Murder Strikes Twice: A Catrina Flaherty Mystery, Book 2 (Catrina Flaherty Mysteries)

by Pendelton Wallace

  “Now, now, Brody, aren’t you glad to see me? We can play with the handcuffs again.”

  Brody turned to see an ugly black automatic pistol in her hand.

  “Put your hands on top of your head and turn around,” she said, “slowly.”

  Brody looked around. There had to be a way out. What could he use for a weapon?

  He spied a boat hook stored in the rigging.

  If I can get my hands on that, I’ll kill her.

  “Take it easy, big boy,” the blonde said. “I’ll drop you before you take one step, and I’ll enjoy it. Come on, just give me an excuse.”

  Brody flashed through his options in his mind and none of them were good. Finally, he put his hands on his head and turned around.

  That lawyer bitch better get me out of this. She’s charging me a shit-load. It’s time for her to start earning it.

  Catrina holstered her pistol and pulled Brody’s right hand from the top of his head. She swung it down behind his back and clicked on a set of handcuffs. She grabbed the other hand and did the same.

  The woman next door was on her cell phone.

  “The police’ll be here any minute, Cat,” she said, with a big smile on her face. “Can I kick him in the balls before you take him away?”

  “Take a number,” Catrina slugged Brody hard in the solar plexus.

  Brody was caught totally off guard. His chest exploded in pain. He doubled over and dropped to his knees. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to call for help, but had no air in his lungs.

  He panicked. He looked around for something, anything to help him. He tried to take a breath. The air wouldn’t come.

  “Time to get going, big boy. Give me any trouble and I’ll have your ass for breakfast.”

  Catrina reached down, grabbed Brody under the arms and pulled him to his feet.

  Brody finally managed to get a breath in his lungs.

  “I’ll report you. Police brutality. I’ll have your badge.”

  Catrina laughed. “I’m not police. Just a concerned citizen making a citizen’s arrest.”

  “What brutality?” the neighbor asked. “I saw you trip and hit your chest on that cockpit locker.”

  ****

  There was a carnival atmosphere outside the King County Court House. Street vendors moved in with hot dog and espresso carts. A large group of women milled around the entrance with placards that said “Stop Violence Against Women” or “Brody is Guilty.” A smaller group of men carried signs and yelled back and forth at the women.

  TV cameras from all the network affiliates panned the crowd and carefully dressed reporters looked for people to interview.

  When Catrina approached the building, a swarm of reporters descended on her.

  “Ms. Flaherty, can you give us a few minutes?”

  “Ms. Flaherty, will you make a statement?”

  Or even, “Cat, may I have a word with you?”

  Catrina put her head down and bulled her way through the mob. She had to arrive early because the court room was packed every day. Late comers stood in the hallway outside the court room waiting to hear about the events of the day.

  Flashes nearly blinded Catrina as she approached the double wooden doors.

  “Ms. Flaherty, can you tell us what your involvement is with this case?”

  She pushed past the reporters and entered the court room. It was abuzz with excitement. Since Petrocelli despised her, he hadn’t reserved a seat for her. She had to settle for a spot in the middle of the third to last row.

  The room was designed to give a solemn feel as befitted the serious business that transpired here. Dark wood paneling covered the walls and a huge, ominous bench dominated the room.

  The television cameras in the room took away a little of the solemnity. Cable news channels broadcast live and the networks would have a segment in their nightly news. This was a big case; coverage extended over the entire country. Catrina recognized a producer and a reporter from Dateline.

  What has this country come to? Murder as entertainment.

  Catrina noted a pretty blonde girl sitting next to the Reverend Waitley, directly behind the defense table. That must be Miss Hailey. Looks just like the girl-next-door. The defense probably wants them sitting here to make Barrett look like a good boy.

  “All rise,” the bailiff shouted. “Superior Court for King County is now in session, the Honorable Judge Carson presiding.”

  The door on the side of the room opened and a pudgy man in a black robe entered like Caesar returning from Gaul. He climbed the steps to his bench and sat.

  The honorable James Carson was a distinguished-looking older gentleman with a bumper crop of wavy gray hair. His judicial robes couldn’t hide his ever-expanding belly.

  “Court is in session.” He tapped his gavel. “You may be seated.”

  Catrina looked at the lawyers’ tables. At the prosecution table Petrocelli sat bolt upright in his expensive suit with a nice-looking woman in the second chair.

  That little popinjay, Catrina thought. He couldn’t have been more than five foot three.

  At the defense table a tall, skinny woman sat next to Brody.

  Andrea Wilson, that scum bag is pulling out all the stops.

  Andrea Wilson was a high-priced New York lawyer with an admirable record. She had gotten a mob boss off on murder charges, gotten a child rape charge reduced to reckless endangerment and saved two brothers that shot their parents with a shotgun from the death penalty, among others.

  I hope this isn’t going to be another notch on her belt.

  “Mr. Petrocelli, I believe you were about to call another witness when we adjourned?” Judge Carson said.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Petrocelli sprung from his chair like a leopard on a deer. “The People call Mr. Scott White.”

  He smirked at Ms. Wilson.

  Andrea merely smiled at him in return.

  Those two get any hotter and they’ll have to get a room, Catrina thought.

  Scott White, a middle-aged man, with salt and pepper hair, wearing a business suit approached the bench.

  The bailiff held up his right hand. “Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “Be seated.”

  White made his way onto the witness stand.

  “Now, Mr. White, where were you on or about June 13th, 2006?” Petrocelli strutted over to the jury box.

  “I was on my way home from a meeting in Wenatchee.”

  “And what time was this?”

  Petrocelli grinned at the jury like a cat about to spring on a mouse.

  “I’d say about nine or ten pm.”

  “Nine or ten pm? . . . And did anything unusual happen on your way home from this trip?”

  White looked a little uncomfortable in the witness chair.

  “Um . . . yes. There was this car with a flat tire.”

  “I see.” Petrocelli slowly strolled from the jury box to the witness stand. “And did you stop to help the people with the flat tire?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “And then what happened?”

  Petrocelli leaned casually with one elbow on the railing around the witness stand.

  “Well, it was kinda strange . . .”

  “What was strange?”

  “I stopped to help. The man was standing at the back of the car and the woman was on her knees changing the tire.”

  “Why did you think that was strange?”

  White took a deep breath. “It was . . . I mean, the man was just standing around while the woman was doing all the work. I just wasn’t raised that way. A man should change the tire for his wife.”

  “A good old-fashioned man with Christian values, huh?”

  “Objection!” Ms. Wilson leapt to her feet. “This has no bearing on the case.”

  “Sustained.” The judge waved towards the jury box. “The jury will disregard the answer. Mr. Petrocelli, may we stay on track her
e?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor.” Petrocelli raised his upturned palms. “It’s just so rare that we meet a gentleman these days . . .”

  “Your Honor!”

  “Mr. Petrocelli, get on with your questioning.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Sorry, Your Honor.” Petrocelli had a hard time containing his grin. He made his point with the jury. “Now, Mr. White, you stated that the man was watching his wife change the tire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is that man in this courtroom today?”

  “Yes sir.” White pointed at Barrett. “The defendant.”

  There was a murmur in the spectator gallery.

  Petrocelli smiled. It couldn’t have been going better.

  “And what did you say to the defendant, Mr. White?”

  “I asked if they needed help. I offered to change the tire for them.”

  “I see. And what was the couple’s response?’

  “The woman jumped to her feet. I thought she was going to take my offer, but Mr. Barrett said no.”

  “Just like that? He said ‘no?’”

  “Well, not just like that. He seemed kinda angry . . .”

  “Objection!” Ms. Wilson jumped from her chair. “The witness is not competent to access the defendant’s state of mind.”

  “Sustained. Go on Mr. Petrocelli.”

  “And what did you think of that?”

  “Relevance, Your Honor,” Ms. Wilson said in a bored tone. “I don’t see what Mr. White’s thoughts have to do with this case.”

  “Your Honor, it goes directly to the defendant’s state of mind,” Petrocelli said.

  “I’ll allow it, go on.”

  Petrocelli flashed a smirk at Ms. Wilson. She merely looked down at her notes.

  “I asked what you thought of the defendant’s refusal of your offer of help, Mr. White.”

  “Well, I . . . um . . . I guess you’d say I felt embarrassed. Like I’d interrupted something.”

  “Did you leave then?”

  “No, sir. It was getting dark. I offered to shine my headlights on their car so they could see what they were doing.”

  Petrocelli turned to Brody. He held his eyes until Brody looked down.

  “And what was the defendant’s reaction to that?” Petrocelli continued to stare at Brody.

  “He told me to get lost, that they didn’t need my help.”

  “Very good, Mr. White. You have done a good job explaining this incident to the jury. I’m sure they understand it.”

  He turned triumphantly to Ms. Wilson. “Your witness.” He pranced over to his chair and sat down.

  I’ll be damned if he doesn’t look like a little prince sitting in that chair,” Catrina thought.

  ****

  Ms. Wilson sat at the table and studied her notes.

  “Ms. Wilson?” the judge asked. “Do you have any questions for this witness?”

  “Just a few, Your Honor.”

  Ms. Wilson rose from her seat like some giant bird rising out of the swamps.

  “Mr. White, how are you doing?

  White wiped the sweat from his brow. “All right, I guess. It’s getting a little hot in here.”

  “I can understand that. Nerves will do that to you.” She took the few steps to the witness stand. “I suppose Mr. Petrocelli prepared you to testify today?

  White flinched back at Ms. Wilson’s approach. “Uh . . . yes. I mean, we went over my testimony.”

  “And did Mr. Petrocelli tell you about me? What kind of questions I’d ask? Did he tell you I was a fire-breathing dragon?”

  White chuckled. “Not exactly. He said I had to be very careful on cross examination though, that you’d try to trip me up.”

  “Well, let me assure you, I do not breathe fire. I’m actually quite a nice person. Just ask my friends.” There was low laughter in the courtroom.

  “Your Honor!” Petrocelli leapt to his feet. “Where is this going?”

  “Are you ready to start the questioning now, Ms. Wilson,” the judge said. “All done with playing nice?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Ms. Wilson turned back to the man on the witness stand.

  “Now, Mr. White, you stated that you came upon my client and his wife alongside the road. Is that true?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh come on, Mr. White. You don’t need to be so formal with me.” She smiled at the jury. “You also said that you asked if you could help them change the tire. Is that right?”

  “Yes, ma . . . I mean, yes.”

  “Good, we now have a factual basis from which to start. Did you ask Mr. Barrett why he didn’t want your help?”

  “No, m . . .”

  “Could he and his wife have been doing a training session?”

  “A training session?” White rubbed his hair.

  “Yes, could Mr. Barrett be teaching his wife how to change a tire?”

  “Uh . . . yes, I suppose so?”

  “But you didn’t ask him?”

  “No.”

  “So, if Mrs. Barrett, a teacher with an inquisitive mind, had wanted to learn more about cars, to maintain them herself and know when a mechanic was cheating her, you wouldn’t have known, would you?”

  “No . . .”

  “And if she had learned to change the oil the previous weekend, you wouldn’t have known that either? And if Mr. Barrett taught her how to check the brake fluid and transmission fluid, you wouldn’t have known that either. Would you?”

  “Ah . . . no. But I mean, he was like really, mean to me.”

  “Mr. White, was anybody else ever mean to you?”

  “No, I mean . . . I . . . well, maybe. But it was a long time ago. I’m over it now.”

  “What was a long time ago?” Ms. Wilson asked.

  White sat frozen with his mouth open in the witness chair.

  “I mean,” he eventually said, “it doesn’t really have anything to do with this case.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Ms. Wilson turned her back on him and walked over to the defense table. She picked up a file and waved it at White.

  “Mr. White, what I have here in my hand are your school records. Do you remember good old Garfield High School?”

  “Yes,” he said in a tiny voice.

  “Your Honor, I’d like this file to be entered as Defense Number Thirteen.”

  “So ordered.”

  Ms. Wilson turned back to the shrinking man in the witness stand.

  “And McClure Middle School. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is McClure Middle School a feeder to Garfield High School, Mr. White?”

  White studied his hands. “No, ma’am, it isn’t,” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “Could you repeat that, Mr. White, loud enough that the jury can hear it?”

  White held his head up and glared at Ms. Wilson. “It’s not.”

  “And why was it you went to a high school that was out of your district, Mr. White.”

  White sat and stared at the ceiling. He was clearly fighting with himself. Finally, his courage welled up in him and he answered.

  “Bullying. I was a victim of terrible bullying at McClure.”

  Ms. Wilson smiled at the jury and walked over to the jury box. “I won’t ask you to tell us the details, Mr. White. No one needs to hear that.”

  White closed his eyes and exhaled forcefully.

  “Now, Mr. White, did that solve the problem? Did the bullying stop when you transferred to Garfield?”

  White was lost in time. He sat with a blank expression on his face.

  “Mr. White?” the judge said.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, Your Honor. What was the question?”

  “I asked you, Mr. White, if the bullying stopped when you transferred to Garfield?”

  “Oh, yeah. It . . . I mean . . . no. It didn’t.”

  “So, is it fair to say that bullying has shaped your life, Mr. White?’

  “I don’t know what you mea
n?”

  Ms. Wilson walked back to her table and picked up another document.

  “Mr. White, this is a s the psychiatrist and psychologists you have visited. Your Honor, may we have this marked Defense Number Four.” She held up the document. “Of course, we can’t invade your doctor/patient confidentiality here, but would it be fair to say that all of these visits are the result of the terrible bullying you suffered in school?”

  “You can’t . . . I mean . . . I don’t have to answer that, do I, Your Honor?”

  “No, Mr. White, you don’t. Ms. Wilson.” The judge shot her a fiery look. “Let’s get on with this. I’m losing my patience.

  “My apologies, Your Honor. Just one more question.”

  She turned back to the witness stand to see a man shriveling back into his chair, covered in sweat and breathing hard.

  “It’s okay, Mr. White, we’re done with that line of questioning. I only have three more things to ask you.” She turned and walked over to the jury box. She stared into the jurists’ eyes as she asked her last question.

  “Mr. White, is it fair to say you hate bullying?”

  “Yes!” A little steel came back into White’s back.

  “And it is fair to say that if you came across a group of boys and they were bullying another boy, a younger, smaller boy, that you would step in to help him?”

  “You betcha. I would never let that happen!”

  Petrocelli saw where this was going and buried his head in his hands.

  “So, finally, Mr. White, when you came across a man and a woman changing a tire on that night nine years ago . . .” She stopped to let the time frame sink into the jury. “When you came on that scene all those years ago, is it possible that you projected your hatred of bullies onto my client?” She pointed at Brody. “Is it also possible that he was just teaching his wife how to change a tire? That he wanted her to learn under difficult circumstances so if it ever happened to her for real, she would know how to handle it?”

  White’s head spun towards Petrocelli. He got no help there. He turned to the judge with pleading eyes. The judge ignored him.

  “Mr. White?” Ms. Wilson asked.

  “I don’t . . . know. I mean . . . I guess . . . it might have been . . .”

  “The defense is through with this witness, Your Honor.” She turned and returned to her seat, flashing a victory smile at Petrocelli.