by Parnell Hall
“What makes you think she’s guilty?” Cora said.
“Give me a break. She was caught with the murder weapon.” He pointed his finger at Cora. “You caught her. How can you be working for her? Aren’t you going to have to testify for the police?”
“They haven’t asked me.”
“Oh, like they’re not gonna? Are you going to testify for the defense? Are you going to lie?”
Becky stepped in front of Cora before she bit the man’s head off. “Did you come here just to insult us, or do you want to say something?”
“I hear the police have evidence Roger had business meetings in New York.”
“Business meetings?”
“At a hotel. Business meetings at a hotel. This is not unprecedented. Businessmen have business meetings. With clients they don’t want coming to their office.”
“How do you know this?”
“Roger was my friend.”
“Wait a minute,” Becky said. “Have you told the police?”
“Why?”
“Why? It undercuts their whole theory of the case. They think Roger was killed for having an affair. You have evidence that he wasn’t.”
Jessup smiled. “That doesn’t matter. She thought he was. She killed him because she thought he was having an affair. It’s just ironic that he wasn’t.”
“Give me a break,” Cora said. “Now you claim he wasn’t having an affair, but his wife thought he was. How do you know that?”
“He told me so. He told me he didn’t know what to do. His wife thought he was having an affair but he wasn’t. He didn’t know how to prove it.”
“Why didn’t he tell her about the business meetings?” Becky said.
“She’d have thought he was lying. He said if she found out about the hotel, she’d go nuts. She wouldn’t listen to reason, there’d be nothing he could say. Even if he brought in the people he’d been having the meetings with and had them swear up and down, she wouldn’t have sat still for it one moment. Don’t you understand? He said if she found out about the hotel she’d kill him.” He paused for breath. “You still want me running to the police?”
Becky frowned.
“See? It’s a no-win situation. Just like Roger was in. If I testify for the prosecution, you’re screwed. If I don’t testify for the prosecution, you’re screwed. So I have to ask you again the same question you must be asking yourself.”
He shrugged, spread his hands palms up. “Why in the world are you defending this woman?”
Chapter
19
“Well, what do you think about that?” Becky said.
After all his vitriolic pronouncements, Ken Jessup had bowed himself obsequiously out.
Cora went to the door, opened it, closed it again.
Becky raised her eyebrows in inquiry.
“I don’t trust him any further than I can throw him, and that’s not very far.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Are you kidding me? That is the most ridiculous, convoluted story I’ve ever heard. It’s the type of thing I would make up. A tangled tapestry of lies and innuendo that skirts the boundaries of reason just enough so as not to be summarily dismissed.”
“God save me from a wordsmith.”
“God save me from a lawyer. If you were anyone else, we could hatch a neat plan together to frame that son of a bitch. Unfortunately, you’re bound by legal ethics.” Cora rolled her eyes. “Talk about oxymorons! Anyway, the whole time I’m listening to that guy, I’m not sure if he’s trying to get us to call him to the stand or keep him off it.”
“It’s a moot point if he goes to the cops,” Becky pointed out.
“Except they’ll have the same decision. Does undermining their evidence of a woman trump his opinion that Paula knew about it and was angry enough to have killed? The more I think about his story, a third possibility seems likely.”
“What’s that?”
“He didn’t know anything at all; he’s making it up out of whole cloth.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Maybe he’s just a nebbishy guy who’d like to be noticed.”
“You may be right,” Becky said. “How do we find out?”
“You want me to make a play for him?”
“Cora! A pudgy, nebbishy dweeb?”
Cora shrugged. “So was Henry. My second husband. He had other redeeming qualities.”
“I don’t think I want to know what they were.”
“Quoth the spinster.”
“Spinster!”
“I’m sorry. At what age do you qualify as a spinster?”
“I’ll have to look it up. Are you trying to make me angry?”
“No, I’m just frustrated by this whole case. You’ve seen our client. I don’t want to run around finding out if her husband was seeing someone or having business meetings, and I certainly don’t wanna put in time looking for a phantom crossword puzzle.”
“Too bad,” Becky said.
“Why? Because if I don’t you’re going to fire me?”
“No. Because if you can’t come up with something, we’re going to trial.”
Chapter
20
Henry Firth smiled at the jury. Cora, sitting in the first row with Sherry, could practically see his ratty nose twitching, smelling the conviction. A nice guilty verdict would be a big notch in his belt, she thought, mixing metaphors. Not surprisingly, Cora had come up with no last-minute evidence, and the trial was progressing as scheduled.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury: The prosecution expects to show that the defendant, Paula Martindale, found out her husband was having an affair. Roger Martindale, who worked in New York City, had been renting a hotel room there for afternoon trysts. This had been going on for a month, and might have gone on longer, had not passion finally gotten the better of him. He was gone for more than twenty-four hours. During that time he was not at home, nor was he at work. His wife reported his absence to the police, and he was subsequently put on the missing persons list shortly before he reappeared. He picked up his car from the garage in New York, just as if he were leaving work, and returned home to his wife. We have no direct evidence of just what was said, only of the result.
“The medical examiner will testify to the fact that Roger Martindale was killed by a stab wound to the chest, one of at least seventeen such stab wounds inflicted on him with a butcher knife. A butcher knife from a carving set in the Martindale kitchen. And where did the police recover this butcher knife? Not from the body of the victim. No, they discovered this butcher knife clutched in the hand of the defendant, Paula Martindale. She staggered from the living room of her house covered in blood. Her husband lay dead on the rug, his body ripped asunder by a brutal attack.”
Henry Firth looked over to Becky Baldwin. “The defense may attempt to argue that this was a crime of passion, that, shocked by her husband’s infidelity, Paula Martindale killed him in the heat of the moment. Do not be fooled by such tactics. There was no moment. Her husband was gone for twenty-four hours. It’s not like she caught him with another woman. No, she suspected he was with another woman and waited for him to come home. She lay in wait and struck him down.
“And what proof is there of this? The butcher knife. From the carving set in her kitchen. Her husband was not killed in the kitchen. Her husband was killed in the living room. Which means that Paula Martindale brought the butcher knife from the kitchen into the living room so that she would have it with her when her husband came home. This is not an act of impulse. This is not a burst of passion. This is a cold-blooded, premeditated crime. Premeditated. That is what raises the stakes from manslaughter to murder. This was a premeditated murder.”
Henry Firth raised his finger. “And forget about self-defense. The defense attorney may argue her client needed to protect herself against a stronger man.” He laughed, spread his arms. “Protect herself from what? She wasn’t in trouble. Her husband wasn’t coming home to ask where she’d been for the past twe
nty-four hours. He was sneaking home with his tail between his legs, hoping he wasn’t in too much trouble. He wasn’t about to instigate a confrontation. He was looking to avoid one. Bad luck for him. His wife was not just angry. She was murderously angry.
“And the other thing about the self-defense theory, that Paula Martindale needed the knife to defend herself because her husband was bigger and stronger: Yes, he was. Roger Martindale lived in Bakerhaven. I’m sure some of you have seen him around town. For those of you who haven’t, we will introduce pictures of him as part of our evidence. You will see that he was a big, strong, vital man. If Paula Martindale had brandished a knife, there is no doubt he could have taken it away from her. Clearly, she did not. Clearly, she kept the knife hidden and struck without warning, or she could not have delivered the blow.
“Having delivered that blow, having struck him to the ground, she pounced upon the body in a fury and made sure he was dead with no fewer than sixteen extra thrusts of the knife, plunging it into the chest again, and again, and again, until it, and she, and her husband, were covered in blood—blood that stained her clothes and dripped from her hands until she was discovered by none other than the chief of police himself, still holding the knife.”
“Misplaced modifier,” Cora muttered under her breath.
Sherry had a narrow escape from a giggle.
“We shall prove all this by competent evidence, and we shall expect a verdict of guilty at your hands.”
Henry Firth bowed to the jury and sat down.
Judge Hobbs turned to the defense table. “Ms. Baldwin?”
Becky rose from her seat next to Paula Martindale, strode out in front of the jury. As always, Becky had dressed for court. Her dress, though inexpensive, looked like a million bucks. It showed just enough leg to interest the men on the jury while not raising the ire of the women. Her makeup was understated, subtle. Her blond hair was swept back from her face and pinned discreetly up off her neck.
“I’ve been listening to the prosecutor’s opening statement, and I’d like to talk to you about gaps.” She put up her hands. “Not the ones where he buys his clothes; I mean the ones in his case.”
There was an amused reaction in the court. Some of the jurors smiled. Henry Firth started to rise, then realized his objection would only point to the remark.
“What are the gaps in his case? They’re called witnesses. And what are witnesses? They’re people who saw things. They’re eyewitnesses. They’re people who can testify to something because they saw it with their own eyes. Not people who can give you their opinion of what they think might have happened based on the circumstantial evidence. That’s what it’s called. The circumstantial evidence. The circumstances surrounding the crime. The witnesses take a look at that and they say, ‘Oh, well, here’s what happened.’ They’re guessing, but they don’t say they’re guessing. They’re not presented as, ‘Here’s so-and-so who’s going to take a guess for you’; they’re presented as experts. A long list of credentials will be cited, their experience will be touted as reasons why we should esteem them and value their opinion. And then, when all of that is done, they will guess. With absolute solemnity, just as if they knew what they were talking about.
“Now, taking a look at this case—”
“Well, it’s about time,” Henry Firth said.
Becky smiled indulgently, looked at the judge. “Your Honor?”
Judge Hobbs, used to such courtroom byplay, said, “Mr. Firth, if you would please control such interjections. Jurors will disregard the prosecutor’s remark.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Becky said. “In my opinion, they should probably disregard all of his remarks, but I thank you for that one.”
“Oh, Your Honor—” Henry Firth began.
“Yes. Ms. Baldwin: If you could also refrain from such asides?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” She turned back to the jury. “Actually, I was happy to hear the prosecutor express the opinion that my client was not physically capable of overpowering her husband with a knife. That’s certainly my opinion, and I’m glad he shares it. But I must say I am amused by the way he states conjecture as facts.” Becky put on a voice, imitated her adversary, “‘The knife was brought in from the kitchen in advance, showing premeditation.’ Really? How about: Her husband came home, wanted to peel an apple. He went in the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife. He went to the front door, was surprised to encounter the men he had just been dealing with. He thought he was free of their clutches and here they were again. They pushed their way in, wrenched the butcher knife from him, and proceeded to hack him to pieces.
“Sound far-fetched? You bet. You know why? Because it’s pure conjecture. Just like the one the prosecutor states with so much conviction proves premeditation. Good thing you had him to point that out to you, or you wouldn’t have known it. Nor would I. Nor would any other sane person on the face of the earth.
“Has it really come to this? Not just that a man of Henry Firth’s stature would think he could get a conviction in a case like this, but that he would even attempt it. What happened? Did he have an open day on his court calendar? Was he bored? Hard up for cases?”
Becky shook her head. “It seems a shame to waste the taxpayers’ good money on such an ill-conceived flight of fancy. However, if we must, we must. So let’s consider just how stupid it actually is.
“Now then, in this case, you have, by the prosecution’s own admission, a husband who suddenly exhibits bizarre behavior such as he has never done before. He fails to come home. Not a unique event in the annals of marriage, but a first for this one. The decedent has never failed to come home before. He could have been late, he could have had car trouble, any number of things could have occurred, but in that case, particularly in this day and age of cell phones, he would have called. ‘Honey, I have a flat tire on the Merritt Parkway, I called AAA, they say they’ll be here in twenty minutes.’ That didn’t happen. Did the defendant attempt to call her husband on his cell phone? Indeed, she did. Did she report his absence to the police? Several times. And would they act? No, they did not. Because of an antiquated law that requires twenty-four hours before a person can be declared missing. But that did not stop her from trying.
“Now, I ask you, as reasonable men and women: Are these the acts of a woman who intends to kill her husband? No, they are not. They are the acts of a woman who is concerned for her husband’s safety. A concern that turned out to be justified.
“And as for the idea that he was seeing another woman, she didn’t believe it then, and she doesn’t believe it now. If I may go back to the holes in the prosecutor’s story, let us not forget the big one: Where is this woman? The prosecution can’t produce her. They can’t identify her. They can’t find anyone who has ever seen her. The most they can do is infer that she exists, because it would be nice if the defendant had a motive for this crime.
“The defendant is presumed innocent until proven guilty. You all know that. Some of you have read the book. Some of you have seen the movie. But you’ve all heard of it. Presumed Innocent. You have to give her the benefit of the doubt.” Becky smiled. “Well, in this case, what doubt? There is no doubt. The prosecutor would like to have you think the defendant killed the decedent because he was having an affair. Well, if wishes were horses. Because that’s all they are. Wishes.
“Clearly, her husband was involved in something. Obviously something happened to him in that twenty-four hours before he was killed. Do I know why that killing took place in Bakerhaven? No, I do not. I’m just like the prosecutor. I don’t know. I can guess just like he does. Just like his, quote ‘experts’ unquote, are going to. I can tell you that some shady character lured Paula Martindale out of the house, took her husband home and killed him, so that she would be suspected rather than him, but I’m guessing. Just like the prosecution.
“But you can’t be swayed by guesses. You can’t be swayed by mine, and you can’t be swayed by theirs. You have to judge the evidence. And if there is
none, or if what little there is can be explained by a reasonable presumption other than guilt—or at least as reasonable as the prosecution’s absurd presumption that it could possibly show guilt—you must find the defendant not guilty.”
Becky smiled at the jury.
“Don’t worry. It won’t be hard.”
Chapter
21
“For once I wish I worked for the New York Post,” Aaron said.
“Post!” Jennifer proclaimed happily. She had taken to echoing the ends of sentences, often to her parents’ regret.
“Why?” Cora said in between bites of Sherry’s osso buco. The family was eating in the old living room in front of the TV, a habit they’d never broken.
“Are you kidding me?” Aaron said. “It would make the front page. Instead of bothering with trivialities like facts, we could sit around all day trying to outdo their HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR headline.”
“Never do it,” Cora said. “That’s a classic.”
“How about HOT LAWYER KICKS ASS?”
“Ass!”
Cora nearly choked on her veal. “Pretty good.” She jerked her thumb at Jennifer. “But it’s nothing without your Greek chorus.”
“I would love to make something about the fact Becky Baldwin looks like a Gap dancer and made a crack about the prosecutor buying clothes at Gap.”
“Hundred bucks if you can fit that in a headline,” Cora said.
“Oh, no,” Sherry said. “Now he’ll spend all night trying to do it.”
“Do it!”
“Does she know that’s two words?” Cora said.
“Words!”
“Want her to explain the rules?” Sherry said. “She’s the only one who understands them.”
“Bring her into court,” Cora said. “Let her echo Ratface.”
“Ratface!”
“Is Ratface two words or one?” Cora said.
“One!”
“How about LEGGY LAWYER GAP ZAP?” Aaron said.
“There’s nothing about dancing,” Sherry said.
“No, but you put pictures of Becky and Ratface on the cover and that sells it.”