The crowd around the courthouse doors was ten-deep, assorted journalists and onlookers all hoping to catch a glimpse of Marla Kincaid. I pushed myself through the crowd, forestalling angry comments with my badge upheld. I'd always considered the practice of giving the medical examiner courtesy law-enforcement status more an ego pleaser for my male colleagues than a necessary adjunct, but I had to admit that it had its purposes. This was one of them.
Even with San Miguel County’s finest on crowd control, the courtroom was standing room only. I slid past a familiar deputy, who gave me a wry look, and took a place along the back wall of the courtroom. It was all wood, ornate balusters, and leather, not much changed from its glory days but for the microphones, modern paintings and 50-star flag. It also wasn’t designed to accommodate an event of this notoriety.
Still, it wasn’t the first celebrity trial in these four walls. There had been several high-profile cases in Telluride in the past, including the crash of helicopter carrying a load of glitterati, and the murder some years ago of a well-known designer. Telluride was used to publicity, good or bad. Even William Jennings Bryan had delivered his “cross of gold” potboiler to enthusiastic crowds in town, though he’d had the good sense to set up a stage in front of the local hotel. Still, the crowds that day weren’t much less pressing than this one, if the old photos in the museum could be trusted.
The crowd was restive and the room hot and sticky. The noise level grew as time passed with no sign of the judge. Craning my neck, I caught a glimpse of Marla Kincaid at the defense table. She was wearing the clothes required of a female defendant: dark skirt and white blouse. I wondered if she owned them already or if her agent and stylist had sent them with the pricey lawyer at her side. Probably the latter. Telluride isn’t exactly tailored skirt-and-blouse country.
I recognized Johanssen and his father, both in serviceable navy suits, both deferent to the shorter, balding man standing between them and Marla Kincaid. Like theirs, his suit was navy blue, but even regarding him from the back of the courtroom, I'd be willing to bet that you couldn't have bought his suit for the cost of everything — including rings and expensive watches — that Johanssen, father and son, were wearing.
Judge Carnegie finally entered from the side door, a sturdy, middle-aged woman I knew was no-nonsense, well-read and fair. I took inordinate pleasure in the fact that, unlike many of her female colleagues on the bench, she refrained from affecting a lace jabot at the neck of her robe to declare her sex. Her robe was unadorned black silk, and the edge of a garish plaid blouse peeked out from the velvet placket at the neckline. We all stood, and she gaveled the courtroom into silence and got on with business as though she were dealing with a routine DUI. She glanced at the bailiff as his signal to get her judicial show on the road.
“State vs. Marla Kincaid,” said the bailiff in a flat, uninterested voice that betrayed his Midwestern origins. “Does defense waive reading?”
Daddy Johanssen answered for the team. “We do.”
The Hollywood suit might be calling the shots, but odds were that he wasn't admitted to the Colorado bar. Marla Kincaid looked at neither of them, her eyes on the younger Eric.
Judge Carnegie flipped through the folder on her desk, looking out over the top of her glasses, those half-bifocals middle-aged women buy by the gross at the local discount house because they are so easy to lose. These were pink floral, a jarring contrast to the somber robe and glowering demeanor, but they confirmed the taste of the woman who’d picked out the plaid shirt.
“Charges?”
“Murder in the second degree.”
The state’s attorney was a tall, thin, older man with graying hair. I was surprised he’d let go the bargaining chip of murder one right out of the gate, but I approved. More often than not, high profile cases are lost because of grandstanding by the prosecutor and charging more than he can honestly hope to prove. The judge cocked an eyebrow, nodded, then went back to examining the documents in front of her. There was a long pause as she shuffled through them for no apparent reason other than to exercise her control over the proceedings. Every eye was on her, and the silence was palpable.
Another look from Judge Carnegie over her glasses. “Plea?”
This time it was Marla who spoke in a thin, unsteady voice. “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Right. I found myself unreasonably annoyed by the amount of time and effort it was going to take to sort out this simple, clear-cut matter of murder once the lawyers and the press got done with it.
“Bail?”
No one could accuse Judge Carnegie of grandstanding. She even made me look flamboyant by comparison. Her Scots ancestors would be proud of her parsimony with words.
“The State asks ten million, Your Honor.”
“Outrageous. This young woman has never been accused of so much as speeding before today.” Daddy Johanssen leapt into action, and the proceedings suddenly became interesting. A short exchange ensued, Johanssen and the State attorney returning volleys as crisply as a Chinese ping-pong team.
“The defendant has no ties to the community and is at risk for flight.”
“Miss Kincaid lives here, in fact, owns two properties in the county jointly with the decedent and is prepared to proffer her passport against the risk of flight. She has no access to funds of her own, and all joint funds she held with Mitch Houston are frozen.”
“A bit like the man who killed his father asking for mercy because he’s an orphan. The defendant’s actions are responsible for the freezing of those accounts.”
“Miss Kincaid is at this point functionally indigent, Your Honor. Ten million is excessive, unconscionable.”
I almost gasped at the temerity of the assertion. Lawyers are good at making words mean what they don’t; it’s our stock in trade, but this was remarkable. I reflected that some of the truly down-and-out I saw in Montrose and Grand Junction, when I sallied forth from the protection of Telluride's box canyon would be gratified to know that they at least were the real thing, not mendicant posers like Marla Kincaid. Judge Carnegie interrupted the discussion with her own wry comment.
“She is the most well-heeled indigent this court has seen for a long time. I am sure that she can leverage some assistance to cover bail, Counselor. Start with those two properties you were talking about. Bail is set at two million.”
Daddy Johanssen is no fool. He knew when he’d overstepped and when to cut his losses and remained silent, quieting his California associate with a dark look and an off-putting hand. A few more tactical points, a discussion or two and the guards led Marla Kincaid off again. The courtroom emptied quickly as soon as she was gone, confirming my impression that the turnout was roughly akin to slowing down to rubberneck at a car crash. As I slipped out the back door, I noticed that the Johanssens and their colleague were deep in conversation with one of Telluride's more prominent real estate agents, probably cooking up a way to pledge the properties for bail. Marla Kincaid would be on the streets and relaxing in her rural second home before sunset. I would release my hold on the crime scene when I got back to the office, but for now the Mountain Village property was off the table.
Father Matt came up the stairs as I was leaving.
“You missed it,” I said. “All done in record time.”
He paused midway up the steps. “What did she plead?”
“Not guilty.” I saw the faintest shadow cross his features and wondered why it mattered to him. “There will be quite a trial. She’ll either plead self-defense or diminished capacity. Lots of room for a sympathy verdict. A waste of time and energy, this trial. There’s no room for argument about what happened.” I knew I was treading on thin ice, legally and ethically, and hoped that there wasn’t a journalist lurking nearby to report my comments. I cast a furtive glance around to be sure. The place had cleared out. Father Matt and I were alone, not another human being in sight or earshot.
“Jane, you know very well she has a right to put the state to the test. Maybe th
ere are mitigating circumstances. Maybe,” he paused for emphasis, “she’s innocent.” He leaned against the balustrade, arms extended on the rail, one of those people who takes rest whenever and wherever it comes.
I let go an unladylike snort. “I know the theory but even in law school, I never understood the need to pretend that facts as clear as the light of day needed proving. There just was no other explanation for Mitch Houston’s death than the stark reality that Marla Kincaid shot him. Willfully. Intentionally. With malice aforethought, even if just for an instant.” I glared at Father Matt. “Marla Kincaid could present her sob story in the sentencing phase just as well as she could to a fawning jury,” I said. “The difference is that a clear-headed judge —not twelve unruly jurors — would hear it, and her odds of getting off easy wouldn’t be so great.”
“There's some truth to that,” Father Matt agreed. “But is it such a terrible thing for her to look for a little mercy?”
I shrugged. “She didn't have much for Houston. The law is about justice. In the end, it's going to be the same: she’ll be guilty in some form or another, but only after a huge amount of expense and a lot of weeping and wailing about how she's really the victim. Spare me.”
That shadow crossed Father Matt's face again. “Not everyone is as strong as you,” he finally said. “Some people need to work up to accepting the truth, even when it's clear to them. You'd do well not to judge her, Jane—I see the same need in you.”
That stung, but I managed to swallow a retort and keep the conversation on an even keel. I changed the subject.
“Have you seen Isa Robles?”
“I have. The social worker is taking care of getting her some money and some clothes — she's not going back to that house — and a few toys for her boy. We’ll figure out where to go next.” He paused. “She said you stood up for her.”
I shrugged again. “Part of my job. She’d already been abused once. No reason to let that nitwit doctor do it again.” I thought back to the exchange. “Besides, she’s perfectly capable of standing up for herself. Tough lady.” I remembered the bruise, the mark of the ring. “Can you make sure she comes by the Center tomorrow? I need to photograph some of those bruises again. I'll get better images for court. “
Father Matt nodded. “I’ll get her there. In the interests of justice.” He looked directly at me for a long minute before he straightened up and allowed me to pass. He followed me down the steps out into the street, where our paths diverged once again. He headed up the street toward the church. I headed down to the precincts of the dead, wondering what new work waited there.
********
Marla Kincaid looked around the hotel room one more time and shook her head. It wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t a set, it was real. It wasn’t as bad as she expected. The sheriff had closed down the house in Mountain Village as a crime scene, and after the appearance in court, she had to take lodgings in the big, luxury hotel in the middle of Mountain Village. It was festival season, and all of the good suites were taken. She had to settle for some second tier room. It was clean, but it was small, smaller than any of the guest rooms in her real house.
Was it still her house? It really belonged to Mitch. She wondered if she would be able to stay there after the sheriff released it. Mitch was supposed to have put it in both their names, but she wasn’t sure that he ever did. Marla was suddenly seized with the fear that she was, after all this, homeless. Her eyes clouded with tears, and she collapsed on the bed with the bought-by-the-dozens bedspread and wept, pounding her fist into the mattress in fear with utter frustration. It would never have passed for a scene from a movie, but then this wasn’t a movie. It was real, too real. She could tell by the knot of fear that filled her stomach and refused to go away.
The worst of it wasn’t really the fear of what would happen to her. Her agent had gotten her a good lawyer in town. She was surprised when the good looking blond man showed up at the house to spirit her away from under that sheriff's nose once the bail arrangements had been made. It hadn’t taken long. Marla knew the sheriff was sure she had killed Mitch, but he’d have to prove it, wouldn’t he? And he wouldn’t be able to do that.
The lawyer brought her here and paid for the room, told her to stay put in the hotel, eat room-service food and stay out of sight until her other lawyer arrived and they had a chance to figure out what the sheriff knew and didn’t know. Her own pricey attorney should be on his way before tomorrow. Until then, she was stuck in a 20-by-20 room with a window that looked out over a parking lot instead of the mountains.
She had been here only a few hours and already she was restless. It wasn't the room so much as the sheer boredom of being tucked in a place with nothing to do, nothing to look at except a TV and nothing to read that was making her restless and afraid. It had been years since she was this alone with herself, if ever at all, and she was as much afraid of what she would find if she looked inward as she was of what her own, familiar lawyer would say when he finally arrived. At least with him, she had the chance of flirting, pouting, playing the overwhelmed little girl. She didn’t have that luxury with herself.
She rolled over on the bed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She lay staring at the ceiling for a long while. Outside her door in the corridor, she heard the clank of the maids’ cart and their chatter in Spanish as they moved down the hall. She waited until she couldn't hear them anymore. Then she got up with a determined look, changed into a non-descript pair of jeans and a plain tee-shirt from the half-packed bag the lawyer had grabbed as they left the house, tied a scarf on her head to hide her trademark hair, donned a pair of oversized sunglasses and headed out the door. She took the back stairs out of the hotel, winding through a corridor on the very bottom floor that led her to a service entrance by a smelly dumpster overfilled with trash and sadly in need of emptying. She squared her shoulders and walked confidently around to the front of the hotel, half-expecting to see a crowd of reporters but saw only summer tourists coming and going.
She fell in behind a mother and daughter, both tall and brunette, with carefully coiffed hair, acrylic nails, and rhinestone-studded tops. Texans, Marla thought with disgust. Tacky people. Still, they provided her a sense of cover as she strolled with controlled anxiety toward the lift station that would take her into town on one of the big, gray gondolas.
The line was not long, and she blended into the crowd of people, most of them in groups, without attracting attention. Marla sat in one of the cars with a family from Iowa who couldn't stop talking about the murder that had happened just the night before. She turned her head away before they could engage her in the conversation and watched the town of Telluride come closer and closer and didn't say a word.
Marla stood for a moment outside the lower station, unsure what she would do now that she was free of the hotel and walking the streets of town. She pulled out the few dollars she tucked into her pocket as she was leaving the hotel room: enough for a drink or a coffee at that little shop on the main street of town, but not much more. Her credit cards were back at the house; she had not had time to pack them, and they were probably cut off anyway. Now that she was here, she had no idea what she wanted to do. She thought it would feel good to be out of the hotel; instead, it felt disorienting.
Then she remembered the trail on the other side of town that led to a pretty little waterfall. It wasn't a long trail and it wasn't a strenuous walk. The thought of standing behind the waterfall and watching it cascade in front of her had sudden appeal. There was a little grocery not far from the lift station. She could stop by there and get a bottle of water and an apple, and take a hike. There was still plenty of light.
Marla started off down the street, careful not to catch anyone’s eye and walked with purpose, like she knew what she was doing. She walked the short distance to Fir Street and turned north. She was almost at the corner of Pacific when she saw them: a crowd of reporters clustered around the yellow brick building on the corner and lounging on the sidewalk
in front of the grocery store, two satellite trucks parked nearby. A chill ran up her back and she stopped, uncertain what to do.
It was her downfall. One of the crowd nearest her, a tubby, middle-aged man holding a camera with an enormous lens spotted her. He looked at her for a moment, uncertain, cocking his head in thought as she stood frozen on the sidewalk. His face split into a leering grin as he recognized who she was, lifted the camera, and aimed it at her.
She took a deep breath and turned, starting back the way she had come, hoping no one else had seen, but it was too late. She heard the crowd coming after her, their shouted questions barely audible over the noise of their running. She broke into a sprint, dodging from one side of the road to the other, aware that now everyone on the street had stopped to stare in fascination at her and the pack of humanity pursuing her. In her confusion, she turned away from the gondola station, running headlong toward the town park, the pack of reporters closing with every step. She saw one of them — younger, fit, and athletic — break away and sprint ahead, jumping over a low picket fence and a toddler on a tricycle to get ahead of her, almost running into a green SUV that was coming down the street in her direction. He swore at the vehicle and shook his fist at the red-headed driver, then dodged around back and started toward her himself. The SUV surged forward and swerved to the middle of the road, cutting him off and eliciting another round of swearing. The SUV edged forward, closing the distance to Marla. She could see the driver motioning her inside. Grateful for any escape, she pulled open the door. The driver extended a hand to help her climb inside.
“Ben Wallace,” he said with a friendly grin. “Get in! Let’s get you out of here.”
She pushed down the lock and crouched down so that she could neither see nor be seen. The SUV pulled slowly forward, the driver impervious to the shouts of the crowd and certain they would move out of his way, whistling along with Eric Clapton as he maneuvered his way out of town.
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 5