“Who does that include, Your Honor?” Lauder asked.
“The family.”
“The children, too?”
“Yes.”
To us he said, “I’ll see you here at nine sharp.” With that he rose and disappeared into another room.
O’Connor’s red face and tight lips testified to his anger. He glared at me, started to say something, got up, and stormed from chambers. The prosecutor was less dramatic with her exit. She smiled at me and said, “I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, “and I promise not to take too much of anyone’s time.”
I left the courthouse with McGraw feeling pretty good about myself. I’d never expected that the judge would go to the extent of canceling a day in court in order to hear me out and to ponder his next move.
But after Harry dropped me home and I had a chance to do some pondering myself over a cup of steaming green tea, I realized that I’d put myself in an extremely awkward position. All I had to present to the judge the following day was a series of suppositions with little to back them up. In effect I was now expected to present a case of my own, and I knew I’d better put my thoughts together overnight.
I’d started doing just that when the doorbell rang.
Chapter Twenty-eight
A black Lexus sedan sat in the driveway. I opened my front door.
“Good evening, Mrs. Caldwell.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. May I come in?”
“By all means.”
If she was at all concerned about having stopped by unannounced, she didn’t express it. She walked past me, stood in the middle of my living room, and said, “Charming little house. Have you been here long?”
“Yes, I have. Won’t you sit down?”
She hesitated as though debating whether to choose a chair or the couch. She opted for a chair, in which she sat ramrod straight, her knees pressed together, the same pose she’d adopted when Edwina and I had visited Myriam right after the murder.
“Would you like tea?” I asked.
“Thank you, no. This isn’t a social call.”
“Well, then,” I said, taking another chair, “the obvious question is why are you here?”
“I should think it would be obvious,” she said.
“Perhaps to you, Mrs. Caldwell. Please educate me.”
My air-conditioning was on, but I didn’t need it. She’d brought with her sufficient BTUs to cool an armory.
“I’ll get right to the point,” she said. “I’ve been informed that you have convinced the judge to delay my daughter’s trial.”
“I don’t think that I’ve convinced him of anything. He made a decision based upon his own judgment. By the way, you’re free to call me Jessica.”
If I expected her to suggest using her first name, I was mistaken. It would be Mrs. Caldwell.
“I also understand,” she said, “that this private investigator of yours has implicated my son in some minor aspect of the trial.”
I couldn’t help the laugh that came from me. “‘Minor aspect’?” I said. “I hardly think that removing a murder weapon from the scene of the crime is a ‘minor aspect.’”
“That information came from Robert’s wife, Stephanie,” she said with distaste, as though having sucked on a lemon wedge. “My soon to be former daughter-in-law is a common woman, Mrs. Fletcher. Nothing she says is to be believed.”
“I’m sure that the judge will come to his own conclusions.”
She relaxed slightly, leaned back, and exhaled an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t understand,” she said.
“Understand what?”
“Understand the need for a family to stand shoulder to shoulder in times of great need.”
“Please continue,” I said.
“You seem like an intelligent woman,” she said in a tone reserved for expressing exasperation at a slow child.
“Thank you,” I said.
She came forward. “It is imperative that Myriam take responsibility for Josh’s murder.”
“Why?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said, “for the good of the family. I can’t believe that you are blind to this.”
“Mrs. Caldwell,” I said, “I’m not blind to the need for justice to be done, fair justice, legal justice. Our judicial system isn’t something to be manipulated for an individual’s sake, or any family’s sake. No one is above the law.”
Her first smile of the evening was a dismissive smirk. “How lofty that sounds,” she said into the room. “How lofty—and naïve.”
I’m by nature a patient person, but my patience was running thin. “Mrs. Caldwell,” I said, “just what is the purpose of your visit?”
“I want you to stop your infernal snooping and intrusion into what is none of your business. I and my family have gone through a terrible ordeal. We don’t need you, or anyone like you, making it worse. I’ll be candid, Mrs. Fletcher.”
As though she hadn’t been.
“I’m sure that you have faced financial difficulties, as all writers do. I will pay you to stay away from my family. How much will it take?”
I managed to keep my anger in check as I stood and said, “I think our conversation is at an end, Mrs. Caldwell. Good evening.”
She, too, got up, straightened her skirt, and said, “You are a foolish woman, Mrs. Fletcher. A very foolish woman.”
She left, got in her car, and backed out of the driveway. I realized that I was trembling and urged myself to calm down. If she’d thought that her visit and insults would cause me to think twice about backing off, she was wrong.
I was certain that she had coerced Myriam to plead guilty in order to protect someone else, and I had a good idea who it was. Now I needed to gather my thoughts and make notes of them before meeting with Judge Mackin in the morning.
* * *
The two attorneys were in Judge Mackin’s chambers when I arrived after a fitful night. McGraw had wanted to be there but was tied up with business obligations he needed to attend to. However, he’d already informed the judge of what he’d discovered in Gorbyville, and while I would have greatly appreciated his moral support, his presence wasn’t strictly necessary.
“I want you to understand, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mackin said, “that this turn of events is somewhat unusual in a murder case. Then again, it’s been an unusual case from the beginning, so I’m willing to hear what you have to say. It’s evident to me that you’ve devoted considerable time and effort attempting to get at the truth. That’s what this courtroom is all about—getting at the truth. I’m also aware after having lived in Cabot Cove for many years that your reputation as not only a best-selling author, but as an investigator without credentials, precedes you. The floor is yours.”
“Your Honor, before Mrs. Fletcher starts,” O’Connor said, “I’d like to make it clear that the Wolcott children are not to be included in any of these proceedings. They were questioned at length immediately following the murder and had nothing to offer in the way of evidence. Ms. Cirilli and I agreed not to call them as witnesses, and that is still the case.”
“I’m aware of that agreement between you and Ms. Cirilli,” Judge Mackin said, “but considering these new circumstances, I might want to negate it. Is the defendant’s brother present outside?”
“No, sir,” O’Connor said.
“Issue a bench warrant for his arrest,” Mackin ordered his clerk. He then asked O’Connor whether the Wolcott children were on hand.
“Yes, sir,” O’Connor answered. “They’re with their grandmother. The defendant is present also. She’s with my associate, Ms. Bacon.”
“Fair enough,” Mackin said. “Go ahead, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I pulled notes from my purse. “I first became involved when Mrs. Wolcott visited the women’s shelter office seeking refuge from her abusive husband. I was there as an unpaid volunteer. A few days later, Mrs. Wolcott’s
husband was shot dead in front of his house, and the focus of suspicion naturally fell on his wife. She proclaimed her innocence for days following Mr. Wolcott’s murder until, for no apparent and logical reason, she changed her story and declared that she had, indeed, killed her husband.
“Of course, it was possible that she had pulled the trigger. But somehow I couldn’t square that with my instincts. I set off on the theory that someone who’d suffered financial loss at the hands of Mr. Wolcott was the real killer, and I worked with the private investigator who was here yesterday to prove that thesis. I was wrong. Once Mr. McGraw learned that the defendant’s brother had taken the murder weapon from the scene and discarded it in a body of water near where he and his wife live, it became obvious to me that the weapon had indeed been fired by someone in the Wolcott household.”
“There you have it, Your Honor,” O’Connor said. “She’s admitting that my client killed Josh Wolcott.”
“I’m admitting nothing of the kind,” I said.
“I’m going to object again at allowing Mrs. Fletcher to, in effect, testify here in chambers without the benefit of a formal legal setting,” O’Connor said sternly.
“Would it be more amenable to you, Mr. O’Connor, if I swear her in?”
“You can do that?” I asked.
Mackin smiled. “I can do anything I wish,” he said. “This is, after all, my chambers and my courtroom.” He reached into a desk drawer, brought out a Bible, and extended it to me. “Place your right hand on it,” he said, which I did, and he administered the standard oath all witnesses in a courtroom are obligated to take.
“Done,” the judge said. “You’re sworn in, Mrs. Fletcher. Proceed with your statement.”
Did I detect the hint of a smile on his craggy face?
I continued. “Mrs. Wolcott’s sudden and unexplainable switch from pleading innocent to pleading guilty to the shooting raised a red flag with me. That was reinforced as a result of confrontations I had with the defendant’s mother, Mrs. Warren Caldwell, who I believe had choreographed this change in plea in order to protect someone else in the family.
“Who could that be? I wondered. Was Myriam protecting her brother, or perhaps her sister-in-law? They were there the night of the murder, although they supposedly responded to her call after Mr. Wolcott was shot. Was that true, or had they arrived earlier?”
O’Connor loudly guffawed. “This sounds as though Mrs. Fletcher is writing one of her murder mystery novels,” he said scornfully.
Judge Mackin gave O’Connor a withering look.
I pressed on. “The defendant’s brother certainly had a motive to kill Josh Wolcott,” I said. “He had been the victim of his brother-in-law’s financial shenanigans, along with others. But it didn’t make sense to me that Myriam would plead guilty to a crime she hadn’t committed to save him.”
I paused. No one said anything, so I added, “Much as I regret to say this, that left two other possibilities—the Wolcott children.”
“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” O’Connor said.
“Calm down, Mr. O’Connor,” Mackin said. “You know, I knew your father. He was a fine lawyer and a true gentleman, and I never had to admonish him in court. I suggest that you keep his demeanor in mind.”
“My father was . . .”
Mackin directed his next words to me. “So you suspect that Mrs. Wolcott might be trying to protect her children.”
I thought before making a definitive statement. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Mackin said.
“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “But let me explain further. Myriam Wolcott participated in an online forum for abused women. The police discovered that a message from another participant on that forum had come from a neighbor’s house. I believe if you press him that Mrs. Wolcott’s sixteen-year-old son, Mark, will tell you that he was the source of the angry messages to his mother in which he suggested that she kill her abusive husband.”
Mackin looked to Ms. Cirilli for a response.
“The sheriff made me aware of that possibility, Your Honor,” she said, “but it was never substantiated.”
“And it still is unsubstantiated,” I said quickly, “but maybe it can be substantiated by speaking with Mark Wolcott.”
Judge Mackin pondered my request. Finally he said, “Of course, the young man has no legal obligation to discuss this with me, but there’s nothing to lose by trying.”
“Your Honor!” O’Connor said.
Mackin ignored him and asked Gary Lauder to bring Mark Wolcott to chambers.
O’Connor stood and followed the clerk out of the judge’s chambers and into the courtroom. It was only a minute or two later that he returned with Mark, his sister, Ruth, and Mrs. Caldwell.
“I didn’t expect a crowd,” Mackin said.
“I am the children’s grandmother,” Mrs. Caldwell said, “and I strenuously object. You have no right to subject a young boy to this charade created by this—this—this woman.” She pointed a long, red-tipped finger at me, like a talon about to spear a rodent.
“I simply wish to have a private chat with this young man,” Mackin said. “As his grandmother, you’re certainly invited to stay—I have grandchildren of my own—but you and everyone else will have to be quiet. Understood?”
Mackin indicated a chair in which he wanted Mark to sit. The young man, whose small stature made him seem even younger, tentatively sat, his hands clenched into a fist on his lap. The chair seemed to swallow him. I looked at twelve-year-old Ruth Wolcott, who was perched on the edge of a chair, her doting grandmother’s arm around her.
“I know that you and your family have been through a great deal,” Judge Mackin said in a friendly tone, “and I certainly don’t want to make you feel even worse than I’m sure you already do. Have you ever been in a judge’s chambers before?”
“No—no, sir.”
“It’s a little different in here from the courtroom, less formal, fewer rules. You can just consider this a friendly chat, nothing more.”
“Yes—yes, sir.”
“All right, then. There’s some confusion about what happened the night your father died. You were there?”
Mark looked to his grandmother, who shook her head. Mackin noticed it and said, “Although we’re less formal in here, young man, the rules regarding telling the truth prevail. It’s my job, along with the attorneys, to get at the truth. Now, your mom has said that she was the one who killed your father. Is that the truth?”
Mark’s eyes filled with tears.
“Telling the truth is always the best thing,” Mackin said. “We always feel better after we have.”
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Caldwell said, standing.
Mark, whose head had been lowered, looked up at her. “I don’t want to lie anymore,” he said. “I don’t want to.”
“I’ll have you disbarred,” his grandmother told the judge. “You have no right to put him through this.”
Mark’s pained scream filled the room. “She didn’t do it! She didn’t. Don’t send her to jail. He was so bad. He was a monster. He hit her all the time. I hated him! I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead.”
For the first time since we’d met, Mrs. Caldwell lost her regal bearing. She slumped back into her chair and pressed her hands to her face.
I looked to Judge Mackin to say something. When he didn’t, I felt I needed to fill the gap. My stomach was churning. It was distressing to have suspected that a child could pick up a gun and kill his father. But I knew his mother was not the murderer, and the truth needed to come out. I moved to where Mark sat sobbing, placed my hand on his shoulder, and said, “It must have been terrible for you to shoot your father, but you did it because of what he’d done to your mother. The court will understand.”
Suddenly Ruth, who’d also begun to cry, jumped up from where she was sitting and ran to her brother, flung herself across his lap, and said, “It’s okay, Mark. He won’t hu
rt anybody anymore.” She disengaged from him, stood, looked at Judge Mackin, swiped the tears from her cheeks, and declared, “I shot my father. I’m the one who did it.”
To say that I was shocked was a classic understatement. I looked at Mark, then at Ruth, and felt tears welling up. Could it be that I was so wrong in believing that Mark had shot his father? I’d been right about their mother—that she was lying when she claimed to have pulled the trigger and that she’d done it in order to spare her children.
But which child?
I had been certain it was Mark. I had been wrong.
Mrs. Caldwell answered that question. Dry-eyed and having again maintained her composure, she came to me. Her face, set in stony anger, was only inches from mine. “Are you satisfied, Mrs. Fletcher?” she said. “Are you satisfied that through your meddling, a twelve-year-old girl might be sent to prison?” She turned from me and addressed the judge. “We had it all worked out,” she said. “I convinced my daughter and Mr. O’Connor that if Myriam claimed that she’d killed Josh, it would protect this precious child and that she would never be found guilty by a jury because she’d acted to protect herself and her family from further abuse. Doesn’t that make sense? What was the harm in it? He was dead and deserved to die. The child would be spared, my daughter would be free, and that’s the way it would have ended were it not for Mrs. Fletcher’s intrusion.” She again looked at me. “May you rot in hell,” she said as she grabbed Mark and Ruth and herded them through the door to the courtroom where Myriam and Sharon Bacon waited.
Murder, She Wrote: Domestic Malice Page 22