Court of Lies

by Gerry Spence

  I’m going to L.A. to hire Marvin Grimes to represent you. You said he is the best. But he’s also very expensive. The cabin is clear. We can borrow on it. Marvin Grimes will save us. Next to you, he is the best.

  Love,

  Betsy

  “Betsy told me to get the mortgage papers on the cabin ready for you to sign,” Jenny said.

  “You find Betsy,” the judge said, trying to maintain his composure, “and you tell her that I’m not guilty of anything, that I do not need the best lawyer in the West, and that I am not going to sign any papers on our cabin. Tell her that if I go to prison, she’s at least going to have a place to live.”

  “I thought that’s what you’d say,” Jenny said. She handed him the morning paper with its headline story.

  JUDGE AND FRIEND JAILED ON CONSPIRACY CHARGES

  Judge John Murray and his longtime friend Hardy Tillman were both arrested and jailed yesterday following charges filed by Haskins Sewell, Teton County prosecutor, alleging that the two had conspired to obstruct justice.

  The charges arise out of an alleged assault by Tillman against Mr. Sewell. A person close to the prosecutor’s office, on the condition of anonymity, said that the assault was an attempt by Tillman, on behalf of Judge Murray, to intimidate Sewell in his prosecution of Lillian Adams, who is presently being tried for murder in the Teton County District Court.

  Judge Murray was removed from the case by order of the Wyoming Supreme Court. That court found that the enmity between Sewell and Murray was of such a nature and degree that a fair trial could not be conducted with Murray presiding.

  Jenny watched the judge as he read the news story.

  “The bastards,” the judge said. “Hardy didn’t do anything.”

  “They arrested him because of your case,” Jenny said. “But now we have to worry about you. What do you want me to do? I’m still on your payroll—but for how long? One might wonder.”

  “Tell Betsy I’ll be out of here soon, and see that old Horatio is taken care of,” the judge said. Then suddenly, he realized Horatio was dead. He didn’t want to tear up in front of Jenny Winkley. He turned away and bit his lip until it bled.

  CHAPTER 36

  JUDGE HOMER LITTLE from Platte County, newly appointed by the Wyoming Supreme Court as the presiding judge for the murder trial of Lillian Adams, mounted the three steps to the bench. He settled in Judge Murray’s old chair.

  The Widdoss testimony was Judge Little’s first order of business. Over Coker’s objection, Judge Little made his ruling: “Although the theory of handwriting analysis might not be tested in a manner that satisfies the defense, and although standards may or may not exist for applying the technique, nevertheless, I will allow Mr. Widdoss’s testimony for whatever assistance it may be to the jury.”

  “You mean as it may assist the jury to arrive at a wrong conclusion, like convicting an innocent woman?” Coker asked.

  “Counsel, your reputation for insolence toward the court has preceded you,” Judge Little said. “I’ll be making note of your comments for further reference if that is indicated.”

  Judge Little turned to Sewell. “I’ve read the transcript taken when Judge Murray was presiding and accept the foundation you laid at that time. Proceed, Mr. Sewell, with your presentation.”

  Once again, Hamilton Widdoss took the stand. He testified he’d been provided copies of Lillian’s checks, which the sheriff had seized after serving a subpoena on the bank. He had also examined other exemplars of Horace’s handwriting.

  “So what is your conclusion?” Sewell asked.

  “I am able to say with reasonable scientific probability that the so-called suicide note, Exhibit five, was not written by the deceased, Horace Adams the Third, and that this forgery was likely written by his wife, Lillian Adams.”

  Stunned silence smothered the courtroom.

  Lillian Adams clutched at Timothy Coker’s arm and whispered wildly into his ear.

  “May I have a short recess?” Coker asked Judge Little.

  “We’ll recess for ten minutes,” the judge said with a patronizing nod and his standard mechanical smile.

  “Timothy, you have to break him down. He’s a horrible liar. I did not write that note!” Her anger melted into tears of frustration.

  “Well, okay, you didn’t, and so the son of a bitch is lying to earn his fee. These experts lie all the time,” Coker said. “Those who tell the largest lies usually charge the most. But I will get him on cross.”

  When court resumed, Coker retrieved the notes he’d scribbled during the recess and began his cross-examination in a weary voice. “Mr. Widdoss, how much are you being paid for your testimony here today?”

  “I am receiving one hundred dollars an hour for my testimony.”

  The plumber let out a soft whistle. He had to muck through a lot of vile stuff, and in the worst case never earned a fee like that.

  “That’s more than some folks make in a month,” Coker said. “You certainly intend to earn your fee here, don’t you?” He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “Argumentative!” Sewell cried.

  “Hold it down,” Judge Little said to Sewell. Then the judge sustained his objection.

  Coker continued: “Mr. Widdoss, you don’t think Mr. Sewell would pay you such a fee for your testimony if you were going to tell this jury that the note was genuine, and that Lillian Adams had nothing to do with it?”

  “Argumentative!” Sewell objected.

  “Move on, Mr. Coker,” the judge ruled.

  “Very well,” Coker replied. “This man did not write with great handwriting flourishes, isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “His was a rather ordinary hand?”

  “In that context, yes,” Widdoss replied. “As a matter of fact, his writing was quite, shall we say, boring.”

  “His writing reflected his personality, didn’t it?” Coker said.

  “I’m told he was not the most charismatic individual.”

  “Now what was the difference between Mr. Adams’s writing style and the style you examined in the suicide note?”

  “The questioned note reflects a significant spacing between the words. I’ve seen hundreds of known samples of his writings, and I’ve not found a single instance in which he wrote with the wide spacing we see on Exhibit five, the so-called suicide note.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting?” Coker said.

  Widdoss continued: “And you will observe that the end letters of the words often drag down in the questioned suicide note, while the end letters of his known writing samples always end up.”

  “Well, yes, I can see that,” Coker said.

  Coker continued: “You’ve testified previously that writing habits can be altered if the author is under the influence of drugs or alcohol, isn’t that true, Mr. Widdoss?”

  “Yes, I’ve testified to that proposition.”

  Coker continued leafing through the papers on his desk, one page at a time. At last, he pulled a paper from the stack. The page was merely a note from Coker’s bookie giving him “the inside scoop” on an upcoming race at Churchill Downs. Coker appeared deeply focused on the paper. “And have you previously testified the reason that the spacing may be farther apart and that the end letters may drag downward is because the writer’s control over his pen is diminished when he’s burdened by the influence of drugs or alcohol?”

  “I suppose I’ve said that.”

  “But forgive me. Of course, there was no evidence in this case that the deceased, Horace Adams the Third, was drunk or otherwise under the influence of drugs.”

  “None that I know of.”

  “I take it that the prosecutor didn’t bother to tell you that Mr. Adams’s blood was tested after death, and that he threw a blood alcohol of point two—enough, if the test was accurate, for most men to pass out?”

  The witness looked as if he’d just taken a lethal belly blow. “I wasn’t told that.”

  “Were you told
that an almost empty bottle of scotch was found at the scene?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Your testimony is only as good as the information you’re provided, isn’t that true?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Well, Mr. Widdoss, this whole business of handwriting analysis can sometimes lead to serious and fatal false conclusions, isn’t that true?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Widdoss said, failing to disguise that he knew exactly what Coker meant.

  “You, of course, know that a world-famous handwriting expert, indeed the father of handwriting analysis, has admitted that both he and other purported experts in his field have been dead wrong?”

  Widdoss looked over to Sewell for help. Sewell pretended to be busy thumbing through a pile of documents.

  “So the best in the business can make serious mistakes, isn’t that true, Mr. Widdoss?”

  “I suppose.”

  “No, Mr. Widdoss, I asked, ‘Isn’t that true?’”

  “Yes, we can all make mistakes, but—”

  “Do you consider yourself to be the best in the business?”

  “Objection. This is sheer insulting argument,” Sewell complained.

  “It is argumentative,” the judge ruled.

  “Now, Mr. Widdoss, you charge one hundred dollars an hour for your testimony?”

  “That’s been asked and answered,” Sewell objected.

  “Sustained,” Judge Little ruled.

  “Well, I will not take more of your time, because we taxpayers in this county can’t afford you.”

  Laughter in the gallery. The judge struck his gavel.

  “I have no further questions,” Coker said.

  Sewell rushed to repair his torn witness. “Mr. Widdoss, I take it that the science in the early days was rather crude, and that there have been many improvements since that date.”

  “Many,” Widdoss said.

  “That’s all I have,” Sewell said, sitting down.

  Coker spoke while standing at his table. “Well, Mr. Widdoss, for you to charge one hundred dollars an hour, there must be a whole hell of a lot of improvements. Could you name one?”

  Widdoss looked at Coker, ostensibly in deep thought. At last he said, “There have been many improvements in the use of better microscopes and other instruments.”

  “Did you use a microscope?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Did you use any other instruments not heretofore used by handwriting experts?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Widdoss. No further questions.”

  At counsel table, Lillian Adams grabbed Coker’s arm. “You just saved my life,” she whispered.

  “Don’t count on it yet,” Coker whispered back. “That son of a bitch,” he said, nodding toward Sewell, “is just getting started.”

  Then Sewell, acting as if the annihilation of his handwriting expert had been only of passing interest, announced, “The state calls Sylvia Huntley for further questioning.”

  CHAPTER 37

  SHERIFF LOWE HAD secured Hardy Tillman in leg shackles and handcuffs, and half-dragged, half-pushed Hardy into the interrogation room of the Teton County jail. The lights were hurtfully bright and directly in Hardy’s face. Undersheriff Jim Bromley made up the threesome. Bromley paced back and forth.

  “You know what we want,” Sheriff Lowe began from the opposite end of the table. “We want to make it as easy on you as we can, Hardy. But this is a two-way street. You can’t expect us to pat you on the head for what you done to Haskins Sewell without giving us a little help.” He gave Hardy Tillman his best campaign smile.

  “Well, I never seen you so shy, Sheriff. What the hell do you want from me?”

  “I want you to tell me the truth.”

  “No, you want me to lie. The truth ain’t going to do you no good. Now why don’t you take these cuffs off of me?”

  Undersheriff Bromley chimed in, still pacing the floor, “We can’t take the cuffs off of you. You’re classified as an extreme risk.”

  “How come? All I done was kick Sewell’s ass in self-defense.”

  “We know you assaulted him because Judge Murray asked you to,” Lowe said.

  “That there is so much bullshit. The judge would have never asked me to do no such a goddamned thing. I done it on my own.” Then he realized he hadn’t added the critical words and did so: “And I done it in self-defense.”

  Bromley shoved his face into Hardy’s face. “Well, are you gonna cooperate or not? I am losing my patience.”

  “You never had none in the first place. You’re too dumb to have any patience.”

  “So what do you say about our deal, Hardy?” Sheriff Lowe asked.

  “I say, kiss my ass, Sheriff, and if that ain’t enough, you can kiss it twice.”

  * * *

  When prosecutor Sewell called Sylvia Huntley back to the stand, she glanced at the jurors, her teeth set and her jaw jutted out in defiance. Sewell bowed slightly to the jurors and got right to it.

  “I think, Ms. Huntley, when we left off, we were about to discuss a conversation you had with Mrs. Adams at the drugstore the night Mr. Adams died. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “She talked to you about her husband?”

  “I told you before in your office, I told you before in this courtroom, and I tell you now: What she said to me was personal and private and I will not reveal it.”

  Coker rose. “I object. This is the same dirty trick—”

  “Hold on, counsel,” Judge Little said, interrupting. He excused the jury and ordered the lawyers, along with Lillian Adams and the court reporter, into the judge’s chambers.

  Sewell began in a surprisingly quiet voice. “Rather than petitioning this court to hold this witness in contempt, I ask the court to recognize Ms. Huntley as a hostile witness. I should be permitted to cross-examine her. In doing so, I may be able to avoid the contempt issue altogether.”

  “I object,” Coker countered. “This prosecutor refused, even in private, to identify for the Wyoming Supreme Court who his alleged confidential source was who supposedly heard Mrs. Adams say, ‘I should kill the son of a bitch.’ Once the jurors hear Sewell ask that question, and they hear Ms. Huntley refuse to answer, they can only conclude that Mrs. Adams said those words, and that she promptly returned home and murdered her husband.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” Judge Little said. “I’ve read the transcript of Ms. Huntley’s testimony when she was a witness before this same jury, with Judge Murray presiding. I disagree with his ruling. I find that the witness is hostile. You may proceed with your cross-examination, Mr. Sewell.”

  “But Your Honor—” Coker began.

  Judge Little hit his gavel. “I have to say, gentlemen, this is far too elementary for further argument. Mr. Sewell is an officer of this court, and I will take his representation that all questions he asks in cross-examination have a good-faith basis.”

  “Just a minute, please,” Coker said in a last-ditch effort. “If he has a good-faith basis for asking this poisoned question, then he has the duty to reveal who his witness is.”

  “Exculpatory evidence—facts supporting the innocence of Lillian Adams—must be revealed,” Sewell argued. “No such evidence exists here.”

  “I agree,” the judge ruled.

  Back in the courtroom, Sewell focused his anger on Sylvia Huntley.

  “Concerning your conversation with Mrs. Adams in the drugstore—”

  Sylvia Huntley interrupted: “I am not going to answer any questions about our confidential conversation.”

  “At that time and place, Mrs. Adams told you that, and I quote, ‘I should kill the son of a bitch,’ isn’t that true?”

  Cocker stormed to the bench again. “There’s the poisoned question I have been objecting to,” Coker bellowed. “Is there no decency left in this world? We have as much right to believe that Mrs. Adams was discussing her private sex life wit
h Ms. Huntley as anything so venal as murder. Counsel is using his own concocted poisoned question to inform the jury of a conversation that never happened.”

  “Answer the question,” the judge said to Sylvia Huntley.

  “I refuse to answer,” she replied. She bit at her lower lip.

  Sewell started toward his table, but then Sylvia Huntley said, “I’ve changed my mind. I will answer the question. But please repeat it.”

  “Yes,” Sewell said. “I shall. This defendant”—he pointed at Lillian—“told you that she ‘should kill the son of a bitch,’ referring to her husband, Horace Adams the Third, isn’t that true?”

  “No,” she said. “My answer to that question is no, it isn’t true.”

  “Really,” Sewell said.

  “Really,” Sylvia Huntley echoed.

  “So, pray tell, what did you talk about that was so private?”

  “I refuse to answer that question.”

  “She said she ‘should kill the son of a bitch,’ didn’t she?”

  “No. I said it once. I will say it again. My answer to that question is no. She said no such thing.”

  “You don’t want to tell the jury the truth because you don’t want harm to come to your friend, isn’t that true?” Sewell demanded.

  “I don’t want harm to come to Lillian because of your filthy lies, but she did not say that.”

  Sewell turned to Judge Little. “I ask the court to order the witness to answer my question.”

  “The witness answered your question,” Judge Little said. “She said that Mrs. Adams didn’t say what you claimed she said.”

  “She won’t tell us what she claims they talked about,” Sewell said.

  “Show me its relevance and I’ll order her to answer,” Judge Little said to Sewell.

  “How can I show you its relevance if she won’t tell me what they talked about?” Sewell said, his frustration mounting.

  “Didn’t your confidential source tell you what they were talking about?” Judge Little asked.

  Sewell looked up at Judge Little. “I have no further questions,” Sewell said.