“I was.”
“Are those the words you used? ‘Pretty sure’?”
“I think so. It sounds about right.”
“So he didn’t say, ‘How sure are you?’ And you didn’t respond, ‘Absolutely sure.’ Or ‘positive,’ or some other expression to that effect?”
“I guess not.”
“Because you weren’t absolutely sure, were you?”
He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat. “I guess I wasn’t absolutely sure at the time. When I thought about it, though. . .”
“Did you acquire some new data to inform your thinking?” I said, interrupting.
“No. I just thought about it.”
“You remembered the woman from the gas station, and you compared that memory to the memory of the woman you’d seen in the lineup, and both memories became sharper over time?”
“It wasn’t just memory. I looked you up on the internet.”
“Ah. And as you stared at my face it began to seem more and more familiar?”
“I guess it did.”
If I didn’t know that I was the woman he’d seen, I’d have no confidence at all in his identification, I thought. “Detective McClane said he thought he probably warned you that the woman you’d seen at the gas station might not be in the lineup. Given his use of not one but two qualifiers, ‘probably’ and ‘might not,’ I’ll ask you: Did he give you that warning?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember it.”
“So as you studied the lineup, you weren’t thinking, the woman I saw might not be here.”
“No. I wasn’t.”
“You were expecting to see her.”
“I was.”
“And because you were expecting to see her, you picked out the woman whose appearance most resembled the woman you’d seen.”
“Sure.”
I looked at Biggs. “Your witness.”
He came to the podium for redirect. He said, “The fact is that you remembered seeing a tall blonde woman at the gas station, and, when you were presented with a lineup of six women roughly matching that description, you picked out Ms. Starling.”
I was at the defense table, but hadn’t yet taken my seat. “Objection,” I said. “Leading.”
“Did you identify Ms. Starling, or didn’t you?” Biggs said.
“I guess I did.”
“You guess you did?” Biggs said, his voice rising in pitch. “You’re saying that right now you don’t know if you identified Ms. Starling?”
“No. I did identify her.”
“Thank you.” Biggs left the podium and walked jerkily back to his seat.
When court recessed for the day, Willow said, “Are you going to be in trouble over that identification?”
I nodded, shrugged. “Maybe. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if I was charged as an accessory after the fact. On the other hand, if Mr. Jeffries is no more certain than he was today, a good attorney ought to be able to raise a reasonable doubt.”
“And you’re a good attorney,” Willow said.
“I’m beginning to wonder. If I was charged with a felony, I don’t think I’d represent myself. ‘An attorney who represents himself has a fool for a client.’ That’s what they say anyway.”
So I might represent myself, if it came to it.
Chapter 11
Aubrey Biggs was not quite done, evidently. When court recessed, he’d gone to the judge’s bench. Now Judge Cheatham called, “Ms. Starling?”
I went forward.
Biggs said, “Your honor, I need to call your attention to an abuse of process being perpetrated by defense counsel.”
I couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes.
Judge Cheatham said, “This is a serious matter, Ms. Starling.”
“I’m sorry, your honor. He’s just presented some very suspect eye-witness testimony to the effect that I disposed of a murder weapon. Now it’s abuse of process. I can’t even imagine what he’s talking about, but somehow it all seems a bit much.”
“It is nevertheless a serious matter.”
“Yes, your honor. I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Biggs?”
He turned his head to scan the gallery, now almost empty of spectators. “Peyton Shilling? Will you stand?”
She alone was still in her seat. She stood and came to the rail. She was wearing a plaid skirt, a white blouse, and a thin blue sweater. Her hair was in braids. I couldn’t see her feet, so maybe she wasn’t wearing saddle oxfords to complete the school-girl image. Actually, given her chest and hips and her narrow waist, she looked more like a stripper dressed as a school girl for the beginning of her act. Given that we were dealing with a couple of men here, she’d probably managed just the right look.
“Your honor,” Biggs said. “Ms. Starling has served a subpoena on this young woman for no purpose other than to intimidate and humiliate her. Her presence in court today has served no purpose, and her presence tomorrow will serve no purpose.”
Judge Cheatham said, “Ms. Starling?”
“Your honor, if Mr. Biggs had finished his case and allowed me to begin mine, I might well have gotten to call Ms. Shilling. Instead, he’s gone off down a rabbit hole on a matter that has nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of this defendant, but is motivated entirely by his personal animus toward me.”
Cheatham’s gaze shifted to Aubrey Biggs, whose nostrils had begun flaring with each intake of breath. He was personal animus personified.
He said, “Perhaps Ms. Starling doesn’t think accessory-after-the-fact is a serious charge—”
“Oh, I think it’s very serious. That’s why its introduction here is so prejudicial to the rights of the defendant. It’s one effort he’s made to intimidate defense counsel. This abuse-of-process charge is another.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That isn’t a denial, is it, Aubrey?”
The judge said, “That’s enough. Ms. Starling, do you intend to call Ms. Shilling as part of your case?”
“I do, your honor.”
“This is a preliminary hearing. Counsel doesn’t intend to present a case at all,” Biggs said.
“You’re telling me that you do plan to present evidence on the defendant’s behalf,” Judge Cheatham said to me.
“I do, your honor.”
“And you intend to call Ms. Shilling as part of your case.”
Biggs said, “I have questioned Ms. Shilling myself. She is in possession of no facts that would be helpful to the defense.”
“Mr. Biggs is being disingenuous at best, if not outright misleading,” I said. “He intends to call her as part of his case at trial, and this objection is part of a continuing effort to deny me the opportunity to question her.”
Biggs said, “Just because the decedent abused his position as a college instructor to seduce this young woman—”
“Seduce her!”
“Yes, seduce her, and possibly even force her.”
“Your honor, this Peyton Shilling has the prosecutor so bamboozled he doesn’t recognize motive when it’s been gift-wrapped for him and tied with a ribbon.”
Judge Cheatham said, “If she supplies a motive for your client, I don’t see that her testimony is relevant to your defense. A preliminary hearing is not a discovery tool. It’s to make sure the commonwealth has probable cause to hold the defendant for trial.”
“Your honor. Motive is a sword that cuts both ways. Peyton Shilling is the other woman. She’s the third side of the triangle.” I tried to think of another cliché and couldn’t. “At the time of his death, she was actually a student of Chris Woodruff at J. Sargent Reynolds, a student who was having an affair with her instructor. The decedent was living with her for a good part of this past academic year.”
Biggs said, “The seduction of this girl occurred months before the decedent’s death. Mr. Woodruff had returned home to his wife. Ms. Shilling had returned to her studies. There was an end to it.”
Cheatham’s gaze rose to t
he school girl standing at the rail, then returned to me.
“Ms. Starling? What facts precisely do you expect to prove with this witness?”
“I can’t tell you precisely, your honor. She has refused to talk to me, but I believe her to be in possession of important facts. This isn’t the way I would prefer to get at them. Because of her lack of cooperation, I have been forced to issue a subpoena to bring her into court to answer questions under oath.”
“To go poking through her personal life in a public forum is what you mean,” Biggs said. “Your honor, I move that this subpoena be quashed. Peyton Shilling is a victim, and putting her on the stand will only victimize her further.”
“The prosecutor is certain to call her as his own witness at trial. If you quash this subpoena, the defendant will be unable to get at exculpatory facts that are known to this witness. It will seriously compromise this defendant’s ability to prepare and to present her case,” I said.
Judge Cheatham looked at Biggs. “Under the circumstances I have no choice but to let the subpoena stand.”
“If Ms. Starling fails to elicit relevant testimony, I will be asking this court for sanctions against her.”
“Your honor, I hesitate to keep pointing out the obvious, but once again Mr. Biggs is using his office in an attempt to intimidate counsel.”
“And when counsel puts this young woman on the stand,” Biggs said. “If she puts her on the stand, I will be objecting to every question on the grounds of relevance.”
Judge Cheatham said to me, “You do understand that this court will be unforgiving if it turns out you have no reason for calling this witness other than purposes of harassment and delay.”
“If fulfilling my duty to my client requires me to operate under the threat of sanctions, so be it,” I said.
The judge’s head went back, and his expression darkened. “I think that statement betrays an unfortunate attitude on your part, Ms. Starling.”
“Me, too,” I said.
Biggs went to the rail to console little Miss Muffet. I’d once heard him described as very married, and, under these circumstances, he probably needed to be. I pushed past them through the bar and went down the aisle. To cap a perfect day in court, Carter Fox was waiting for me in an aisle seat on the last row.
I slowed as I noticed him, and he stood. “Do you have your car here, or may I give you a ride back to the office?” he said.
I looked at my watch. I’d walked across downtown that morning as I always did. This evening I needed the walk back to fume and to clear my head.
“Come on. I’ve got a space right on the curb,” he said.
I sighed. “All right. Thank you.”
“The Carter Fox Executive Limousine Service is at your disposal.” He cackled and rubbed his hands.
There were half-a-dozen other people waiting for the elevator. On the ride down with them, Carter said, “You were great in there today, as always.” Crowded against me, he seemed to be addressing these remarks to my breasts, blinking owlishly at them through his thick lenses.
I felt my lip curl. “So what do you think?” I said to the top of his head. “Was I the woman Colton Jeffries saw at the gas station, or wasn’t I?” All conversation stopped, and everybody looked at me, which suggested that some or all of them had been in the courtroom.
“Ha! I couldn’t say, I really couldn’t. You’d know better than anybody.”
“Knowing I’m innocent and convincing a jury are two different things.” I raised my voice slightly. “How many of you were in the courtroom just now?”
It seemed that everybody was.
“Who thinks Colton Jeffries was correct in identifying me as the woman he saw at the Valero station?”
An elderly man with his pants belted over his paunch raised his hand. Several other hands followed. It looked unanimous.
“Anyone think he might have made a mistake?”
A girl I hadn’t noticed before raised a hand. She had long, mousy brown hair and was wearing glasses with large, round lenses.
I gave her a smile as the elevator doors opened and people started getting out. “So what causes you to give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“Body language.”
“Mine or the witness’s?”
“The witness’s. I can’t read you at all, but I think Mr. Jeffries is very uncertain at this point that he knows who he saw. He’s caught now, though, and doesn’t know how to get out of it.”
“Well, that’s a hopeful thought.”
“You’re good,” she said. “I’ve gotten a lot out of watching you.”
Conscious of Carter Fox hovering just within earshot, I said, “What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I’m a theatre performance major at VCU.”
“And you’re in court today because. . .”
“I’ve been cast as a lawyer in VCU’s production of Night of January 16, Ayn Rand’s play. I’ve gotten some super pointers, I think. You’ve got some great mannerisms I can use.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Oh, I mean it as a compliment. I’ve got class in the morning, or I’d be back. I’d love to see how this turns out.”
On foot, the trip from the courthouse to my office takes about fifteen minutes. In Carter Fox’s aging Corvette with the broken door handle—I didn’t ask—the trip was interminable. He wanted to talk about the trial, and I wanted to talk about anything but. Actually, I didn’t want to talk at all, but that didn’t seem to be an option.
“So where do you see the case going next?” he asked me.
“Hard to say.”
“The D.A. seems to be focusing more on you than on the defendant at this point, don’t you think?”
“It seems that way.”
“So how’s it going to turn out? Do you think you’re going to be in trouble with the state bar?”
“I can hope not.”
“Surely you have a plan.”
“I do have a plan, but my name’s not Shirley.”
He laughed, too loudly, his head bobbing genially behind the wheel. I winced. There was still one person in the world who thought I was funny, but somehow I wasn’t encouraged.
The conversation went on. It was the verbal equivalent of Chinese water torture. Was I really going to present evidence? Did I think my client might actually be innocent? Surely I wasn’t going to put her on the stand. “There I go calling you Shirley again,” he said, and honked with laughter. After a day or a day-and-a-half, he pulled up in front of the Ironfronts. I looked at my watch and saw that the ride had actually taken ten minutes. I wouldn’t have held out long against the Chinese.
“It’s too close to five o’clock for me to park on the street,” Carter said, and my spirits lifted. Cars got towed after five, a bit of heavy-handed law enforcement I had never appreciated until that moment. “I’ll just let you off and head on back to the ranch.”
I got out of his car. “Get along, little dogie,” I said, and closed the door on his honk of laughter. He pulled away, and I turned into the Ironfronts.
Rodney Burns came out of his office as I was unlocking mine. “I got what you asked for,” he said.
For a moment I stared at him blankly, then I remembered. “South of Main Limited,” I said. “You got the filings. Give me a minute, and I’ll come to your office.”
But he was back in my doorway almost immediately. I dropped into my chair. “What you got?” I said.
He put a folder in front of me. “Something that will surprise you, I think. At any rate it surprised me.”
I opened the folder, conscious of him watching me. On top was the Certificate of Limited Partnership, which I’d seen online. Peyton Shilling was the registered agent, and the general partner was CF Development, Inc. The signature of the person who’d signed for the corporation was completely illegible, a single wiggly line with a spike in the middle. It struck me that the name should be printed underneath the signature
line, but it wasn’t there. I turned the page.
The second document was CF Development’s Certificate of Incorporation. The registered agent again was Peyton Shilling, no real surprise, but the shocker came at the end. The signature of the incorporator was the same wiggly line with the spike, and this time the name was printed underneath: Carter Fox.
“Holy moley,” I said.
“Is it anything you can use?”
“I don’t know. It’s got to be.” I looked up from the documents. “Thanks, Rodney. You’ve done wonders.”
I found Carly Price in the copy room. The copier was churning out a gazillion copies of something or other, and Carly was using a long stapler to make pamphlets out of the stack of offset copies that were already sitting on the work table.
“You’re in the middle of something,” I said.
“Whatcha need?”
“I don’t want to interrupt.”
She put down the stapler and tucked some errant strands of curly hair behind her ear to get them out of her face. “Anything for my favorite tenant.” She gestured with her head at the stacks of paper beside her. “Besides, this is a nightmare. I’d be happy to wake from it.”
“Actually, I’m glad to hear you say that about me being your favorite tenant. I need you to play favorites.”
She searched my face with enormous brown eyes. “Okay.”
“I need to search Carter Fox’s office.”
“Oh, my.”
“I know. I’m asking you to violate a trust. You can tell me no if you need to. I just don’t know what I’m going to do if you do.” My mouth stretched in a quick grimace.
After a moment’s indecision, she stood. “I’ve had to give up all my low-cut blouses since he moved in. Have you noticed? When I show just a little bit of cleavage, he looks like he’s going to put his nose in it.”
I laughed and felt immediately better. I hadn’t realized what a strain I was under.
“Let me get my keys,” she said.
She unlocked the door and removed her keys. “I’ll stand guard in the hall.”
“Okay,” I said. “If you see him, hoot twice like a barn owl.”
Gone Ballistic (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 18