Silent Son

by Gallatin Warfield

fifteen

  It was Thursday, the day before the Grand Jury and the emergency custody hearing were to be convened. Gardner was in his office, struggling with the schedule. Both proceedings were set to begin at 9:30 A.M. If the assignment clerk didn’t move one of them to another docket, Gardner would be fatally double-booked. He’d have to delegate the Grand Jury to Jennifer.

  Chief Clerk Ellie Richards was on the phone. She was in charge of all courthouse scheduling. “Sorry, Mr. Lawson,” she said sadly. “I have orders to keep it the way it is.”

  “But you’ve got me in two places at once,” Gardner argued. “Why can’t you move the custody hearing to two P.M.?”

  “No. Judge Cramer has a full divorce docket in the afternoon. That time is firm.”

  Gardner swiveled his chair. “Okay. What about moving the Grand Jury to the afternoon? We can surely do that.”

  “The summonses have already been served,” Ellie replied. “Those folks are going to be here at nine. They’ve had to rearrange their own lives just to come in as is.”

  “They can be notified to switch the report time to the P.M.”

  “No,” the clerk answered. “We’re shorthanded today. Got three people out, and the filing’s backlogged.”

  “For God’s sake, Ellie!” Gardner said. “I can make the calls myself!”

  “Sorry, Mr. Lawson,” Ellie said. “That’s our responsibility. We can’t let you do it.”

  Suddenly the intercom buzzed. Gardner put the clerk on hold and answered the call.

  “Kent King is here to see you, sir,” his secretary announced.

  “King?” Gardner was shocked. King never came to their office. He patrolled the waters around the courthouse like a shark, but he never ventured into the harbor of the State’s Attorney’s office. “Find out what he wants,” Gardner instructed.

  There was a pause, then the secretary was back. “Says it’s very important that he see you. A private matter, he says.”

  Gardner looked at the blinking light where Ellie waited. Two conflicting cases tomorrow, and neither was going to budge. And now he had King at the door.

  Gardner pushed Ellie’s line and said he’d call back later. Then he gave the okay to send King in.

  The door opened and Kent King strutted into the room. He was wearing a silk suit, matching red tie, and pocket square. He surveyed the office with a cynical glance. The antiques were a stark contrast to his own modern headquarters.

  Gardner motioned King to sit. “What’s so important, King? Thought you vowed never 10 set foot in here.”

  King flopped in a chair. “Untrue,” he sneered.

  “You’ve always avoided this place,” Gardner said. “Must be some reason.”

  “No reason,” King replied, “until now.” Defense attorneys came to the prosecutor’s office for one purpose only. To make a deal. But King had never, in five years, attempted to deal. He always went to court and battled it out.

  “This one’s different,” he continued. “We’ve got a problem.”

  King’s use of the word “we” almost blew Gardner away.It was always “us” versus “them.” King was always on one side, and he was always on the other. “We” never applied.

  “This kid Starke is a maniac,” King went on. “I’d like to help you nail him.”

  Gardner was stunned. Not only had King ventured into prosecution land for the first time and used the word “we,” now he wanted to “help.” It didn’t make sense. King was the ultimate warrior. He never “helped.”

  Gardner eyed him cautiously. “Continue,” he said.

  “I want to deal Miller for Starke,” King answered.

  Gardner smiled ironically. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  King’s jaw went slack. “Absolutely not. Starke is bad news. Real bad news. He almost killed your boy.”

  Gardner’s smile vanished. “So Miller is gonna help put Starke down?” he said.

  King’s voice dropped low. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. If I can get a commitment from you, I’ll see to it that he helps.”

  “What’s this bullshit, King?” Gardner said angrily. “You’re tendering a deal, and your client doesn’t even know about it?” In criminal law, that was unheard of. An attorney always needed his client’s permission to make a plea offer. Gardner’s anti-King instincts began resurfacing.

  “He’ll cooperate,” King replied. “I just need a commitment from you.”

  Gardner crossed his arms. “What are you looking for?” he asked. In deal-making each “quid” had a “pro quo.”

  “Lower the stakes,” King said with a straight face. “Drop the murder charge down to accessory—”

  “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind!”

  King remained immobile. “You need Miller to get Starke. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  Gardner was still reeling. King wanted Gardner to cut Miller’s charges down to a misdemeanor. That was almost like letting him off the hook completely. Freedom for cooperation against the codefendant. King was right about one thing. The Starke case was slim. Testimony from Miller would help. But Miller was the number one suspect.

  “Give me something, Kent,” Gardner finally said. “Give me a fact. One fact that I don’t already know. Give me a reason to even consider your absurd offer.”

  King’s expression had not altered since he’d entered the room. “I can’t,” he said.

  “Can’t as in cannot,” Gardner said loudly, “or can’t as in will not?”

  “Cannot at this time,” King answered. “But if you take the deal, I’ll get what you need.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Gardner snapped. “I’ve never done that in my life.”

  “Maybe it’s time to start,” King replied. He still looked halfway sincere. “Starke is dangerous as shit.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Kent!” Gardner screamed. “You give me something up front, or get the fuck out of my office! I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

  King stood up. “I’m not playing a game here, Gardner, I am making a serious offer…”

  “But you know I can’t accept it. Not without something concrete on the table,” Gardner said. “You knew it before you even came in here!”

  The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment, then Gardner picked up his file. “I know why you’re really here, man.”

  Gardner’s mind had been working overtime to figure out why King had finally crept over to the prosecutor’s office. Now suddenly it came clear. “You’re scared,” he said.

  “Huh?” King was not prepared on that one.

  “We’re working the money angle on the case,” Gardner continued. “Turns out Roscoe Miller was actually related to the Bowers. Addie’s long-lost cousin. There’s a lot of missing money. And an attorney who represented both parties…” He gave King an accusing stare. “We’re getting close, pal. The money trail is leading in your direction.”

  King smiled nervously. “You’re off base on that one, buddy boy.”

  “Yeah?” Gardner put his hands on his hips. “Then why all of a sudden do you want to plead Miller and focus the case on Starke? Getting a little too hot for you? Want to divert the heat? Lead us away from the real mastermind?”

  King placed his hands on his hips in a reverse image of the prosecutor. “If you’re accusing me, you’d better spell it out.”

  “Getting too hot for you, King?” Gardner taunted.

  “I told you one time, and I’m telling you again, the money’s got nothing to do with these crimes. All financial transactions were absolutely legit. Cut my man a deal, and I’ll prove it!”

  “No fuckin’ way!” Gardner said. “Give me the facts, and I’ll consider a deal.”

  King shook his head. “No can do.”

  “Then I guess there’s nothing more to say,” Gardner replied, sitting down at his desk and picking up the file.

  King stood silent for a moment, then pushed out the door. After he’d left, Gardner broke into another smi
le. They had to be getting close. King was squirming like an insect on a pin, trying to deal his client. Maybe, finally, they were on the right track.

  Brownie was in the catacombs of the courthouse, the basement file room where the vital records were stored. Births. Deaths. Wills. The ebb and flow of humanity had been docketed on blue paper and folded into the darkness of the vault. Brownie disliked going there, much like he hated the morgue. Life was reduced to spots of ink on a page, statistics and numbers slowly crumbling into dust.

  The Miller-Bowers connection had given the investigation a major boost. He’d called Gardner immediately and given him the news: the money trail began with Henry and ended with Roscoe. But so far they’d only located eight thousand dollars in Miller’s possession. Roscoe’s bond had been posted by Starke, so that didn’t count, it was time to find out what had happened to the rest of the money.

  Brownie pulled copies of Henry’s and Addie’s wills and laid them beside Purvis Bowers’ will, which he’d obtained earlier. All three had been drafted by Kent King. Upon the death of both Henry and Addie, everything they owned passed to: their HEIRS.

  Brownie opened the pages to Purvis Bowers’ will. He had no wife, no children. His estate, at death, if he was still unmarried, was slated to go to his trusted counselor: Kent King.

  Brownie did a double take. Kent King was named in Purvis’s will as the sole beneficiary. “My God,” he said aloud, “the man actually wrote himself in.”

  Brownie laid the papers aside and drew a schematic on his pad. HENRY-ADDIE-PURVIS-KING. Then he paused for a moment and added: ROSCOE. He was a relative too. But he was not listed in any of the wills.

  Brownie frowned. Roscoe was related through Addie, so he should have had a claim to the estate. Maybe Purvis hired Roscoe to kill Addie and Henry, but didn’t tell him about the secret money. Paid him eight thousand dollars for the job. But later, Roscoe found out what Purvis had done, and killed him. That might be it. Roscoe was just reclaiming his rightful share of the estate.

  Brownie went back to the statistics file again. Addie was the pivotal figure. Her relationship to Roscoe linked him to the money. He pulled her vital stats and studied them for additional clues. “Born: 1908. Married: 1941. One child born: October 1946.”

  Brownie reread the last statistic. “One child.” He’d always thought she was childless. Scanning ahead, he found another reference: “Robert Thompkins Bowers, male child born to Addie and Henry Bowers, Died November 1946.”

  This was a surprise. In all the years that he’d known the Bowers, they’d never mentioned a child. It was assumed that Addie couldn’t have children. Brownie recollected that phrase being used around the stove at Bowers Corner. A gentle, barren old lady. That was her image. But like everything else in the case, the image was false.

  * * *

  On Friday morning at 9:15 A.M. Gardner reported to the courtroom of Judge William Cramer. He had decided to represent himself, so he was alone. Carole was already in the plaintiff’s seat, conferring with her attorney. She was dressed in black and wore little makeup. She glared at Gardner as he entered, but said nothing.

  Gardner motioned to her attorney, and the man walked over to him. He was the Kent King of the domestic trade, Gardner had heard. The hottest child custody lawyer in Baltimore.

  Gardner extended his hand. “Gardner Lawson,” he said.

  The man shook hands and released quickly. “Stuart Bieman.”

  “Listen, Stuart,” Gardner said in his best negotiating voice, “can’t we work this thing out?”

  The lawyer shrugged. “What’s to work out? Return the child, and you might get your visitation back someday.”

  “He’s a witness,” Gardner whispered. Carole had craned her head to see what was happening. “Under summons to testify in a murder trial. That’s the only reason he was picked up. After the case, he goes back to his mother.”

  “That’s bull, and you know it,” Bieman said. “He cannot testify—”

  “All rise!” The entry of Judge Cramer interrupted Gardner’s attempt to head off a hearing, but it was already clear that an agreement was out of the question. Carole and her hotshot were not going to budge.

  Judge Cramer swept up to the bench and sat down. In his late fifties, the gray-haired gnomelike jurist had been a family law specialist his entire career. Some said he got the cases by default, since the other judges wanted nothing to do with divorce. But whatever the reason, he was the only choice. And most of the time he was fair.

  “Call the case,” the judge instructed his clerk.

  “Lawson v. Lawson, Your Honor. Emergency custody hearing.”

  “Identify yourselves for the record, Counsel,” Cramer said.

  Bieman went first, and Gardner followed.

  Judge Cramer suddenly scanned the near-empty courtroom with his eyes. “Where’s the child?” he asked Gardner.

  The prosecutor shifted his feet. “In my office, Judge.”

  “I want him available,” the judge said, “in case I need to question him.”

  Gardner nodded. “Just say the word, Your Honor, and I’ll have him here in ten minutes.”

  “Very well,” Cramer said. “Now I’d appreciate it if someone would tell me what this is about.”

  Gardner began to speak, but the judge waved him off. “Maybe the petitioner should have the first word.” Gardner sat down. “You’ll get your say, Mr. Lawson. Proceed, Mr. Bieman.”

  Carole’s attorney opened his file. “We have a case of child abuse here, Your Honor. Simple and clear-cut.”

  Gardner began to rise to object to the terminology, but Cramer directed him back down with another wave.

  “Mr. Lawson claims his son is a witness in a case, when in point of fact, the boy is a silent witness …”

  The judge frowned. “Silent witness?”

  “That’s right, Judge.” Bieman continued, “The boy was at the scene of a crime, but he has never given a statement as to what he saw. He has a mental block. He’s been in therapy, and it has been advised that he not be forced to confront the incident. Mr. Lawson is trying to force the boy to remember, against the advice of medical authority. And he has further traumatized the child by physically removing him from his mother and placing him in the custody of the sheriff. All of this amounts to nothing less than child abuse.” Carole nodded agreement as her attorney spoke. “We ask the court to pass an immediate order,” Bieman continued, “restoring custody to the mother, Carole Lawson, and enjoining the father, Gardner Lawson, from any contact with the boy for the foreseeable future.”

  While the custody case held Gardner in the domestic relations courtroom, Jennifer was down the hall with the Grand Jury. She and Gardner had been up most of the night, finalizing this presentation. The proposed charges were listed on the indictment form. Roscoe Miller was charged with three counts of first-degree murder (Addie, Henry, and Purvis), one count of attempted murder (Granville), and one count each of robbery, assault, and battery. IV Starke was charged with two counts of first-degree murder (Addie and Henry), one count of attempted murder (Granville), two counts of accessory to murder (Addie and Henry), and also one count each of robbery, assault, and battery. The accessory charges against Starke had been added in as a backup. If the Grand Jury felt that the evidence against IV was too weak to prove actual participation in the crimes, they could compromise and hold him in as an accessory.

  Brownie had done the presentation of facts, and now Jennifer was ready to answer the jurors’ legal questions.

  “Okay,” Jennifer said, “there you have it.” She motioned to the blackboard where Brownie had sketched out the evidence. There was a money trail from Henry to Roscoe. The relationship to Purvis. The eight thousand dollars cash in West Virginia. The empty safe deposit boxes. I’he conclusion by the medical examiner that the murders were executions. The contact between Miller and Starke at the school. Their fondness for shotguns. The shotgun shell in Granville’s mailbox. The foot-dragging mark in the dirt at Bowe
rs Corner.

  Every conceivable fact was laid out, whether they could get it admitted in court or not. Gardner had finally convinced Jennifer to blast it all at the Grand Jury. It was their only chance to get a formal charge. They’d included the ID of Starke in the truck, Granville’s ID of the tattoo, and the partial print on the shell that killed Purvis Bowers. It was all there. Everything they had so far.

  “Miss Munday, I have a question.” A female juror in the back row raised her hand. She was a housewife who watched too many TV cop shows. She knew just enough to cause problems.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Jennifer said cautiously.

  “I think I understand how you say this happened,” the lady said, “but can you tell us who actually shot the people at the store? Which one of the two suspects?”

  Jennifer swallowed. That was the sixty-four-dollar question. The one that not even the prosecutors had the answer to. “In a joint venture,” Jennifer said, “the person who actually, physically commits the act that constitutes the crime is no more culpable than the one who doesn’t. They are both principals, and are chargeable with the highest degree of the crime. In a bank robbery, for example, the getaway driver is just as guilty of robbery as the man who enters the bank. And if someone is killed inside, the driver is just as guilty as the person who pulled the trigger.”

  The back-row lady frowned. Jennifer’s answer had not helped. “But where’s the proof of what the Starke suspect did?” she asked. “Did he go inside or did he wait outside?”

  Jennifer took a breath. She hated this kind of halt-baked logic. “Ma’am,” she said deliberately, “I just told you it does not matter if he was inside or outside. The guilt and the charge are equal.”

  “But what if he didn’t know what was happening? Maybe he didn’t know what the Miller guy was doing?”

  Jennifer crossed her arms. Several other jurors were nodding their heads in agreement, as if the inquiring mind were on to something.

  “You have to look at what happened before, during, and after the crime to be able to assess that,” Jennifer said. “Starke never reported anything to the police. He had ample opportunity to disassociate himself from the crime, and he did not do it. One would have to assume, therefore, that he was part of it.”