Laughing Heirs (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  “I know. It seems far-fetched.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  The theory seemed more far-fetched when I pulled into Macy’s driveway and stopped behind her car, which was a Honda Element, maybe five or six years old, burnt orange in color.

  Brooke looked at me, and I gave her a shrug. We got out of the car and walked away from the driveway far enough to see both cars together. What we saw was a bubble-like Beetle, a dull red in color, sitting behind a boxy, orange car with dark gray cladding.

  “What do you think?” Brooke asked neutrally.

  “Suppose we look at them from the back?”

  We moved toward the street to change our perspective. If I closed one eye to flatten the image into two dimensions, my car didn’t look quite so bubble-like.

  “Well?”

  “It’s a stretch,” I admitted.

  “Got any more ideas?”

  I shook my head. “I’m going to have to do the best I can with this one.” I continued to stand looking at the two cars until Brooke started getting restless. Finally, I got out my cell phone and took a picture of my car from directly behind it, being careful to keep Macy’s car out of the frame. I took a few steps onto Macy’s lawn for another picture, then handed my phone to Brooke. “Let me get my car out of the way.”

  I backed out of the driveway and parked on the street, then walked back and stood by Macy’s car, my hand on the door handle. “Get some pictures of the car with me in the frame,” I said. “Let’s do several angles.”

  When she was done, I thumbed through the photographs, aware that Brooke was watching me with an expression of concern. I sent an email to Carly at the Executive Suites with several of the photographs attached.

  “Print these on color printer,” I tapped into my phone. “Three copies each. Will pick up on way to courthouse.” To Brooke I said, “Let’s hope Carly’s not at lunch.”

  “Carly never goes to lunch.”

  “Let’s hope she didn’t start today.”

  Brooke drove. Main Street was parked up. Brooke stopped in the street in front of the Ironfronts, and I got out. “Drive around the block once, and I’ll be back.”

  I took the stairs. Carly was at the reception counter.

  “Did you get my email?” I said, a little breathlessly.

  She gave me her simple-minded smile, then laid a manila envelope on the counter.

  “Bless you, Carly,” I said, and snatched the envelope.

  When court reconvened, the Strumpf brothers were still in attendance, and Mike McMillan had rejoined Brooke. Wilma Henderson returned to the stand. “Hi, Wilma,” I said.

  She gave me a prune-faced nod.

  “I remember seeing you with the police in Jack Packard’s driveway. Did you call the police that day?”

  “I did.”

  “I understand. You saw a stranger walking around the house, messing with the mailbox, and finally taking off a window screen.”

  She nodded severely. “And climbing through the window, don’t forget.”

  I gave her a nod and a smile, not an admission the court reporter was going to get on his Stenotype. “Neighbors have to look out for each other,” I said. “You recognize me, don’t you, from that day in the driveway?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “As I recall, you weren’t wearing glasses that day.”

  “And I’m not wearing them now. Except for reading, I haven’t needed glasses since my cataract surgery.”

  “That Friday, several days before we met in the driveway—do you remember seeing me then?”

  “I got a glimpse of you.”

  “You told Mr. Biggs this was late afternoon. Had it started to get dark?”

  “I could see well enough.”

  “Sunset’s about five-thirty this time of year. I think the light starts to fade a bit maybe thirty minutes before that.”

  “Then this would have been before five.”

  “You got a pretty good look at my car?”

  “I did. It drove into the driveway, and fifteen or twenty minutes later it drove out.”

  “So you got a pretty good look at my car.” I took copies of one of my photographs to the prosecutor’s table and another to the judge. “May I?”

  Cochran nodded, and I took the third copy to Wilma. “This is the car you saw on Friday and again on the following Tuesday?” I asked.

  She balanced the photograph on the rail in front of her as she got her glasses out of her purse. With them on, she studied the photograph. “Yes, it is,” she said finally.

  “When you got a glimpse of the young woman on Friday…”

  “When I got a glimpse of you.”

  “Where was she? Getting into the car, getting out, going up the sidewalk?”

  She hesitated. “You were getting out of the car,” she said.

  “I guess the car was in your field of vison more constantly than the woman.”

  “Than you, you mean.”

  “But the car was sitting in the driveway in plain sight the whole time, wasn’t it?”

  I heard whispers passing between Biggs and Miller at the prosecutor’s table.

  “I suppose it was,” Wilma said.

  “And you just got the one glimpse of me as I was getting out of the car.”

  “I saw you well enough.”

  I was suggesting that Wilma’s identification was of a car rather than a person, and Biggs stood at his table, evidently seeing where this was going. “Your honor, I’d like Ms. Starling’s assurance that this photograph she’s presented to the witness is in fact a photograph of her car.”

  I smiled at him. “Your witness has identified it,” I said. “I move that the photograph be marked and admitted into evidence.”

  “I object until we know more about this photograph and when and where it was taken.”

  “Your honor,” I said. “I’m offering it merely as demonstrative evidence to illustrate the witness’s testimony. She has testified that it fairly and accurately depicts the vehicle about which she is testifying.”

  “Is it your car?” Biggs asked.

  “Your honor, I’m not under oath, and I can’t authenticate the photograph. Only the witness can.”

  The judge looked down at Wilma Henderson. “Is this the car you saw?”

  She now looked uncertain. “Yes, or one like it. Of course, it could have been a different car, but it was the same model.”

  “And the same color,” I told her confidently.

  Her nod was barely perceptible. “The same color,” she echoed.

  “Move for admission,” I said.

  The judge looked from me to Biggs. Everyone in the courtroom smelled a big, stinking rat, but finally he nodded. “Motion granted.”

  We waited while the photograph was marked.

  I produced another photograph, this one without me in it, and handed copies around. Biggs smacked his hand hard on the table, as I asked Wilma, “Can you tell me if you’ve ever seen this vehicle before?”

  “Your honor,” Biggs exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “This is just the kind of evidence tampering I was warning you about. Ms. Starling knew good and well that the photograph she introduced into evidence was not a picture of her car.”

  “I didn’t ask the witness if it was my car.”

  “You did.”

  “I asked her if it was the car she saw at Jack Packard’s house.”

  “But it was your car at Jack Packard’s house, and you know it. There were half-a-dozen police officers there in addition to Mrs. Henderson.”

  “That was on the Tuesday after the murder.”

  “But the witness also saw you on the Friday Macy Buck was murdered.”

  The judge cracked his gavel. “That’s enough. Please address all comments to the court.”

  Wilma Henderson was bent over the photographs, peering at them side by side. “I think it may have been two different cars I saw,” she said.

  I smiled at Aubrey Biggs. “Thank you,
Ms. Henderson. That will be all.”

  I went back to my table, and Biggs charged the podium. “Mrs. Henderson.”

  “Ms. Henderson,” she said. “I’m not married, but I don’t think it’s really anybody’s business whether I am or not.”

  “Ms. Henderson. Whether or not you are mistaken about the vehicle you saw…” Her nostrils flared. “…the fact remains that you saw Ms. Starling, the attorney for the defense, at the house of Jack Rupert on Friday, February 11.”

  She was glaring at him.

  “Isn’t that right? You saw Ms. Starling.”

  It was a leading question, but I held my objection.

  “I don’t know who I saw,” she said.

  “Oh, for the love of…” he threw up his hands and stormed back to his seat.

  “My witness?” I asked the judge.

  “Evidently. Yes, your witness.”

  I returned to the podium. “Both cars I showed you are important to the case,” I told Wilma Henderson. “One of them is mine; the other belongs to Macy Buck, the woman who was killed. You can see why it matters which car you saw on that Friday.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m five-eleven, pretty tall for a woman, and Macy Buck, the victim in this case, was probably six inches shorter. I know Mr. Packard’s driveway slopes down from the road pretty sharply. From where you were watching, were you in a position to judge the height of the women you saw?”

  Wilma chewed at her lip. “What color was this Macy Buck’s hair?”

  “It was blonde and straight, like mine.”

  “I reckon it could have been her then.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Henderson. We all appreciate your efforts to be scrupulously fair.”

  I returned to my seat. Aubrey Biggs was breathing heavily through his nose, and for nearly a minute we all sat and listened to him do it. Finally, the judge said, “Are you done with this witness?”

  Biggs gave a nod.

  “Ms. Henderson, you are excused. Mr. Biggs, are you now ready to rest your case?”

  Biggs looked at Miller, who gave a slight, encouraging nod.

  “The prosecution rests,” he said.

  “Very well.” Judge Cochran picked up his gavel.

  “Your honor?” I was on my feet.

  “Ms. Starling,” he said, rather ominously.

  “I have served two subpoenas on witnesses who don’t seem to be in court.”

  He put his gavel down. “Ms. Starling,” he said again, “this is a preliminary hearing. Its purpose…You know its purpose. Let me tell you what its purpose is not. A preliminary hearing is not a discovery tool. You can’t call witnesses just to hear what they have to say. The only evidence I’m going to let you put on is evidence that goes to the possible innocence of your clients—and given the evidence we’ve heard so far, I can tell you it isn’t going to be enough. Your clients are going to be bound over for trial in circuit court, so we might as well get on with it.”

  “Does that mean you’re keeping an open mind?” I said.

  For about ten seconds or so, we got to listen to the judge breathing. “Who have you subpoenaed?” he said finally.

  “Jared and Nathan Walsh.”

  “And who are Jared and Nathan Walsh?”

  “Cousins of the defendant Whitney Foster. Since this is a preliminary hearing, the prosecution hasn’t bothered to establish motive, but these two have the same motive they’re going to try to show for Whitney—and, by extension, Brian Marshall.”

  “That goes to the weight of the evidence, which is a question for the jury,” Cochran said. “You can’t call witnesses here just because they’ll be testifying at trial.”

  A voice from the gallery said, “I agree, your honor.” We all turned to look. It was Rupert Propst, standing in the aisle by the back row.

  “Who are you?” the judge asked.

  “Rupert Propst, your honor, attorney for Jared and Nathan Walsh. As you’ve so clearly stated, there is no question Ms. Starling could ask them that would be relevant at this hearing.”

  “Mr. Propst, if they’ve been served with a subpoena, they don’t get to make that determination. They have to appear.”

  “Both Jared and Nathan Walsh are busy men. To force them to come to court when there’s no purpose to be served would be a waste of the court’s time and theirs.”

  Cochran looked at me. “It’s your call, Ms. Starling. Do you want them?”

  “I do, your honor.”

  “I warn you, I’m not going to let you go on fishing expeditions. You’re going to be limited to eliciting testimony of an exculpatory nature.”

  I was silent. Cochran sighed.

  “Very well. Mr. Propst, produce your clients.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “What time was specified on the subpoena, Ms. Starling?”

  “One o’clock this afternoon.”

  “We’ll take a short recess, while I issue the necessary bench warrants.”

  He stood, and Propst said, “I can have them here in an hour, your honor.”

  The judge looked at him for a long moment. “Come here, Mr. Propst.” Judge Cochran remained standing while Rupert Propst came down the aisle and pushed through the bar. “Are you licensed to practice law in the state of Virginia?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Well, let me tell you, this isn’t how it’s practiced. I’ll give you an hour, but if they’re not here…” He looked at the clock. “If they’re not here by three o’clock, you yourself are going to jail for contempt of court. Understood?”

  Rupert’s Adam’s apple rose and fell beneath the waxy flesh of his neck. “Understood,” he said.

  Chapter 20

  Rupert Propst brought Jared and Nathan into the courtroom with less than three minutes to spare. The judge hadn’t come in yet, and after seating his clients in the front row, Rupert stalked over to me. “I know what you’re up to, Robin Starling. You’re out to smear my clients in an effort to exonerate your own.”

  I didn’t stand up, didn’t even look at him. “Go sit down, Rupert.”

  Instead he took a step sideways to move into my field of vision. “We’ve got to be careful with you, because you’re tricky. I know. I’ve looked you up.”

  “The wicked flee where none pursue,” I said, looking up.

  “What are you saying? Is that slander? Are you accusing my clients of something?”

  “It’s a proverb, I think. Google it.”

  The bailiff called the court to order, and Judge Cochran came in. He sat, lacing his hands in front of him. “Are these your clients?” he asked Rupert.

  They were.

  “Ms. Starling, are you ready to proceed?”

  I stood. “Call Jared Walsh,” I said.

  Jared came forward. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, a white shirt, a striped tie. In a bored voice he swore to tell the truth, and he took a seat in the witness box.

  “Hi Jared,” I said, giving him a smile he didn’t return. “Could you tell us your full name for the record?”

  “Jared Hunter Walsh.”

  “You were acquainted with the deceased, Macy Buck?”

  “I object,” Rupert said from the gallery, and Judge Cochran looked at him incredulously.

  “On what grounds?” he said.

  “On the grounds of relevancy. My client’s relationship with Macy Buck has nothing to do with the charges against these defendants.”

  “He had a relationship with Macy Buck?” I asked.

  “You see, your honor? See what she’s trying to intimate?”

  Cochran said, “She didn’t have to intimate anything. You're the one who just told us Jared Walsh had a relationship with Macy Buck.”

  “I did not have a relationship with her,” Jared said, speaking loudly.

  “Mr. Propst seems to know a lot about this. I think I’d like to call him to the stand,” I said. There were a few people in the gallery, and some of them laughed.

  “She was my un
cle’s therapist,” Jared said. “That’s all.”

  “Did you know she’d been suggesting to people that you killed your uncle?”

  “Don’t answer,” Rupert said, holding up both hands, and the judge banged his gavel.

  “That’s a lie,” Jared said.

  “Her suggestion that you killed your uncle was a lie?” I asked.

  “Objection,” Rupert said. “Don’t answer.”

  “Your suggestion that she said any such thing,” Jared said.

  The judge said, “Mr. Propst, you have no standing in this proceeding. Another interruption from you, and I will have you removed from this courtroom.”

  “But you’re honor, you can see what she’s doing.”

  “Bailiff,” the judge said.

  “I’ll be seated, I’ll be quiet.” Rupert moved to a seat beside Nathan in the front row and sat down.

  The judge took a slow breath. “You’ve been warned, Mr. Propst. Counselor?”

  “I’m not asking whether her comments had any basis in fact,” I said, “merely whether you were aware of what she’d been saying.”

  “I deny that she’d been saying any such thing.”

  “You, at any rate, had never heard it.”

  “I had not.”

  “Your uncle lived right across the street from you, did he not? As his therapist, Macy Buck visited him almost daily.”

  “I saw her from time to time. I wouldn’t know about the frequency of her visits.”

  “Did Macy and your uncle use your pool or your hot tub for water therapy or to soak tight joints or anything of that sort?”

  “No.”

  “Not that you’re aware of,” I said.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Your uncle was never in your hot tub before the day he was found floating in it. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t remember seeing him in it, that’s all. I don’t watch either him or my hot tub every second.”

  “Did you know Macy Buck was engaged to your brother Nathan?”

  He hesitated. “I did know it,” he said.

  “Your uncle was an old man who had several million dollars in assets. Her engagement to your brother might have given her certain expectations, mightn’t it?”