Prime Witness

by Steve Martini

  She pulls away from me, fear in her eyes.

  “He told me that Sarah, he used her name,” she says. “He told me that Sarah was real pretty.” She’s talking about the voice on the phone again.

  “He said she was lucky we could afford the private tuition—at the Westchester School,” she says. Nikki is looking at me, her gaze a mixture of pain and contempt, an expression in my wife reserved only for acts of betrayal.

  “They know where Sarah goes to school.” She looks at me, an expression so cold it would fracture tempered steel.

  “You did this to us,” she says. “To help a friend who was apparently more important than your own family.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  This morning I’m picking little bits of lost sleep from the corner of my eye, yawning. After Nikki’s fear turned to fury last night because of our mystery phone caller, I never got back to the sheets, but spent the night on the lumpy couch in the living room. It was my only refuge. Nikki would not leave it alone. Three times with me on the verge of sleep, she got into it again, until I finally left the bed.

  For the moment I have other problems. Claude is in my office giving me the latest on Jeanette Scofield.

  “Maybe she felt it was her obligation to move his things out of the office,” I say. “Maybe the school needed the space.”

  “Sure,” he says, “two days after the funeral? With hubby still warm?” Claude’s face is a cynic’s mask. “The lady must have a driven house-cleaning ethic,” he says. Claude’s nailed me this morning in my office, early, on his way to work. And he is not happy.

  Dusalt has been rummaging around the university looking for anything that might home into a lead on the witness in the trees. In his travels he has discovered that Jeanette Scofield cleared some documents and books out of Abbott Scofield’s campus office the day before police searched the place. He was not told this during his several questionings of the widow. And like a good cop, he is now suspicious.

  He tells me that according to people who work in the building, Jeanette and Jess Amara carted boxes of books and papers out of the office and loaded them into two cars in the parking lot. “One of them was a city police unit,” he says.

  He is convinced that this is something more than just compulsive neatness.

  “Have you talked to her?” I ask. “Maybe she still has the stuff.”

  “You bet. I beat a path to her door when I found out,” he says. “She has a shit-load of textbooks on birds, all musty, and stacked in her garage in boxes. She told me I could take anything I wanted.”

  I make a face, as if to say “see, no foul.”

  “But all the papers,” he says, “Scofield’s files, his memos and letters, they all got trashed.” He looks at me from under arched eyebrows. “Courtesy of an incinerator, in the basement of city hall.” He motions toward my office window in the direction of the large brick building across the square.

  Neat and orderly as they are, it seems brother Jess doesn’t mind polluting the air. Any hints as to the identity of the prime witness that Abbott Scofield might have committed to written memoranda, hunches he might have had, are now wafting on the winds.

  “Did she have an explanation?”

  “Overflowing with them,” he says. “More stories than Dickens. She says she didn’t think the papers were important. She says she had no place to store them. She says it hurt too much to go through them, so her brother took care of them all. Touching and sensitive guy that he is.” Claude’s expression is one of calculated disbelief.

  “Are there any backup files?” I’m thinking specifically about computers. Maybe the documents were done on a word processor. If so, backup disks of the materials might exist.

  He shakes his head. “The steno pool used by Scofield, in the department,” he says. “Just our luck. It used old Selectrics.” These are IBM typewriters, one step up from stone tablets.

  “If the faculty wanted copies, they had to order them made themselves,” he says, “at the central copy center, where I’m told the machines didn’t work half the time.” It seems the funds for new equipment in the department somehow found their way into rosewood paneling for the chancellor’s office and the silver service he and his wife use for entertaining.

  “I’m told any copies Scofield might have made would have been stored in his office files. The ones that were burned. Circle-jerk city,” he says. This is how Claude describes the merry chase he’s been on at the U.

  Then he smiles at me.

  “But the bastards missed one,” he says. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket, little slips stapled to one corner, and hands this to me.

  It’s a printed form with spaces and blanks, an application for travel expenses and per diem from the university. This one is made out in the name of Abbott Scofield but unsigned, and seeks $526.56 in expenses.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was in the steno pool for typing when Mrs. Clean and the Ty-D-bol Man came in to do their deed,” he says. “Seems Scofield took a recent trip.”

  I look at the point of destination on the form, “San Diego.” The form is dated eight days before his death, for travel that took place a week before that. There is no purpose for this sojourn. That line on the form is blank.

  I look at the stapled slips. One of them is a computer-generated receipt from a hotel, two nights’ lodging at two hundred and twenty-five dollars a night, assorted beverages and movies. It seems not all the department’s money went for polished rosewood and silver spoons.

  Attached are what look like several restaurant receipts for meals, and a ticket stub, torn in half, from the San Diego Wild Animal Park.

  “So the man took a trip?” I say.

  “Yeah. To a nice place,” he says. “But he didn’t go alone.”

  He points with one finger to an entry on the hotel receipt. “Double Occupancy,” it says.

  “The good professor checked in with somebody else. They stayed in the same room,” he tells me.

  “Maybe he went down with another faculty member, and they shared expenses? Not unheard of.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “But if so, his friend wore a skirt.”

  I look at him.

  Another entry on the receipt, lost in the little dots of computer-driven print: “Rental—Woman’s swmst.”

  “I called the hotel,” he says. “They rent swimsuits for the hot tub, for guests who forgot to pack ’em. Robes are gratis,” he says.

  Claude winks at me. I can see where he is going. The thought that maybe a tryst on the side could be a motive for murder.

  “What are you thinking?” I say.

  “That maybe it was a two-fer.”

  I give him a look like a question mark.

  “A single hit for two targets,” he says, “Karen and Abbott. Maybe they were getting it on again—and somebody wasn’t happy about it.”

  The law in this state requires a separate arraignment in superior court after indictments are handed down. Lenore and I are here in court this afternoon for this purpose, and to set a date for trial. Security in the courthouse is tighter than usual, additional armed officers downstairs at the entrance by the metal detector.

  With only four judges, Emmet Fisher does triple duty in the superior court of this county. Besides the occasional trial, Fisher handles the master calendar where he sets trial dates, and juggles law and motion, the lawyer’s battleground for the early scotching of evidence.

  This afternoon Fisher is perched up high on the bench. He’s tufted out in bulging black robes. His heavy eyebrows, like vagrant tumbleweeds, are trapped behind glasses with rims black as tire tubes. He has the appearance of some oversized predatory animal, not all that wise.

  “What do you think about ninety days?” says Lenore.

 
“Sixty would be better, but three months will do,” I tell her.

  We are talking about the expected pitch for psychological evaluation that Chambers is likely to make today, the big stall, to back the case down the calendar. Lenore will try to cut this off by offering up a set period for evaluation, rather than fighting over it. We are hoping that this may avoid a court order that could be open-ended as to time.

  Fisher finishes with the two lawyers ahead of us on the calendar.

  “Next case,” says Fisher.

  The clerk swings around in her chair and hands him up a file.

  Fisher reads: “People v. Andre Iganovich, case number 453287.”

  There’s some jostling in the front row as reporters elbow each other in the move for position. Like players under the hoop they are hustling to see who will get the best rebound on this story.

  Goya and I take up our seats at the counsel table.

  Iganovich is brought in. Wearing jail togs, manacled and chained at the waist, he stands off to one side of the courtroom, in the dock by the heavy steel door that leads to the holding cells. Chambers is leaning on the other side of the railing talking through an interpreter, into his client’s ear, last-minute explanations to the Russian as to what will happen here.

  “Gentlemen.” The judge greets us. “And lady,” he says. Fisher looks at Lenore. In his early sixties he is of the old school, where women at the bar are still perceived as a novelty. He is not sure how much chivalry should be shown here.

  He scans the file. “Here for arraignment,” he says. He asks for a statement of representations for the record.

  “Paul Madriani, acting district attorney of Davenport County, and Lenore Goya of that office appearing for the people,” I say.

  “Adrian Chambers representing the defendant, Andre Iganovich.”

  Through an interpreter, the court has Iganovich identify himself for the record.

  Fisher does not waste time here. He cuts to the substance of the charges, four counts of first-degree murder with special circumstances. He does a formal reading which drones on for several minutes, mostly reading from bench books, filling in the blanks with the names of the victims, the dates of death, a recitation of the special circumstances that carry the death penalty.

  He finishes, gives the Russian a grave look from high on the bench, an expression that transcends the language barrier.

  “Mr. Iganovich. Do you understand the charges?”

  A brief interpretation.

  “Da.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then to the charge of first-degree murder in the death of Sharon Collins on the twenty-fourth of June of this year, how do you plead?”

  Iganovich says something, unintelligible, to his interpreter. A brief conversation, a few words with Chambers.

  Then: “Not Guilty.”

  They repeat this exercise three more times. Each time a plea of not guilty is entered.

  “Very well,” says Fisher. “Any early motions?”

  If a pitch for psych-eval is to come, it will be now.

  Lenore casts a quick glance at Chambers. I can feel her edging forward, inching her way up to get into it. Trial, even in the preliminaries, is a form of combat. Those involved always itch for the opening shots to be taken, the only cure for cotton mouth and butterflies.

  Chambers is in his client’s ear, talking with both hands.

  He comes back out, looks at the bench. “Your honor. We would request that the protective order on pretrial publicity entered by the municipal court be continued in effect,” he says, “in these proceedings.”

  Fisher smiles, obviously pleased that someone should take this responsible act. It avoids the judge having to impose it himself, turns the heat off with the papers. Chambers is earning early brownie points.

  “Any objections, Mr. Madriani?”

  We of course have none. I tell the court this.

  “Very well. There being no objection I will incorporate the order of the lower court as it is written,” says Fisher. He makes a note in the file. “Anything else?” he says. He looks to Chambers first.

  Goya nudges me with her thumb on my pant leg, as if to say, “here it comes”—the pitch to plumb the bottomless pit of the Russian’s psyche, Chambers’s vision of perpetual employment for subliminal set, the couch doctors.

  “Mr. Chambers?”

  “Your honor, we would like to defer other motions until we have a trial date.” Adrian is busy again, talking to his client. Like a master chess player he is busy putting all the set pieces in proper order.

  “Any objection, Mr. Madriani, to returning to the matter of motions after we have a trial date?”

  “None, your honor.” Lenore will have to wait a little longer.

  “Then I guess we’re ready for a date.”

  “How many days, gentlemen? How long do you estimate for trial?” says Fisher.

  “Seven days for the state’s case,” I say.

  “Nine for defense,” says Chambers.

  If he’s true to form, Adrian will be scouring the streets for alibi witnesses. A legion of winos will no doubt benefit from witness fees to augment their welfare checks in the month of this trial. Such are the tactics of Adrian Chambers. Suspension from the practice, I would venture, has taught him only that the vice is not in doing the act, but in getting caught.

  “With voir dire, and arguments, pretrial motions, we’d better make it twenty-five days,” says Fisher. “Betty, can you give us some dates?” Fisher directs his clerk to open the big book while he poises with his pen to make notes on a form, a minute order that will be placed in the file, copies to the parties.

  Betty Hamilton, Fisher’s clerk, studies the massive book like some gray-haired angel gatekeeping at heaven’s door.

  “Does either party wish an early pretrial conference?” says Fisher.

  “It might be a good idea,” says Chambers.

  Fisher looks at me. “No objection, your honor.”

  He checks the little box on the form. This will give us a chance to lay out ground rules for the trial.

  “Plea is entered,” Fisher’s mumbling to himself, checking the little boxes all in order. A hundred and ten thousand a year and he spends eighty percent of his time “X-ing” little boxes. Good work if you can get it. “The defendant waives time,” he’s still mumbling. Another X in the box.

  “No, your honor, we don’t.”

  “Emm?” Chambers has pulled Fisher from his reverie over the little form.

  “The defendant does not waive time,” he says.

  Fisher gives Adrian a look, like somehow the judge’s hearing aid has failed him. He taps his ear once to ensure that it hasn’t fallen out.

  I stand daunted, stunned. It takes several seconds before I can pull myself together enough to look over at Goya. Her jaw is slack.

  “I don’t think I heard that,” says Fisher.

  “The defendant does not waive time.” Chambers repeats it a third time, clipping off the letters with his lips so that Fisher can read them from across the room.

  “Counsel,” he says. “This is a capital trial. Your client is on trial for his life. You’re not telling this court you’re prepared to go to trial in sixty days?”

  “Your honor, I’m concerned about this,” I say.

  “No more than the court,” says Fisher.

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, your honor. My client has a right to a speedy trial. He is demanding the right.”

  “Does your client understand what you’re doing? The risk he’s taking?”

  “He does.”

  “I might like to hear that from him,” says Fisher. He’s motioning toward Iganovich, then grumbles at the translator to do his thing.

  “Mr. Iganovich,
” says Fisher. “Do you understand that this is a capital trial, that you could be executed, put to death, if you are convicted?”

  He waits a few moments.

  “Da.” A surly look from the Russian, who has no intention of being cowed by this old man.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you understand that your lawyer has just declined to waive your right to a speedy trial? This means that your trial must begin within sixty days of today’s date. This is not much time to prepare for a complex trial. Your case could be compromised by the shortage of time.” Fisher waits a second for the interpreter to catch up, looking for signs of affect on the Russian’s face. Nothing.

  “You could find yourself at a severe disadvantage if proper preparation is not made for this trial. Do you understand this?”

  Iganovich listens to the interpreter finish, then shrugs and makes a face, a wrinkled prune of disinterest.

  “Da.” A few more words, unintelligible to the interpreter.

  “Yes. I understand. What difference?” says the interpreter.

  “The difference,” says the judge, “could be the difference between life and death.”

  Words by the interpreter. Another prune, and no verbal response.

  “Does he understand that?”

  A quick interpretation.

  “He does.”

  Angry resignation by the judge. “Very well,” he says. “Betty, what can we do in sixty days?” he says.

  Pained expressions back up at the bench from the clerk. She’s motioning, like it’s impossible. I hear a little colloquy off the record between Betty and Fisher.

  “Judge Ingel is scheduled for vacation. You’re in trial, two cases.” More muffled words between the two, little bits and pieces. One of the other judges is assigned out of county on another matter. Judge Kerney is scheduled for surgery that cannot be postponed.

  Fisher is perplexed, angry that he’s been put in this position. He looks at Chambers as much as to say “fine, you want it, you got it.”

  “Judge Ingel will just have to take the trial,” he says. “He can reschedule his trip to Maui.”

  I stand there in a blind stupor. Derek Ingel, the humorless fucking Prussian, his disposition soured by a trashed trip to more pleasant climes, is now to try this case. Nearly as bad as if I’d just been tossed back across the river to try the case in the venue of the Coconut in Capital City. I would prefer a ten-day junket to hell.