More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  Calling him “Jerry,” never “the defendant” or “Pilsett.” Make him human. Make him a buddy of every member of the jury. Make him the victim here.

  “Sure, I could.”

  “And the blood on it?”

  “I’m sure I could. I—”

  Lescroix pounced. “You’re sure you could.” Just the faintest glissando of sarcasm. He scanned another page, shaking his head. “Your vision’s not very good, is it?” The lawyer looked up. “In fact, isn’t it illegal for you to drive without your glasses or contacts?”

  “I… “Taken aback by the amount of research Lescroix had done. Then he smiled. “That’s right. And I had my glasses on when I drove up to the house. So I could see the bloody hammer in his hand.”

  “Well, sir, if that’s the case, then why did an officer bring them to you in the house later that evening? When he needed you to look over some items in the house. He found them in your car.”

  It was in the police report.

  “I don’t… Wait, I must’ve… I probably took them off to dial the cell phone in the car — to call the police. They’re distance glasses. I must’ve forgotten to put them back on.”

  “I see. So you claim you saw a man in your doorway with a bloody hammer, you took off your driving glasses and you called nine-one-one.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s about right.”

  He didn’t notice the “you claim” part of the comment; the jury always does.

  “So that means you called nine-one-one from inside the car?”

  “I called right away, of course.”

  “But from inside the car? You claim you see a man in your doorway with a bloody hammer and yet you park fifty feet away from the house, you stay in the safety of the car to call for help? Why didn’t you jump out of the car and go see what was going on? See about your wife?”

  “Well, I did.”

  “But after you called nine-one-one.”

  “I don’t know. I… Maybe I called later.”

  “But then your glasses wouldn’t have been in the car.”

  Cabot was now as disoriented as a hooked pike. “I don’t know. I panicked. I don’t remember what happened.”

  Which was, of course, the complete truth.

  And, accordingly, of no interest to Lescroix.

  He walked ten feet away from the witness stand, stopped and turned toward Cabot. The jury seemed to be leaning forward, awaiting the next movement.

  “At what time did you leave the office on Saturday, June third?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you arrived home at about five, you claimed. It’s a ten-minute drive from your office. So you must have left about four-thirty. Did you go straight home?”

  “I… I think I had some errands to run.”

  “What errands? Where?”

  “I don’t recall. How do you expect me to recall?”

  “But you’d think it’d be easy to remember at least one or two places you stopped during the course of two hours.”

  “Two hours?” Cabot frowned.

  “You left the office at three p.m.”

  The witness stared at his inquisitor.

  “According to the video security tape in your building’s lobby.”

  “Okay, maybe I did leave then. It was a while ago. And this’s all so hard for me. It’s not easy to remember…”

  His voice faded as Lescroix opened the private eye’s report and found photocopies of Cabot’s banking statements and canceled checks.

  “Who,” the lawyer asked pointedly, “is Mary Henstroth?”

  Cabot’s eyes slipped away from the lawyer’s. “How did you know about…?”

  I do my goddamn homework, Lescroix might have explained. “Who is she?”

  “A friend. She—”

  “A friend. I see. How long have you known her?”

  “I don’t know. A few years.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “In Gilroy.”

  “Gilroy’s a fifteen-minute drive from Hamilton, is that right?”

  “It depends.”

  “Depends? On how eager you are to get to Gilroy?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained. Please, Mr. Lescroix.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Cabot, on June third of this year, did you write a check to Ms. Henstroth in the amount of five hundred dollars?”

  Cabot closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. He nodded.

  “Answer for the court reporter, please.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you deliver this check in person?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said weakly.

  “After you left work, you didn’t drive to Gilroy and, during the course of your… visit, give Ms. Henstroth a check for five hundred dollars?”

  “I might have.”

  “Have you written her other checks over the past several years?”

  “Yes.” Whispered.

  “Louder, please, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you give these other checks to Ms. Henstroth in person?”

  “Some of them. Most of them.”

  “So it’s reasonable to assume that the check you wrote on June third was delivered in person too.”

  “I said I might have,” he muttered.

  “These checks that you wrote to your ‘friend’ over the past few years were on your company account, not your joint home account, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So is it safe to assume that your wife would not be receiving the statement from the bank showing that you’d written these checks? Is that correct too?”

  “Yes.” The witness’s shoulders dipped. A slight gesture, but Lescroix was sure a number of the jurors saw it.

  They all saw the prosecutor toss his pencil onto the table in disgust. He whispered something to his sheepish assistant, who nodded even more sheepishly.

  “What was this money for?”

  “I… don’t remember.”

  Perfect. Better to let the evasive answer stand than to push it and have Cabot come up with a credible lie.

  “I see. Did you tell your wife you were going to see Ms. Henstroth that afternoon?”

  “I… no, I didn’t.”

  “I don’t suppose you would,” Lescroix muttered, eyes on the rapt jury; they loved this new movement of his symphony.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor snapped.

  “Withdrawn,” Lescroix said. He lifted a wrinkled piece of paper from the file; it contained several handwritten paragraphs and looked like a letter, though it was in fact an early draft of a speech Lescroix had given to the American Association of Trial Lawyers last year. He read the first paragraph slowly, shaking his head. Even the prosecutors seemed to be straining forward, waiting. Then he replaced the letter and looked up. “Isn’t your relationship with Ms. Henstroth romantic in nature, sir?” he asked bluntly.

  Cabot tried to look indignant. He sputtered, “I resent—”

  “Oh, please, Mr. Cabot. You have the gall to accuse an innocent man of murder and you resent that I ask you a few questions about your mistress?”

  “Objection!”

  “Withdrawn, Your Honor.”

  Lescroix shook his head and glanced at the jury, asking, What kind of monster are we dealing with here? Lescroix paced as he flipped to the last page of the file. He read for a moment, shook his head, then threw the papers onto the defense table with a huge slap. He whirled to Cabot and shouted, “Isn’t it true you’ve been having an affair with Mary Henstroth for the past several years?”

  “No!”

  “Isn’t it true that you were afraid if you divorced your wife you’d lose control of the company she and her father owned fifty-one percent of?”

  “That’s a lie!” Cabot shouted.

  “Isn’t it true that on June third of this year you left work early, stopped by Mary Henstroth’s house in Gilroy, had sex with her, then proceeded to your house where you lay in wait for you
r wife with a hammer in your hand? That hammer there, People’s Exhibit A?”

  “No, no, no!”

  “And then you beat her to death. You returned to your car and waited until Jerry Pilsett showed up, just like you’d asked him to do. And when he arrived you took off your glasses to look at your cell phone and called the police to report him — an innocent man — as the murderer?”

  “No, that’s not true! It’s ridiculous!”

  “Objection!”

  “Isn’t it true?” Lescroix cried, “that you killed Patricia, your loving wife, in cold blood?”

  “No!”

  “Sustained! Mr. Lescroix, enough of this. I won’t have these theatrics in my courtroom.”

  But the lawyer would not be deflected by a mule-county judge. His energy was unstoppable, fueled by the murmurs and gasps from the spectators, and his outraged voice soared to the far reaches of the courtroom, reciting, “Isn’t it true, isn’t it true, isn’t it true?”

  His audience in the jury box sat forward as if they wanted to leap from their chairs and give the conductor a standing ovation, and Charles Cabot’s horrified eyes, dots of steely anger no more, scanned the courtroom in panic. He was speechless, his voice choked off. As if his dead wife had materialized behind him and closed her arms around his throat to squeeze out what little life remained in his guilty heart.

  * * *

  Three hours to acquit on all charges.

  Not a record but good enough, Lescroix reflected as he sat in his hotel room that evening. He was angry he’d missed the last of the two daily flights out of Hamilton but he had some whiskey in a glass at his side, music on his portable CD player and his feet were resting on the windowsill, revealing Italian socks as sheer as a woman’s black stockings. He was passing the time replaying his victory and trying to decide if he should spend some of his fee on getting those jowl tucks done.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Lescroix rose and let Jerry Pilsett’s uncle into the room. The lawyer hadn’t paid much attention to him the first time they’d met and he realized now that with his quick eyes and tailored clothes this was no dirt jockey. He must’ve been connected with one of the big corporate farming companies. Probably hadn’t had to hock the family spread at all and Lescroix regretted charging him only seventy-five K for the case; should’ve gone for an even hundred. Oh well.

  The elder Pilsett accepted a glass of whiskey and drank a large swallow. “Yessir. Need that after all of today’s excitement. Yessir.”

  He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it on the table. “Rest of your fee. Have to say, I didn’t think you could do it. Didn’t even get him on the burglary charges,” the man added with some surprise.

  “Well, they couldn’t very well do that, could they? Either he was guilty of everything or guilty of nothing.”

  “Reckon.”

  Lescroix nodded toward the fee. “A lot of people wouldn’t’ve done this. Even for family.”

  “I’m a firm believer in kin sticking together. Doing whatever has to be done.”

  “That’s a good sentiment,” the lawyer offered.

  “You say that like you don’t believe in sentiments. Or don’t believe in kin.”

  “Haven’t had occasion to believe or disbelieve in either of them,” Lescroix answered. “My life’s my job.”

  “Getting people out of jail.”

  “Protecting justice’s what I like to call it.”

  “Justice?” the old man snorted. “Y’know, I watched that O.J. trial. And I heard a commentator after the verdict. He said it just goes to show if you have money — whatever your race — you can buy justice. I laughed at that. What’d he mean, justice? If you have money you can buy freedom. That’s not necessarily justice at all.”

  Lescroix tapped the envelope. “So what’re you buying?”

  Pilsett laughed. “Peace of mind. That’s what. Better’n justice and freedom put together. So, how’d my nephew stand his ordeal?”

  “He survived.”

  “He’s not at home. He staying here?”

  Lescroix shook his head. “He didn’t think he’d be too welcome in Hamilton for a while. He’s at a place on Route 32 West. Skyview Motel. I think he wants to see you. Thank you in person.”

  “We’ll give him a call, the wife and I, take him out to dinner.” The man finished the whiskey and set the glass down. “Well, mister, it’s a hard job you have. I don’t envy you it.” He appraised the lawyer with those sharp eyes. “Mostly I don’t envy you staying up at night. With that conscience of yours.”

  A faint frown crossed Lescroix’s face, hearing this. But then it blossomed into a smile. “I sleep like a baby, sir. Always have.”

  They shook hands and walked to the door. Jerry’s uncle stepped into the corridor but then stopped and turned. “Oh, ’nother thing. I’d listen to the news, I was you.” He added cryptically, “You’ll be hearing some things you might want to think on.”

  Lescroix closed the door and returned to the uncomfortable chair and his sumptuous whiskey.

  Things I want to think on?

  At six he picked up the remote control and clicked the TV set on, found the local news. He was watching a pretty young newscaster holding a microphone in front of her mouth.

  “It was this afternoon, while prosecutors were asking freed suspect Gerald Pilsett about the role of Charles Cabot in his wife’s death, that Pilsett gave the shocking admission. A claim he later repeated for reporters.”

  Oh, my Lord. No. He didn’t!

  Lescroix sat forward, mouth agape.

  Jerry came on-screen, grinning that crooked smile and tapping a finger against his earlobe. “Sure I killed her. I told my lawyer that right up front. But there’s nothing nobody can do about it. He said they can’t try me again. It’s called double jeopardy. Hey, their case wasn’t good enough to get me the first time, that ain’t my fault.”

  Lescroix’s skin crawled.

  Back to the blonde newscaster. “That very lawyer, Paul Lescroix, of New York City, created a stir in court earlier today when he suggested that Hamilton businessman Charles Cabot himself killed his wife because he was in love with another woman. Police, however, have discovered that the woman Lescroix accused Cabot of having an affair with is Sister Mary Helen Henstroth, a seventy-five-year-old nun who runs a youth center in Gilroy. Cabot and his wife frequently served as volunteers at the center and donated thousands of dollars to it.

  “Police also dispelled Lescroix’s other theory that Cabot might have killed his wife to take control of the company of which he is president. Even though he owned a minority of the shares, a review of the corporate documents revealed that Patricia Cabot and her father had voluntarily handed over one hundred percent voting control to Cabot after he paid back fifty thousand dollars her father had loaned him to start the business five years ago.

  “State prosecutors are looking into whether charges can be brought against Lescroix for defamation and misuse of the legal process.”

  Furious, Lescroix flung the remote control across the room. It shattered in a dozen pieces.

  The phone rang.

  “Mr. Lescroix, I’m with WPIJ news. Could you comment on the claim that you knowingly accused an innocent man—”

  “No.” Click.

  It rang again.

  “’Lo?”

  “I’m a reporter with the New York Times—”

  Click.

  “Yeah?”

  “This that gawdamn shyster? I find you I’m gonna—”

  Click.

  Lescroix unplugged the phone, stood and paced. Don’t panic. It’s no big deal. Everybody’d forget about it in a few days. This wasn’t his fault. His duty was to represent a client to the best of his ability. Though even as he tried to reassure himself, he was picturing the ethics investigation, explaining the matter to his clients, his golfing buddies, his girlfriends….

  Pilsett. What an utter fool. He—

  Lescroix froze.
On the TV screen was a man in his fifties. Unshaven. Rumpled white shirt. An unseen newscaster was asking him his reaction to the Pilsett verdict. But what had snagged Lescroix’s attention was the super at the bottom of the screen: James Pilsett, Uncle of Acquitted Suspect.

  It wasn’t the man who’d hired him, who’d been here in the room an hour ago to deliver his fee.

  “Wayl,” the uncle drawled. “Jurry wus alwus a problem. Weren’t never doing what he ought. Deserved ever’ lick he got. Him gitting off today… I don’ unnerstand that one bit. Don’ seem right to me.”

  Lescroix leapt to the desk and opened the envelope. The full amount of the rest of the fee was enclosed. But it wasn’t a check. It was cash, like the retainer. There was no note, nothing with a name on it.

  Who the hell was he?

  He plugged the phone in and dialed the Skyview Motel.

  The phone rang, rang, rang.

  Finally it was answered. “Hello?”

  “Jerry, it’s Lescroix. Listen to me—”

  “I’m sorry,” the man’s voice said. “Jerry’s tied up right now.”

  “Who’s this?”

  A pause.

  “Hello, counselor.”

  “Who are you?” Lescroix demanded.

  There was a soft chuckle on the other end. “Don’t you recognize me? And after our long talk in court this morning. I’m disappointed.”

  Cabot! It was Charles Cabot.

  How had he gotten to Jerry’s motel room? Lescroix was the only one who knew where the man was hiding out.

  “Confused, counselor?”

  But, no, Lescroix recalled, he wasn’t the only one who knew. He’d told the man impersonating Jerry’s uncle about the Skyview. “Who was he?” Lescroix whispered. “Who was the man who paid me?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  “No.”

  But even as he said that, he understood. Lescroix closed his eyes. Sat on the bed. “Your father-in-law.”

  The rich businessman. Patricia’s father.

  I’m a firm believer in kin sticking together.…

  “He hired me?”

  “We both did,” Cabot said.

  “To defend your wife’s killer? Why?”

  Cabot sighed. “Why do you think, counselor?”

  Slowly, Lescroix’s thoughts were forming — like ice on a November pond. He said, “Because there’s no death penalty in this state.”