Morgan finished up and it was Peter’s turn. Attacking the alibi testimony of a weepy woman before a jury was tricky; he could find that he had dismantled the alibi yet won the jury’s reproach. Peter stood up and walked over to the witness stand.
“Now, Mrs. McGuane, we are interested in justice here,” he began evenly, looking in her eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did Mr. Robinson ever tell you about Judy Warren?”
“He mentioned her.”
“It’s true they saw each other for almost six months?”
“Well—for a time,” she agreed reluctantly.
“Isn’t it true he brought her home a number of times and that they stayed in his room?”
“I can’t say, exactly.”
“Where did they sleep?” Peter asked.
“In his room.”
“And where is that?” he said.
“On the second floor.”
Peter remembered the layout of the house from a detective’s diagram.
“And where is that room?”
“All the boys have their rooms over the kitchen, either on the second or third floors.”
“Miss Warren left Mr. Robinson last July, isn’t that right?”
“Sometime. I think he was glad to see her go.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me your opinion of her. Now then, did he ever say that he was jealous of her new boyfriend?”
“No, certainly not.”
Peter turned, to check the jury’s attention. Robinson was watching raptly, his sharp nose pointed up and his eyebrows lifting repeatedly. He seemed almost happy—perhaps the defendant was getting the attention now that he needed when he was young. Peter turned back to the witness and decided to change the tempo of the questions so that Mrs. McGuane would not have time to remember everything that she had said.
“Did Mr. Robinson ever complain that he knew that Judy was having sexual relations with another man?”
“No.”
“Isn’t it true that you and Mr. Robinson are good friends—old friends, one might say?”
“Well, I’ve known him most of his life.”
“You have done a great deal for the defendant and his brothers, haven’t you? They have come to depend on you.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“And you don’t mind? You don’t mind working for them all the time?” he said sarcastically.
“I love these boys. I’d do anything for them and they know it.”
“Would you lie for one of them?” he snapped.
“No!” Mrs. McGuane spat, leaning forward.
“Do you receive pleasure from the fact that you are so willing to wait on them hand and foot?”
“Well, sir,” she bristled, “I suppose I care a great deal for those boys.”
“Is the defendant close to his parents?” Peter followed.
“I would say that they are reasonably close.”
“Does he kiss his mother from time to time?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“When was the last time you saw it happen?”
“Well—”
“Does he kiss you sometimes, like a son would?”
“He might have, he and his brothers.”
“Did he kiss you on the night of August sixteenth?”
“No, I spoke to him from the balcony above the front door.”
“Is it fair to assume the Robinson sons are closer to you than they are to their mother?”
“I could never say that was true.”
“You are here, now, testifying for the defense.”
“Yes.”
“Do you see the defendant’s mother here in this room?”
“No.”
“We’re talking about human emotions here, Mrs. McGuane. About a young man, and I’m simply asking you to characterize your relationship with the defendant. It seems that you’ve done so much for him, that you’ve cared for him in so many small ways.”
“Yes,” Mrs. McGuane admitted softly. “I guess you could say that.”
Peter paused, surprised that Morgan hadn’t objected to the questioning, which was meant to convince the jury how unreliable a witness Mrs. McGuane was. Perhaps Morgan was saving his objections.
“You say you heard Mr. Robinson downstairs on the night of August sixteenth?”
“Yes. I lay in bed listening to the radio. I always do, right next to my bed, it is. It relaxes my nerves, see.” Mrs. McGuane smiled in seemingly genuine embarrassment. “I saw the lights in the window and then he came in and I talked with him for a little while.”
“This is what you told the police after the defendant was arrested?”
“Yes.”
“And you say you remember the radio show?”
“Yes. As I just got done telling, it was this show where mentally ill people call in and tell about being crazy.”
“Well, I’m certain none of us in the courtroom today were calling in that night.”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed tentatively.
“We have heard a description of the Robinson estate already. Now, would you describe the security arrangements?”
“Objection,” Morgan said. “Your Honor, this information is confidential, for the protection of the defendant’s family.”
The judge looked at the housekeeper. “Just answer in a way that will not compromise your employer,” he instructed.
“Yes, sir,” the woman said.
“Would you say that crime is bad in your neighborhood?” Peter asked casually. The old country estates were easy pickings for motorcycle gangs looking for antiques to fence.
“It’s not real bad, but you have to keep your doors locked, if you see what I mean. Even with the neighbors.”
“Can’t trust them?”
“Even people you think you know.”
“Someone ever break and enter that house?”
“Yes, they took some of the silver and the big rug in the dining room. Then Mrs. Robinson had the new system put in. About two years ago.”
“Your Honor,” Morgan barked from his table, “I fail to see how the general patterns of crime in the suburbs of Philadelphia can have anything to do with this witness’s testimony.”
“What are you getting at?” the judge growled at Peter.
“Behaviors, Your Honor. I’m interested in behaviors here.”
“Proceed,” the judge replied after a moment’s thought. “Let’s find out what behaviors you mean.”
Buried deep in the police report was a brief description of the workings of the Robinson alarm system. Peter had seen it and realized that it weakened the defendant’s alibi. He knew, too, that if he had subpoenaed the company that had installed and programmed the security system, and thus conveyed this fact when listing his probable witnesses, then Morgan would have been tipped off to Peter’s interest. Mrs. McGuane had originally told the police Robinson had come in through the front door—apparently blurting this out before thinking clearly—and had been forced to stick to this testimony all along. By not calling the security system representatives in to testify, Peter had appeared to indicate to Morgan—if Morgan had in fact considered it—that he, Peter, had either missed the information in the report or deemed it of no importance. Thus Morgan had not adjusted Mrs. McGuane’s testimony. Morgan may have just missed the fact. After all, the man had other things to worry about, namely Robinson’s boastful, sick confession. But there was a gamble here. A good prosecutor didn’t ask questions to which he didn’t know the answers. And Peter didn’t intend to depart from that rule, except that he didn’t know if Mrs. McGuane would provide the answers. He was betting that the housekeeper had intimate knowledge of all the workings of the house, from the number of best-silver spoons to the schedule of when to turn the mattresses around, to this, the routines of the security system. She did not seem bright enough to spontaneously amend her testimony if Peter could jar her out of her rehearsed version of events. He had spent many hours flipping through
the police reports, sorting and discarding facts, trying not to think of Janice’s departure, and even though he had mastered those facts, he knew now that he needed to feel his way toward the right order of testimony—set bits of information in the jury’s minds without tipping off the witness. He checked his notes and looked up. Morgan, seeing the direction of the questioning, and perhaps realizing that he might have made an oversight, was nervous now, eager to fend off Peter’s questions with objections. The defense attorney compulsively tapped a pencil against his pants leg while waiting for another chance to object. Peter looked at the witness. Mrs. McGuane smiled to the court, appearing helpful. “Now then,” he said, “I would like to turn the questions to what happened that night.”
“Like I said,” she repeated without being asked, “I was in bed listening to the radio and the lights of the car went past the window, and then after he parked he came in the door and we spoke and then said good night. As simple as that. It was a regular night, you know what I mean? No big deal. Just a regular night.”
“It had rained that evening, right?”
“I think so.”
“Yes, there was a summer storm. Now, let me ask, there are a number of cars on the estate?”
“Yes.”
“Do the boys—the Robinson sons—drive them all?”
“Yes.”
“So the sound or appearance of one car doesn’t signal a particular son?”
“That’s right.”
“And the cars are generally parked where?”
“Around the side of the house.”
“Where, exactly?”
“The wider part of the driveway.”
“Where is that?”
“The driveway comes up toward the front of the house and then goes around the side by the kitchen and there’s a little lot.”
“It’s a big house.”
“Oh, there are bigger houses in the neighborhood.”
“Is it an average-size house, would you say?”
“Perhaps a little bit larger than usual.” She shrugged.
“How many rooms?”
“Maybe, uh, about thirty rooms.”
“That’s a very large house—that’s a mansion.”
“I’ve lived there so long it seems normal.”
“Well, it’s certainly not normal in a city where some people live on top of one another like rats, right?”
“No, I suppose—”
Morgan shot his hands into the air as if he were receiving a long touchdown pass. He beseeched the judge: “Your Honor, what are we talking about here? The prosecution is going on and on about general crime patterns, how big or small the house is—all, I protest, absolutely meaningless issues, meritless in regard to the issue at hand.”
“Mr. Scattergood,” the judge said, “please demonstrate, if you would, that your line of questioning has some apparent intent to it.”
Peter turned back to the witness.
“So Mr. Robinson had to walk a very far way from where he parked to the door where he came in, isn’t that right?”
“No,” she protested, “it’s not far.”
“How far?”
“I’m not good with distances …”
“The depth of this courtroom?”
“Perhaps.”
“So at least fifty feet.”
“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“Perhaps none at all. Now then, when Mr. Robinson came into the foyer and then the living room, you spoke with him?”
“My room,” she sighed, clearly having lost patience, “is just off the master staircase, over the front door. The car came up the drive, the lights shine right into my room—”
“You sleep in that room so you’ll know who is coming and going?”
“Yes.”
“Please continue.”
“So the car went by the room and then a minute or so later he came in and I got out of bed and looked over the balcony and we talked.”
“Tell me about the foyer.”
“It’s just a place where you come in.”
“Double set of doors?”
“Yes.”
“Does it have any special features, like a little Oriental rug, or artwork?”
“There’s a very fine jade dragon on the hall table that Mrs. Robinson loves, as a matter of fact.”
“So this is the formal entry of the house, the entry used on special occasions, dinner parties, etcetera. Right? When the plumber comes to fix the sink, he doesn’t use this entry, is that right?”
“Yes,” Mrs. McGuane said with unmistakable pride.
“Is there a carpet underneath?”
“It’s wall to wall in that part of the house.”
“What color, if I may ask?”
“Oh, I’d say it’s an off-white, a bone white.”
“Okay, what did you two talk about?”
“I think we talked about whether or not his parents were returning from Nantucket.”
“Their summer home?”
“Yes.”
He’d wage a little class warfare on behalf of the jury: “Is that home also a spacious mansion?”
The housekeeper bristled. “No.”
“And what was the conclusion of the conversation regarding the plans of Mr. and Mrs. Robinson?”
“I think I told Billy that his mother had called to say that the boat needed something, it needed a sail repaired, and so they were going to be delayed by a day.”
“You have a good memory, Mrs. McGuane.”
“Thank you,” she said, bustling in her chair, eager to answer the next question with similar competence.
“So this was normal, mundane news,” Peter summarized. “Just information that you were delivering as you might do any day?”
“Yes.”
“What else did you talk about?”
“I think that was about it.”
“How many sentences did you exchange?”
“Maybe five.”
“It was a brief conversation?”
“Yes.”
“You probably spoke to each other about a minute once he was inside the front door?”
“Yes, not much more than that.”
“And did anything remarkable happen thereafter that evening?”
“No, I went back to bed.”
“I repeat the question: Did anything unusual or traumatic occur then?”
“No, I just went back to bed.”
“That is correct? You’re sure of it?”
“Yes, I heard him come through the front door, I got up and saw him, and then I went to bed. How many times do I have to say it?” she concluded, taking her glasses off to clean them—a common and unconscious mannerism of bad witnesses; unable to see their questioner’s face, they lied more easily, and thus more convincingly. Peter waited while she cleaned and recleaned her glasses. When she realized he was waiting for her, she put them back on.
“You are speaking the truth?”
“Yes,” Mrs. McGuane said, hinting irritation. She pursed her lips and lifted her eyebrows innocently.
He walked over to the bar and faced her down.
“Do you swear it?”
“Yes,” she snapped.
“I’m just trying to get things straight here. You say you are telling the truth? You are telling the absolute truth to this court?”
“Yes. I maybe didn’t finish my schooling, but I’m not ignorant, Mr.—”
“Scattergood.”
“Yes, I may seem that way to you, but I assure you I understand everything we say here and that I’m telling God’s truth. May he strike me down if I’m lying.”
“I am glad to hear you’re so certain of that, Mrs. McGuane—”
“Objection!”
Morgan jumped to his feet, arms up, and executed a small angry dance around the table. “Your Honor, I absolutely object to the treatment of this witness. I move for a mistrial on the grounds—”
“
I’ll be happy to demonstrate why, exactly, I am skeptical,” Peter interrupted.
“The motion is denied,” the judge said. “Go on, Mr. Scattergood, but get to it. This is not yielding much, as far as I can see.”
Robinson, who was smarter than his attorney, looked at Peter and suddenly smiled, perhaps now understanding Peter’s strategy. Peter turned back toward the witness. “Would you tell me the first thing that you do in the morning?”
“I get up and go down to the kitchen.”
“Are you usually the first one up?”
“Yes.”
“What about the sons?”
“They usually sleep until ten on the weekends.”
“And what do you do?”
“I make the coffee and go outside and get the paper.”
And now Mrs. McGuane looked toward him with sudden concentration, her eyes unblinking, seeing past him, past the room and the assembled people, and into her habits of the morning. She knew now what the prosecutor wanted from her.
“The paper is delivered to the kitchen door?” Peter pressed.
“Yes,” she said in a quieter voice.
“Because that’s the door where you or the Robinsons like to have it delivered?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a nice, big breakfast table where people spread out the paper?”
“Yes.”
“The paper comes to that door and not the front door?”
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