Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “Jes.”

  “Loud music.”

  “I donno. Music. I donno loud.”

  Paul takes six strides back to his spot and keeps his back to Agnes, so he’s looking out into the spectators’ seats. “And you are testifying that my client said, ‘Why are you avoiding me?’ to your boss?”

  You gotta love Paul. He threw in as many nouns and clauses as he could. He left out words like “Marty” and “Rachel” and substituted “my client” and “your boss.” Agnes sits there, trying in vain to understand, but shrugging and sitting back in her chair before Paul has even finished his sentence.

  “Joo talk too fast,” she says with a shake of the head. She knows what he’s doing.

  Paul keeps his back to her. “You are testifying that . . . my client said why are . . . you avoiding me to your boss?”

  She still didn’t catch it. Paul spoke slowly and loudly. Although he chopped up the sentence pretty good.

  Agnes shakes a finger at Paul. “Joo try to trick me. Joo think I don’ speak English mean that I am stupid.”

  Paul turns around to face her. “Not at all, Ms. Clorissa. Not in the least. I’m not saying you’re stupid. I just wonder how well you can translate the language that you claim my client was speaking that night.”

  She folds her arms with a huff; no way she got that whole sentence. “I hear what I hear, okay? He ask, what ees wrong? Why do you avoid me?”

  Paul turns sideways now, to the jury. “Isn’t it possible that he said, ‘Why are you annoyed?’”

  “Jes. He say, why do you avoid me?”

  Paul nods agreeably. Annoy, avoid. What’s the difference?

  Paul turns back to Agnes. “Did you see Mrs. Reinardt earlier that night?”

  “I see her, jes.”

  “How was she acting?”

  “Acting?”

  “How did she appear?”

  “Oh. I—donno. I don’ remember.”

  “Is it possible she was upset earlier?”

  “I donno, upset.”

  “Did you understand what I just said?”

  “Jes, I understand. I say I donno.”

  “Isn’t it possible she was mad earlier?”

  “I donno.”

  “And isn’t it possible that Marty saw that she was mad, or upset, or annoyed?”

  “Objection,” Roger Ogren says. “No foundation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Isn’t it possible that Marty said to Mrs. Reinardt, ‘What’s wrong?’ because she looked upset?”

  “Same objection, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  “And isn’t it possible that he then said to her, ‘Why are you annoyed?’”

  “Same objection.”

  “This is different. Overruled.”

  “Then I object on the grounds that it calls for hearsay.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Ogren.”

  Paul turns his back to Agnes again, and walks toward the jury box. “Ms. Clorissa, isn’t it possible that my client said to your boss, ‘Why are you annoyed?’”

  Agnes takes a second, eyes up at the ceiling. Then, from the heavens, she says, “Jes.”

  One of the jurors, a grad student who writes for a conservative newspaper, shakes his head and mumbles something, I’m going to guess not politically correct.

  Paul moves closer to Agnes now. “Ms. Clorissa, you like Mrs. Reinardt, don’t you?”

  “I like her very much. Very much.”

  “And you remember when the police started to question her?”

  She pauses. “When the police talk to her?”

  “Yes. Do you remember when the police started talking to her?”

  “Jes.”

  “You were afraid, weren’t you?”

  “Jes. They say she do this to her husband. I say no.” She draws a horizontal line in the air.

  “And you were afraid for her.”

  “Jes. I was afraid.”

  “And you wanted to help her.”

  “Jes. I tell her so.”

  “You told her you wanted to help.”

  “Jes.”

  “You and Mrs. Reinardt talked about that time when Marty and her were talking in the kitchen.”

  “We . . . talked . . .?”

  “You said Marty”—he points to me—“was talking to Mrs. Reinardt in the kitchen.”

  “Jes . . .?”

  “At that party?”

  “Jes.”

  “You talked to Mrs. Reinardt about this, right?”

  She nods. “We talk about it.”

  “And she told you what Marty said to her.”

  “Jes.”

  “She told you what words he used.”

  “She tell me what he say. I tell her what I hear, too.”

  “But she told you first, right?”

  Agnes thinks about this for a moment. “She tell me, then I tell her.”

  Paul nods. “You wanted to help her.”

  “Jes, I wan’ to help her.”

  “When did you talk about this?”

  “I don’ remember.”

  “After she was arrested.”

  “Jes. After.”

  “I see.” Paul brings a finger to his chin, then wags it. “When you saw them in the kitchen, you walked in on that conversation, right?”

  Agnes squints. “I saw them talking . . .?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase.” Paul waves a hand, erasing the air. “When you first walked into the kitchen, Marty and Rachel were standing there talking. Right?”

  “Jes.”

  “They were standing still, right? Standing, not walking.”

  “Jes.”

  Paul holds out his hands. “But Ms. Clorissa, you told Mr. Ogren that Marty followed Rachel into the kitchen.”

  “I say—?”

  “You said he followed her. You said that.”

  Agnes Clorissa has less than a high school education and lives in a city where she hardly understands the native tongue. But English or Español, Agnes knows when she’s caught. Her posture straightens, her face reddens. But she doesn’t speak.

  Paul’s tone softens. “You didn’t see Marty follow Rachel into the kitchen, did you? You couldn’t have.”

  “He follow her.”

  Paul takes a step forward. “Rachel told you Marty followed her, didn’t she?”

  “She say he follow her, he follow her.”

  “But she told you, right? You didn’t see it.” Paul points to his eye.

  “She tell me. I believe her.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you do, Ms. Clorissa. You’d believe anything she told you, wouldn’t you?”

  “Jes. I believe her always.”

  “Yeah.” Paul pointedly turns to the jury, nodding. “And she told you about this—about Marty following her—she told you this after she was arrested.”

  “Jes.”

  “The same time she told you that Marty said, ‘Why are you avoiding me?’”

  “Jes.”

  “And you believed her.”

  “I believe her.”

  Paul lets out a soft moan, shaking his head. “All right. Fine.” He blows out a breath and ponders things a moment. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Ms. Clorissa, you have worked at the Reinardts’ for several years, right?”

  “Jes.”

  “During all that time, did they have a gun they kept in the house?”

  “Jes.”

  “Where did they keep it?”

  “By the bed.”

  “By the bed? In a nightstand?”

  “Jes.”

  Paul glances at the jury. “Thank you, Ms. Clorissa.”

  Paul takes his seat. Ogren stands back up and approaches the witness stand. He speaks deliberately, and holds his fingers out like he’s conducting an orchestra. “Ms. Clorissa, you are sure that the defendant said, why are you avvvoiding me?” The “v” sound that comes out of Ogren’s mouth could have cut through a block of wood.

  “Jes, that is what h
e say.”

  “And you heard him say, what’s wrong.”

  “Jes.”

  “You understand that you must tell the truth, right?”

  “Jes. I tell the truth.”

  “Ms. Clorissa, when you clean the Reinardts’ home, do you open up cabinets and drawers?” Ogren uses hand gestures to illustrate opening things.

  “No. Not usual. Sometimes.”

  “So if Dr. Reinardt had moved his gun from the nightstand by the bed to downstairs, in the cabinets by the bar, you might not know about that?”

  “No.”

  “The gun could sit there for weeks without you knowing.”

  “Jes.”

  “Thank you.” Muchas gracias.

  Paul stands back up. “Do you know what the word ‘annoyed’ means?”

  “I donno.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Clorissa.”

  We break for lunch. Agnes gets off the witness stand in a huff. Paul turns his attention to his notepad, avoiding the steely glance she throws him as she walks past. Mandy packs up her briefcase. I stand to stretch my legs. The spectators file out for lunch.

  As always, I look for encouragement from my lawyers. “I thought that went pretty well, don’t you?” I say to Paul.

  He looks up at me with a poker face. “Jes,” he says.

  68

  THE HOUR FOR LUNCH FEELS LIKE FIVE MINUTES, A quick cab ride to Paul’s club, a Caesar salad I stare at more than eat. Then back to court. This afternoon, my secretary, Debra, is going to testify. She called me the day after the police and one of Ogren’s cronies talked to her. By the time they got to her, they already knew about the sign-out sheet that bore my name at half-past three on the night of the doctor’s death. And they knew I had been working on a big project that was about to close.

  Deb remembered the Madison deal. She remembered my appearance that morning after the murder, how disheveled and sick I looked. She told me she was sorry that she remembered, but she had to tell the truth. I told her I understood. I really did. What’s she supposed to do, risk an obstruction charge for me? I’d never have done that for her.

  We were a little surprised that Ogren decided to call Deb as a witness. She can say some good things about me, too, including the fact that she believed I was working late on the night of November 18. Paul figured this is what happened: Ogren knows we’re going to claim I was at the office, and he has to admit I was there, because of the sign-out sheet. His theory is not that I wasn’t there—it’s that I wasn’t there until after Dr. Reinardt was killed. So Deb can talk all she wants about the food I left on my desk, the fact that I left her a voice mail at three-something that morning. None of that matters to Ogren, because he’ll say that was part of my cover-up.

  Gretchen Flaherty calls Debra Glatz to the stand at about one-fifteen. Her hair has been cut but not tapered, so it’s still thick and bunched around her face but misses the shoulders. I catch her perfume as she passes our table. It reminds me of the office, of the people I will never speak to again, many of whom were questioned by the police and none too happy about it, from what Frank Tiller told me.

  Deb looks very drawn today. Even with her customary makeup job, I can see the narrowness of her eyes, the redness in her cheeks. This isn’t easy for her. She sits awkwardly in the witness seat, a diminutive woman surrounded by thick wooden railings. She has to lean forward to speak into the microphone.

  Deb gives her full name, Debra Jean Glatz. Four years together, I never knew her middle name. She discusses her background, worked at McHenry Stern seven years.

  “Do you recall the day of November nineteenth of last year, Ms. Glatz?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see the defendant that day?”

  “Sure, I saw Marty.” She looks over at me now, for the first time. I give her something close to a smile, a little nod.

  “Do you recall what time?”

  She holds her look on me for a moment, then turns to Gretchen Flaherty. “It would have been around eight. My train gets me in at seven fifty-five in the morning.”

  “Can you describe his appearance?”

  She nods, runs her tongue over her lips.

  “Ms. Glatz? Please describe his appearance.”

  Deb blinks twice and looks down. “Nothing that unusual, I suppose. He looked a little”—she sighs—“I don’t know, a little distracted, maybe. He had a big project he was working on day and night for the past two weeks.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Glatz, but I’m asking you to describe his appearance.” Flaherty’s a little harsh on her, I think. I wonder if it would have been better to let Ogren handle Deb.

  “I just did,” Deb says.

  “Ms. Glatz, I realize this is not an easy situation for you. You were very fond of the defendant, weren’t you?”

  “I would say I still am.”

  “So this must be difficult for you, obviously. But please, if you could, tell us how the defendant appeared to you.”

  Paul stands. “I must object, Judge. The question has been asked and answered.”

  Judge Mack takes his hand off his chin. “Sustained.”

  Gretchen nods. “All right. You said he looked distracted. Did he seem well?”

  Deb shrugs. “You’d have to ask him.” It’s not a bad answer, but she sounds evasive from the outset.

  “Did he have a cold, Ms. Glatz?”

  Deb swallows. “He sneezed a couple of times.”

  “Would you describe it as a bad cold or a mild cold?”

  “Your Honor,” Paul says. “Ms. Glatz didn’t say he had a cold. And even if she did, I think Ms. Flaherty is asking her to guess.”

  “I imagine Ms. Flaherty is asking for the witness’s perception,” the judge says.

  Deb is stoic. This is an answer she can fudge, without outright lying. She can say she doesn’t know. Or that it seemed kind of mild, how the hell would she know?

  “It was a bad cold,” she says.

  Or maybe not.

  “Did you notice anything else about his physical appearance?”

  Deb shrugs.

  “How about his face, Ms. Glatz? Did he seem refreshed? Like he’d gotten a good night’s sleep?”

  “Judge.” Paul is on his feet. “Really. How could the witness have any idea how to answer this?” This objection, it seems, is more for the jury’s benefit: Yeah, how could she know? But I’m wondering if this is a good move on Paul’s part. After all, my alibi is that I was working late. So what’s the damage? Maybe Paul’s just trying to throw off the prosecutor’s rhythm, but we look like we’re hiding something. The judge overrules Paul.

  “He looked tired, I guess.”

  “And how about his hands, Ms. Glatz?”

  Deb shoots a look at Flaherty. “His hand was kind of bruised.”

  “Bruised?”

  “Yes. Bruised.”

  “How could you tell it was bruised?”

  Deb touches her right hand with little enthusiasm. “His fingers were swollen and—a little discolored.”

  “Were they a purplish color?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask him about the bruises?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  Deb shakes her head slightly. “I don’t recall specifically. He was busy getting ready for the big meeting he’d been working up to for weeks.”

  Atta girl.

  “What did he say, Ms. Glatz?”

  “He was much more interested in the contract I’d been revising for the meeting.”

  “Oh. So he was avoiding the question?”

  “I didn’t say that!” Deb snaps. “He answered me. He said he had bruised them playing basketball.”

  “Basketball?” Gretchen moves from the lectern, turned toward the jury. “Did you ask him when he had found the time to play basketball while he was working day and night on this project?”

  “No, I didn’t ask him that.”

  Gretchen Flaherty nods. “You know the d
efendant fairly well, don’t you?”

  “I know Marty pretty well.”

  “And have you ever known the defendant to play basketball?”

  Paul is standing again, his arms out. “There is no foundation for that question. She was his secretary, not his social coordinator.”

  “Your Honor,” Flaherty says, “I’m just asking for her own knowledge.”

  “Overruled.”

  “I don’t know every activity Marty is involved in when he’s not at work. If he plays basketball with his friends, I wouldn’t know one way or another.”

  “But to your knowledge, he never played basketball.”

  “Like I said, I wouldn’t know one way or another.”

  “Well, when the defendant told you that he had bruised his hand playing basketball, did that seem odd to you?”

  Paul again, hands in the air. “What’s next, Judge? His favorite movie?” A couple of the jurors laugh. The judge turns to the prosecutor, agitated like the joke is on him. He sustains the objection.

  Flaherty purses her lips. “As you understood it, Ms. Glatz, the defendant had been working at the office very late the night before this day you noticed his bruised hand.”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Paul says. “Ms. Flaherty is leading her own witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Then I would ask for permission to treat the witness as adverse, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor, really.” Paul leaves the table and moves to the center of the room. Speech time. “Ms. Flaherty calls this witness herself, then she asks her to guess about whether he had a cold and whether he likes to play basketball. And now, when she doesn’t get the answers she wants, she wants to lead her, too. Ms. Glatz is not adverse.”

  “I object to that speech,” says Flaherty. “Your Honor—”

  The judge raises a hand. “Go ahead, Ms. Flaherty. You can lead.”

  Flaherty turns on Deb with vigor now. “The defendant told you that he had been working well into the early morning of November nineteenth, didn’t he, Ms. Glatz?”

  “He didn’t have to tell me. He had left me a message on the voice mail at about three-thirty the night before. The message came from his office phone. And he had—”

  “But he did tell you, also, didn’t he? He made a point of telling you he’d been working late the prior night?”

  Paul hasn’t taken his seat yet, and he turns to the judge. “Object to the form.”

  “Let’s get on with this,” the judge says.