by A. W. Gray
Davis seemed confused. “Sheila?”
“My friend who’s a psychiatrist. I’ve used her as an expert witness in the past. Look, Darla was leaving the guy and spoke very rationally about it. He’d attacked her before, so even if he roughed her up at the hotel she wouldn’t come unglued. She’d just make as fast an exit as possible.”
Sharon paused. Everyone in the room stared at her. She leaned back. “I don’t have a psychiatry license, folks. Sheila gave a lecture on this topic a couple of months ago. I take pretty good notes, if I’m interested in a subject. The point is, before you haul off and cast accusations, at the very least you should get a doctor’s opinion of Darla’s state of mind.”
Davis glanced around the room, exchanged a couple of looks, then returned her attention to Sharon. “Things will develop on this, of course, and don’t think we haven’t considered the possibility that someone other than Darla Cowan is the perpetrator. If we’re going to eliminate her as a suspect, we do need to talk to her.”
Sharon paused. These people could think what they wanted, but she was heaping no coals on the fire without a lot of thought. She said merely, “Darla shouldn’t be hard to find. I don’t think she’s left the country.”
“Come on, Sharon.” This from Milt Breyer, leaning forward and butting in. “The guy’s dead. Cowan leaves the hotel at a gallop and hot-foots it back to California. What are we supposed to think?”
Sharon shrugged and smiled. “You’re not supposed to think. You’re supposed to deal in hard facts and evidence. Which, apparently, you don’t have much of.”
Breyer opened his mouth to speak, but Mariah Davis quickly cut in. “It’s too early to be identifying suspects, or even to classify this as a murder. Could be self-defense, but without talking to the principal player we can’t make such a determination.”
Sharon leaned back and scratched her forehead. “The news reports say she landed last night at LAX. Had her picture taken getting into a limo. Doesn’t sound as if she’s incognito, does it?”
Davis extended a palm-up hand across the table.
“Mr. Green, Miss Hayes has made a point. Do you have a comment?”
Green folded his arms and canted sideways in his chair, in a lounging attitude. “We tried to contact her.
The only phone number we get is her agent’s. Guy named Aaron Levy, tells us he’ll talk to Cowan and get back to us. When, he don’t say. We don’t have time to wait on these people.”
Sharon crossed her forearms on the table and scootched up in her chair. “You all won’t like this. But that’s part of an agent’s job.”
“And it’s part of our job,” Green said, “to determine who offed this bozo and why. Hey, Shar, we’re not trying to hardass anybody, but whatever it takes to talk to this woman, we got to do it.”
Sharon’s eyebrow arched, but otherwise her expression didn’t change. “I can’t comment on David Spencer from any relevant point of view, because anything I could say would only be what I’ve heard. Other than yesterday at Planet Hollywood I’ve never seen him in person, and I’ve never spoken to the man other than to tell him to leave Darla alone when I pushed him down. I can’t speak officially for Darla, since I’m not her attorney. But I do know her fairly well. Darla’s a bit of a kook, but I doubt she could kill anyone, and she does believe in mother and flag and all that. I’m sure that as soon as she receives assurances that she’s not some sort of murder suspect, she’d be happy to tell you anything you want to know.”
“That’s one reason we wanted to talk to you, Miss Hays,” Agent Leamon said. “Without a lot of legal rigmarole and so we wouldn’t have to deal through this agent, do you think you could arrange a meeting for us?”
A comer of Sharon’s mouth bunched in thought. Then she said, “I’m afraid you’d find that dealing through me might be tougher than dealing through Darla’s agent. I’ve asked twice whether you consider Darla a suspect, and I’m not getting an answer. Do you, or don’t you?”
Green and Breyer looked at each other. Fratemo regarded her folded hands. The federal people showed noncommittal looks. Fmally Fratemo said, “Suspect, witness, what’s the difference?”
Sharon had a surge of anger. “Oh, beans, Kathleen. There’s a big difference and you know it. Aside from the fact that you’re being ridiculous by even hinting that Darla could be involved, unless you’re just wanting the publicity.”
“Are we?” Breyer suddenly asked.
Sharon showed Breyer a sharp look. “Are you what, Milton?”
“Being ridiculous. We have a dead guy in a hotel room occupied by two people. She’s now gone. Publicity’s got nothing to do with it. You don’t have to be a celebrity to come under suspicion in these circumstances. Joe Shmoe would get the same scrutiny.”
Sharon angrily drummed her fingers on her armrest. “Not the same scrutiny, Milton, Joe Shmoe would get the benefit of the doubt until you came up with some concrete evidence.” She stood. “This meeting is over, ladies and gents.”
Leamon raised a hand. “We have more questions.” “Oh, no, you don’t.” Sharon stepped toward the exit. “You’re a witness as well, Miss Hays,” Leamon said. “You went to dinner with the woman.”
Sharon paused at the door. She turned back. “That I may be, so why don’t you call me Monday and ask for an appointment? I can’t tell Darla what to do, but believe me, I’m going to suggest that she not say a word to you without her lawyer present.” She opened the door, stepped out into the hall, then came back in. “And I may hire an attorney myself. Anyone talking to you people without one has got a hole in their head.”
Sharon got home, stalked past Sheila and the girls as they sat glued to CNN, went into the bedroom, and snatched up the phone. She called Darla’s number once more, and once again listened to David Spencer’s recording. After the beep Sharon said, “Darla, it’s Sharon again. Message number two, and you may now disregard message number one. I’m a bit more than worried about you at this point. Whatever you do, kid, don’t discuss all this crap that’s on television with anyone before you talk to me, okay?”
9
Sharon spent Sunday afternoon forcing Darla Cowan, CNN news reports transforming her thirteenyear-old affair with Rob into a national event, and all other such matters out of her mind as she drove to the law library at SMU. There she went grimly to work in preparing briefs and other documents in support of her motion to have Tired Darnell’s sentence overturned. She stayed until the library closed at midnight, and it was all she could do to drag herself home and into bed.
On Monday morning, armed to the teeth with legal weaponry, she drove directly to the Crowley Courts Building west of downtown. She presented her motion to Judge Arnold Shiver when his court convened at nine a.m., before he’d had a chance to go over his morning calendar. If she followed the normal procedure, sitting timidly in the spectators section until Shiver asked what matters needed to be heard in addition to those already scheduled, then the old goat would leave her cooling her heels until hell froze over. “An urgent matter, Your Honor,” she said as she slapped her papers down. “Won’t take but a second.” Shiver perched his spectacles on his nose and read the title, which identified the document as a request for reconsideration in the case of Francis Ben Darnell. “Accordin’ to the news reports, you should have more on your mind than this nonsense, Miss Hays.” Shiver took off his glasses and folded the earpieces. “I got a full calendar.”
Sharon looked over her shoulder, where two or three lawyers lounged in the gallery, reading sports sections or talking to their clients. Full calendar my off hind foot, Sharon thought. “I’m sure you do, Judge,” she said. “But due to the time frame on my client’s transfer to the penitentiary, I feel this takes precedence.”
Shiver’s chin thrust out in a pugnacious attitude. “I determine precedence in this courtroom, young lady.”
Sharon chewed her lower lip. She
looked at the court reporter, who had yet to turn on her shorthand machine. “Your Honor,” Sharon said, “may I go on the record here?”
“No, you may not,” Shiver snapped. “This boy’s got five years, an’ five years is what he’s gonna do.”
Sharon wondered why she was spending so much time on a court appointment. Something about sense of duty to her client. She pictured Tired Darnell and almost lost her resolve. Good Lord, Tired could sleep in the pen as well as on the street. She squared her posture. “I request a ruling on my motion, Your Honor.”
“Yeah, okay, bein’ as how you’re determined.”
Shiver flipped to the last page in the motion without reading a word, and scribbled his signature on the order which Sharon had prepared. “Motion denied, Miss Hays. Now, I got other matters.” He pushed the motion over in Sharon’s direction.
Sharon took the bull by the horns. She dug in her satchel and produced another stack of papers. “In that case, Your Honor, please accept our notice of appeal. Also our request for stay of execution on my client’s sentence until the appeal’s heard. We’re asking that he remain in the county jail pending a ruling by the appellate court, Your Honor.” She stifled a yawn. It had been her turn to carpool, so she’d been up at six and delivered Trish and Melanie to school around seven.
Shiver continued to bluster, but uncertainty crept into his look. “I’ve denied your motion to resentence him. Now, you’re makin’ a motion to keep him outta the penitentiary until you appeal my other rulin’?”
“That’s the nuts and bolts, Your Honor.”
“I’m denyin’ that motion, too, Miss Hays.”
“Fine, Judge.” Sharon dug into her satchel and piled more paper onto the stack, which was now so high that Shiver was having difficulty seeing over the mess. “Then I also have our notice of appeal on that ruling,” Sharon said, “which I’ll hand-carry to the appeals court down the street.”
Shiver seemed on the verge of apoplexy. “Appeal whatever you want to. Just get this mess out of my courtroom.” He lifted the stack, and for an instant Sharon thought he was going to hurl the papers at her. She flinched.
A youngish female voice on Sharon’s left said, “Miss Hays?”
Shiver looked toward the sound as Sharon turned her head. Standing near the court reporter’s station was Shiver’s secretary, a slick-chick type in her twenties named Paula, who Sharon had always thought was as flighty as they came. There were rumors floating about concerning the judge’s relationship with Paula. Though Sharon thought the rumors far-fetched, there was nothing she’d put past the old reprobate. She said impersonally, “Hi, Paula.”
Paula vacantly batted her eyelashes. “There’s a call holding for you back in chambers.”
Sharon was puzzled. She couldn’t recall telling any one where she’d be this morning. “For me?” she said.
“I think it’s some nut,” Paula said.
Sharon had a sudden chill, remembering Bradford Brie, since he’d stalked her a couple of years ago. “A man?” she asked.
“No, it’s a chick,” Paula said.
“A woman? Does she sound unbalanced?”
“Oh, she sounds okay, but …” Paula gave a sudden nasal laugh. “She claims she’s Darla Cowan, Miss Hays. I go, yeah, right. If you want me to, I’ll hang up on her.”
Sharon turned quickly to the judge. “Can I take it in your office, Your Honor?” She hurried toward the judge’s private courtroom entry as Shiver’s complexion turned beet red. He glared helplessly at the stack of papers. “Thanks, Judge,” Sharon said, batting her eyelashes in a perfect imitation of Shiver’s secretary. “I just knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Sharon went in through Judge Shiver’s reception area, past Paula’s desk, which was cluttered with nail files and bottles of polish remover, and entered the jurist’s chambers. Shiver’s office had navy blue velvet drapes, opened partway, and dark wood paneling. On the wall were his undergraduate and law degrees—SMU, God, class of ought something or other, Sharon thought—surrounding a painting of a cattle drive. The office was done in dark colors while the painting featured bursts of orange and red, and Sharon thought the combination was just god-awful. She sat down in a plush high-backed leather swivel chair, pressed the flashing button, and picked up the receiver. “Darla? Is it really you?”
“Thank God.” Yes, it was Darla, her panicked tone showing a hint of relief.
“You got my messages, then.”
“I didn’t kill anyone, Sharon.”
Sharon thoughtfully rubbed her chin, the lawyer inside her coming out. “I didn’t ask you who did what, and really you shouldn’t be telling me or anyone else what you did or didn’t do.” The Dallas Morning News lay on the judge’s desk, folded over, and Sharon hadn’t had time this morning to read the paper. She unfolded the news and scanned the headlines as she said, “You’ll have a herd of lawyers advising you about this, but let me put in my two cents’ worth. Ignore the hints you hear on the news, because that’s all speculation. If the talking heads intimate that you did it, that increases their viewing audience. The truth is, all anyone knows right now is that David Spencer’s dead and you’re in California. Until you have official notification that you’re not a suspect, I wouldn’t be discussing it, period. I know the parties investigating the case on this end, very well, and I wouldn’t trust any of them as far as I can throw the lot of them at once. Your problem at this point is in looking out for number one.” There was a small headline reading DID COWAN GIVE IN TO FATAL INSTINCT? underneath the lead story about the murder. God, as if Milton Breyer had choreographed the freaking thing. Sharon testily rattled the pages.
“I didn’t do anything, Sharon. When I left David, he was alive enough to take one final swing at me. I flew to L.A. and came straight home. I’ve had the phone turned off ever since I saw the first reports on television.”
“The Dallas cops have been in contact with your agent. Maybe you should get in touch with him.”
“I already have, five minutes ago. You know agents, Sharon. What Aaron has for me is deals. People wanting to talk to me, tabloids offering money. David beat me up the other night as a farewell present. I didn’t think he’d be sober enough, but I was wrong. After I left you, I did just what I told you I would. Went to the hotel to pack, and David—”
“Darla. Please. Do not. It’s hard not to, I know, but the FBI’s already called me in, and I’m in the middle of it. If I wind up being a witness, they can force me under oath to outline everything you tell me. If what you tell me differs one iota from any future statement you make, they’ll barbecue you for it. For now, speak only to your lawyer about what happened. No one else.”
“You’re scaring me to death.” Darla’s voice broke. Sharon was halfway through with the “Fatal Instinct” article. The story was pure poppycock, speculation from some phony psychologist about whether playing a homicidal temptress in a movie could have messed with Darla’s mind. Sharon said, “Cruel as it sounds, I’m trying to scare you.”
There was a pause, Darla’s measured breathing slowing down. “My agent gave me the name of the Dallas policeman who talked to him. A Mr. … Breyer?”
“Milton Breyer isn’t a cop. He’s a prosecutor. What goes for the police goes double for him. Don’t talk to him without your attorney.”
“Surely if I just answer their questions truthfully—”
“Darla.” Sharon fiddled with Judge Shiver’s ink pen set. “If I had a dollar for every client who thought it was all right to talk to the police, prosecutors, whatever, and then had it broken off in them, I could retire. If someone’s guilty, they should never talk to the police, and that goes double. for people who are pure as the driven. Opposed to what they might tell you, those people are not your friends. They deal in convictions, and they’re not anyone’s friends. Let your attorney handle it.”
More silence, for a count of
five. “Sharon?”
“Yes?” Sharon sat forward, now reading about Milt Breyer’s press conference, held on Sunday afternoon on the front steps of the Crowley Building. Milton had said that no one was officially accused, then had spent the better part of a half hour explaining why Darla had likely committed the crime. Milt’s theory was oddly similar to that of the phony psychologist, that playing the part in Fatal Instinct may have sent Darla over the edge. Evidence the vicious stab wounds, Breyer had reasoned. Sharon curled her lip.
“Will you be my lawyer?” Darla asked.
Sharon hesitated in surprise. “Come on, Darla, you should already have a herd of attorneys.”
“I do, for contracts, but no one who knows zip about murder cases. Chet Verdon handles my studio dealings, but he wants to call in someone criminal. He gave me a list, and I never heard of any of these people.”
Sharon suppressed a chuckle. “I’ll bet that none of them ever heard of me, either.” Chet Verdon would be a muckety-muck partner in a California entertainment firm, and the criminal lawyers he had in mind would be Hollywood Harry types who wouldn’t be adverse to splitting their fees with the entertainment lawyers. Darla suggesting that she employ Sharon only-a-woman Hays in Dallas middle-of-nowhere Texas would leave the L.A. attorneys scratching their heads.
“You have to, Sharon,” Darla said.
“There are about four thousand reasons why I can’t. To begin with, I’m out of my element. You’re going to have national media running over you, and you need someone accustomed to dealing with that. For the second instance, the fact that I went to dinner with you Friday night automatically makes me a witness, to corroborate your story, and no one can be a lawyer and a witness to boot.”