“I don’t remember.”
“You’re the company’s lawyer, but you don’t remember.”
“Yes.”
Worthy had been around the block more than once.
Burr started over. “Yes, you were the lawyer for Mr. Lyons’ company, New Method Screw Machine?”
“Yes.”
“And, yes, you don’t remember how much New Method was being sued for?”
“Yes.”
“Let me refresh your memory, Mr. Worthy.” Burr introduced into evidence the complaint that Detroit Screw Machine Company had filed against New Method Screw Machine.
“Mr. Worthy, please read this number.” Burr handed him the complaint. “It’s right there.” Burr pointed. “What’s that number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have my reading glasses.”
“You are ever so cute, Mr. Worthy,” Burr said.
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Do not abuse the witness, Mr. Lafayette.”
Burr walked back to the defense table and snatched Jacob’s rimless glasses off his nose. “Try these.” Burr handed him the glasses. Worthy dropped them on the floor.
“Your Honor, if this continues, I’m going to ask the court to declare Mr. Worthy a hostile witness.”
“For the love of Mike,” Lindstrom said, “read it yourself.”
I made my point.
Burr turned to the jury. “It says here that Mr. Lyons was being sued for three-million dollars.” He paused to let the three-million sink in. He turned back to Worthy. “Does that sound about right, Mr. Worthy? Three-million dollars. That’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mr. Worthy, the question was, is three-million dollars a lot of money?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d say that’s a lot of money.” Burr turned back to the jury. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “Counsel is preaching to the jury.”
“My question was for Mr. Worthy, who doesn’t seem to know anything or remember anything.”
“Behave yourself,” Lindstrom said.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Burr said. “Mr. Worthy, would you say it’s reasonable that if someone owed you that much money you might be angry about it?” Worthy started to speak but Burr held up his hand. “I withdraw the question.”
“Mr. Worthy, were you on Mr. Lyons’ boat during this year’s Port Huron-Mackinac race?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you raced with Mr. Lyons this year on his boat?”
“Yes.”
“And did Mr. Halverson also race with Mr. Lyons this year during the Port Huron-Mackinac?”
Silence.
“Mr. Worthy?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Mr. Halverson raced on Mr. Lyons’ boat. That doesn’t seem like they were enemies, does it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course, you don’t Mr. Worthy. No further questions, Your Honor.”
* * *
Burr took another look at Karpinen’s witness list. For the life of him, he didn’t know why Robert Huffman was on the list. For that matter, he had no idea who Robert Huffman was.
The bailiff swore in the witness.
It turned out that Huffman worked at the front desk at the Townsend Hotel in Birmingham, Burr’s favorite hotel. A fortyish man, a bit plump in his black suit and a bit funereal for a desk clerk, but it did give him an air of believability. That and his square jaw and high forehead.
“Mr. Huffman, do you recognize this woman?” Karpinen said, pointing at Anne.
“I do. Indeed, I do,” Huffman said, smiling.
Unctuous, Burr thought, cloying and unctuous, just like every good desk clerk.
“For the record,” Karpinen said, “Mr. Huffman is pointing at Mrs. Halverson. Mr. Huffman, did you ever see Mr. Halverson at the Townsend?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And did you ever see Mr. Lyons at the Townsend?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Huffman, were you at the front desk when Mr. Lyons checked in? That is, you checked him in?”
“That’s right.” He smiled a conspiratorial smile.
“How many times would you say you checked him in?”
The desk clerk bit his lip, thought a moment. “Six or eight, I’d say.”
“Six or eight,” Karpinen said. “Do you remember the last time?”
“A couple of months ago. In June, I think.” He smiled again, telling all his secrets.
“Did you ever see Mrs. Halverson with Mr. Lyons?”
“Yes.”
“Please tell us about it.”
“I’d see them in the bar. The bar across from the front desk.”
“Did you ever see them go up the elevator together?”
“Once or twice.” He smiled like he he’d just told a secret no one else knew.
“Were they together? Like a couple.”
“I’d say so.”
“I have no further questions.”
Burr looked over at Murdo who was staring at his hands on the table in front of him. The fingers of each hand locked in the other. Burr looked at Anne. She looked away.
This is a disaster.
Burr stood and slowly made his way to the smiling desk clerk
“Mr. Huffman, did you ever check Mrs. Halverson in?”
“No, not that I remember.”
“Did Mr. Lyons and Mrs. Halverson ever check in together?”
“Not that I remember,” said the desk clerk, still smiling.
“Did you ever see them leave together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you, or didn’t you?”
“No, I guess not.” The smile faded just a tad.
“Did you ever see them holding hands?”
“No.”
“Kissing?”
“No.”
“I see.” Burr stepped closer to Huffman. Burr loved the Townsend and knew it like his former house. He’d carried on there once or twice himself. Luckily, Huffman hadn’t been on duty at the time. Burr smiled at the desk clerk, whose own smile brightened, but not for long.“Mr. Huffman, the elevator that you saw Mr. Lyons and Mrs. Halverson get in, goes up to guest rooms, is that right?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Doesn’t that very same elevator go down to the parking garage underneath the hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it possible that Mr. Lyons and Mrs. Halverson weren’t going upstairs at all? Isn’t it possible that they were leaving?”
“I suppose,” the desk clerk said, his smile fading.
“You suppose,” Burr said. “You suppose? How would you know? How could you know?”
The now frowning desk clerk started to answer, but Burr held up his hand. “I have no further questions.” Burr sat. Murdo looked like he’d just seen a ghost. “What do you know about this?” Burr said, under his breath.
“Nothing.”
Burr didn’t believe Murdo. He didn’t think Huffman had hurt him much, but it was about to get worse.
Karpinen called Greta Bienenstock, the bookkeeper at the Townsend.
What now?
Mrs. Bienenstock was a widow and had been for thirty years, just about as long as she’d been bookkeeper at the Townsend. The widow Bienenstock wasn’t a day over fifty and she looked as though widowhood agreed with her. If she was an inch over five feet tall, it was only because she wore four-inch not too sensible heels. She had a round face with red round lips and black shoulder length hair with silver barrettes that kept her hair out of her dark blue eyes She wore a tailored linen suit and didn’t look a
bit like a bookkeeper.
“Mrs. Bienenstock, does the Townsend have charge accounts?”
“A few.”
“Did Mrs. Halverson have a charge account at the Townsend?”
In spite of her silver barrettes, Mrs. Bienenstock swept her black hair out of her eyes. “Yes.”
Karpinen nodded at her and walked to his table, smiling at the jury as he went. He picked up still another folder and made a round trip to Mrs. Bienenstock. He opened the folder and held up still another piece of paper in triumph. He turned to Lindstrom. “Your Honor, the people would like to introduce the billing record of Anne Halverson at the Townsend Hotel as People’s Exhibit Four.” Lindstrom looked at Burr.
Burr stood slowly. “Your Honor, I cannot for the life of me understand why a charge account at a hotel in Birmingham, nearly three hundred miles away, has any possible relevance to the gross injustice of charging my client with murder.”
“Your point?” Lindstrom said.
“I object,” Burr said, still standing.
“Overruled,” Lindstrom said. “Proceed, Mr. Karpinen, but be advised that there is a modicum of sense in Mr. Lafayette’s objection.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” The prosecutor handed his witness a piece of paper from the file. “Mrs. Bienenstock, did you make the entries on this billing record?”
“Yes.”
“Would you please tell us about Mrs. Halverson’s billing record.”
“This is a client account record. It shows the charges to the client and the payments.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bienenstock. Would you please tell us what this billing record says?”
“This is the client account, the billing record, for Anne M. Halverson, 539 Windmill Pointe Drive, Grosse Pointe Park, Michigan. It shows the room, dinner and bar charges. And the payments.”
“About how many charges are there?” Karpinen said.
Mrs. Bienenstock made a point of poking the charge account with her finger as she counted. Finally, she said, “About twenty.”
“Over what period?”
She studied the record again. “For about the last eighteen months.”
“Were all the charges paid?”
“Yes.”
“So, Mrs. Halverson had a charge account at the Townsend. For room, dinner and bar. And yet she lived in Grosse Pointe which is only half an hour away. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“No further questions.”
Burr stood.
Why do I always get the tough cases?
Burr walked up the bookkeeper.
Because I need the money.
“May I look at this?” Burr said. Mrs. Bienenstock looked at Lindstrom, who nodded. She passed the account record to Burr. He pretended to study it, then, “Mrs. Bienenstock, where is your office at the Townsend?”
“My office?”
“Yes, where do you work?”
“I have an office on the first floor.”
“Can you see the lobby from your office?”
“No.”
“Can you see the guests check in or out?”
“No.”
“I see,” Burr said. “Did you ever see Mrs. Halverson at the Townsend?”
“No, not really.”
“Have you ever seen Mrs. Halverson before today?”
“No.”
“So, you sent the bills out and you recorded the payments, but for all you know Santa and his elves might have been staying at the hotel.”
Karpinen popped up. “Objection, Your Honor.”
He’s pretty spry for a busted-up hockey player.
“Please, Mr. Lafayette. Show some manners,” Lindstrom said.
“Your Honor, my point is that this billing record doesn’t show anything. There’s no way to know who paid these charges much less who stayed in the room.”
“Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “These are charges and payments in Anne Halverson’s name and the bill was sent to her home. What else are we to assume?”
“We are to assume that this evidence should not be admitted,” Burr said. “It’s not even evidence.”
“Quiet.” Lindstrom said. “The evidence stands as admitted. You watch your manners.” Lindstrom wagged his finger at him.
Burr turned away from Lindstrom. “You know about as much about the rules of evidence as Karpinen.”
“What’s that?” Lindstrom said.
“I said, no further questions, Your Honor.”
“That’s what I thought you said,” Lindstrom said.
Burr stalked to the defense table and sat.
Karpinen called Sheila Jablonski, a maid at the Townsend who lived in Hamtramck. The witness, a pimply-faced lass who looked barely old enough to drive, wiggled in her chair.
“Miss Jablonski, please tell us what you saw on May 19th of this year.”
“I saw the ’tree of them in the hotel that day.”
“Who were the three of them?”
“The missus, that one,” she said pointing at Anne. “She run right past me. Down the hall there. Lickety-split.”
I haven’t heard that in twenty years.
“Who did you see and where?” Karpinen said.
“I seen her,” she said, pointing at Anne again.
“Please record that the witness has identified Anne Halverson,” Karpinen said. “What else did you see?”
“I seen him.” She pointed to Murdo. “And the dead guy.”
Karpinen produced the photograph of Jimmy Lyons. He handed her the photograph. “You mean, Mr. Lyons?”
“That’s him all-right.”
Karpinen looked at the court reporter. “For the record, Miss Jablonski has identified Mr. Halverson and Jimmy Lyons as the two men she saw in the hall.” Back to the witness. “Where exactly in the hall were they?”
“They was outside room 602.”
“And what were they doing?”
“They was arguing.”
“Could you tell what they were arguing about?”
“No, but that one, Mr. Halverson I guess his name is, he sure was mad.”
“Thank you, Miss Jablonski. And did you enter room 602?”
“Sure did. I had to clean the whole floor. All the rooms.”
“What did you see in the room?”
“Back up a minute. Like I said, they all hightailed it out of there. Then I goes in the room. And the room’s hardly been used except the covers is all rumpled.”
“Thank you, Miss Jablonski.”
Burr stood. “Your Honor, this testimony barely rises to the level of a soap opera and certainly isn’t worthy of admission.”
“Overruled.”
“So, Miss Jablonski,” Karpinen said, “just to make sure I have it right, you saw Mrs. Halverson rush past you in the hall. You saw Mr. Halverson and Mr. Lyons arguing outside room 602. And you saw the bed clothes rumpled inside Room 602.” Karpinen paused to let all this sink in. “Do I have that right?”
“Bed clothes?” the maid said. “You mean the covers?”
“Yes, Miss Jablonski. The covers.”
“That’s about it.”
Karpinen turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s painfully clear that Anne Halverson and Jimmy Lyons were having an affair at the Townsend Hotel in Birmingham and that Anne Halverson’s husband, the accused…” Karpinen pointed at Murdo… “caught them.” He turned back to Judge Lindstrom. “I have no further questions.” The prosecutor dragged himself back to his chair.
At least he’s getting tired.
Burr, not exactly fresh as a daisy, had a point to make, but it was risky, especially since he was about to ask a question to which he didn’t know the answer, but with the way things were going, he thought it was worth a try.
“Miss J
ablonski, did you see either Mrs. Halverson, Mr. Halverson, or Mr. Lyons inside Room 602?”
“Nope.”
“Did you check them in?”
“No, I’m a maid.”
“Thank you, Miss Jablonski.” He looked at Lindstrom. “I have no further questions.”
“Redirect, Your Honor,” Karpinen said.
Lindstrom sagged in his chair. “All right, but this better be quick.”
Karpinen stood, then leaned on his table. “Miss Jablonski, I forgot to ask you an important question.” He stood up as straight as he could. “When you saw Mr. Halverson in the hallway, was he holding anything?”
“He sure was.” The maid glowed.
“And what was it?” Karpinen said.
Burr wasn’t sure what was coming but he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it.
“A key,” she said, absolutely glowing.
“What kind of key?”
“A room key,” she said.
“Could you see a room number on it?”
“You know what number it was. We went over it. It was the key to 602.” She pointed at Murdo. “He was holding in his hand and shaking it at the dead guy who wasn’t dead yet.”
“For the record, Your Honor, let it be known that Miss Jablonski pointed at the defendant Murdoch Halverson.” Karpinen sat down.
“Anything else for you, Mr. Lafayette?” Lindstrom said.
Burr ignored the judge and tapped his pencil. He stopped tapping, looked at his pencil, then broke it in two. “Murdo,” he said under his breath, “what else haven’t you told me? Better yet, why didn’t you tell me about Anne and Jimmy?”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Murdo said.
“I used to live in Grosse Pointe,” Burr said, “and I have some idea what goes on there. But we’re not in Grosse Pointe, and if you think you get to live by different rules than those twelve people sitting over there against the wall, you may well spend the rest of your life in an eight-by-ten cell thinking it over.” Murdo looked away. Eve handed Burr another pencil.
“Did you hear me, Mr. Lafayette?” Judge Lindstrom said.
Burr looked up at the judge. “No questions, Your Honor.”
* * *
Karpinen called his last witness, James M. Buehler, the rich, belligerent stockbroker from Troy whose fingerprints Burr couldn’t get.
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