Sons of Fortune

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Isn’t there anyone from Connecticut worthy of the shortlist?” asked Tom. “It would send out a far better message to the jury.”

  “I agree,” said Jimmy, “but the only man who is of the same caliber as those four simply isn’t available.”

  “And who’s that?” asked Nat.

  “The Democratic candidate for governor.”

  Nat smiled for the first time. “Then he’s my first choice.”

  “But he’s in the middle of an election campaign.”

  “Just in case you haven’t noticed, so is the accused,” said Nat, “and let’s face it, the election isn’t for another nine months. If I turn out to be his opponent, at least he’ll know where I am the whole time.”

  “But…” repeated Jimmy.

  “You tell Mr. Fletcher Davenport that if I become the Republican candidate, he’s my first choice, and don’t approach anyone else until he’s turned me down, because if everything I’ve heard about that man is true, I feel confident he’ll want to represent me.”

  “If those are your instructions, Mr. Cartwright.”

  “Those are my instructions, counselor.”

  By the time the polls had closed at eight P.M. Nat had fallen asleep in the car as Tom drove him home. His chief of staff made no attempt to disturb him. The next thing Nat remembered was waking to find Su Ling lying on the bed beside him, and his first thoughts were of Luke. Su Ling stared at him and gripped his hand. “No,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean, no?” asked Nat.

  “I can see it in your eyes, my darling, you wonder if I would prefer you to withdraw, so that we can mourn Luke properly, and the answer is no.”

  “But we’ll have the funeral, and then the preparations for the trial, not to mention the trial itself.”

  “Not to mention the endless hours in between, when you’ll be brooding and unbearable to live with, so the answer is still no.”

  “But it’s going to be almost impossible to expect a jury not to accept the word of a grieving widow who also claims to have been an eyewitness to her husband’s murder.”

  “Of course she was an eyewitness,” said Su Ling. “She did it.”

  The phone on Su Ling’s bedside table began to ring. She picked it up and listened attentively before writing two figures down on the pad by the phone. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Let him know what?” inquired Nat.

  Su Ling tore the piece of paper off the pad and passed it across to her husband. “It was Tom. He wanted you to know the election result.” Su Ling handed over the piece of paper. All she had written on it were the figures “69/31.”

  “Yes, but who got sixty-nine percent?” asked Nat.

  “The next governor of Connecticut,” she replied.

  Luke’s funeral was, at the principal’s request, held in Taft School’s chapel. He explained that so many pupils had wanted to be present. It was only after his death that Nat and Su Ling became aware just how popular their son had been. The service was simple, and the choir of which he was so proud to be a member sang William Blake’s “Jerusalem” and Cole Porter’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” Kathy read one of the lessons, and dear old Thomo another, while the principal delivered the address.

  Mr. Henderson spoke of a shy, unassuming youth, liked and admired by all. He reminded those present of Luke’s remarkable performance as Romeo, and how he had learned only that morning that Luke had been offered a place at Princeton.

  The coffin was borne out of the chapel by boys and girls from the ninth grade who had performed with him in the school play. Nat learned so much about Luke that day that he felt guilty he hadn’t known what an impact his son had made on his contemporaries.

  At the end of the service, Nat and Su Ling attended the tea party given in the principal’s house for Luke’s closest friends. It was packed to overflowing, but then as Mr. Henderson explained to Su Ling, everyone thought they were a close friend of Luke’s. “What a gift,” he remarked simply.

  The headboy presented Su Ling with a book of photographs and short essays composed by his fellow pupils. Later, whenever Nat felt low, he would turn a page, read an entry and glance at a photograph, but there was one he kept returning to again and again: Luke was the only boy ever to speak to me who never once mentioned my turban or my color. He simply didn’t see them. I had looked forward to him being a friend for the rest of my life. Malik Singh (16).

  As they left the principal’s house, Nat spotted Kathy sitting alone in the garden, her head bowed. Su Ling walked across and sat down beside her. She put an arm around Kathy and tried to comfort her. “He loved you very much,” Su Ling said.

  Kathy raised her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I never told him I loved him.”

  45

  “I can’t do it,” said Fletcher.

  “Why not?” asked Annie.

  “I can think of a hundred reasons.”

  “Or are they a hundred excuses?”

  “Defend the man I’m trying to defeat,” said Fletcher, ignoring her comment.

  “Without fear or favor,” quoted Annie.

  “Then how would you expect me to conduct the election?”

  “That will be the easy part.” She paused. “Either way.”

  “Either way?” repeated Fletcher.

  “Yes. Because if he’s guilty, he won’t even be the Republican candidate.”

  “And if he’s innocent?”

  “Then you’ll rightly be praised for setting him free.”

  “That’s neither practical nor sensible.”

  “Two more excuses.”

  “Why are you on his side?” asked Fletcher.

  “I’m not,” insisted Annie. “I am, to quote Professor Abrahams, on the side of justice.”

  Fletcher was silent for some time. “I wonder what he would have done faced with the same dilemma?”

  “You know very well what he would have done…but some people will forget those standards within moments of leaving this university…”

  “…I can only hope that at least one person in every generation,” said Fletcher, completing the professor’s oft-repeated dictum.

  “Why don’t you meet him,” said Annie, “and then perhaps that will persuade you…”

  Despite abundant caution from Jimmy and vociferous protests from the local Democrats—in fact from everyone except Annie—it was agreed that the two men should meet the following Sunday.

  The chosen venue was Fairchild and Russell, as it was felt few citizens would be strolling down Main Street early on a Sunday morning.

  Nat and Tom arrived just before ten, and it was the chairman of the bank who unlocked the front door and turned off the alarm for the first time in years. They only had to wait a few minutes before Fletcher and Jimmy appeared on the top step. Tom ushered them quickly through to the boardroom.

  When Jimmy introduced his closest friend to his most important client, both men stared at each other, not sure which one of them should make the first move.

  “It’s good of you…”

  “I hadn’t expected…”

  Both men laughed and then shook each other warmly by the hand.

  Tom suggested that Fletcher and Jimmy sit on one side of the conference table, while he and Nat sat opposite them. Fletcher nodded his agreement, and once seated, he opened his briefcase and removed a yellow notepad, placing it on the table in front of him, along with a fountain pen taken from an inside pocket.

  “May I begin by saying how much I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” said Nat. “I can only imagine the opposition you must have faced from every quarter and am well aware that you did not settle for the easy option.” Jimmy lowered his head.

  Fletcher raised a hand. “It’s my wife you have to thank.” He paused. “Not me. But it’s me that you have to convince.”

  “Then please pass on my grateful thanks to Mrs. Davenport, and let me assure you that I will answer any questions you put to me.”<
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  “I only have one question,” said Fletcher, as he stared down at the blank sheet of paper, “and it’s the question a lawyer never asks because it can only compromise his or her ethical position. But on this occasion I will not consider discussing this case until that question has been answered.”

  Nat nodded, but didn’t respond. Fletcher raised his head and stared across the table at his would-be rival. Nat held his gaze.

  “Did you murder Ralph Elliot?”

  “No, I did not,” replied Nat, without hesitation.

  Fletcher looked back down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, and flicked over the top page to reveal a second page covered in row upon row of neatly prepared questions.

  “Then let me next ask you…” said Fletcher, looking back up at his client.

  The trial was set for the second week in July. Nat was surprised by how little time he needed to spend with his newly appointed counsel once he had gone over his story again and again, and that stopped only when Fletcher was confident he had mastered every detail. Although both recognized the importance of Nat’s evidence, Fletcher spent just as much time reading and rereading the two statements that Rebecca Elliot had made to the police, Don Culver’s own report on what had taken place that night, and the notes of Detective Petrowski, who was in charge of the case. He warned Nat. “Rebecca will have been coached by the state’s attorney, and every question you can think of she will have had time to consider and reconsider. By the time she steps onto the witness stand, she’ll be as well rehearsed as any actress on opening night. But,” Fletcher paused, “she still has a problem.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Nat.

  “If Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband, she must have lied to the police, so there are bound to be loose ends that they are unaware of. First we have to find them, and then we have to tie them up.”

  Interest in the gubernatorial race stretched far beyond the boundaries of Connecticut. Articles on the two men appeared in journals as diverse as the New Yorker and the National Inquirer, so that by the time the trial opened, there wasn’t a hotel room available within twenty miles of Hartford.

  With three months still to go before election day, the opinion polls showed Fletcher had a twelve-point lead, but he knew that if he was able to prove Nat’s innocence, that could be reversed overnight.

  The trial was due to open on July 11, but the major networks already had their cameras on top of the buildings opposite the courthouse and along the sidewalks, as well as many more handhelds in the streets. They were there to interview anyone remotely connected with the trial, despite the fact it was days before Nat would hear the words “All rise.”

  Fletcher and Nat tried to conduct their election campaigns as if it was business as usual, although no one pretended it was. They quickly discovered that there wasn’t a hall they couldn’t fill, a rally they couldn’t pack, a clambake they couldn’t sell twice over, however remote the district. In fact, when they both attended a charity fund-raiser in support of an orthopedic wing to be added to the Gates Memorial Hospital in Hartford, tickets were changing hands at five hundred dollars each. This was one of those rare elections when campaign contributions kept pouring in. For several weeks they were a bigger draw than Frank Sinatra.

  Neither man slept the night before the trial was due to open, and the chief of police didn’t even bother to go to bed. Don Culver had detailed a hundred officers to be on duty outside the courthouse, ruefully remarking how many of Hartford’s petty criminals were taking advantage of his overstretched force.

  Fletcher was the first member of the defense team to appear on the courthouse steps, and he made it clear to the waiting press that he would not be making a statement or answering any questions until the verdict had been delivered. Nat arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by Tom and Su Ling, and if it hadn’t been for police assistance, they might never have got into the building.

  Once inside the courthouse, Nat walked straight along the marble corridor that led to court number seven, acknowledging onlookers’ kind remarks, but only nodding politely in response as instructed by his counselor. Once he’d entered the courtroom, Nat felt a thousand eyes boring into him as he continued on down the center aisle, before taking his place on the left of Fletcher at the defense table.

  “Good morning, counselor,” said Nat.

  “Good morning, Nat,” replied Fletcher, looking up from a pile of papers, “I hope you’re prepared for a week of boredom while we select a jury.”

  “Have you settled on a profile for the ideal juror?” Nat asked.

  “It’s not quite that easy,” said Fletcher, “because I can’t make up my mind if I should select people who support you or me.”

  “Are there twelve people in Hartford who support you?” asked Nat.

  Fletcher smiled. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor, but once the jury’s sworn in, I want you looking serious and concerned. A man to whom a great injustice has been done.”

  Fletcher turned out to be right, because it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that the full complement of twelve jurors and two alternatives were finally seated in their places, following argument, counterargument and several objections being raised by both sides. They finally settled on seven men and five women. Two of the women and one of the men were black, five from a professional background, two working mothers, three blue-collar workers, one secretary and one unemployed.

  “How about their political persuasions?” asked Nat.

  “My bet is, four Republicans, four Democrats, and four I can’t be sure of.”

  “So what’s our next problem, counselor?”

  “How to get you off, and still grab the votes of the four I’m not sure of,” said Fletcher as they parted on the bottom step of the courthouse.

  Nat found that, whenever he went home in the evening, he would quickly forget the trial, as his mind continually returned to Luke. However much he tried to discuss other things with Su Ling, there was so often only one thought on her mind. “If only I’d shared my secret with Luke,” she said again and again, “perhaps he would still be alive.”

  46

  On the following Monday, after the jury had been sworn in, Judge Kravats invited the state’s attorney to make his opening statement.

  Richard Ebden rose slowly from his place. He was a tall, elegant, gray-haired man, who had a reputation for beguiling juries. His dark blue suit was the one he always wore on the opening day of a trial. His white shirt and blue tie instilled a feeling of trust.

  The state’s attorney was proud of his prosecution record, which was somewhat ironic because he was a mild-mannered, church-going family man, who even sang bass in the local choir. Eden rose from his place, pushed back his chair, and walked slowly out into the open well of the court, before turning to face the jury.

  “Members of the jury,” he began, “in all my years as an advocate, I have rarely come across a more open-and-shut case of homicide.”

  Fletcher leaned across to Nat and whispered, “Don’t worry, it’s his usual opening—but despite this, comes next.”

  “But despite this, I must still take you through the events of the late evening and early morning of February twelfth and thirteenth.”

  “Mr. Cartwright,” he said, turning slowly to face the accused, “had appeared on a television program with Ralph Elliot—a popular and much respected figure in our community and, perhaps more importantly, favorite to win the Republican nomination, which might well have taken him on to be governor of the state we all love so much. Here was a man at the pinnacle of his career, about to receive the accolades of a grateful electorate for years of unselfish service to the community, and what was to be his reward? He ended up being murdered by his closest rival.

  “And how did this unnecessary tragedy come about? Mr. Cartwright is asked a question as to whether his wife was an illegal immigrant—such is the stuff of robust politics—a question I might add that he was unwilling to answer, and why? Bec
ause he knew it to be the truth, and he had remained silent on the subject for over twenty years. And having refused to answer that question, what does Mr. Cartwright do next? He tries to shift the blame onto Ralph Elliot. The moment the program is over, he starts to shout obscenities at him, calls him a bastard, accuses him of setting up the question, and the most damning of all, says, ‘I will still kill you.’” Ebden stared at the jury, repeating the five words slowly, “I will still kill you.”

  “Don’t rely on my words to convict Mr. Cartwright, for you are about to discover that this is not rumor, hearsay or my imagination, because the entire conversation between the two rivals was recorded on television for posterity. I realize this is unusual, your honor, but under the circumstances, I’d like to show this tape to the jury at this juncture.” Ebden nodded toward his table and an assistant pressed a button.

  For the next twelve minutes, Nat stared at a screen that had been set up opposite the jury, and was painfully reminded just how angry he had been. Once the tape had been switched off, Ebden continued with his opening statement.

  “However, it is still the responsibility of the state to show what actually took place after this angry and vindictive man had charged out of the studio.” Ebden lowered his voice. “He returns home to discover that his son—his only child—has committed suicide. Now all of us can well understand the effect that such a tragedy might have on a father. And as it turned out, members of the jury, this tragic death triggered a chain of events that was to end in the cold-blooded murder of Ralph Elliot. Cartwright tells his wife that after he has been to the hospital, he will return home immediately, but he has no intention of doing so, because he has already planned a detour that will take him to Mr. and Mrs. Elliot’s house. And what could possibly have been the reason for this nocturnal visit at two A.M.? There can only have been one purpose, to remove Ralph Elliot from the gubernatorial race. Sadly for his family and our state, Mr. Cartwright succeeded in his mission.