Inherit the Shoes

by E. J. Copperman

  Cates stood. ‘Objection. She’s asking the witness to speculate.’

  ‘I’m asking for his professional opinion as a homicide detective, Your Honor,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll allow it,’ Franklin said. ‘Proceed, Ms Moss.’

  Trench answered without being prompted or reminded. ‘It would appear his hands already had the blood on them when he touched the arrow, yes.’

  ‘Would that indicate that Mr McNabb was trying to remove the arrow from Ms DeNunzio’s body?’

  ‘Objection,’ Cates said before getting to his feet. ‘She’s doing it again, Your Honor.’

  ‘This time, I’ll sustain it. Lieutenant Trench can’t decide how fingerprints got onto the weapon, Ms Moss.’

  I nodded. ‘Lieutenant Trench,’ I said. ‘Did you find any fingerprints on the bow that were also found on the arrow?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trench.

  ‘Whose fingerprints were those?’

  ‘Mr McNabb’s.’ Trench might just as easily have been describing how to program a Blu-ray player.

  ‘What color were they?’

  He actually blinked, the Trench equivalent of a double-take. ‘What color?’ he asked.

  ‘Were they red, like the ones on the arrow?’

  ‘No, they were not,’ Trench said. ‘There was no blood found on the bow.’

  ‘Is there any way of knowing from a fingerprint how long it’s been on an object?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Trench. ‘A fingerprint generally stays on an object until cleaned.’

  ‘So, Mr McNabb’s prints on the bow might have been from days, or even weeks, before the murder?’

  ‘I would have no way of knowing,’ Trench said before Cates could object.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ I said, returning to my seat.

  Evan beamed at me as I sat. ‘Nice work,’ he said.

  ‘You’re … very, very good,’ Patrick whispered to me.

  ‘Redirect, Mr Cates?’ said the judge.

  ‘Yes, Your Honor.’ I expected as much. Cates stood and turned his attention once again to Trench. ‘Lieutenant,’ Cates began, ‘is there any way of knowing in what order fingerprints are left on an object?’

  ‘In what order?’ Trench asked. He might as well have been talking to an ostrich about nuclear physics.

  ‘Yes. Can you tell by looking at a fingerprint whether the item was touched before or after another object?’

  ‘No.’ Trench’s voice indicated he was talking to an ostrich about nuclear physics.

  ‘So, it is possible that Mr McNabb fired the arrow, then put down the bow and walked to the body. His fingerprints would then be on the bow, but he would not have touched the body, and his fingers would not be bloody yet. Is that right?’

  ‘Objection, Your Honor.’ I jumped to my feet.

  ‘Overruled. If he can speculate for you, he can speculate for Mr Cates.’

  ‘It is possible,’ Trench said.

  ‘And it’s also possible that he wiped his prints off the part of the arrow he held when he was aiming, and then touched it with the blood on his hands, to make himself seem more sympathetic and cloud his responsibility. Is that also possible?’ Cates was going way over the top here. I couldn’t let him continue.

  ‘Objection!’

  ‘Sustained. The Lieutenant wasn’t there when the crime was being committed, Mr Cates. And he can’t speak to Mr McNabb’s motives.’

  ‘Very well, then,’ said Cates. ‘No further questions.’

  Trench didn’t so much as glance at me or Patrick as he left the courtroom. Patrick leaned over as Cates prepared to call his next witness.

  ‘Well, you’re good, anyway,’ he said.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The next three days were taken up with testimony by the uniformed officers who’d arrested Patrick, and by the medical examiner, who revealed little of note (but I reserved the right to call him as a defense witness, noting that the paternity of Patsy’s child was not questioned by Cates).

  Then came a parade of forensic experts, all of whom added little to what Trench had said, which I considered to be a commentary on both their efficiency and the lieutenant’s. Bloody footprints were added to the fingerprints, and their direction was debated at length until the jury was probably ready to fire arrows at both attorneys and the judge.

  On the fifth complete day of testimony, Cates apparently decided he needed to do something to shake up the jury a little, so he called Juliet Rodriguez, the undeniably gorgeous actress who played ‘Ozzie’ Estrada on Legality. The faces of the jury, particularly the male members, perked up as Rodriguez walked by, her unbearably tight skirt rivaled only by her equally tight blouse. The air conditioning in the courtroom, set by an automatic thermostat, turned itself on.

  ‘I knew from what Patrick had told me that the marriage was not going well,’ she said after being sworn in. ‘You could tell from his mood.’

  Cates, enjoying the jury’s sudden attention, raised an eyebrow. This was probably one of the only times he could actually hold the attention of a beautiful woman. ‘Describe his mood.’

  ‘Well, he’d show up on the set and barely say hello some mornings,’ Juliet volunteered. ‘You knew they hadn’t had a good night the night before, you know?’

  Several male jurors became glassy eyed as they envisioned Juliet Rodriguez having a good night. One female juror shared their expression.

  ‘Did Mr McNabb say anything to you about his marriage?’

  I was quick to object. ‘The D.A. is asking for hearsay,’ I told the judge.

  ‘This goes to Mr McNabb’s state of mind, Your Honor, and not any factual evidence or physical evidence. We’re merely trying to establish that he was upset about his marriage.’

  ‘I’ll allow it,’ Franklin said. I sat down, biting my lips to keep myself from arguing.

  Cates turned back toward Juliet Rodriguez. ‘Did Mr McNabb say anything to you about his marriage, Ms Rodriguez?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small actressy voice. ‘Patrick said he thought Patsy was cheating on him, and the marriage wouldn’t last much longer.’

  ‘Did he talk about being depressed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Rodriguez said. ‘He said he was taking medication.’

  I shot out of my chair. ‘Now that is hearsay,’ I insisted.

  Franklin nodded. ‘I have to agree. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, just because Ms Rodriguez says Mr McNabb told her something in a conversation does not make it true. You must disregard the testimony about anti-depressant medication, as it has not been established by any facts.’

  The jury nodded, but I knew Cates had expected that, and besides, asking a jury to disregard juicy information was like trying to stuff whipped cream back into an aerosol can. Cates nodded, but couldn’t contain his grin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Honor, but I don’t think that’s enough,’ I said.

  Walter Franklin looked up, apparently startled at the impudence of this New Jersey upstart. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.

  ‘I think Mr Cates has poisoned the water with innuendo that does unmerited damage to my case,’ I continued, still on my feet. ‘I’d like permission to try to defuse some of that damage.’

  Franklin’s eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What do you have in mind, Ms Moss? You’ll be given time to cross-examine this witness.’

  ‘It’s not the witness I’d like to question, Your Honor. I’d like to poll the jury on one question unrelated to the facts of this case.’

  ‘This is highly unorthodox, Ms Moss, and I don’t believe I’ll allow it. I can’t let you talk directly to the jury.’

  ‘All right, then, how about the prosecutor? Or the people seated in the gallery?’

  Franklin sat back in his chair, seemingly considering the damage done by what he’d allowed and overruled thus far. I was certain he was reflecting on what might be brought up on appeal. ‘I’ll allow you one minute, Ms Moss, but there will be no questioning of the jury or the witness.’
r />   ‘Thank you, Your Honor,’ I said. Meanwhile, my thoughts raced. Is this possible? What am I doing to my client? But finally, the thought, Hell, this is Hollywood reassured me the plan would work.

  I turned toward the gallery and began. ‘None of you is under oath, so I’m going to take you on faith. Who here has ever, in their lives, been treated for depression?’ I held my breath.

  A torturous moment passed. Then Angie put up her hand. Three people in back rows followed suit. Another few looked around and saw those hands, then put up their own. After giving the question some thought, more and more hands followed. When the wave had passed, only five people in the gallery had their hands in their laps, and they looked a little dubious.

  Everyone else had a hand in the air. Two jurors added their own. Others probably would have, but thought they shouldn’t.

  Patrick McNabb put up his hand last.

  I turned back to the judge. ‘Thank you, Your Honor.’

  Cates did not put his hand in the air (although a little bird told me later he was on medication for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which required him to wash his hands twenty-seven times a day), and he was not pleased by the display around him. He looked back at Juliet Rodriguez, almost as an afterthought.

  ‘No more questions,’ he said.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I haven’t given enough thought to what I’m going to do with Junius Bach,’ I said, collapsing into the easy chair in my living room. ‘He’ll be on the stand in the next day or two, and I have to figure out how to handle him.’

  Evan sat on the couch and eyed Angie, who was on the floor, starting to do sit- ups. ‘The most damaging thing he’s going to testify to is the outburst at the divorce settlement conference, when McNabb told Patsy he wanted to kill her,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that hearsay? Can’t you immediately get it stricken from the record?’

  ‘Sure, just like I got Julia Rodriguez’s hearsay testimony stricken from the record,’ I said. ‘The jury still got to hear it.’

  ‘Can’t you nullify it the same way you did Rodriguez? That was amazing.’ Evan might as well have rolled over on his back so I could scratch his belly.

  ‘What, ask the whole audience how many times they heard Patrick threaten to kill his wife? That doesn’t sound helpful,’ Angie said as she rolled up into ‘bicycle pedal’ position and continued exercising.

  ‘I could ask them how many of them have threatened to kill their spouses,’ I suggested.

  ‘Yeah, that sounds great,’ Angie replied.

  ‘It could work,’ Evan said.

  ‘Evan, I was kidding.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Evan tried to avert his gaze from Angie, who had her legs in the air as she lay on her back. ‘Couldn’t you at least put sweatpants on or something while you do that?’ I said. At the moment, Angie’s skirt was more a theory than a fact.

  She stood and headed for the bedroom to change. ‘Some people are so conventional,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Evan stood and started to pace. ‘There must be some way you can neutralize Bach without letting the jury hear his testimony. Can you cite conflict of interest?’

  ‘Bach’s been subpoenaed, but he’s testifying willingly. The judge isn’t going to throw him out based on an objection from Bach’s own associate.’

  Evan frowned and nodded. That, I realized, was the answer he expected to hear. ‘Can you counter him with a rebuttal witness, like one of the stenographers? Or maybe you could put yourself on the stand and let me question you.’

  ‘You’re not admitted to the bar yet, Evan, and besides, what would I say on the stand? That Patrick didn’t say he would kill Patsy if she took Cagney’s shoes? He said it.’ I lay back and closed my eyes for a moment.

  Angie came out of the bedroom wearing short sweatpants and a T-shirt that read ‘Farleigh Dickinson University’ that she’d stolen from an old boyfriend. ‘This better?’ she asked Evan, who stared at her a moment, as if realizing for the first time that this creature was female. He nodded.

  I bolted upright, and Evan, startled, held out his hands. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  I felt my face break into a grin. ‘I think I’ve got it.’

  Angie grinned along. ‘Yeah? Spill.’

  ‘Suppose I call a rebuttal witness. Suppose I call Junius Bach’s wife and ask her if he’s ever said he would kill her?’

  It took a moment to sink in, then Angie started to laugh. ‘I like it!’ she said. ‘I like it a lot!’

  ‘It could be something,’ Evan said, seemingly relieved I wasn’t having a heart attack or something else he couldn’t cure. ‘But suppose he’s never told his wife he would kill her.’

  ‘I used to be married,’ Angie told Evan. ‘Every married person has said that to a spouse at least once.’

  ‘Just because anyone who’s been married to you would threaten violence doesn’t mean everyone would,’ Evan countered. ‘It’s a common expression, but Bach is a very controlled man at work. He might be the same way at home.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ I asked. ‘We can’t follow him home and have his wife wear a wire.’

  ‘Let me pre-interview her,’ Evan said. ‘I can work that question in with a few others – tell her the office is working on a surprise roast of her husband and we want to have lots of good material.’

  Suddenly, I saw Evan in a better light than I had before. ‘You’re sneakier than you look.’

  He stared. ‘What do you mean?’

  I chuckled. ‘OK. Maybe you’re not. But it’s still a good idea. While he’s at the office, call Bach’s wife and see if you can set up an interview.’

  Evan went to the kitchen with his iPhone and started dialing. Angie shook her head. ‘You’re adorable with him, you know,’ she told me. ‘Such a proud mom.’

  ‘He’s not that much younger than me.’

  ‘Still, it’s cute,’ she said. ‘You look like you want to cup his little chin in your hand and kiss his forehead when he gets a good idea.’

  ‘Say, I have a good idea,’ I said. ‘Shut up.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Cameron Menzies was a bookish-looking sort of fellow, a man who, in another age, would have been called ‘tweedy,’ but was now better described as a ‘nerd.’ What once would have been considered merely ‘weird behavior’ would now probably place Menzies on the high-functioning end of the autism spectrum, because he was totally and obsessively devoted to one thing, and one thing only – motion picture collectibles.

  These traits, of course, made him the perfect witness, and I was sorry Cates had gotten to Menzies before I could. Pity to lose a one-track mind like that.

  He was, at the moment, explaining to the court why certain collectibles carry a higher resale value than others.

  ‘You have to understand that most film props and other collectibles are not one-of-a-kind items,’ Menzies said. ‘If an actor’s going to wear a jacket in a scene, for example, there will be multiple jackets ready, in case one is soiled or torn. James Dean’s jacket in Rebel Without A Cause is a perfect example. There were actually four jackets, and that was not a very high-budget film for its time. And of course, Dean died not long after that, and the value always increases when the artist dies, because collectors know there won’t be any more.’

  ‘So then, the shoes Mr McNabb owned from Yankee Doodle Dandy are not the only ones James Cagney wore in the movie?’ asked Cates, doing everything but fingering his lapels with pride.

  ‘Oh, no. But they’re a valuable pair, because Cagney actually did wear them during the filming of the dance number Yankee Doodle Dandy. Still, there were at least two other pairs ready when he needed them, and it’s unlikely he wore only one pair of tap shoes during filming. Indeed, he went on to play George M. Cohan a second time, in the Bob Hope film The Seven Little Foys, and he wore different shoes in that film.’

  Menzies probably would have gone on for thirty or forty minutes, but Cates had another question. ‘How much are these
shoes actually worth, if Mr McNabb were to sell them privately or at auction?’ Cates then turned to watch the jury – he already knew the answer to the question he’d asked, and wanted to gauge their reaction.

  ‘I’d be surprised if they’d bring more than twenty-five thousand dollars privately, and maybe a bit more at auction – maybe thirty thousand or so,’ Menzies said, frowning. ‘They’re not in mint condition, and as I said, not unique items. Such things are sometimes undervalued, although they are extremely valuable to film historians and enthusiasts.’

  ‘But that group rarely has a great deal of money, and could still pick up these shoes for a relatively reasonable sum. Isn’t that right, Mr Menzies?’

  Menzies’ frown grew deeper. He clearly felt it was a crime that film buffs didn’t, as a class, have more money to spend on preserving the fake things they held dear. ‘That is probably correct,’ he allowed.

  ‘No further questions.’ Cates sat down, pleased with himself.

  I smiled as I approached the little man. ‘Mr Menzies, how much would you pay for the shoes?’

  ‘Me?’ Menzies seemed confused, as if I were trying to sell Cagney’s shoes to him and we were negotiating price.

  ‘If you had the money. How much would they be worth to you?’

  Menzies smiled, and his eyes left the courtroom for another, better place. ‘Millions,’ he said.

  ‘Are they worth that much on the market?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Menzies.’ I sat down.

  There was no question that Henderson T. Meadows had to be uncomfortable on the witness stand (a good butler hates to air the family’s laundry, and this guy was a candidate for the rinse cycle himself), but you’d never know it by looking at him – excellent posture that didn’t look forced, and clothing perfectly pressed. Meadows might have actually been auditioning for the part of a butler in a 1930s movie, except he was wearing a business suit, and not a tuxedo. He looked out of place in the business suit.

  Cates wasn’t about to let me get the drop on him – he had the same information from the medical examiner as I did. ‘So, you were intimate with Ms DeNunzio in a physical way. Is that right, Mr Meadows?’