by Diane Capri
If it’s in times of trouble when you find out who your true friends are, then it didn’t seem like we had as many as I’d thought a few days ago. Nobody knows you when you’re down and out. Except we weren’t out. Down maybe, but definitely not out.
We finished our coffee in companionable silence. When I could put it off no longer, I sprung my idea, just the way I’d rehearsed it. “George, between the two of us, we’re definitely smarter than the average bear, wouldn’t you say?”
Again, that dry smile. “That is at least one of our conceits.” I smiled, too. “Yes, but true anyway. We can figure this out.
We have to figure it out. We’re the only ones who want to.” I knew I sounded a little desperate, but I’d seen the police file. George hadn’t.
There would be no investigation of other local suspects if we didn’t do it. Drake’s cold, steady gaze had told me everything I needed to know on that score. He was planning to prove George killed Andrews and ride that publicity to his next promotion. Maybe all the way to the Governor’s mansion. At least, that’s how he saw it.
I was not willing to sit around and wait for the real murderer to take credit. If Andrews had been killed by some crazy group with an anti-Andrews agenda, they’d have claimed credit already.
No, the murderer was someone who wanted to remain anonymous, who would be more than happy to let George take the blame.
“I wouldn’t say we’re the only ones who want to find the killer, although we’re certainly the ones with the most serious interest.” His tone sounded almost academic and I began to lose my carefully cultivated calm. Another argument was not what I wanted, so I put a lid on my impatience.
But I needed to get into the particulars or we’d just end up where we were before.
“Seriously, then, I can think of several people who might want to murder Andrews. All those special interest groups who were attending the hearings: the right-to-life crowd already tried once and failed, the gay-rights groups were very vocal and angry, all of the non-Caucasian races he offended, not to mention the feminists and the Republicans.” I ticked them all off on my fingers, each with individual members who were capable, ready, willing and able.
Now, he lectured me. “That’s the trouble with free speech. When you exercise it, people automatically assume you’re going to act violently to establish your points.”
I ignored the invitation to discuss philosophy. “But a lot of people do use free speech to incite violence. You know that as well as I do and there was a good example in Craig Hamilton’s shooting. That man was an easily led ideologue, an instrument of destruction.” An involuntary shiver made my last words trail off.
I told myself it was the chilled air that reached my bones as I wrapped the silk robe closer around me and tried to warm up.
George loved a spirited debate and he took this as an invitation. “But what about the concept of free will? Do you really believe that people can be coerced to behave in ways that are repugnant to them?” he asked.
“Do you really believe they can’t?”
He looked at me then, with a puzzled expression. “Yes, actually. I think everyone makes his own life and is in control of his own destiny.” He must have noticed the gooseflesh on my legs. He stood up and took me by the hand, leading me back inside where it was warmer. “We all have the ability to choose whether to do an immoral or illegal act. The choices we make define us.”
I followed him docilely back into the warmth, but not into this quagmire of philosophy over reality. “You sound like you’ve been talking to Kate. But I’m not interested in discussing esoteric concepts. I want to consider possible murder suspects. It seems to me we’ve got to include every member of Andy’s family and,” I said, remembering Olivia’s story about her brother, “every soldier Andrews ever came in contact with, as well as his close friends and acquaintances.”
“Is that all? Should be a snap to wrap this up by morning.” He smiled his indulgence of my plan.
“You have any better ideas?” I challenged.
“No. But I will have in the morning. Now is not the time to panic, Mighty Mouse. You don’t always have to save the day. Let me sleep on it.” He sat his glass down, kissed the top of my head, and went into the bedroom. I took the glasses into the kitchen. I’d do the dishes later, as a sort of meditation. I looked forward to an occupation for my hands while my mind worked on more knotty problems.
When I came out of the kitchen, George was in the den, fully dressed. I was stunned. How could he think of going back to the Club to sleep after everything we’d gone through tonight?
“Where are you going?” I asked him. “I have a lot to talk to you about yet. We have to examine the evidence. Figure this out. You can’t just leave.”
He walked over and held me. “Everything I said this morning still goes, Sweetheart.”
He kissed me again, long and lovingly this time.
When we parted, he said, “I need to stay away from here until this gets resolved. I’ll be in the restaurant, like always. Drake will notice I’m behaving normally, if that worries you. But I intend to keep suspicion away from you.”
When I started to protest, he put his index finger over my lips. “It’s no use trying to argue me out of this. You got me to agree to Olivia and to investigating this murder ourselves. Count this as a successful use of your feminine wiles and get some sleep.”
He moved his finger, gave me another kiss and walked out.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tampa, Florida
Friday 8:35 a.m.
January 28, 2000
THE TRIAL DAY, WHICH after today I had limited to four mornings a week, continued to be substantially less mesmerizing than my private life. As CJ promised, another three hundred cases had been added to my load. My docket clerk badgered me to get them on the calendar.
I had very little time to investigate Andrews’s murder, but there was no chance I’d stop. I could live without this job. I could return to private practice or take an in-house counsel job. But I couldn’t live without George and I wasn’t willing to let Drake take George away from me.
Too many things on my mind; staying focused on the Newton trial was increasingly difficult.
Fortunately the case was a jury trial, so I didn’t need to pay strict attention to everything that happened. The jury would decide the facts and I only needed to make evidentiary rulings as they came up.
We were still hearing Newton’s case in chief. Moving right along, but shortened trial days meant little accomplished.
There was no way Newton could keep the fact that he’d been married four times from the jury. The information was contained in The Review story he was suing over. He’d tried to take the sting out of his marital history on voir dire by choosing jurors who had been married more than once, but Tampa is still a pretty conservative place. Divorce is common, but not desirable.
Instead of relying on the marital privilege to exclude spousal communications, today Newton planned to call the most recent of his four ex-wives to the stand. His strategy escaped me. Maybe he was trying to show that since he’d been involved in at least four heterosexual relationships, he couldn’t possibly be gay. Like the jurors, I’d just have to wait and see.
“What’s your name, ma’am?” Newton asked his first witness.
“Jennifer Newton,” said the fourth former Mrs. Nelson Newton.
She looked like a young Tampa matron on her way to church: fresh, neat, not overly showy. Nervous. She held a tissue in her small hands, twisting it so tightly that her knuckles whitened. I thought she looked like she could use a tranquilizer. The entire jury already felt sorry for her.
“Do you know me?” Newton asked her, with a smile and a wink to the jury. Several of them smiled back.
“Yes. We were married for five years,” she managed to answer, in a small, trembling voice. Without the microphone on the witness stand, no one would have heard her.
“Do we have any children?” he asked, turni
ng around to look at his youngest son, sitting with his other four sons in the first row of the galley behind his chair.
“Yes. Nelson, Junior. He’s seven.”
“Now, Jennifer,” he said gently, “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, honey, but please tell the jury why we divorced.”
I remembered the divorce and it hadn’t been friendly. He must have muscled her to get her here at all. I was as curious as everyone else as to what she would say.
She looked down at her hands and then out toward her son. Her eyes filled up, making them look even more like doe eyes than before.
“You know the answer to that, Nelson. You fell in love with another woman.”
And then she did start to cry. Not quietly, either. Great noisy sobs. Newton said he had no further questions and we took a recess so she could pull herself together for cross.
Nelson had managed to pull the jury’s heartstrings and establish that he had been a husband and was a father. He’d also proved he was unfaithful to this young, attractive wife. Would the jury think those facts proved he wasn’t gay?
When we returned, after Tremain got up and got himself adjusted, he said he would have to ask Mrs. Newton some embarrassing questions that he didn’t think children should hear. He asked me to have Mr. Newton’s children removed from the courtroom and offered to have one of his paralegals stay with them out in the hall.
I granted the request and when the boys were safely out of earshot, Tremain began his cross examination.
“Mrs. Newton, how many times was Mr. Newton married before he married you?”
“Three.”
“Was Mr. Newton married when the two of you started your affair?”
“Yes.”
“And, was Mr. Newton having an affair when the two of you were married?”
“Yes.” She looked like she might start to bawl again, but Tremain waited until she blotted the tears from her eyes. “Mrs. Newton, how tall are you?”
“Five seven.”
“And how much do you weigh?”
“About a hundred and ten.”
“Have you always worn your hair short like that?”
A tentative hand reached up and patted her ultra-short hairstyle similar to mine.
“Nelson asked me to cut it short and I just did it for him.” She cupped her hand around the nape of her neck where the hair dipped to a point.
“Now, Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to get personal with you and I certainly don’t mean to be offensive. You understand that, don’t you?”
Her chin began to quiver again, but she said, “Yes,” in a tiny, little voice. She returned to twisting the now soggy tissue.
“Ma’am, after you became pregnant with your son, did your husband ever make love to you again?”
This started her to bawling again in earnest. She never answered.
Tremain looked at her pointedly for a few moments and then said, “Please let the record reflect that the witness burst into tears and was unable to answer the question.”
Since the court reporter takes down every word said in the courtroom, his words were automatically recorded. He’d repeated the request for emphasis, in case the jury missed the point.
Then, he turned and went back to counsel table and sat down. From there, Tremain said he didn’t have any more questions and I let the fourth Mrs. Newton go. We could hear her caterwauling in the hall all the way to the elevator.
The jury frowned at Tremain. Jennifer Newton had no doubt reminded them of their daughters and granddaughters. I doubted Tremain’s theory had reached any of the jurors.
Newton called his third wife to the stand. She was sworn and seated.
Belinda Newton Phillips was a physical copy of Jennifer Newton, but more flamboyantly so. She dressed to make a statement. About ten years older than Jennifer and a hundred years more sophisticated. This woman probably hadn’t cried since the doctor spanked her at birth. I, for one, was relieved that we’d be spared the waterworks this time.
“Tell us your name, please.” Nelson, too, was less solicitous of her.
“Belinda Johnson Newton Phillips,” she said, making sure the jury heard the full import of her impressive Tampa pedigree. Both the Johnsons and the Phillips’ were long-time, wealthy citrus families. Every juror was probably familiar with the names.
“Mrs. Phillips, tell the jury how you know me.”
“Unfortunately, when I was young and rebellious, we were married for a short time.” Her hauteur was off-putting.
“It’s obvious you don’t like me, Mrs. Phillips. Tell the jury why you’ve come here to testify today on my behalf.”
“Because, to my everlasting regret, I allowed you to father one of my children.” She smiled at another fair-haired boy who, even though he was very obese, bore an obvious familial relationship to Nelson and herself. “I don’t want Johnson’s life tarnished any more than it has to be by the fact that you’re his father. There is no question in my mind that you are not gay. That’s all I came here to say.”
Newton quit while he had a chance of being ahead, and sat down.
Tremain rose to face the fierce third Mrs. Newton. “How do you do, Mrs. Phillips?”
“I’m fine,” she said, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that she’d like to give Tremain a sound thrashing, either for making her appearance on behalf of Newton necessary, or for embarrassing her son by making a public spectacle of his father. Hard to tell which.
“Mrs. Phillips, I take it Mr. Newton wasn’t much of a husband to you?”
“That’s right.”
“How long were you married?”
“Two years.”
“And why did you divorce?”
She looked at Tremain, then at Newton and finally, at her son. “Because Nelson didn’t love me. He never had. And I deserved someone who loved me. So, I left him.”
“Nothing further.”
We all waited while Mrs. Phillips and Johnson left the room together. She exited as regally as she had entered and left behind uncontested testimony that Nelson Newton was not gay. It was the first time the statement had been made on the record in the trial and I wondered just exactly how Tremain would rebut it.
Only contested questions of fact would go to the jury. If, at the end of the trial, the only evidence on Newton’s sexual preference was the third Mrs. Newton’s testimony, I’d be obligated to direct a verdict for the plaintiff. Meaning Newton would win and Tremain would lose. I didn’t expect Tremain to let that happen.
Newton next called the second Mrs. Newton, and I was beginning to question his sanity if not his trial tactics. The last two witnesses proved he lived with women and fathered children, but they also shed doubt on his sexual preferences and made him look like a cad. He had to prove The Review had published a false statement about him, and he’d made some progress. In his shoes, I’d have stopped while I was ahead. But he had a foolish plan and he intended to follow it, regardless of what happened.
That, I understood. I was doing the same thing, wasn’t I?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Tampa, Florida
Friday 1:00 p.m.
January 28, 2000
MRS. ALICE NEWTON WAS closer to Newton’s age, but she, too, was a physical duplicate body type to the third and fourth Mrs. Newtons. That is, her physique was more that of a young man than a mature woman. She was tastefully attired, but not expensively so. She wore gloves and a hat. She was probably a sustaining member of the junior league, active in her church and a member of the Tampa Garden Club. She looked the part.
Just as he had with his other two exes, Newton began by asking her how they were acquainted. By now, we all knew what was coming. “I was once your wife,” she said, with precision, and more than a little embarrassment.
“How many children did we have together, Alice?”
“Two boys, Matthew and Samuel,” and she smiled for the first time at her two sons. Both were short and had facial features more resembling Newton himself.
“How long were we married?”
“Seven years.”
“And why did we divorce?”
She looked thoughtful, and this was the first time I appreciated the true motives Newton had for keeping his sons in the courtroom. She didn’t want to hurt her children, any more than the third and fourth Mrs. Newtons had. But this woman seemed genuinely at peace with her past.
“Mrs. Newton, please tell the jury why we divorced.”
“I was young,” she said. “I got lonely. I didn’t understand why you had to work all the time. And I wanted you to spend more time with your sons. Divorcing was a foolish thing for me to have done and I’ve regretted it for years.”
Newton wiped a crocodile tear from his eye and thanked the witness. Before he sat down, he went over to his sons and touched each of them on the shoulder. Alice Newton sat straight and tall in the witness box.
Tremain said “No questions, your Honor,” from his seat, so we were spared the peacock routine this time.
Newton declined to call the first Mrs., thank you God, and that concluded the day’s trial events. I couldn’t help thinking that Newton had made progress today and Tremain needed to have at least one or two rabbits in his hat.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Tampa, Florida
Friday 1:05 p.m.
January 28, 2000
AFTER TRIAL RECESSED FOR the day, I planned to interview the general’s daughter, Robbie Andrews. But before I did, I went back to the ancient computer in my chambers and signed on to the Internet.
Robbie Andrews is a licensed psychologist. A few years ago, she started a revolutionary online therapy service, which I planned to check out.
The same people who had been writing to newspaper columnists for free advice seemed willing to pay money to write to an online therapist. Anonymous psychotherapy is a concept that would have Freud turning in his grave, but I had heard Robbie lecture about how popular online therapy was and how it really delivered a valuable service to those who would not seek therapy if they had to reveal their identities in public.