“No,” Klein said, shaking his head. He sat down.
“That’s what I figured,” the judge said. “All right then, off we go. Record will reflect each defendant joins in Mister Klein’s motion. Denied for reasons stated. Objections and exceptions noted.” To the bailiff he said: “Harry, bring the jury down.” Klein stood up. Bart held up his hand. He shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “No more on that. We’ve got a thrilling day ahead of us, way I understand it. Two forensic pathologists Mister Gleason has scheduled for our entertainment here. Can’t keep the docs just sitting around — they’ve got bodies piling up. Lots of color photographs, maybe even a ballistician. No more arguments this forenoon. Bring the jury down.”
15
Tpr. June McNeil crowded her way into the small office along with Gleason, Richards and O’Malley during the luncheon recess. She looked at the sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper on the table, and the three cans of Coke. “You guys,” she said, “you guys didn’t get me a sandwich?”
Richards looked sheepish. “Didn’t think of it,” he said. “Sorry — I’ll split mine with you, you like.”
“Don’t do it, babe,” O’Malley said. “You haven’t had one these sandwiches. Somebody forgets to get you one of these, you should count your blessings.”
“That bad, huh?” she said. “Well, I should watch my weight anyway, I guess.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” O’Malley said, looking her up and down. “You look pretty healthy to me.”
She patted him on the right shoulder. “Now, don’t get piggy, Ed,” she said. “You know I’ve always looked up to you as my father figure. Don’t go and spoil it all now.” Gleason and Richards laughed.
She removed a small spiral notebook from her purse. “Okay,” she said, “since there’s no sandwich — might as well go to work. Here is what we’ve got. The girl, the young woman, is Christina Walker. New York driver’s license gives her DOB as March eighth, Nineteen-fifty-three. Address: Two-twenty-one Sutton Place. Has an outdated student ID card, New England Conservatory, Music. Also current telephone bill addressed to her, One-eighty-nine Commonwealth Avenue. No car registration — in her bag, at least. Height: five-five. Weight: one twenty-eight. Eyes: brown. Same color hair.” She looked up at the men. “Uses Clinique cosmetics and Ortho contraceptive foam. I wasn’t able to get her measurements,” she said. “We were kind of pressed for time, and I didn’t want to make it seem like I was nosy, or something.”
The men snickered. “Brazen little hussy, isn’t she?” Gleason said.
“Or a Girl Scout,” McNeil said. “We like to be prepared, too, you know. And besides, when we go out in the morning, we don’t usually expect some cop to go through our bags that day.
“Now, I’m assuming she’s the defendant’s sister,” she said. “Cowboy Fred’s running her, NCIC, this afternoon. He already ran her, Ten-ten’s computer, and came up dry — no record here, at least.
“The older couple,” she said. “Walter J. Tibbetts. Mass, driver’s license, DOB March fourteen, Nineteen-seventeen. Home address: Twenty-one Larch Street, Longmeadow, Massachusetts. Also has employee ID card, Monsanto Company. Weight: one-sixty-five. Height: five-ten. Hair: grey — and losing it, I might add. Must wear corrective lenses. Woman: Ellen D. Tibbetts. No driver’s license. I asked her about that and she said it makes her too nervous when she drives — had one, but gave it up two years ago. Showed me a Mastercard with her name on it, and an ID card from the BayBank Hampden County, same address as Walter’s. Both of them very scared. Timid. Nervous. But also: bold. Wanted to know why I was writing all this stuff down. Told her it was so we wouldn’t have to ask for ID every time anyone passed through — that the people we’d IDed could just walk through the detectors, once we had their names. She wasn’t pleased at all. Grabbed her handbag back, gave me the gargoyle stare, went inside. I’m assuming these’re the defendant’s mother and father, so I didn’t bother to have Fred run them. Think I should do that?”
Richards glanced at Gleason. “Nah,” he said, as Richards shook his head. “I don’t see any point. I would like as much as you can dig up on the girl, though — wouldn’t you say, John?”
“Uh huh,” Richards said. “Could be one those females we never did catch up with, identify, on the early robberies. Or: one the support staff. She decides, Morrissey or one of them guys decides might be a good idea, put her on the stand, maybe bolster Sam’s claim of being nutty, or strung out on drugs, could be very useful — a good dirty file on her.”
“Such as: her sex life?” McNeil said. “You would do that, Terry?”
He shrugged. “If I thought it’d help? Sure. She gets up there on her nice legs and starts telling lies for one these bastards, it’d be real helpful for the jury to know if she used to spread them for him.”
“Or for one the women, too, far as that goes,” Richards said.
“Nice to know what nice fellas I’m working with,” McNeil said.
“Nice to keep in mind, too,” Richards said, “what kinda nasty bastards the fellas that you’re working with’re actually up against. You think a murderer’d shrink from perjury, if he thought it’d help?”
McNeil drew a deep breath. “Okay,” she said, “there’s a friend of mine — when I was auditing that criminal law course at Northeastern Law, I met this Fiona Campbell. We used to have coffee. She’s with the Bureau now. I could just romp on over to Government Center this afternoon. Or call her up. See what the Feds’ve got.”
“They won’t give it to you,” Richards said. “If they haven’t, if it’s not in NCIC, and they’ve got it, then they’re either not sure enough of it to let it out — and they’re afraid if someone else gets ahold of it the Bureau’ll look silly — or they’re hoarding it because they think it might make them a splashy case or two.”
“Oh, John,” McNeil said, “they’re not like that any more. They don’t hoard stuff now.”
“Not much, they don’t,” Richards said. “You can tell me that all you want, June, and I’ll never believe it. The only change there’s been is that now they claim they’re sharing, which they didn’t used to do. And, which’s supposed to make us feel so good we won’t pay attention, catch them holding back, just the same’s they’ve always done. They haven’t gotten different — they’re just craftier.”
“Fiona wouldn’t do that,” McNeil said. “Fiona’s a friend of mine. We play on a level field.”
“I know who she is,” Richards said. “Met her one day, over Larry Badger’s place. She was sucking his brains out through a little silver tube or something she’d inserted in his ear, and Larry — good old Larry — hasn’t changed a bit. You ever start getting concerned, Terry, when you get a little older, that your dick might start to get as old and soft as your brains’re getting, go over and see Larry. Smart as hell, even though I don’t think he can actually read.…”
“He can’t read, John?” O’Malley said. “This’s Larry Badger that we’re talking about here, and you’re telling me he can’t read? Guy’s a fuckin’ genius. If Larry Badger doesn’t know it’s going on, it’s not fuckin’ going on. And his nephew’s maybe even smarter. Don’t tell me they can’t read.”
“Ed, you know,” Richards said, “you oughta let me finish, all right? Larry’s got a, he’s got one of those learning disability things they’re always hollering about all the time. He’s dyslexic. I didn’t say he was stupid — I said he can’t read very well.
“Anyway,” Richards said, “I went over there, nothing much on my mind. Shoot the shit with Larry, see what he’s following. Larry calls us now and then; we call him now and then. So I’m showing the flag. And this Fiona babe is in there, giving him the treatment, purging his fuckin’ brain, and him just loving it. You show Larry Badger a good-looking woman, boy, and Larry’ll give you the store, plus the shed out in back to go with it. Absolute slave to his pecker.”
“Well, there now, you see?” McNeil said. “She’s doing the same kind of thing you do, and yo
u don’t think she’s smart?”
“You’re worse’n O’Malley, McNeil,” Richards said. “You got to learn to pay attention. She may be smart enough — I don’t really know. All I’m trying to say here is: I was not impressed. Woman doesn’t have to be very smart to figure Larry Badger. Mae West’s old line? ‘You carrying a revolver or are you just glad to see me?’ That’s the way he is.”
“Well,” McNeil said, “if you don’t know her well enough to say whether she’s smart, why don’t you like her?”
“Didn’t say I didn’t like her,” Richards said. “Just said I was not impressed. And that, that’s I guess because she struck me as a dilettante. I bet it costs more to dress her’n it costs to rig Consolo, and that, friends, is a lot. I don’t like rich people, men or women, who come into my line of work and start foolin’ around in it, killing some time, just because they happen to be rich, and they’re bored, and they think they’ll play policeman for a while — just to get cheap thrills and kicks. Dabblers. Not reliable in a pinch. You can’t count on the bastards, any line of work — and I don’t care what it is — where you’ve some fuckin’ hobbyist messing around on a serious job.”
“Well,” McNeil said, “but she is rich. What’s she supposed to do? Hide it? Dress like a bag-lady, so the rest of us that have to work for a living won’t be envious?”
“No,” Richards said, “I’m not saying that. It’s just … I don’t trust her, I guess. I’m saying I don’t trust her. She’s too, she’s too damn slick, and too damned smooth, and she makes it just a little too apparent that she’s just slumming for a while in this darling little trade.” He shifted to an adenoidal honk. “I can just hear her telling some hoity-toity dinner table in New York: ‘But Muffy, really, dear. They’re all so original. I mean: truly, Muffy, truly, simply fascinating.’ ”
O’Malley and Gleason were laughing.
“But that’s exactly what I mean, John,” McNeil said. “That’s why I mentioned her. She’s from that Walker world. The one that old James used to live in, anyway — before he became a robber. All those people know each other. If Christina’s kept her name off the blotters in the precinct houses, and I’m betting that she has, the only way we’re going to get a decent file on her is talk to people who know where she’s been, what she’s been doing, for the past few years. Has she been out of sight? Did she bag out for a while? I don’t move in Muffy’s circles. If Christina took a sabbatical for a while, to go rob armored cars, and no one managed to catch her; well, wouldn’t it be interesting to know?”
Richards gazed at her. He nodded. “You know, Trooper McNeil,” he said, “you have got the makings of a pretty damned good cop — unless you let some old Loot that thinks he knows everything, go and screw up your head. Yeah,” he said, glancing at Gleason, who nodded. “Yeah, go and see Fiona. See what kinda lint you pick up on this Creole-looking kid.”
SEPTEMBER 14, 1978
16
O’Malley completed his second appearance as a witness in Commonwealth v. Tibbetts at 3:55 in the afternoon. He left the witness stand and Gleason returned to the prosecution table. “Mister Gleason,” Judge Bart said to his back, “do you have another witness?”
Gleason turned. “I’m sorry, your Honor — may I have a moment?”
“Certainly,” the judge said.
Gleason leaned over the table and whispered to Richards. “Well, John, whaddaya think?”
“That’s what I’d like to do, Terry,” Richards said. “Lock it up for the day. Go back the office. Have a pow-wow. He nails you to do it, though: I’d rest. True artist is the one who knows when to stop. That’s what I would do.”
Gleason turned and faced the bench. “Your Honor,” he said, “Lieutenant O’Malley was the Commonwealth’s last witness for the day.”
Bigelow was on his feet at once. “Your Honor,” he said, “is the defense to conclude from that that the Commonwealth has rested?”
“Oh,” the judge said, “I shouldn’t think so. Mister Gleason seems fairly articulate. I imagine when he rests his case, he will so state in plain terms. He hasn’t done it yet, though — at least, that I have heard.”
“Because,” Bigelow said, “while I have several motions to present as soon as that does happen, and wish to be heard on them, and assume other defense counsel will also have such motions, it would be helpful for all of us in planning for tomorrow if the Commonwealth would specify whether it intends to present further evidence. In the case-in-chief.”
“Seems reasonable, Mister Bigelow,” the judge said. “Care to respond to that, Mister Gleason?”
“Happy to, your Honor,” Gleason said. “What I’d like to do, with the Court’s permission, is hedge a little bit. We’re close to the regular hour for recessing for the day. With the Court’s indulgence, therefore, and in the belief that it’s unlikely to prejudice any rights of the defendants, I’d request that I be permitted to defer until the morning my decision on whether to rest.”
“You may wish to call further witnesses?” Judge Bart said. “My notes indicate you’ve presented all those you enumerated in your opening statement.”
“In answer to your question, your Honor,” Gleason said, “I may. In response to your observations: I have. I will state at this time, as courtesy to Mister Bigelow and other counsel, that I do not at this time contemplate calling further witnesses. In all probability, the Commonwealth will rest tomorrow morning. If I do decide to offer additional evidence, it will be brief.”
The judge nodded. Bigelow said: “Well? Which is it, then? Is he is, or is he ain’t?”
“Ain’t’s the way I take it,” the judge said.
“Well, that’s not fair,” Bigelow said. “How’re we supposed to plan, what we’re going to do, if we don’t know what he is? How can we do that?”
“Mister Bigelow,” the judge said, “you have adequate information. Mister Gleason has said he thinks he’ll rest, first light. But that if he does not, what he offers will be brief. Therefore I should think what you’d do, and the others on your side, would be to call a huddle tonight — get your ducks into a row, and who will do it first. If you think you’ll need witnesses tomorrow, after you’ve done that, by all means, call your witnesses, and have them sitting here.”
“That’s not much help, your Honor,” Bigelow said.
“Well, I’m sorry if you think that, Mister Bigelow,” the judge said. “I’m sure Mister Gleason intended to be helpful, and I know that I did. But this is an imperfect world — it’s possible we’ve failed. And I want to add, for the record, and for the jury to hear as well, that I thank each of the counsel for their economical approach to cross-examination, and their evident effort to avoid duplication in the questions they have put. Now, is that all, Mister Bigelow?”
Bigelow scowled. He nodded and sat down.
The judge turned toward the jury. “Now, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “as you’ve just heard, the Commonwealth’s just about finished presenting its case, and as far as I’m concerned, everything’s just gone along perfectly so far. I have a few more housekeeping conversations to conduct with counsel, for which there’s no need that you be present, so I’m going to excuse you now until tomorrow. The officers tell me that you’re all going to the ballgame tonight, which indicates to me that you are either very courageous men and women who are able to handle dismay, or that you suffer from the same morbid curiosity that I have — which is how on earth a team fourteen-and-a-half games ahead at the All-Star break can find itself engaged in a bitter pennant fight in September. If any of you figures that out tonight, please address a note to me through the bailiff.” The jury grinned. “Jury’s excused,” the judge said. “Court will remain in session.
“Now,” the judge said to the lawyers, when the jury had filed from the room, “I know all of you are hardworking, diligent people, and I respect you for that. Respect you enough so that I’d like to spare you unnecessary labor, and going without sleep. I’ve kept careful notes of the eviden
ce presented by the Commonwealth. While I neither wish nor expect to discourage any of you from filing motions for directed verdicts of acquittal, based on insufficiency of the evidence, I think you should know that I’ve already decided the Commonwealth has made out a prima facie case. Viewed in the light most favorable to the Commonwealth, the evidence presented in the case-in-chief, together with all inferences reasonably to be drawn therefrom, would warrant a reasonable man or woman in finding each of the defendants guilty as charged, beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m not saying they will, that this jury will so find — I am saying that if they do, they have the grounds to do so. In other words, Mister Gleason in my estimation has lobbed this one over the rail. There will consequently be no directed verdict of not guilty. This one’s going to the jury.”
Gleason and Richards stared straight ahead.
“If you have other reasons to cite for a directed verdict,” the judge said, “I will hear them with great interest. Because insufficiency’s the one I’m most familiar with, and you haven’t got it there. Present any papers you have, tomorrow, and if you’ve already prepared briefs, submit them. But understand, as you do so: you’re traveling uphill.
“Now,” the judge said, “how else may I be helpful?”
Bigelow stood. “Your Honor,” he said, “I intend to ask the Court tomorrow to permit Mister Walker to make an allocution to the jury. Not that the Court permit Mister Walker to do it tomorrow, but that the Court put it on the record that you intend to allow Mister Walker that opportunity at some point before this matter goes to the jury.”
The judge’s eyebrows went up. “Do I have your word, Mister Bigelow,” he said, “that he’ll behave himself? Because you, and he, have my word, Mister Bigelow, that if he does not, if he takes this as another opportunity to put on a display similar to the one he started this trial with, I will have him clapped in irons and carted away, in full view of the jury. Is that understood?”
Outlaws (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard) Page 14