After a little while, I leave her. I hand back my volunteer badge. I head for the elevator. All I’m thinking when I walk out of the hospital is that they’ve finally turned off those stupid Christmas carols.
I staggered, hit my hip against the stair rail and almost lost my balance. I could hear footsteps charging up the stairs behind me. Unless I found a hiding place this instant, Stow’s case and my career were dead in the water. Unlike in the old days, every room and closet would be locked. It was hard to run up the stairs when it seemed there was no escape.
I reached a landing and grasped at the door handle. By some miracle, just inside was a cart with a box full of surgical masks. I jostled the cart hard enough for the masks to tip onto the floor. I leaned down to pick them up, believing hopelessly that my pursuers might think I was an orderly picking up supplies knocked over by a just-passing intruder. My fingers shook as I toyed with the objects on the floor. So when the pursuing footsteps ringing in the stairwell grew more and more distant, I clutched the cart for support while reminding myself that I had to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out.
Chapter 16
“Daddy, it’s 5 a.m. What’s the matter? Are you ready to concede?”
“Ellen, please, I know it’s early. I need to talk. Just you and me.”
In the background, I heard my son-in-law, Brad, protesting. But I didn’t hear Ellen answer him. She was thinking—thinking, I was sure, about the perils of two opposing counsel meeting in secret to discuss the case.
“Where are you now?” she finally said.
“Downtown. I could come over there.”
“No. I don’t want to wake Angelo. Is there someplace else? Someplace where nobody from court is likely to see us?”
“Ellen, it is 5 a.m. Who but us would be out and about? And it’s not that dangerous!”
I could almost hear her brain cells firing. “If anybody sees us together,” she replied, stifling a yawn, “there could be a mistrial. This is my first case as a Senior Crown, Daddy, and ...”
“And mine since I appeared there as a criminal? Look, Ellen, we’re father and daughter. Who would think anything about our talking to each other?”
“At five in the morning?”
“All right,” I retorted. “Make it 6:30. I must talk to you before court opens. There’s a doughnut shop on the northwest corner of King and Church.”
“Right.” I thought she had hung up, but she added, “This isn’t about the DNA tests, is it? Did you send that sample Mom asked you for?”
“No. Yes. I mean I did send the sample, but this is about something different.”
“Okay, Dad. I’ll be there if it means so much that you roust me from my warm, cozy bed.”
The need to talk to my daughter occupied all my thoughts as I walked south and west toward our meeting place. The city was waking up. Our coffee shop would be open. Queenie’s and mine. Hadn’t we pulled all-nighters there when we were on the skids, making one doughnut between us last for hours?
Now that I could recollect the image of the syringes on the floor and the “orderly” picking them up the night Harpur had died, I felt I was destined to go down in flames. The most inattentive security guard was a mere blunderer compared with me. Was I under an obligation to disclose what I had recalled to the police? Was I guilty of obstruction of justice if I failed to do so?
And what would I say to Stow? He had tricked me—of that, I was sure. Disclosing this new evidence would force me to remove myself from his case. I would look like a fool. But I’d look even more a fool when I revealed that I’d suddenly recalled the presence of my client coming out of his wife’s room. I was a witness. And not just a witness suddenly remembering important evidence, but the accused’s counsel.
How was I to deal with Stow’s lies about his presence at Riverside that night, about the drugs and about accidentally encountering me? Clients lied to their lawyers, sad but true, but to hide the fact that one’s lawyer was an eyewitness to one’s misdeed? And now I was on my way to spill the beans to my daughter. Nicky was right, I thought. I should get a life.
Day broke on one of those fresh April mornings with the sky a milky blue and the clouds translucent, high and scudding. I was admiring the view when I saw Ellen walking west on King Street toward me.
“Why in here, Daddy?” she said when we entered the doughnut shop, wrinkling her nose in distaste. I wanted to tell her to shape up and act like a lady because I didn’t want to disrespect my old hangout. This was one of the few places in the redone and newly chic neighborhood that still gave decent treatment to the street’s few remaining down-and-outs. “I would have thought they’d torn this dump down by now.”
“Take it easy, Ellen. I like this place. It’s where Queenie and I always meet.”
“How is she?” Ellen asked, glancing around as if she expected to see Queenie in the flesh. “Back on the skids?”
“Watch your tongue, Ellen. I’ve had enough.”
“Oooh, so defensive!”
I needed to keep cool. “I’m not sure exactly how Queen-nie is at the moment,” I said evenly, “but as soon as I straighten up this mess, I intend to find out.”
“Mess? You’re in a mess?” She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. The strength of her grip surprised me.
“I think so,” I said. “But let me just tell you ...”
“Daddy, if you’ve discovered something that changes the course of the trial, the proper way to handle any new evidence is to get your client into court and lay it all out before the judge. Since you know this as well as I, I can only assume there is some extraordinary circumstance to make you reluctant to obey the rules. You’re not going to ask me to assist you in breaching the court’s accepted procedure, are you?”
Despite my fear over what I had discovered, I had to smile. My kid was as big a prig as I.
“So, let’s speak only hypothetically at the moment,” she continued. “You postulate a certain scenario, and then ask me what I would think if such a scenario were real.”
I took a deep breath and plunged into the chaos. “Suppose,” I said, “that a lawyer were defending a client that he did not know for sure was innocent.”
“Daddy,” she said with a mocking little laugh, “that’s your only issue?”
“No. Suppose that this lawyer begins to suspect that his client is hiding information that would alter the direction of the case.”
Ellen was silent for a moment. “Do you remember the Millerene tapes?” she asked.
“I think so. Millerene and her brother were charged with torturing, then murdering teenaged girls—and videotaping themselves while they were doing it. The police searched for the tapes, but never found them. During the trial, the male accused turned the tapes over to his defense lawyer, who kept them.”
“Yes, something like that. But my point is, as I recall, the lawyer was found not guilty of obstructing justice.”
“Which would mean?”
“That his primary duty lay with his client—with mounting a fair and full defense. I believe that under the law a lawyer is not obligated to reveal information that would damage his client’s case, but I’d need to check before you can quote me on it. In any event, what we are—I mean would be—dealing with here is known as the difference between moral and legal guilt. Defense counsel need not concern herself with whether her client is morally guilty—that is, whether he has really done the deed—she only needs to know whether the client is legally guilty—that is, whether the case against the client can be proven by the Crown. And of course, what is not known or accepted by the jury as fact does not exist.”
I persisted. This would put her knickers in a twist. “What if a lawyer found out that his client had hired him to prevent said lawyer from giving testimony?”
“What?” Ellen looked as alarmed as I had expected.
I hastened to add, “Theoretically, of course.”
She answered slowly, as if she had suddenly discovered her law training
to be lacking. “I don’t know. I never heard of such a thing.”
“Keeping this case hypothetical,” I said, “here’s an imagined scenario. A man commits a crime. He believes no one is a witness, but coincidentally, someone does see him, or at least sees something that would lead any reasonable person to conclude that he has just committed a crime. However, the culprit is not sure how much the witness actually did see and, more importantly, he does not know how much the witness realized he was seeing.”
“I don’t get it. Was the so-called witness blind?”
“No. Suppose he was in a hurry, or just distracted and depressed. How many times do we notice some act, but are unaware of its significance and therefore forget it immediately?”
Ellen nodded. “Once, Jeffrey and I were talking about our youth and all the things we did. I was shocked to discover that he remembered more about my behavior than I remembered myself. We discussed it, and Jeffrey pointed out that I’m not calm like him and Mom. I’m nervous and always in a hurry—like you used to be, Daddy. Jeffrey said I couldn’t remember things because I was always in such a rush that half the time I didn’t even notice what was going on. Is that what you mean?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“But this hypothetical killer, he knows the witness has seen him?”
“I didn’t say killer—just a criminal. The only thing the criminal knows for sure is that another person was with him at the scene of the crime. If he tries to ask the witness what he knows, he risks bringing the incident back to the witness’s mind, an incident that might remain forgotten otherwise.”
“So,” Ellen said, “he has to find some way of stopping the witness from testifying, without allowing the witness to know why—or even that he is being stopped.”
“Yes,” I answered.
“It’s like a crime novel,” Ellen said, shaking her head.
“In a novel, it’s easy,” I commented. “The killer just kills the potential witness.”
“But you said we’re not necessarily talking about a killer.”
I realized with pride that my daughter was a quick observer of inaccuracy, a necessary trait for a lawyer.
“Right. A criminal.”
“A criminal who knows that a lawyer can never testify against his own client.”
“And in this particular case,” I added, “an accused aware that for his lawyer to be taken off the case would cause irreparable damage.”
Ellen studied me. I was sure she got the picture. That Stow had tricked me. That I had seen something that convinced me of my client’s guilt.
“Daddy, how sure are you about what you’ve learned?”
I couldn’t answer that question.
“I really need a coffee,” Ellen said. She got up, and I glanced outside. The spring sun was growing warm. The faces of the crowd heading to work showed their delight in the unexpected heat of the morning. I thought about Queenie’s people hiding away in the valley. Spring is mercy after six months of cold.
I glanced at the counter, waiting for Ellen to finish there. She paid for two extra-large coffees and doughnuts with a credit card she fished from the pocket of her coat. She set down the tray with the food and the receipt on the little table. I could see that she’d made a decision about giving me advice.
“Listen to me, Daddy, and pay attention.” Again her haughtiness put me off. “I’ve called all my witnesses, citizens who know what they’ve seen and can swear to it. No way would I jeopardize the Crown’s case by calling a new witness who may or may not have seen something, may or may not remember something, may or may not know the significance of anything seen and may or may not be jeopardizing himself by testifying. It’s useless, and I don’t want to hear one more word about it. Understood?”
I sure did understand. She was letting me off the hook.
“Sweetheart,” I said, “don’t put your case at risk to help me.”
She glared at me. “One: don’t call me sweetheart. Two: my case is strong enough already. Three: get a grip. You’re starting to lose it. Four: don’t call me again until this case is done. Got all that? I hope so, because now, since you dragged me here before the cock crowed, you should hear my news.”
I managed to get out, “You’re pregnant again? You’re giving little Angelo a sister?”
“The way Mom gave me Jeffrey?” she said. Her face turned red. There are a lot of blushers in this world, but Ellen had never been one of them.
“You are pregnant, aren’t you? Oh, sweetie, that’s some good news for a change.”
“Daddy,” she said, gulping down half of the big coffee. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Mom.”
“She sees me in court every day. She can talk to me anytime she wants.”
Ellen shook her head. She stood and pushed in her chair. “Privately. She’s finding court hard to take. She’s not coming again.”
“Is this about those tests on Sal?” I asked in alarm. “What do you know about that?”
Ellen didn’t hang around to answer my question, but was out the door before I could stop her.
“Hey—” I shouted after her, jumping up from the table. “What the devil? That’s not even civil to your old man. And you forgot your credit card receipt.” She waved her hand in a gesture of dismissal and disappeared into the crowd. I glanced at the slip of paper. At the bottom was her signature. Something about it struck me as odd. I remembered an old trick from forensic science. I turned the receipt upside down and studied the signature again.
Why had I been so sure that I knew Ellen’s signature? The writing on the slip looked something like the “Portal” signature I’d seen on the financial information, at the pharmaceutical company, on the document from Stow’s trust company. But it was not the same. I sank back onto the rickety chair. The Portal who’d signed all those documents hadn’t been Ellen. The writing was neat and precise. But upside down, I could see the slant was different, the loop of the P not as round. Who had signed those documents?
Each time I’d checked on a piece of disclosure, I had assumed that Ellen had been there before me, that I had been following her paper trail. But no. Someone had been following mine.
I turned the receipt right side up, then upside down again, and studied the signature. Another thing I remembered from forensics was that people from the same family often have remarkably similar styles of writing. Suddenly I knew who had tampered with the boxes in my office, who had left the lights on and trailed red tape home on his shoes.
Jeffrey Portal, my son.
But why? Was Jeffrey working with Ellen, an accomplice in her bout with me? More likely, in his quiet and ncomprehensible way, my son was checking on me, the way you check on someone you fear cannot properly do his job. I blushed as red as Ellen at that thought. I did not need anyone following me about to prevent fatal errors.
Or did I?
I was still rattled an hour later when I met Nicky outside the courthouse. “I got into Riverside last night,” I managed to tell him.
“No way!” He actually backed away from me, though I could tell it was involuntary.
“Way, my boy. I had Queenie do some investigating first. There’s nobody contagious. Hasn’t been for months. Just a few people in the isolation tents for control purposes.”
He studied me for a moment before he stepped closer. “So?” he finally asked.
“I’m not sure. I need some time.”
“We’re asking for an adjournment?” His face was a study in disbelief.
“You can use a day off, son.”
Nicky said, “I don’t want a day off. I like sneaking around pretending I’m off the case. Plus McKenzie’s going to go ballistic.”
He was right. “Mr. Portal,” the judge bellowed, eyeing me up and down for effect, “why have you not informed the court earlier of your decision not to call a defense witness today? You should have properly let the court know yesterday at the completion of the Crown’s case that you require additional time. The j
urors have all arrived to do their duty. Your conduct is an insult to the good people of this city.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.” I raised my eyes to the bench but was careful not to make eye contact with the judge. “Your Honor, sir, I am deeply cognizant of the inconvenience I am causing the court on behalf of my client and would under no circumstances occasion such inconvenience unless I was sure I could not fully conduct my client’s defense without this brief delay.” Then I added as an afterthought, “I only discovered the need for it last night after court had closed.”
This little speech seemed to attract the attention of the media in the body of the court. I could hear pens scratching and handheld electronic devices clicking. The sounds made me wonder why I’d not seen Aliana in court since our last interview in my car.
“Lovely rhetoric, Portal,” McKenzie said snidely. “Quite reminds me that you used to be a remarkable lawyer.”
There had been a time when such an insult would have caused me to throw a few punches, but age, experience and a distaste for drawing blood had made me immune to such comments.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
McKenzie sighed, as if he and his golf game wouldn’t love a day off. “Very well,” he said, “you can have your adjournment.”
He turned to the deputy who sat at his right hand, a faithful civil servant always capable of paying attention to the judge and working complex crossword puzzles simultaneously. “Deputy, please ask the jury to come in so that I can dismiss them properly.”
To the court clerk he said, “This court will adjourn until 10 a.m. tomorrow morning, by which time Mr. Portal and Mr. Stoughton-Melville shall have made up their minds as to the wisdom of asserting their right to remain silent.”
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