dad do something?” asked Stephanie. “Like get out?”
“He would have been rendered unconscious in a matter of seconds,” said Mr. Dure. “Remember, he would probably have been surprised to see his wife there, but he wouldn’t have been alarmed. And there’s nothing inherently threatening about a champagne bucket filled with liquid, even if it did give off some visible vapor. It would have taken a few minutes for death to ensue, but he would have been unconscious very quickly. It was an absolutely painless death.”
At this, Stephanie began to cry. I felt like an outsider. She clung to the man I hadn’t seen before. He held her, and she calmed down.
We rode the elevator down together, and went out of the courthouse together. Even though the afternoon sun was getting low in the sky, it was bright and the sky was clear. The brisk, cool air seemed to hit us in the face like a splash of water, changing everyone’s mood. Christmas decorations were on the streetlight poles, bright green and red, and even the parking garage across the street had colored lights strung up.
The man I didn’t recognize was introduced to me as Stephanie’s husband, Adam. I didn’t quite get his last name. Something that begins with M. We were standing in a group with that kind of uncertainty floating among us, as often happens when everyone wants to do the same thing, but no one is sure that anyone else wants what he wants.
“Can we get some coffee?” suggested Stephanie.
“The Daffodil’s right around the corner. My treat,” said Mr. Dure.
Nothing more needed to be said. We all turned to troop up the street and around the corner. Mr. Dure and Ms. MacCreedy led the way. The movement, the fresh air, the sunshine, the decorations, were all creating in us a holiday mood, despite what we had just come from. Ms. MacCreedy turned around to address us, as we were walking. “From now on, not a word about Vanessa. It’s Christmastime, and it’s Christmastime. That’s all.”
I caught up with everyone at the corner. I think they noticed that I was behind, because in crossing the street and going down the few feet of Darlington Street to the Daffodil, they all slowed their pace. People are nice to me.
The atmosphere in the Daffodil was heavenly. After the cool, brisk outdoors air, the warm scent of cinnamon, coffee, baked goods, and I don’t know what else, was delicious. Bright Christmas decorations were here also, and a cheerful carol was playing over the sound system. “On Christmas Day in the Morning ….”
“Mr. Renova,” I exclaimed. “You’ve lost weight!”
“Hey! Haven’t I?” He held his arms out to his sides and swung his hips as if he were whirling a hula-hoop. “Getting rid of the spray grease did it! What’s for your pleasure?” he said, addressing the whole group.
After we gave his our orders, we pushed two tables together and sat chatting. The lacquered pine walls, floor, and ceiling all glowed golden. A number of other people were in the coffee shop, and it was happy-noisy.
“You all know that Stephie is expecting,” said Ms. MacCreedy.
We hadn’t known. Everyone congratulated the couple. The fingers of her left hand intertwined with the fingers of Adam’s right hand on the table. “The doctor says mid-July,” said Stephanie shyly.
“You know,” said Adam, “Benjamin Franklin was the eighth child of ten.”
Stephanie turned to him, smiling, “Oh, I think you’ll produce a genius before we get to eight.”
“Mozart was the seventh child,” said Adam.
“George Washington was first-born,” she replied. She laughed and bumped her husband with her shoulder.
“But he grew up in a large family,” said Adam.
John said, “Should we start a pool? I’ll bet on five.”
Suddenly, Ms. MacCreedy’s face took on a serious expression. “I know that man from somewhere,” she said, indicating with her eyes and a movement of her head a man who had just entered the coffee shop.
I was curious, but I didn’t turn and stare. On the other side of the table, Ms. MacCreedy, Stephanie, and Adam followed the man with their eyes. Adam said, “Nah, never saw him before.”
Conversation moved on. Mr. Renova and Candy brought out our coffee and sweet rolls. There was one that was called lebkuchen, a kind of spiced cookie that was scrumptious. Ms. MacCreedy kept eyeing the man she thought she recognized. As he paid at the cash register, she abruptly leaned forward and whispered across the table to Mr. Dure, “He’s the man from New York City that signed in as a guest that day – the man we never could find.”
Mr. Dure turned to look, but the man’s back was to him. “You’re sure?” he said in a low tone to Ms. MacCreedy.
She nodded.
When the man took his coffee to a small table and sat, Mr. Dure got up and went to him. Then he sat down. After a couple of minutes, he got up and came back to our table. As usual, his dour expression gave nothing away. When he sat again with us, everyone was dying of curiosity. Mr. Dure said nothing, but took a bite of his roll, as if he were sitting all alone without five persons staring at him in expectation. He took a sip of his coffee and then looked at us, as if noticing for the first time our expectant looks. A sliver of a smile broke and he said, completely deadpan, “He’s a sleeper.”
“What?” half of us exclaimed.
“He’s a bed tester for the QRC hotel chain.”
THE END.
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to Jerry Downie and Diane Staats for valuable comments on a draft version of this novel – and for their encouragement. Thank you.
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Did You Miss An Earlier “Hard Case”?
On a fine, late spring day, a woman's body is discovered in the backyard of a large house in a tony suburb. After the police finish questioning the woman's husband, he
rushes to retain attorney Walter Dure. The husband claims he left town for the weekend and that his wife was alive when he left. The body was outdoors for two or three days so that the time of death cannot be fixed with any certainty; thus almost none of the suspects can be excluded by alibi. Further, there are almost no physical clues.
When Dure's client disregards his advice, the result may be fatal. Will Dure be able to save his client from himself? Or is Dure defending a guilty client?
The Case of the Missing Department Head, by David Staats
