City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  And so Sloate discovered the pleasures of manipulation of humanity, of the elimination of competition. It wasn't too long afterward that he read Charles Darwin, and his philosophy of life was soon complete.

  All of life is a struggle to survive and thrive. If you don't eliminate those who threaten you, you die. The world belongs to the strong.

  Now, sitting in his office, Sloate knew he had come to another situation that would have to be dealt with. He knew the Shannon girl wouldn't say anything about the encounter. Women simply did not discuss such matters. It would be shameful.

  Even if she did, no one would believe her. The word of a young snipe from back East against that of Heath Sloate, one of the most respected men in the community, indeed, the state? He was confident even Kit would know that would be no use.

  He wondered if he should immediately report that she had attacked him. He could easily carry out the lie, but there would be questions raised. The biddies would begin to gossip and perhaps speculate about what Sloate might have done. In many ways, gossip was worse than a lawsuit. You could silence the law by a favorable verdict; not so the mouths of society busybodies.

  He would have to get rid of Kit Shannon. Her independent streak was like a loose cannon, and if she stayed in the city and, worse, were ever to make it to the bar, she could become a true annoyance at best, a career-wrecker at worst. Once she gained professional credibility her accusations against him would become correspondingly believable.

  She would have to be stopped now. At this stage, it wouldn't be difficult. And he had the perfect vehicle for it in the palm of his hand—Frederica Fairbank. In addition to getting his hands on her money, Sloate now envisioned another use for the old battle-ax. He would subtly poison her against her great-niece. She would withdraw her sponsorship of Miss Kit Shannon, and the girl would be forced to leave the city.

  Simple, elegant, and as easy as snatching a snuffbox off a desk. The strong eliminating the weak. Sloate smiled and noticed that his head felt much better.

  Chapter Seven

  WHEN KIT ENTERED the courtroom, a buff-colored chamber with a high ceiling and a long row of deep-set windows with plush, brown curtains, she felt nearly breathless. The man leading her in was Earl Rogers himself, the one Corazón had called a devil. But he didn't seem devilish, at least not yet. And here she was, about to watch him conduct a murder trial! Kit could hear her aunt's voice: "The very idea!"

  Rogers said, "I'll leave you here now, but let's talk afterward." And with that he headed up the center aisle.

  Kit looked around the courtroom, which held rows of wooden seats, nearly all filled with spectators. Just past the front row, Kit saw the three-foot carved railing called the bar, with its swinging gate for the lawyers to pass through.

  "There's a seat for you there, miss," a man in a blue uniform said, pointing to an empty chair in the back row. "You'll be set for an afternoon's entertainment."

  "Thank you," Kit said, feeling at once completely out of place and immensely curious. The back row, all men, stood politely as she made her way to the chair. The looks on their faces told her she was a bit of an oddity, a young lady at a murder trial. She tried not to look nervous.

  Kit took in everything in the room, from the judge's elevated bench to the somber jury box, now empty, with its twelve dark chairs. And then the counsel tables where an older gentleman, wearing a dark suit, stood chatting with some men in the first row. Rogers had headed to the other table and removed his hat, revealing black hair parted in the middle. Seated in a chair, with a policeman standing at the side, was a young man whom Rogers patted on the back.

  "Well, I'll be hanged," a voice near her said.

  Turning, Kit saw a familiar face seated at the other end of her row looking her way. It was the reporter, the one she'd met on the train. Phelps, wasn't it? In a second he was standing, requesting that the other men move so he could be seated next to her. They grumbled but complied. Kit noticed they all had pencils and papers.

  "So you didn't take my advice," Tom Phelps said. "You're still here."

  Kit smiled graciously. "I am."

  "Fascinating. And now you're here to watch this shooting star, Earl Rogers, get his comeuppance?"

  Her curiosity piqued even more, Kit said, "How is that?"

  "Oh, we all thought he was unbeatable. That's all about to change, miss. You see that gentleman up there?" Phelps pointed to the older, stout man. "That's former Senator Stephen W. Garber. He's handling the prosecution of Mr. William Adair for the cold-blooded shooting of Mr. Jerome Hammon. And the evidence of guilt is overwhelming. There is no way out of this one. Adair's head is as good as in the noose."

  Conflicting emotions charged through Kit. She found herself feeling sympathy for Rogers, who had been so charming to her, yet also a vague sense of repulsion. If the defendant was clearly guilty, then he should be found guilty. How would justice be served if Rogers prevailed?

  Phelps seemed about to say something more when a back door opened and an older gentleman with a head of full white hair and an elegant mustache entered. "Remain seated and come to order," the clerk of the court said. "This court is once again in session."

  The older gentleman sat down in the judge's chair and said, "Bring back the jury." The clerk left, and a few moments later twelve men entered the courtroom and took their places in the jury box.

  The judge then addressed the prosecutor. "Senator Garber, you may continue with your examination of Dr. Khurtz."

  "Thank you, Your Honor," Garber said, standing. His voice was resonant and full of confidence. He turned to a man in the front row. "Dr. Khurtz, will you please resume the stand?"

  The man walked through the gate and took a seat on the witness chair. He was around forty and looked composed and alert.

  Kit leaned forward in her chair, mesmerized.

  "Now, Doctor," Garber began as he strutted up and down in front of the jury, "when we broke you were describing the entry wound of the victim, Jerome Hammon."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you have determined that he died from a bullet wound, is that correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And can you describe for the gentlemen of the jury the direction from which the bullet entered Mr. Hammon?"

  "It would have been a downward direction."

  "I see. So the shot that killed Jerome Hammon was fired from a man standing in front of him, firing downward into his stomach. Is that right?" Garber questioned.

  "Yes, sir."

  Garber, a smug look across his face, whirled toward Earl Rogers and said, "Take the witness!"

  Phelps leaned over toward Kit and whispered, "They've already established Adair shot the gun. He's done for."

  Kit watched as Earl Rogers stood up. In order to move past his table, he turned slightly toward the gallery, and for a quick moment glanced her way. Kit thought she saw the hint of a smile on his lips, as if signaling to her that he knew something no one else did.

  Rogers strode toward the witness and then stopped. From a vest pocket he withdrew a gold lorgnette tethered to his vest by a black ribbon. He put the eyeglasses to his face and peered at the witness as if studying him. The entire courtroom held a collective breath.

  He shoved the lorgnette back into his pocket and said, ever so politely, "Good afternoon, Dr. Khurtz."

  "Good afternoon, sir."

  "We have heard you this morning, and just now, describe the wounds of Jerome Hammon. But we haven't heard you describe the wounds to my client, Mr. Adair."

  "No one has asked me."

  "May I be so bold?" Rogers bowed slightly.

  "Of course."

  Kit cast a quick glance at Stephen Garber. The prosecutor shifted slightly in his chair, poised to catch every word.

  "You also made an examination of Mr. Adair after the shooting, did you not?"

  "I did."

  "And you made a written description for the police?"

  "Yes," the doctor said.

  "Mr. Adai
r suffered several wounds to his head and face, is that right?"

  "Yes."

  Rogers turned from the witness and strode to the prosecution's table. His grace was elegant, Kit thought. Rogers reached under the table and withdrew a cane with a thick gold knob and returned to the witness.

  "This is Mr. Hammon's cane," Rogers said. "According to your written report to the police, the wounds inflicted upon Mr. Adair are consistent with being struck with a cane."

  "Yes, sir."

  Handing the cane to the witness, Rogers said, "And what part of the cane was that."

  "Objection!" Garber shouted. "It has not been established that the defendant was struck with that particular cane."

  The judge nodded. "Sustained."

  "Let me rephrase," said Rogers. "If, hypothetically speaking, a cane hypothetically similar to this one were used on Mr. Adair, which hypothetical part of the cane would that have been?"

  Most of the jury and spectators began to laugh. Kit felt a broad smile on her face, as well. Garber looked as if he might object again but held back.

  The witness held up the cane and pointed to the shaft near the tip. "It would have been around here," he said.

  "In other words," said Rogers, "not the handle."

  "Correct."

  "The wounds would have been inflicted by someone striking Mr. Adair several times while holding it like a weapon, correct?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Rogers took the cane and turned to Garber. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

  Once more, laughter filled the courtroom. This time the judge gaveled for order.

  To Kit it was clear that Rogers had scored several points, though she wasn't sure of the significance. At the very least he was holding the entire courtroom in the palm of his hand. It was almost like a revival preacher captivating a tent full of rustic sinners.

  "Your Honor," said Earl Rogers, "at this time the defense would like to present an exhibit for the doctor to examine."

  As if this were simple routine, the judge said, "You may present."

  Earl Rogers looked toward the back of the courtroom and motioned someone to come forward. Kit turned, with everyone else, toward the doors. A rough-looking man, obviously uncomfortable in his gabardine suit, entered the courtroom carrying something covered by burlap. It was the approximate size of a loaf of bread.

  "My associate, Mr. Jory," Rogers told the court.

  The judge seemed as fascinated with the mysterious package as everyone else. The only face that showed any animosity belonged to Stephen Garber.

  The man Jory, at Rogers' direction, placed the exhibit in the middle of the counsel table.

  "And now, if I may question the good doctor," said Rogers, "on his very own findings."

  With that, Rogers reached down and dramatically snatched the burlap cover from the object on his table. Kit strained to see, but her vision was obscured by two men in front of her.

  She did hear a shriek from a woman in the front row and a collective gasp from just about everyone else. The faces of the twelve jurors were pictures of wide-eyed incredulity.

  Immediately Stephen Garber was on his feet, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Your Honor, I protest! This is outrageous!"

  Not able to stand it any longer, Kit jumped to her feet so she could see the object of so much commotion. And see it she did, though she had never seen anything like it before.

  It was a large jar filled with clear liquid and stuffed with what looked like dead snakes.

  Immediately the judge banged his gavel and shouted, "I will have order here!" The room became immediately silent. And then Kit realized the judge was staring directly at her. "Young woman, you will please take your seat!"

  Earl Rogers turned and looked at her. She felt her cheeks catch fire as the debonair attorney, blue eyes glistening, smiled.

  She dropped back in her seat, wishing it were in a ten-foot hole.

  "Now explain yourself, Mr. Rogers," the judge said.

  "Why, of course, Your Honor," said Rogers. "In this jar are the intestines of the deceased, Mr. Jerome Hammon."

  Another gasp from the spectators. Garber slammed his hand on his table with a loud thwack. "This is unholy, Your Honor!"

  Rogers smiled at Garber. "Say, Steve, you're not trying to keep evidence from the jury, are you?"

  Wagging his finger at Rogers, Garber shouted, "Grave robber! Ghoul!"

  "I claim no such honorifics, Judge!" Rogers said sharply. "Chief Autopsy Surgeon Khurtz has testified that the bullet from my client's gun ranged downward, that it must have been fired from above to penetrate the intestines as he found them. I propose now, by this medical exhibit, to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the bullet didn't go down at all. It ranged up!"

  In the stunned silence that followed, Steve Garber could only whisper, "You're out of your mind."

  "Your Honor, the prosecution's entire case rests on the surmise that the bullet could not have been fired by Mr. Adair as he lay on the floor being attacked by Hammon. I propose to prove to the jury that it couldn't have been fired from anywhere else. My client's life depends on my ability to prove what I just said. I'm offering the best possible evidence, the bullet's actual path through the actual intestines of the deceased, which I have had delivered here by court order from the coroner."

  "Your Honor," Garber said weakly, "if you please!"

  The judge ran one finger across his mustache as he scowled at Earl Rogers. He repeated that gesture several times over the next minute, which seemed to stretch out endlessly. Then quickly he said, "Mr. Rogers, you may proceed."

  "I object!" Garber shouted, "I object with the utmost vehemence, Your Honor!"

  "Your vehemence will be noted by the reporter," said the judge. "Go ahead, Mr. Rogers."

  Bowing to the judge and then to Garber, Earl Rogers once again approached Dr. Khurtz.

  "Dr. Khurtz, you were present at the autopsy of the deceased, were you not?"

  The obviously flustered witness said, "Yes, sir."

  Rogers took the jar from his table and carried it to the witness. "I show you now the defense exhibit, containing the intestines of Jerome Hammon. Doctor, do you see an entry wound in what is commonly called the bowels?"

  The doctor, along with the jurors, leaned forward. "Yes, I do."

  Rogers turned the jar and held it up higher. "And do you see the exit wound?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And you have testified that the only way to explain the relationship between these two wounds is that the bullet ranged downward, correct?"

  "That is correct."

  "Sir," Rogers said, "will you please come stand next to me?"

  The confused witness looked toward Stephen Garber. The prosecutor waved his hand. "Go along with Mr. Rogers' circus," he said.

  "Thanks, Steve," Rogers said as Dr. Khurtz joined him. "Now, Doctor, please face the jury."

  Khurtz obeyed, albeit slowly.

  "I will hold the jar in front of my body, in the position where the intestines would normally be. With your finger please show the jury the approximate path of the bullet as it entered Mr. Hammon."

  Using his right index finger, Khurtz pointed to the jar of intestines at a forty-five degree angle from above, tracing the air until he touched the glass where the bullet wound showed.

  "Now, Doctor, will you please trace the path of the bullet again." And before Khurtz could react, Rogers turned the jar upside down. The contents moved slightly, causing a woman in the front row to squeal.

  Khurtz shook his head. "But I can't."

  "Of course you can. Holding them this way, the bullet would have traveled what direction?"

  "Up, but—"

  Rogers reached into Khurtz's pocket and removed a fountain pen. He placed in on the floor in front of Khurtz's feet. "Would you be so kind as to pick up your pen, Doctor?"

  Khurtz hesitated, shrugged, and then leaned over. Just as his fingers reached the pen, Rogers shouted, "Stop!" Khurtz froze in his position,
and before anyone could react, including Garber, Rogers continued. "In this position, Dr. Khurtz, as you are bending over with your shoulders below your waist, the position of your intestines is precisely as appears in this overturned jar. Is that not correct?"

  Slowly, the light of realization across his face, Khurtz stood up. His fountain pen remained at his feet.

  "I object to this sideshow!" Garber cried. But it was too late. The expression on the judge's face showed that the trap had already been sprung.

  "Overruled," the judge said.

  Rogers did not hesitate. "And so, if Mr. Hammon was leaning over the prostrate body of Mr. Adair, beating him about the head, and Mr. Adair fired up, the trajectory of the bullet would be exactly as it is, in fact, represented right here!"

  He held the jar aloft like a trophy.

  "That is correct," Khurtz said quietly.

  "No further questions," said Rogers triumphantly. As he returned to his chair he paused to face the gallery, like an actor at a curtain call. And then he smiled at Kit—and winked!

  Kit realized her heart was racing as if she'd just run up a hill.

  "Well, I'll be hanged," she heard Phelps say.

  Chapter Eight

  EVENTS AFTER THE THRILLING afternoon in court followed quickly. After adjournment, the gathered reporters rushed to Earl Rogers, seeking comment. It was as if the Maine had blown up right in this courtroom, and Rogers was holding the dynamite.

  Then Rogers, asking for patience, strode to the back row to ask Kit if she would join him for dinner, and said she really had no choice because he would not take no for an answer, and she had found herself saying yes.

  She knew why, too. What she had just experienced was an epiphany, and it felt to her like a pillar of cloud, a sign from God. Everyone in that courtroom, including herself, had assumed the defendant was guilty. Public comment and opinion made it a foregone conclusion.

  Then Earl Rogers had struck. With cunning cross-examination and a ploy more outrageous than she could have imagined—the dead man's insides!—he had turned the entire matter on its head.