“No, I didn’t,” said Fletcher, “Annie and I never miss Seinfeld.”
“Touché, so do you want to make any statement about your rival’s wife being an illegal immigrant and her mother a prostitute?”
“Yes, I think that David Anscott should have cut off the questioner. It was obviously a cheap setup from the start.”
“Can I quote you?” said Charlie. Jimmy was shaking his head vigorously.
“Yes, you most certainly can, because that made anything Nixon’s got up to look like the The Muppet Show.”
“You’ll be glad to hear, Senator, that your instincts are in line with public opinion. The station’s switchboard has been jammed with calls of sympathy for Nat Cartwright and his wife, and my bet is that Elliot will lose by a landslide tomorrow.”
“Which will make it that much tougher for me,” said Fletcher, “but at least one good thing comes out of it.”
“And what’s that, Senator?”
“Everybody has finally found out the truth about that bastard Elliot.”
“I wonder if that was wise?” said Jimmy.
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Fletcher, “but it’s no more than your father would have said.”
When the ambulance arrived Nat decided to accompany his son’s body to the hospital, while his mother tried helplessly to comfort Su Ling.
“I’ll come straight back,” he promised, before kissing her gently.
When he saw the two paramedics sitting silently on either side of the body, he explained that he would follow in his own car. They just nodded.
The hospital staff tried to be as sympathetic as possible, but there were forms to be filled in, and procedures to be carried out. Once that had been completed, they left him alone. He kissed Luke on the forehead and turned away at the sight of the red and black bruises around his neck, aware that the memory would remain with him for the rest of his life.
Once they had covered Luke’s face with a sheet, Nat left his beloved son, passing bowed heads murmuring their sympathy. He must get back to Su Ling, but before that, he knew there was someone else he had to visit first.
Nat drove away from the hospital on automatic pilot, his anger not diminishing as each mile clocked up. Although he had never been to the house before, he knew exactly where it was, and when he eventually turned into the driveway, Nat could see some lights coming from the ground floor. He parked the car and began to walk slowly toward the house. He needed to be calm if he was to see it through. As he approached the front door he could hear raised voices coming from inside. A man and a woman were arguing, unaware of the visitor outside. Nat banged on the knocker and the voices suddenly went silent, as if a television had been switched off. A moment later, the door swung open and Nat came face-to-face with the man he held responsible for his son’s death.
Ralph Elliot looked shocked, but recovered quickly. He tried to slam the door in his face, but Nat had already placed a shoulder firmly against it. The first punch Nat threw landed on Elliot’s nose and sent him reeling backward. Elliot stumbled, but regained his balance quickly, turned and ran down the corridor. Nat strode after him, following Elliot into his study. He looked around for the other raised voice, but there was no sign of Rebecca. He turned his attention back to Elliott, who was pulling open a drawer in his desk. He grabbed a gun and pointed it at Nat.
“Get out of my house,” he shouted, “or I’ll kill you.” Blood was streaming from his nose.
Nat advanced toward him. “I don’t think so,” he said. “After that stunt you pulled tonight, no one will ever take your word again.”
“Yes, they will, because I have a witness. Don’t forget that Rebecca saw you barge into our home making threats and then assaulting me.”
Nat advanced, ready to take a second punch, causing Elliot to step back and momentarily lose his balance as he stumbled across the arm of the chair. The gun went off, and Nat leaped on Elliot, knocking him to the ground. As they fell to the floor, Nat jerked his knee into Elliot’s groin with such force that his rival bent double, letting go of the gun. Nat grabbed it and pointed the barrel at Elliot, whose face was contorted with fear.
“You planted that bastard in the audience, didn’t you?” said Nat.
“Yes, yes, but I didn’t know he would go that far, surely you wouldn’t kill a man because…”
“Because he was responsible for the death of my son?”
All the color drained from Elliot’s face.
“Yes, I would,” Nat said, pressing the barrel of the gun against Elliot’s forehead. Nat stared down at a man who was now on his knees whimpering and begging for his life. “I’m not going to kill you,” said Nat, lowering the gun, “because that would be the easy way out for a coward. No, I want you to suffer a much slower death—year upon year of humiliation. Tomorrow you’re going to discover what the people of Hartford really think of you, and then you’ll have to live with the final ignominy of watching me take up residence in the governor’s mansion.”
Nat rose to his feet, calmly placed the gun on the corner of the desk, turned and left the room to find Rebecca cowering in the hallway. As soon as he had passed her she ran into the study. Nat strode on through the open door and climbed into his car.
He was driving out of the gates when he heard the shot.
Fletcher’s phone was ringing every few minutes. Annie took all the calls, explaining that her husband had no further comment to make, other than that he had sent his condolences to Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright.
Just after midnight, Annie unplugged the phone and made her way upstairs. Although the light was on in their bedroom, she was surprised to find that Fletcher wasn’t there. She went back downstairs to check the study. The usual papers were piled up on his desk, but he wasn’t sitting in his chair. She climbed slowly back up the stairs and noticed a light shining under Lucy’s door. Annie turned the handle slowly and quietly pushed the door open in case Lucy had fallen asleep, leaving her light on. She looked inside to see her husband sitting on the bed, clinging to their sleepy daughter. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He turned and faced his wife. “Nothing’s worth that,” he said.
Nat arrived back home to find his mother sitting on the sofa with Su Ling. Su Ling’s face was ashen, her eyes sunken; she had aged ten years in a few hours. “I’ll leave you with her now,” said his mother, “but I’ll come back first thing in the morning. I’ll see myself out.”
Nat bent down, kissed his mother goodbye and then sat next to his wife. He held her slight body in his arms, but said nothing. There was nothing to say.
He couldn’t remember how long they had been sitting there when he heard the police siren. He assumed that the grating noise would quickly disappear into the distance, but it became louder and louder, and didn’t stop until a car came to a screeching halt on the gravel outside their front door. He then heard a door slam, heavy footsteps, followed by a loud banging on the front door.
He removed his arm from around his wife’s shoulder and made his way wearily to the front door. He opened it to find Chief Culver with a police officer standing on either side of him.
“What’s the problem, Chief?”
“I’m sorry about this, remembering what you’ve already been through,” said Don Culver, “but I have no choice but to place you under arrest.”
“What for?” asked Nat in disbelief.
“For the murder of Ralph Elliot.”
44
It was not the first time in American history that a dead candidate’s name was listed on the ballot, and it was certainly not the first time an arrested candidate had stood for election, but search as they might, the political historians were unable to find both on the same day.
Nat’s one call that the chief permitted was to Tom, who was still wide awake despite it being three in the morning. “I’ll get Jimmy Gates out of bed and join you at the police station as soon as I can.”
They had only just finished taking his fingerprints when Tom arrived, accompanied by his lawye
r. “You remember Jimmy,” said Tom, “he advised us during the Fairchild’s takeover.”
“Yes, I do,” said Nat as he continued to dry his hands after removing the traces of black ink from his fingers.
“I’ve talked to the chief,” said Jimmy, “and he’s quite happy for you to go home, but you’ll have to appear in court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to be formally charged. I shall apply for bail on your behalf, and there is no reason to believe it won’t be granted.”
“Thank you,” said Nat, his voice flat. “Jimmy, you’ll recall that before we began the takeover bid for Fairchild’s, I asked you to find me the best corporate lawyer available to represent us?”
“Yes, I do,” said Jimmy, “and you’ve always said that Logan Fitzgerald did a first-class job.”
“He certainly did,” said Nat quietly, “but now I need you to find me the Logan Fitzgerald of criminal law.”
“I’ll have two or three names for you to consider by the time we meet up tomorrow. There’s a guy in Chicago who’s exceptional, but I don’t know what his schedule’s like,” he said as the chief of police walked over to join them.
“Mr. Cartwright, can one of my boys drive you home?”
“No, that’s good of you, Chief,” said Tom, “but I’ll take the candidate home.”
“You say candidate automatically now,” said Nat, “almost as if it was my Christian name.”
On the journey home, Nat told Tom everything that had taken place while he was at Elliot’s house. “So in the end it will come down to your word against hers,” commented Tom as he pulled up outside Nat’s front door.
“Yes, and I’m afraid my story won’t be as convincing as hers, even though it’s the truth.”
“We can talk about that in the morning,” said Tom. “But now you need to try and get some sleep.”
“It is the morning,” said Nat as he watched the first rays of sunlight creeping across the lawn.
Su Ling was standing by the open door. “Did they for a moment believe…?”
Nat told her everything that had happened while he was at the police station, and when he finished, all Su Ling said was, “Such a pity.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nat.
“That you didn’t kill him.”
Nat climbed the stairs and walked through the bedroom straight on into the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and threw them in a bag. He would dispose of the bag later so that he would never have to be reminded of this terrible day. He stepped into the shower and allowed the cold jets of water to beat down on him. After putting on a new set of clothes he rejoined his wife in the kitchen. On the sideboard was his election-day schedule; no mention of a court appearance on arraignment for murder.
Tom turned up at nine. He reported that the voting was going briskly, as if nothing else was happening in Nat’s life. “They took a poll immediately following the television interview,” he told Nat, “and it gave you a lead of sixty-three to thirty-seven.”
“But that was before I was arrested for killing the other candidate,” said Nat.
“I guess that might push it up to seventy-thirty,” replied Tom. No one laughed.
Tom did his best to focus on the campaign and try to keep their minds off Luke. It didn’t work. He looked up at the kitchen clock. “Time for us to go,” he said to Nat, who turned and took Su Ling in his arms.
“No, I’m coming with you,” she said. “Nat may not have murdered him, but I would have, given half a chance.”
“Me too,” said Tom gently, “but let me warn you that when we get to the courthouse it’s bound to be a media circus. Look innocent and say nothing, because anything you say will end up on every front page.”
As they left the house, they were greeted by a dozen journalists and three camera crews just to watch them climb into a car. Nat clung to Su Ling’s hand as they were driven through the streets, and didn’t notice how many people waved the moment they spotted him. When they arrived at the steps of the courthouse fifteen minutes later, Nat faced the largest crowd he’d encountered during the entire election campaign.
The chief had anticipated the problem and detailed twenty uniformed officers to hold back the crowd, and make a gangway so that Nat and his party could enter the building without being hassled. It didn’t work, because twenty officers weren’t enough to control the phalanx of photographers and journalists who shouted and jostled Nat and Su Ling as they tried to make their way up the courtroom steps. Microphones were thrust in Nat’s face, and questions came at them from every angle.
“Did you murder Ralph Elliot?” demanded one reporter.
“Will you be withdrawing as candidate?” followed next, as a microphone was thrust forward.
“Was your mother a prostitute, Mrs. Cartwright?”
“Do you think you can still win, Nat?”
“Was Rebecca Elliot your mistress?”
“What were Ralph Elliot’s last words, Mr. Cartwright?”
When they pushed through the swing doors, they found Jimmy Gates standing on the far side, waiting for them. He led Nat to a bench outside the courtroom and briefed his client on the procedure he was about to face.
“Your appearance should only last for about five minutes,” Jimmy explained. “You will state your name, and having done so, you will be charged, and then asked to enter a plea. Once you’ve pleaded not guilty, I shall make an application for bail. The state is suggesting fifty thousand dollars at your own recognizance, which I’ve agreed to. The moment you’ve signed the necessary papers, you will be released and you won’t have to appear again until a trial date has been fixed.”
“When do we anticipate that might be?”
“It would normally take about six months, but I’ve asked for the whole process to be speeded up on account of the upcoming election.” Nat admired his counsel’s professional approach, remembering that Jimmy was also Fletcher Davenport’s closest friend. However, like any good lawyer, Nat thought, Jimmy would understand the meaning of client privilege.
Jimmy glanced at his watch. “We ought to go in, the last thing we need is to keep the judge waiting.”
Nat entered a packed courtroom and walked slowly down the aisle with Tom. He was surprised by how many people thrust out their hands and even wished him luck, making it feel more like a party meeting than a criminal arraignment. When they reached the front, Jimmy held open the little wooden gate dividing the court officials from the simply curious. He then guided Nat to a table on the left, and ushered him into the seat next to his. As they waited for the judge to make his entrance, Nat glanced across at the state’s attorney, Richard Ebden, a man he’d always admired. He knew that Ebden would be a formidable adversary, and wondered who Jimmy was going to recommend to oppose him.
“All rise, Mr. Justice Deakins presiding.”
The procedure Jimmy had described took place exactly as he predicted, and they were back out on the street five minutes later, facing the same journalists repeating the same questions and still failing to get any answers.
As they pushed their way through the crowd to their waiting car, Nat was once again surprised by how many people still wanted to shake him by the hand. Tom slowed them down, aware that this would be the footage seen by the voters on the midday news. Nat spoke to every well-wisher, but wasn’t quite sure how to reply to an onlooker who said, “I’m glad you killed the bastard.”
“Do you want to head straight home?” asked Tom as his car slowly nosed its way through the melee.
“No,” said Nat, “let’s go across to the bank and talk things through in the boardroom.”
The only stop they made on the way was to pick up the first edition of the Courant after hearing a newsboy’s cry of “Cartwright charged with murder.” All Tom seemed to be interested in was a poll on the second page showing that Nat now led Elliot by over twenty points. “And,” said Tom, “in a separate poll, seventy-two percent say you shouldn’t withdraw from the race.” Tom read on, suddenly looked up
but said nothing.
“What is it?” asked Su Ling.
“Seven percent say they would happily have killed Elliot, if only you’d asked them.”
When they reached the bank, there was another hustle of journalists and cameramen awaiting them; again they were met with the same stony silence. Tom’s secretary joined them in the corridor and reported that early polling was at a record high as Republicans obviously wished to make their views known.
Once they were settled in the boardroom, Nat opened the discussion by saying. “The party will expect me to withdraw, whatever the result, and I feel that might still be my best course of action given the circumstances.”
“Why not let the voters decide?” said Su Ling quietly, “and if they give you overwhelming support, stay in there fighting, because that will also help convince a jury that you’re innocent.”
“I agree,” said Tom. “And what’s the alternative—Barbara Hunter? Let’s at least spare the electorate that.”
“And how do you feel, Jimmy? After all, you’re my legal advisor.”
“On this subject I can’t offer an impartial view,” Jimmy admitted. “As you well know, the Democratic candidate is my closest friend, but were I advising him in the same circumstances, and I knew he was innocent, I would say stick in there and fight the bastards.”
“Well, I suppose it’s just possible that the public will elect a dead man; then heaven knows what will happen.”
“His name will remain on the ballot,” said Tom, “and if he goes on to win the election, the party can invite anyone they choose to represent him.”
“Are you serious?” said Nat.
“Couldn’t be more serious. Quite often they select the candidate’s wife, and my bet is that Rebecca Elliot would happily take his place.”
“And if you’re convicted,” said Jimmy, “she could sure count on the sympathy vote just before an election.”
“More important,” said Nat, “have you come up with a defense counsel to represent me?”
“Four,” responded Jimmy, removing a thick file from his briefcase. He turned the cover. “Two from New York, both recommended by Logan Fitzgerald, one from Chicago who worked on Watergate, and the fourth from Dallas. He’s only lost one case in the last ten years, and that was when his client had committed the murder on video. I intend to call all four later today to find out if any of them is free. This is going to be such a high-profile case, my bet is that they will all make themselves available.”
Sons of Fortune Page 42