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

by James Scott Bell

  "Yes, that is consistent."

  "Doctor, do you have an opinion as to the direction of the knife? Did it pass from the victim's left to right, or the other way?"

  Sloate stood up before the witness could answer. "I object," he said. "The purpose here is to establish that the victim died by criminal act. That has been established. Mr. Rogers is now conducting a full blown cross-examination."

  "If I may," Rogers said to the judge. "My purpose is to see that this investigation was properly handled and to prevent any change of story at midstream."

  "Your Honor!" Sloate exploded. He pointed at Rogers. "This man is questioning my integrity!"

  "Now, now," Judge Ganges said. "Settle down. I'm going to allow Mr. Rogers a little bit of room, but not much. Go ahead, sir."

  Sloate huffed and sat down heavily, folding his arms.

  Rogers resumed with the witness. "Your answer then, sir? In what direction did the knife travel across the unfortunate victim's throat?"

  Smith squirmed slightly on the stand, and Kit knew at once that Rogers had laid a trap. If Smith did not answer specifically, it would seem to the court—and later, to the jurors—that the coroner had not been careful enough in his investigation. But if he did answer, that would have the consequence of fixing the response permanently on the record. That would give Rogers ample time to analyze things every which way before the trial.

  "Well," Smith said, clearing his throat and looking at his notes, "it appears to me that the knife was drawn across the throat from the victim's right side to her left side."

  "Are you absolutely sure of that?"

  Again, Smith shifted his weight. "Yes, sir."

  Added Rogers, "When the carotid artery is severed in this manner, the blood is forced outward in a violent fashion, is it not?"

  "Yes, that is the case."

  "In medical terms you call that . . . ?" Rogers prompted.

  "Excuse me?"

  "It is called projection, I believe."

  "Oh yes, yes, quite right, yes."

  Kit marveled at how easily Earl Rogers could control a witness. She remembered what Melle Stanleyetta Titus had told her in one of her law classes: Cross-examination was the greatest engine for truth known to man. It was under cross-examination that the weaknesses of a story, if any, were exposed. Anyone who thought he could easily skate around Earl Rogers would have a rude awakening on the witness stand.

  "No further questions," Rogers said. As he returned to his chair he looked at Kit, and his eyes twinkled.

  She heard a voice behind her. "Masterful," it said in a rich baritone.

  Turning, she was shocked to see John Barrymore.

  "What . . ." she stammered, feeling her face flush.

  "It is a pleasure to see you again."

  Kit turned back around and told herself to gain control over her racing heart.

  Sloate's next witness was a young and rugged-looking police officer named Terrence O'Toole. He was the officer who discovered the body of Millie Ryan. Sloate led him through the narrative, including his interview of Rita Alonzo, stopping when O'Toole summoned another officer to the scene so he could report to headquarters.

  Once more, Rogers stood up to question a witness. Kit saw O'Toole assume a position like a fighter. No doubt he had been warned to be wary of Earl Rogers.

  "Officer O'Toole," Rogers said, "how long have you been a police officer?"

  "Just short of four years."

  "How did you happen to end up on the Los Angeles police force?"

  "End up?"

  "Yes. How did you get the job?"

  "Why, I applied and was accepted."

  "Who conducted your interview, if you recall?"

  O'Toole looked quickly at Sloate, his combative demeanor fading a bit. Sloate said, "Your Honor, this is simply irrelevant. Officer O'Toole's background is not the least bit important to this matter."

  "Let me decide what is important, Mr. Sloate," Judge Ganges said. "Mr. Rogers, where are you going with this line of questioning?"

  "Qualifications, Your Honor," Rogers said. "Officer O'Toole's experience may indeed be an issue, depending on what he did at the scene."

  "All right," said the judge. "A few more questions, then move on."

  "Thank you. Officer O'Toole, who conducted your interview?"

  "Chief Hoover."

  "That would be Chief of Police Orel Hoover?"

  "Yes."

  "That's not usually what the chief does, is it? Interview candidates?"

  "I'm sure I don't know, sir."

  "But I'm sure you were honored to be so privileged."

  O'Toole shrugged his shoulders.

  "By the by, Officer, where were you before you attained this position you now hold?"

  "I lived in New York City."

  "Ah. On the police force there, were you?"

  "Briefly."

  "How brief?" Rogers questioned.

  "A year, maybe a little more."

  "And what occasioned your leaving New York for our fair city?"

  "Change of scenery."

  "Grew tired of New York, did you?"

  "I wanted a change. New York was too crowded."

  Rogers paused in an attitude of skepticism. Then he said, "Now, you told us about your interview with Rita Alonzo, the eyewitness to this crime."

  "Yes."

  "How extensive was this interview?"

  "Extensive?"

  "How long did it last?"

  "Oh, I don't know, a goodly time."

  "How long, sir?"

  "I wasn't looking at a timepiece."

  Rogers sighed. "Give us an estimate. Was it more on the order of ten minutes or an hour?"

  "I would have to say more like an hour."

  "How much more like?"

  O'Toole scowled and said, "Very like, Mr. Rogers."

  "I see. You did a thorough job."

  "Yes, I did."

  "And what you told this court on direct examination was everything of importance, isn't that true?"

  "True, sir."

  "I don't remember you stating that Rita Alonzo saw blood."

  "Blood?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, she was never in the room."

  "I mean on the defendant, on his clothes."

  A light seemed to go off in O'Toole's eyes, as if he knew he was in the thick of something he had not foreseen. His face contorted slightly as he looked toward Heath Sloate. On that cue, Sloate stood up.

  "There was no blood to be seen, Your Honor," Sloate said.

  Rogers exploded. "Your Honor! Mr. Sloate is testifying for the witness!"

  "Gentlemen," Judge Ganges said, "if you please! Officer O'Toole, answer the question. Did the witness, whatever her name is, mention anything about blood on the defendant?"

  "No," O'Toole answered confidently.

  John Barrymore whispered to Kit, "Infidel."

  Rogers, eyes ablaze, announced, "Nothing further!"

  After he had stormed back to his chair, Heath Sloate rose easily. "That concludes the People's case, Your Honor."

  Ganges looked at Rogers. "Anything further, Mr. Rogers?"

  "No, Your Honor."

  "Then I find that there is cause to bind this defendant over for trial on the charge before the court. Gentlemen, I bid you good day."

  The judge banged his gavel.

  ———

  Outside the courtroom, John Barrymore said, "It would be my great pleasure, Miss Shannon, if you would dine with me tonight."

  Somehow Kit had known he was going to ask her that, and inside wild horses pulled her in two directions. He was so magnetic she couldn't help being drawn to him, yet she knew his actor's ways did not comport with her own.

  She was losing herself in his smile when she heard a voice behind her. "Miss Shannon?"

  Turning, she faced Tom Phelps.

  Instantly her trance lifted, and she felt her temper rise. "I have nothing to say to you."

  "Miss Shannon, please—"


  "Nothing!"

  "But I—"

  Barrymore stepped to Kit's side. "Sir, the young lady has declined your offer to converse."

  "And just who are you?" Phelps said.

  "Barrymore is my name. And yours?"

  "Phelps."

  "A reporter," Kit added.

  "Newspaperman, eh?" Barrymore said. "I don't much care for your kind."

  Phelps sneered. "I don't really care what you think."

  Barrymore's right eyebrow rose higher than Kit had ever seen an eyebrow go before. "Sir, you are a scoundrel!"

  "My conversation is with Miss Shannon."

  "Only if she consents!"

  Kit noticed heads turning toward them in the courtroom hallway.

  "It's about that story, Miss Shannon," Phelps said.

  "Wait!" said Barrymore. He turned to Kit. "Is this the scribe who penned that calumny against you in this morning's rag?"

  Kit nodded.

  Barrymore glared at Phelps. "Swine!"

  Phelps looked absolutely confounded. "What did you say?"

  "Cur!"

  "Listen—"

  "Away before I dispense with you!"

  Tom Phelps threw his right fist toward John Barrymore's perfect chin. Barrymore ducked, came up, and landed his own fist flush in the face of the stunned reporter.

  Tom Phelps went down with an emphatic thud. He was not going to get up any time soon.

  A small crowd quickly rushed to the scene of all the excitement. One voice muttered, "Self-defense. I saw the whole thing."

  Barrymore looked at Kit and smiled. "I apologize for the roughhouse, Miss Shannon."

  "Mr. Barrymore," Kit said, "I will be happy to dine with you tonight."

  Chapter Twenty-four

  IN THE JUDGE'S CHAMBERS, Heath Sloate watched as Wiley Ganges lit a cigar and issued a puff of smoke. "What's on your mind, Sloate?" he said in a perfunctory manner.

  "I want you to preside at this trial," Sloate said.

  The judge squinted at him through the smoke. "You want me to preside?"

  "That's what I said."

  "I'm going to assign this to Judge Dana."

  "I don't think so."

  "You don't—"

  "I want you," Sloate cut in.

  "Well, what makes you think I give a hoot about what you want?" Ganges put his feet up on his desk. Heath noticed his black boots were dusty.

  Sloate paced slowly across the floor. "I was a bit concerned with your actions in court today."

  Ganges said nothing.

  "Your rulings in favor of Rogers were disturbing. I will, of course, overlook it, this being merely a preliminary hearing. But during the trial I expect you to be much more discerning."

  Ganges pulled his feet from the desk and planted them on the floor as he stood up. "Now, you wait one minute!"

  "No, you wait, Judge. You wait until I am through with you."

  For a moment both men froze. Then Ganges opened a drawer and pulled out a Colt revolver.

  "What are you going to do, Judge?" Sloate said calmly. "Shoot me?"

  "Get out of my sight," Ganges said.

  "When I get through with you, you'll put that barrel in your own mouth."

  Ganges hesitated, the gun shaking slightly in his trembling hand.

  "Why don't you sit down, Judge? Let's discuss Pearl Morton."

  The name had the desired effect. Ganges placed the gun on his desk and slowly sat down.

  "That's better," Sloate said. "Now, I am sure you would rather your wife and children not hear anything about Miss Morton and your, shall we say, intimate acquaintance with her?"

  The judge was speechless.

  Sloate said, "There is no need for them to know anything. So long as certain conditions are met." He paused, then said, "You will preside at the trial. You will give the appearance of fairness, of course. But you will not bar any evidence I wish to introduce. We can expect Rogers to be prepared, as always, with numerous objections to our presentation. I will indicate to you which ones you may sustain and which ones you will overrule. Are we clear so far?"

  Ganges, looking shriveled, said, "How did a rodent like you ever get admitted to practice law?"

  The last gasp of the defeated, Sloate thought. "Spare me your pronouncements of moral indignation," he said. "You are a hypocrite."

  Ganges paused, then said, "At least I know it."

  "My patience is at an end. Are we agreed or not?"

  "You know."

  "Tell me."

  "Agreed."

  "Good. And don't worry. You will find yourself helped in many ways because of your good sense here today."

  Looking like he was about to spit, Ganges said, "I don't want your help, Sloate."

  Heath Sloate smiled. "You'll get it anyway, Judge. I always pay my debts."

  ———

  "I am hopelessly in love with you," John Barrymore said.

  Kit fought to keep her pulse steady. They were sitting in a secluded booth in one of the finest restaurants in the city—at least that's what Kit concluded after looking at the bill of fare. The waiter had no sooner left the table with their order than Barrymore made his pronouncement.

  Scouring her mind for words, Kit felt her lips move, but no sound issued forth. Was he joking? And if he wasn't joking, what should her reaction be? This was the handsomest man she had ever seen, and he was drawing her to him like a moth to flame. Did she have the strength to fly away?

  As she sought for something suitable to say, Barrymore leaned toward her and, in theatrical tones, said, " 'It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night, like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear; beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.' "

  Swallowing, Kit said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Romeo speaks of Juliet," he explained. "Act I, scene 5."

  "I . . . see."

  "But Juliet had nothing on you, Miss Shannon."

  "Mr. Barrymore, I . . . this is so sudden."

  "Fleet are the wings of Cupid. He has found me with his arrow, directly." He tapped his hand on his heart. "I am asking only that you allow me the favor of your company on occasion," said Barrymore. "You shall grow to love me as I love you."

  "Mr. Barrymore, you hardly know me."

  "Call me Jack. And I know you as well as I need to."

  "But I hardly know you!"

  "Point taken," he said. "I am a thespian, from a family of the theater. My brother, Lionel, is currently wowing them as Shylock on Broadway. Sister Ethel is doing repertory to great acclaim. I am rehearsing Mercutio for the Morosco Theatre Company. Will you come?"

  "I—"

  "Splendid. After the run of the play I shall be returning to New York. Lionel and I will be performing together. I would like to make a triumphant return to New York, with a wife."

  Kit almost choked on the sip of water she had taken.

  "Are you all right, my dear?"

  The waiter then appeared, carrying a silver ice bucket in one hand and bottle of champagne with two glasses, held by the stems, in the other. He opened the bottle and poured a little for Barrymore, who tasted it and approved. But when the waiter went to fill Kit's glass, she put up her hand. "None for me," she said.

  The waiter seemed momentarily confused, then filled Barrymore's glass. Barrymore waved him away.

  "No wine?" he said.

  "No."

  "Please."

  "No."

  "Just one."

  "Mr. Barrymore," Kit said, her thoughts a little clearer. "My father was killed by a drunken man. It has been my choice not to drink spirits of any kind."

  "I see." Barrymore's eyebrow went up. "You are a woman of morals, character, charm, and intelligence. Marry me."

  A nervous laugh flew from Kit's mouth. "You're playing with me now."

  "I have never been more in earnest!"

  "Mr. Barrymore—"

  "Jack!"

  "Jack, you are an impetuous fool."

  "You cut me to the quick, but you are c
orrect. I am a fool for love. Tell me, is there a chance?" He grasped her hand.

  "Chance?"

  "That you should accept my proposal of marriage. Mind you, I cannot abide rejection!"

  Kit cleared her throat. "Mr. Barry . . . Jack, the man who shall be my husband will share with me the things I hold most dear."

  "Agreed!" Barrymore said. Then he added, "What are they?"

  "First and foremost, a love for God."

  Barrymore's eyebrow raised as he grunted.

  "Second, active dedication to following His will."

  The actor was silent.

  "Finally, a preference for quiet evenings at home," Kit concluded.

  "Enough! I can't stand to hear another word. My world is falling to pieces!"

  "Jack?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I think you will survive."

  Barrymore poured himself another glass of champagne and lifted it to her. "Here's to you, Kit Shannon, breaker of men's hearts!"

  He looked her in the eye, and Kit wished at that moment he was everything she would want in a man. She wondered what one kiss from him would be like, but knew one thing for sure—it would seal her doom!

  Chapter Twenty-five

  "THEY KNOW SOMETHING!" Orel Hoover shouted.

  "Keep your voice down," Sloate said. Though they were in Hoover's office, behind closed doors, Sloate worried his voice would carry right through to the rest of the police station.

  Hoover, his face beginning to turn a deep shade of pink, lowered his voice only a little. "How did they find Rita Alonzo?"

  "I don't know," Sloate said, thinking. "Rogers is resourceful. It was clever of him to send the woman."

  "What do we do?"

  "I ought to go down there and beat some sense into your witness."

  "She's a good witness. Always has been."

  "She had better be now, isn't that right?" He paused to let the veiled threat of disaster wash over the police chief with full effect.

  "What are you saying?"

  "You know exactly what I'm saying."

  Hoover fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. Sloate thought he looked like a man playing himself as a musical instrument. "Do you . . . oh my, do you think?"

  "Do I think what, Orel?"

  "The cat will come out of the bag?"

  "If you keep acting like this, it will. Calm yourself. Do you have the locket?" Sloate asked.