The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  “Jimmy and I were very happy.”

  Burr gave the jury a disapproving look. “Mrs. Lyons, you were aware of Mr. Lyons’ financial difficulties?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “You didn’t know that he was being sued by a number of people and a number of companies?”

  “No.”

  “I see,” Burr said. “Mrs. Lyons, are you the beneficiary of a life insurance policy on your late husband’s life?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “Irrelevant.”

  “Your Honor, this is the most relevant question I’ve asked today.”

  “Please answer the question,” Lindstrom said.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Lyons, is it possible that you knew your husband was going to divorce you? That you knew he was so broke you’d never get anything in a divorce?” Burr turned to the jury. “So you killed him for the life insurance.”

  “How dare you,” she said.

  Burr winked at her. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Karpinen limped to the witness stand. He looked at the jury, then at Jane. “Mrs. Lyons, I have but one question.”

  Jane looked at him sorrowfully.

  “Mrs. Lyons,” Karpinen said.

  “Yes?” she said, still sorrowfully.

  “Did you love your husband?”

  She looked down at her lap, then at Karpinen. “Yes. Yes, I did love him.”

  “I have no further questions,” Karpinen said.

  * * *

  Burr called Lionel Worthy. He didn’t think he’d get much out of him, but it was worth a try. “Mr. Worthy, earlier you testified that you were Mr. Lyons’ attorney. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were his personal attorney and the attorney for his company, New Method Screw Machine. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Worthy, how much money did Mr. Lyons and company owe to his creditors?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you were his lawyer.”

  “I was his lawyer, not his accountant.”

  “Mr. Worthy, how many lawsuits had been filed against Mr. Lyons and his company?”

  “In addition to Detroit Screw Machine?”

  “Mr. Worthy, I asked a simple question. I would like a simple answer. How many lawsuits?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’re his lawyer but you don’t remember.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Isn’t it your job to remember? Or are there so many lawsuits you don’t remember?”

  “Is that a question?”

  “Your Honor, I request that Mr. Worthy be treated as a hostile witness.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “There is nothing in Mr. Worthy’s answers to merit treating him as a hostile witness.”

  “Mr. Lafayette,” Lindstrom said, “while the witness isn’t being particularly cooperative, I’d hardly say that his behavior merits being deemed a hostile witness.”

  Burr paced back and forth in front of his uncooperative witness. Worthy hadn’t told him anything of any importance, but at least he was on display to the jury as being unhelpful and unlikable, which was, in fact, helpful.

  “Mr. Lyons and his company had a number of debts and a number of lawsuits, but you don’t remember how much money or how many lawsuits. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Worthy, does the estate of Mr. Lyons, or his company, owe you any money?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Worthy, surely you must know if Mr. Lyons owed you money.”

  “Mr. Lyons is dead.”

  “Really? I had no idea.” Burr took a step closer to Worthy, but the ashtray smell pushed him back again. “His estate then. Does his estate owe you money?”

  “That’s protected by attorney-client privilege.”

  “Nonsense. The privilege is extinguished on the death of the client and doesn’t pass to the estate.”

  “I beg to differ,” Worthy said.

  “Your Honor,” Karpinen said, “Mr. Worthy is correct.”

  “Lordy, Lordy, Lordy,” Lindstrom said again. He chewed on his cheek. “The court agrees with the prosecution. Mr. Worthy, you need not answer that question. Surely you know that, Mr. Lafayette.”

  “Your Honor, please preserve my objection.” Burr acted as outraged as he could. He knew attorney-client privilege applied, but he thought it was worth a shot. “Mr. Worthy, you crewed on Mr. Lyons’ boat. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Burr clapped his hands. “You do remember something. And were you with Mr. and Mrs. Lyons and the Halversons at The Pink Pony the night Mr. Lyons died?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did you stay?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Burr said. “Do you by any chance remember where you spent the night?”

  “At the Chippewa Hotel.”

  “Do you remember if you spent the night with anyone?”

  “I was alone.”

  “I see. And did you argue with Mr. Lyons about the money he owed you?”

  “No.”

  Burr looked at the jury, then Worthy. “Mr. Worthy, I’m a bit concerned about your health. You seem to have a vivid memory of certain things but absolutely no memory of others. When someone has such a difficult time remembering even the simplest things, it can be a sign of injury. Have you been injured, Mr. Worthy?”

  “No.”

  “Your symptoms indicate that you may be suffering from a closed head injury.”

  Burr’s comment pretty much brought down the house not to mention the wrath of Lindstrom, who told him he was an inch from being thrown out. Again.

  * * *

  The band was just tuning their instruments when Burr and his merry band arrived at Horn’s, not that a drum kit, an electric bass and a keyboard required much in the way of tuning. They sat next to the windows in the fading October daylight.

  The island had virtually shut down for the season. The fort had closed. The Grand had shuttered some time ago. Stonecliffe would be next and there were only a few restaurants still open.

  There were only a few locals, plus Burr and his merry little band in Horn’s. Except they weren’t so merry. Burr had ordered a Labatt and a plate of nachos. So far, no one had shown much interest in the nachos except Burr and Zeke.

  Murdo looked spent. He’d just ordered his second Manhattan after pouring the first one down his throat. “Karpinen didn’t paint a very favorable picture of us.”

  “That’s his job, darling,” Anne said. She squeezed his hand, waiting for her second Stoli on the rocks.

  Burr peeled a jalapeno off a nacho and passed the nacho sans jalapeno to Zeke. Burr had insisted they meet after Lindstrom dismissed them. Anne was Burr’s last, and far and away, his most important witness, especially after the fingerprint debacle. He wanted to make sure she knew her part. He ordered a second Labatt and got right to the point. “Anne, you’re the star of the show tomorrow. All you have to do is answer my questions, just like we’ve practiced.”

  “We were together the entire evening.”

  “So, you said.” Burr chewed on a nacho. “I’m going to ask you very specific questions. Unless I ask you to tell me something, just answer yes or no.”

  “I know what happened and I know what to say.”

  Burr looked out the window. He watched a street cleaner pedal by, towing a manure cart with a shovel sticking out.

  There can’t be many of them left.

  Burr looked at Anne, “This is the guts of our defense, and it’s going to be even more important when Karpinen cross examines you. Because we know what he’s going to ask about.”


  Anne started to say something but stopped when Jacob burst in. “I found him,” he said.

  “Where was he?” Burr said.

  “Room 206 of the U of M Engineering Building in Ann Arbor. At a lecture on displacement hulls or some such thing.”

  “Who’d you find?” Murdo said.

  “Ronnie Cross,” Jacob said. “I left him with Mueller. Mueller’s taking his fingerprints, but he swears he was nowhere near The Pink Pony that night.”

  “Who is this Ronnie whatever his name is?” Martha said.

  “He’s the missing crew member,” Jacob said.

  “What’s this all about?” Anne said.

  “There’s still one set of fingerprints on the Christmas lights that I can’t identify,” Burr said.

  “What difference does it make? The judge won’t let you admit them anyway,” Anne said.

  “He will if they’re given voluntarily,” Burr said.

  “If this Ronnie Cross, or whatever his name is, really is the murderer, he’ll never let you take his fingerprints,” Martha said.

  Jacob picked an imaginary dog hair off his slacks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Burr tapped his pencil. Murdo was next to him, then Jacob. All was as it should be. Henry Crow announced the entrance of the Honorable Arvid Lindstrom.

  This is what we’ve all been waiting for.

  Burr stood. He pulled the cuffs of his shirt down. “The defense calls Anne Halverson.” Burr looked over at Anne, demure, just as he asked. She looked at him but didn’t get up. “The defense calls Anne Halverson,” he said again. Anne sat. Burr bent down to Murdo. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Burr stepped to the rail. “Anne, let’s go.” She looked at him again but made no effort to stand.

  “Your Honor,” said a voice from the gallery. “Roy Dahlberg here, counsel for Anne Halverson.” Burr looked back at the voice, which now made its way to the bench.

  Damn it all.

  Dahlberg stopped next to Burr. Roy Dahlberg of Dahlberg and Langley. The Ford family’s lawyers and the Halversons’ lawyers as well. They knew all the judges, all the politicians, everyone worth knowing. Roy Dahlberg, the patrician’s patrician. Mid-sixties. Medium build. Silver hair. Tan, lined face. Charcoal suit with a pencil-thin white pinstripe. White shirt. Gray silk tie. French cuffs and gold cufflinks. That’s what you paid for when you hired him.

  Burr had sparred with Dahlberg in his prior life. Many times. Burr had represented parts suppliers that Ford didn’t want to pay. Burr won most of the time, but he’d certainly met his match with Roy Dahlberg.

  “What is it?” Lindstrom said, annoyed.

  “Your Honor, my client chooses not to testify,” Dahlberg said.

  “What are you talking about?” Burr said.

  “My client chooses not to testify,” Dahlberg said again.

  What the hell is going on?

  “Your client has been served a subpoena. She has no choice,” Burr said.

  “Mr. Lafayette, I am the judge here.” Lindstrom looked at Dahlberg. “Having said that, Mr. Lafayette is quite right. She may avail herself of all her constitutional rights including the Fifth Amendment, but she must testify.”

  “May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Dahlberg said.

  Lindstrom sighed, “You might as well.”

  Dahlberg, flanked by Burr and Karpinen, stood in front of Lindstrom.

  “Your Honor,” Dahlberg said, “as you know, the law recognizes a privilege between a husband and a wife that, when asserted, permits them not to testify against each other.”

  “Mr. Dahlberg is quite right, Your Honor,” Burr said, “but the privilege may be waived. My client, Mr. Halverson, waives the privilege and requests his wife to testify.”

  Lindstrom nodded. “For once, I agree with you. You may call Mrs. Halverson.”

  “Respectfully, Your Honor,” Dahlberg said, “the privilege does not belong to Mr. Halverson. The privilege belongs to the witness. Mrs. Halverson is the witness and she claims the privilege.”

  “Mr. Dahlberg is correct, Your Honor,” Karpinen said. “The privilege belongs to Mrs. Halverson.”

  “You have no idea what the law is. You just don’t want Anne Halverson to be a witness and ruin your trumped-up case,” Burr said.

  “Mrs. Halverson has the puck,” Karpinen said.

  If he says one more thing about hockey, I’ll be the one on trial for murder.

  “Your Honor, the legislature thought this issue important enough that they codified it.” The silk-stockinged lawyer just happened to have a certain brown, hardbound book right in his hand. “May I?” Lindstrom nodded.

  “I quote from Subsection 2 of Section 2162 of the Revised Judicature Act.” Dahlberg cleared his throat. “In a criminal prosecution, a husband shall not be examined as a witness for or against his wife without his consent or a wife for or against her husband without her consent.” Dahlberg slammed the book shut. “It’s clear from the statute that the privilege belongs to the witness. In this case, Mrs. Halverson.”

  “That is not what it says,” Burr said.

  “Of course that’s what it says,” Karpinen said.

  “I wasn’t aware you could read,” Burr said.

  “Do you have anything constructive to say, Mr. Lafayette?” Lindstrom said.

  “Your Honor, the statute is clear,” Burr said. “The privilege belongs to the defendant. In this case, Mr. Halverson. He’s the one on trial. There is no reason for a witness to have the privilege.”

  Lindstrom nodded again. “Very good point, Mr. Lafayette. You may call Mrs. Halverson.”

  “Your Honor, that’s not what the statute says. In fact, that is the opposite of what the statute says,” Dahlberg said.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Dahlberg?” Lindstrom said.

  “Your Honor,” Karpinen said, “this is a matter of law and if, by chance, you are not correct, there could be a mistrial and we’d have to start all over again.”

  Lindstrom grimaced. “The court will take this matter under advisement. We will reconvene tomorrow at 10 a.m.”

  “Your Honor, tomorrow is Saturday,” Karpinen said.

  “Monday then. Monday at ten.” Lindstrom held out his hand and Dahlberg passed him the book.

  Lindstrom dismissed them. Dahlberg turned to leave, but Burr grabbed him by the arm, just above the elbow.

  “I beg your pardon.” He jerked his arm free.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m going to talk with my client.”

  “Anne’s the reason I’m going to get Murdo acquitted. Without her, I don’t have a prayer.”

  “Burr, you underestimate yourself. You’ve done a great job. Anne’s testimony won’t be necessary.”

  “That’s not for you to say.”

  “It’s not for me to say, but it is for my client to say.”

  “For God’s sake, Dahlberg, I need her as a witness.” Burr ran his hands through his hair. “What on earth is going on?

  “If Lindstrom rules in your favor, you’ll have Anne as a witness.”

  Burr looked over at Murdo, still sitting at his chair in the now empty courtroom. “Did you know about this?”

  “Not until now,” Murdo said.

  “How could you do this? You’ve just guaranteed that Murdo will be convicted of murder.” Burr looked at Murdo, then back at Dahlberg.

  “Listen to me, Lafayette,” Dahlberg said. “Let’s assume that Anne does testify, and let’s further assume that she does a bang-up job and gives Murdo an alibi. What then?”

  “What then?” Burr said. “What then is, we win.”

  “Not necessarily. Because Karpinen is going to cross-examine her.”

  “Of course, he will. And all she ha
s to do is tell the truth.”

  “Which is precisely the problem,” Dahlberg said. “Because Karpinen will ask her about the affair. About the Townsend. About that night at The Pink Pony. And God knows what else. And that, my friend, will unravel your entire case. It’s too big a risk.”

  “Anne doesn’t have to answer those questions. She can take the Fifth.”

  “That will make it look worse.”

  “I’m Murdo’s lawyer. It’s my call.”

  “That’s exactly what Anne said you’d say. That’s why she hired me and why she didn’t tell Murdo. He’s upset enough as it is. Understandably so. You’ve done more than enough to establish reasonable doubt. All you need is a good closing argument.” Dahlberg started to leave, then turned back to Burr. “Have a grand weekend.”

  * * *

  Burr, Jacob and Eve took M-134 east from St. Ignace. About five miles out of town, Burr pulled into the Acorn, eight cabins more or less in a row, all equally rundown, across from Lake Huron in the middle of a stand of sixty-foot oaks. The Acorn’s most important feature wasn’t the view of the lake or the oak trees. It was next door to Art’s Tavern.

  Burr had told his myopic expert not to bring any of his glaucoma cigarettes across the bridge and into the less than progressive U.P., but he knew Mueller would need a nip so he’d put him up within walking distance of a bar.

  Burr parked in front of cabin Number 4. An acorn fell on the hood of the Jeep. Burr got out and knocked on the door. Stanley Mueller answered.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in court?” Mueller said, his eyes somewhere behind his glasses.

  “I just lost my star witness.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Mueller went back inside. They followed him in. Mueller picked up the St. Ignace News off his bed, sat in a sagging easy chair and opened the paper.

  “Why do you think I’m paying you to have you stay here?” Burr said.

  “Because you don’t have any money. This is the worst place I’ve ever stayed.” Mueller tossed the newspaper on the bed.

  “It’s next to Art’s Tavern.”

  “True.” Mueller stumbled over to a metal table with rusty legs next to the refrigerator and a hot plate. He had papers spread over the table. Mueller rummaged through them. “Come over here.” Burr walked to the table. “These are from the lights.” They were full of whirls, whorls and smudges. Mostly smudges.