by Parnell Hall
Jeremy shrugged. “Hey, I’m sorry.”
Steve looked at him. He shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he said. “But let me tell you something. When District Attorney Harry Dirkson gets you on the witness stand—” Steve pointed his finger, “—then you’ll be sorry.”
27.
MARK TAYLOR FLIPPED OPEN HIS notebook.
“O.K., here’s the dope. Alibis, get your alibis, red-hot alibis. The way it stacks up, the women got ‘em and the men don’t.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Claire Chesterton, Pat Grayson and Rose Tindel all alibi each other. Convenient as all hell, but it probably all checks out. The three of ‘em were on a shopping spree in the afternoon. Not that they did much shopping. If you want some cash receipts to back it up, they probably don’t have ‘em. What they were doin’ was touring shopping malls. Browsing here, browsing there. Bloomingdale’s, Conran’s, places like that. I don’t think they bought a thing. Frankly, I don’t think they got much money. But they spent the afternoon doing it. Then they caught dinner at one of the mall shops, and went to the movies.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Why?”
“Don’t tell me they saw a film called Heathers?”
“Christ, no. Not their cup of tea. They saw Rain Man.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. There’s a big RKO Tenplex on Route 4, that’s where they went. Went there, got home about ten-thirty.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Murder could have been as much as an hour later. What did they do till then?”
“Puttered around the house and went to bed. Why?”
“Well, Jeremy Dawson says he came home and found Claire Chesterton watching TV.”
“Right.”
“So I’m wondering what happened to the other two.”
“They went up to bed.”
“Is that confirmed?”
Taylor looked slightly exasperated. “Not in any way that will stand up in court. But can you imagine any one of the three of ‘em taking off at ten-thirty at night, getting to Jeremy’s school, securing the gun, getting into Manhattan, finding Jack Walsh and plugging him, and then setting the body on fire—well, just between you and me you’re gonna have a little trouble selling it to a jury.”
“I know, Mark. I don’t think it happened. I just want to be able to raise inferences.”
“Well, you’ll have a lot better time with the men.”
“What have you got on ‘em?”
“Nothing. That’s the beauty of it. Zero, zilch, nothing. I don’t know where they were, but I know where they weren’t. And they weren’t home.”
“Until when?”
“At least until 12:30. ’Cause that’s when Claire Chesterton turned off the Carson show and went to bed.”
“And they were all out?”
“All of ‘em.”
“Together?”
“There your guess is as good as mine. Problem is, what with this will contest thing they’re on the other side and won’t give us the time of day.
“So here’s what we got. The night before, the three guys were on guard duty at Jack Walsh’s hotel. Last man on was Carl Jenson, Walsh went down and ditched him in the subway. Last time we’ve seen Jenson, last time we saw Walsh. Now, we know Jenson arrived home sometime during the day. We know that only from what Jeremy Dawson told you. He got home in the afternoon, Jenson was there, bawled him out for skippin’ school. Jeremy went out again and Carl Jenson must have left sometime after that, ’cause he wasn’t there when the women got home. As to where he was, your guess is as good as mine, ’cause all he’ll tell my man is to go fuck himself.”
“Nice.”
“On the other men, I know even less. You’ll recall Jason Tindel had the first shift the night before. He staked out the Holiday Inn until three in the morning. After that, he presumably went home and got some sleep. So we assume he got up some time the next day and went out, but no one knows where, and he ain’t talkin’.
“Fred Grayson had the three A.M. till eight shift. Presumably he went home, slept the morning, and then went out too. Whether he went with Jason, we don’t know. What we do know is the two of them were gone all day long and neither of them got back before twelve-thirty at night.”
Steve thought a moment. “That could be good.”
“How so?”
“Well, let’s look at the facts. Jason and Fred had the night shift, staking out the hotel. They’ve gone home and they’ve gone to sleep. Carl Jenson’s on duty. The guys are home sleeping, the women have gone out. Jack Walsh takes off and loses Carl Jenson in the subway tunnel.”
“Right.”
“So what would naturally happen then?”
“Carl Jenson calls the others, tells them Jack Walsh got away.”
“Right,” Steve said. “And they organize a search party and go looking for him. And they’re gone all day and don’t get back that night.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So what if they find Jack Walsh and kill him?”
“With Jeremy Dawson’s gun?”
“Sure, which Jason Tindel found a week before when he dropped by the school to pick up something Jeremy left behind.”
Taylor frowned. “That’s mighty thin.”
“Reasonable doubt, Mark. That’s all I need.”
“Yeah, sure,” Taylor said without enthusiasm. He looked at his notes again. “And then we have Julie Creston.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I checked out her alibi ’cause you told me to do it. But quite frankly it was a bitch and a waste of time, and I feel bad about it ’cause I ran up a lot of expenses on it and—”
“I told you, forget the money. I just want results.”
“Well, you got ‘em, and they ain’t worth shit. Except you can cross Julie Creston off your list, which I think you could have done without going through the charade.”
Steve shook his head. “I wanted it done. Just give me what you got.”
“O.K.” Taylor referred to his notes. “Julie Creston finished filming February 24th. She caught a plane from Denver back to L.A. that night. Set down in L.A. ten-thirty P.M. Airline confirms ticket in her name was used. Now, I knew that wouldn’t satisfy you, you’d say she could have given her ticket to someone else, so I ran it down. Turns out Julie wasn’t the only one finished filming that day. There were four other actors working the same sequence who finished up at the same time. All of them took the flight back together. My man in L.A. hunted one of them down, and he confirms the fact Julie Creston did indeed take the plane back to L.A. that night.”
“That’s the 24th?”
“Right.”
“Two days before the murder.”
“Uh huh. Next confirmation, morning of the 25th, Julie Creston shows up for an audition for a Burger King commercial.”
Taylor looked at Steve. “Now, you’re not going to like what I’ve got next, ’cause you’ll say it isn’t conclusive, but it’s enough for me. The morning of the 26th, she has a luncheon appointment with her agent. Brunch, really. Eleven o’clock. Coffee and rolls. Anyway, the guy’s got an audition lined up for that afternoon and she cancels it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, but don’t read anything into it. I think it’s just what it seems. She tells her agent she’s worn out from the Denver shoot, the Burger King audition the day before went badly— she’s exhausted, she’s got bags under her eyes, she didn’t test well, she’s never going to get anything this way, she needs to take a short vacation, pull herself together.”
“And that’s the last you got?” Steve said.
“That’s the last time I can definitely place her up until the murder. But look what you got, Steve. She left her agent twelve o’clock, noon. That’s L.A. time, which makes it three P.M. here.”
“That leaves her eight hours,” Steve said.
“Right,” Taylor said dryly. “Eight hours to get to the airport
, fly to New York, get to New Jersey, steal Jeremy Dawson’s gun out of his school locker, get back to Manhattan, buy a can of gasoline, find Jack Walsh on the subway, plug him and set the body on fire.”
“It could be done,” Steve said.
“Yeah, in a paperback thriller. And even then I don’t buy it. I read that and throw the fucking book across the room.”
Steve frowned. “Yeah, Mark. But there’s a difference between what works in black and white and what works in the minds of a jury. They don’t get a nice straight story. They’re sitting there listening to volumes of testimony. They gotta sift through it, piece it together. Anything that clouds the issue, doesn’t quite add up, has to be a victory for the defense.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said. “But Dirkson’s gonna summarize the testimony and make his argument. You think that sarcastic son of a bitch can’t take all that and make it sound like ridiculous bullshit?”
“I’m sure he can, Mark. You think I can’t take ridiculous bullshit and make it sound good?”
Taylor looked at him. “You mean you’re going after this?”
“I don’t know. What’s the rest of it? Your man make a pass at her?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Told her Jack Walsh was dead?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Didn’t faze her. Other than the normal shock one would expect at hearing someone was murdered, she couldn’t have cared less.”
“What about the will?”
“There’s no will.”
“You sure?”
“Not unless she’s lying—and there’s no reason why she should. Look, here’s what happened. I called my man, told him to go back up there and give her the news. So he does. She comes to the door. When she sees it’s him again, she tries to brush him off—it’s a bad time, her boyfriend’s in the shower, they’re taking a trip, she’s packing up to go, come back some other time.
“Well, my man’s a pro, he won’t brush. He hits her with the fact that Walsh is dead. That shook her up, but not the way you think. It’s just she don’t want her boyfriend coming out of the shower and hearing this. She’s not going to let my man in, but he’s not leaving, so to get him out of there she goes out and has a cup of coffee with him. So they go out to a little coffee shop and shoot the shit.”
“And?”
Taylor shook his head. “And it’s a dead end. Jack Walsh is nothing to her. She’s sorry he’s dead, but she still don’t like him. There’s no will, he never promised her any money, she doesn’t expect any money, she’s not going to claim any money. She’s got a new career and a new boyfriend, she doesn’t want the scandal. She’s been working herself ragged, now she’s on vacation, she and her boyfriend are taking a trip together, and if my man does anything to queer it, she’ll rip his fucking eyes out.”
Steve frowned. “Did he believe her?”
Taylor looked at him. “What’s not to believe. Everything she says makes sense. If there isn’t a will and she’s got no claims on the money, why would she jeopardize everything she’s got to rush back to New York to kill a man she knew a year ago, just because she feels he let her down by not sticking up for her when his relatives ganged up on her? I mean, pardon me, but could you explain that theory to me so that it makes any sense?”
“No, I couldn’t. But it doesn’t have to make sense. We’re collecting information, Mark. When we get it all collected, then we see what we can do about it. Now, that doesn’t add up, but there’s one thing about it I like.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s packin’ to leave. Flight is an indication of guilt. Always has been, always will be.” Steve thought a moment. “Slap a subpoena on her.”
Taylor stared at him. “What?”
“If she’s taking off, I don’t want her getting away. Call up your man, we’ll get a subpoena served.”
Taylor looked at him. “Steve, don’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. There’s nothing Harry Dirkson would love better than to get you for abuse of process. You subpoena this woman with no definite purpose in mind, he’ll nail you to the wall.”
“He can try.”
“He can do more than that. You got no grounds for a subpoena. You just want to drag this woman in and make her a red herring. Which is exactly what abuse of process is all about. Dirkson will have you dead to rights.”
Steve sighed. “You’re probably right.”
“You know I’m right. So what you wanna do?”
Steve frowned and shook his head. “I gotta fight for my client, Mark.” He took a breath and blew it out again. “Serve the subpoena.”
28.
TRACY GARVIN WAS PISSED. SHE sat in Steve Winslow’s overstuffed clients’ chair, folded her glasses, tapped them into her other hand, unfolded them, and folded them up again, a sure sign that she was really steamed.
Steve Winslow took no notice. He had just finished giving Tracy a complete rundown of the facts of the case as he knew them. Now, utterly exhausted, he was sitting tipped back in his desk chair, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his eyes staring blankly at some small imperfection in the ceiling. He closed his eyes, raised his arms and rubbed his head as if to clear it.
“All right,” he said. “Ask me questions.”
This was no idle exercise on Steve’s part. Tracy Garvin was sharp and he valued her input. In his previous case, she’d asked the key question, the one that turned the whole thing around. In this case, frankly, Steve didn’t know what the hell to do. So he was eager to hear what Tracy had to say.
“All right,” she said. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
That was not the question he’d been looking for. Steve Winslow’s eyes snapped open. He tipped his chair down, sat up to find Tracy Garvin glaring at him.
“I beg your pardon?”
Tracy Garvin took a breath. “I’m sorry, but ... well, I don’t get it at all.”
“Get what?”
“You. This case. Well ... dammit, you.”
“What about me?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I get the impression you’re displeased.”
“Dammit, don’t humor me. I’m not in the mood.”
“Fine. I won’t humor you. Just tell me what’s the matter, and then let’s see what we can do about it.”
“What’s the matter? The matter is you. I thought I knew you. What you stood for. Now this case comes along, and I don’t know you at all.”
“Specifics.”
“What?”
“Specifics. I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you want me to respond to this, you’re gonna have to recite chapter and verse.”
Tracy took a breath. “Look. The Marilyn Harding thing. We worked together on that and it was great. You did things. You took risks. You didn’t like your clients much, but you fought like hell for ‘em, you went out on a limb for ‘em, and when you did—well, you were still on the side of the angels. I mean, what you were doing was somehow right.
“But this case.” Tracy shook her head. “Here you are defending a crack dealer who’s probably guilty as hell.”
Steve opened his mouth to protest, but Tracy cut him off. “No, no, I know, I shouldn’t say that. He’s innocent until proven guilty, I just spoke heresy, I retract it. Let’s not go off on a tangent. I don’t want to hear you make a speech.”
Tracy held up her hand. “Here’s the thing. You’re defending this kid and you’re taking risks and doing unorthodox things again. But you’re not on the side of the angels anymore. You want chapter and verse, I’ll give you chapter and verse. This woman in California—this Julie Creston—you’re gonna subpoena her and drag her into court. Well then, you’re gonna get her name in the papers and probably fuck up her career. And what’s worse, you screw up her relationship with her boyfriend. And you know and I know she hasn’t got a goddam thing to do with this. She’s an innocent bystander
. If anything, she’s a victim. She’s the one who got dumped on, chased out of New York. Now you wanna drag her back to dump on her some more. Dammit, it just isn’t right.”
Tracy stopped, pushed her hair out of her face. “I’m sorry if that pisses you off. But that’s how I feel.”
Steve sighed. “I understand. I suppose I’d like to feel the same way. But I can’t. I can’t allow myself the luxury. I’ve got a job to do. I may not like it, but it’s my job, so I gotta do it. If I didn’t do my job, I’m a lousy lawyer, I should quit practicing law.”
He held up his hand. “Now, I know that doesn’t mean anything to you. You’ve been talking from the heart, and I’m giving you cold lawyer bullshit. O.K. Stop for a minute. And if you don’t mind, let me take exception to what you’re saying.”
“Say anything you want. That’s why I brought it up.”
“I know. But you’re not gonna like what you’re gonna hear.”
“I figured that.”
“O.K. First off, you’re young.”
Tracy bristled.
“Scratch that,” Steve said. “Unfair, not relevant. First off, you’re a romantic.”
Tracy opened her mouth to protest again.
“Yeah, I know,” Steve said. “That hurts you even worse. But it shouldn’t. Basically, I’m a romantic too. I just have to stifle it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to explain something. It’s not particularly easy. Let me take a stab at it. When I say you’re a romantic, I mean you have a lot of ideas about good and bad, right or wrong. You read a lot of books. There’s heroes and villains. The good prosper, and the bad get their comeuppance.
“Well, I have no argument with that. That’s the way it ought to be. But real life isn’t a storybook, and when you start thinking of it as one, you’re doomed to disappointment.
“Now take this case. You see Julie Creston as the embodiment of good. The poor wronged woman. The underdog. Cruelly and heartlessly separated from the man she loves. In romantic terms, she would be loving and true, Jack Walsh would be a kindly old man, and the two of them would live happily ever after. You don’t really believe that, but that’s the image you can’t get out of your head, and it colors your thought.