Now it was all coming to an end. The judge would ask them a simple question, they’d claim innocence, and the prosecutor would request that they be sent to jail until trial. Since they’d already proven themselves flight risks, the judge would grant her request. And then his life would be over and he could die. At least he’d be able to change into a comfortable prison jumpsuit. The tuxedo was now so filthy and sweaty that it had hardened into an armor Tony Stark would envy.
The judge pulled his attention away from the prosecuting attorney and turned it toward the defense table. “How do the defendants plead?”
Their lawyer started to stand up, but Shawn put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down, then leapt out of his chair. “That’s a very complicated question, Your Honor,” Shawn said.
Gus looked up at Shawn. What was he doing? Why would he want to drag this out any longer than necessary?
“No, it’s not,” the judge said. “It’s a simple binary. Yes or no. Up or down. Guilty or not guilty.”
“But who among us can be said to be truly innocent?” Shawn said. “I say, none of us. Certainly not her,” he added, jerking his thumb at Sarah Willingham.
She jumped to her feet. “Your Honor, I object.”
Shawn glanced at her, and he saw. Saw the sealed Wet-Nap sticking out of her jacket pocket. The spot of barbecue sauce on the sleeve of her white silk sleeve. And, sitting in her open purse, a small bottle of hand cream—the kind placed in hotel bathrooms. Then he glanced at the judge. And saw a small red spot in his otherwise meticulous white beard.
The judge gaveled for order. “She is not being charged with any crimes. You are. How do you plead?”
“Your Honor,” Shawn said. “At this time I’d like to call my first witness.”
“Objection!” Willingham said. “This is an arraignment. You don’t call witnesses at an arraignment.”
“In that case, I’d like to send out for some lunch,” Shawn said, staring at the judge. “You don’t happen to know a good barbecue place, do you?”
The judge’s face reddened under the white beard as he banged his gavel. “The defendant will sit down.”
“Okay, don’t tell me,” Shawn said. “I’ll ask around. I’m sure someone saw you having lunch today.”
Gus sank his head in his hands. He was pretty confident that the judge at an arraignment couldn’t actually sentence them to death, but Shawn seemed to be doing everything he could to find out. After a long moment when the judge hadn’t spoken or gaveled, Gus looked up again.
The judge was glaring at Shawn. Sarah Willingham was glaring at the judge. And the defense attorney was desperately trying to figure out what was going on. Apparently, whatever Shawn had seen was something he wasn’t supposed to.
The judge banged his gavel again.
“One witness,” the judge said. “And then a plea.”
“Your Honor, I object to these proceedings,” Willingham said.
“If you’d done that before lunch, I wouldn’t be getting away with this,” Shawn said sweetly, then turned to the courtroom. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury—”
The judge gaveled again. “Once again, there is an arraignment, not a trial. There is no jury here.”
“Fine, whatever,” Shawn said. “Ladies and gentlemen whose opinion means nothing to this court, I’d like to introduce you to my first witness.”
Shawn tapped their lawyer on the shoulder, and the man produced a small metal and plastic rectangle. Shawn took it and held it up for the onlookers to see. “I present to you Izzy the iPod,” Shawn said.
“Your Honor, this is ludicrous,” Willingham complained in a voice that suggested she knew he wouldn’t do anything about it.
“Now you may be wondering what a simple iPod has to tell us about the terrible crimes we’re accused of,” Shawn said. “Let’s find out. I’m going to put Izzy in shuffle mode.” Shawn worked the central wheel, then looked at the screen. “What have we got? ‘Killing Me Softly.’ ‘Innocent Bystander.’ ‘Run Like a Thief.’ ‘Magical Mystery Tour.’ ‘The Hunter Gets Captured by the Game.’ ‘Free the People.’ Do you see what it’s saying, aside from the fact that my lawyer apparently doesn’t own any songs recorded after my birth?”
“Who cares?” Willingham said.
“It’s trying to tell you something,” Shawn said. “About a murder, and the innocent bystanders who were caught up in it. How they had to flee to England where they caught a group of murderous smugglers, and now they should be set free.”
Gus still wasn’t sure what Shawn was doing, but he noticed that the judge seemed to be intrigued. At least he did until the prosecutor spoke.
“Your Honor, that’s a list of songs generated at random by a computer algorithm,” Willingham said. “Any meaning we might find there is simply a product of the human brain’s need to find patterns in any set of data.”
“Exactly!” Shawn shouted. “Which is exactly what my former client Langston Kitteredge spent the past decades doing. Only he’s smarter than we are, so he didn’t do it with iPod songs. He took bits and pieces from all sorts of books and paintings and kept messing them around until they fit in a pattern.”
“And he became so enamored of this pattern he let it replace any sense of reality,” Willingham said. “That’s called paranoid schizophrenia, and if the professor wants to claim it was this mental illness that caused him to murder Clay Filkins, he only has to enter the plea. And this would be a good time to do it, since we’re in the middle of his arraignment.”
For a moment, Gus had been feeling pretty good about what Shawn was doing. He hadn’t had any idea what it was all about, but it definitely seemed to have a direction. Now it looked like he had played right into the prosecutor’s hands. Because if Kitteredge did plead not guilty by reason of insanity, that still left Gus and Shawn guilty of accessory and obstruction and who knew what else.
“No pleas just yet,” Shawn said. “I’d like to call my first witness.”
“You just called your first witness,” Willingham said. “That iPod.”
“An iPod can’t be a witness,” Shawn said. “That’s ludicrous. Now if it were a Walkman, maybe. At least there’s a person in there.”
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge sighed.
“I call Flaxman Low to the stand,” Shawn said loudly.
Chapter Forty-six
Low stood up and strode to the docket, where he took aseat. Gus glanced over at Kitteredge to see if he’d acknowledge his old friend, but he just stared down at the table.
“I remind the witness he is still under oath,” Shawn said.
“What oath?” Willingham said. “He never swore an oath.”
“I solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” Low said. “Can we get on with this now?”
“Now I remind the witness he is still under oath,” Shawn said. “Mr. Low. May I call you Flaxman?”
“If you’d like,” Low said wearily.
“Really?” Shawn said. “How about Flax? Or Man? If I were you, I’d go with Man. It doesn’t sound like something you’d eat to boost your fiber.”
“Your Honor!”
The judge didn’t even bother to overrule Willingham but just waved at Shawn to continue.
“So, Flaxy, you’ve known the defendant Longbow Crispirito for a long time,” Shawn said.
Behind him, Gus heard the sound of a hand slapping a forehead and wondered if that was Henry or Lassiter. Maybe both. It had taken all of his self-control to keep from doing the same thing.
“I’ve known Langston Kitteredge for many years,” Low said.
“And you’ve known about his belief in a conspiracy involving King Arthur’s sword, and some artists no one has ever heard of?” Shawn said.
“We have had many discussions about his belief that William Morris and Dante Gabriel Rossetti had found Excalibur, and that a secret organization had been searching for it e
ver since,” Low said.
“Would you say he was convincing?” Shawn said.
“I wouldn’t have spent so much time on the subject if he hadn’t been,” Low said. “I believe you’ve had the experience yourself. Once he started weaving facts together, it was impossible to see where he was wrong. And while you may want to claim that this was nothing more than your iPod hypothesis, a search for patterns in unrelated data, I don’t see that anyone has disproved his main thesis.”
At this, Kitteredge did look up briefly, then returned his gaze to the tabletop.
“So if the professor said he had proof that Rossetti had painted a final picture and it had all these great clues in it, people would believe him, even if no one had ever seen the thing,” Shawn said.
“He’s the authority,” Low said.
“Which means that if someone else painted that picture, but Kitteredge said it was the real thing, whoever had it could sell it for jillions of dollars,” Shawn said.
“It’s hard to imagine a forger good enough to fool my friend Langston,” Low said.
“Even if he was only allowed to see the picture for a few minutes before it was stolen?” Shawn said.
“Your Honor.” Willingham didn’t even bother to get out of her chair this time. “What does this have to do with the defendants’ plea?”
“What does barbecue sauce have to do with hotel sheets?” Shawn said. “It’s one of life’s mysteries.”
The judge banged his gavel. “Just hurry it up.”
“Yes,” Low said. “Langston’s word would be enough to establish the piece’s provenance. But if you’re suggesting that he was used to artificially inflate the value of a forgery, you’re forgetting the fact that the picture was never sold. It was donated to the museum by an anonymous donor who received nothing in return.”
“But if something happened to the painting, Kitteredge’s pomegranate would still stand,” Shawn said.
“Provenance, yes,” Low said. “Which means the whole world can mourn the loss of this masterpiece, knowing it exists.”
“Excuse me,” a voice said from the audience. Gus turned to see that Lassiter was standing now. “Carlton Lassiter, head detective for the Santa Barbara Police Department. I wonder if I might ask the witness a question.”
“I object again!” This time Willingham did get out of her chair. In fact, she seemed to have been propelled out by jets of rage. “This man is not a lawyer.”
The judge pointed at Shawn. “And this man is? If it will get us any closer to a plea, come on down.”
Lassiter sidled over the chief’s legs, then walked through the low gate to the stand. “Mr. Low,” he said. “As you know, our English colleagues have been going through the records of Polidori and Son, and they’ve discovered that you sold the firm some several extremely valuable Pre-Raphaelite paintings.”
“I have been fortunate in my dealings,” Low said.
“I’d say you’ve been extremely fortunate,” Lassiter said. “Because you were able to sell some paintings that actually existed simultaneously in Japanese bank vaults, owned by corporations that had squirreled them away as investments. Scotland Yard will soon be retrieving the pictures you sold, and will be able to prove they were forgeries. So you might want to cooperate now if you hope to head off extradition.”
“I’m delighted to cooperate, but even if I had painted this picture, what gain would there have been for me?” Low said. “It was donated. Given away. No money changed hands.”
Gus noticed that Kitteredge was looking up at Low now, staring at him in acute betrayal. Then he lowered his gaze to the table again.
“Your Honor?” Shawn said. “I’m looking out in the audience, and I think someone else would like to ask a question. Dad?”
Shawn gestured, and Henry rose uncomfortably. “Sorry, Your Honor,” Henry said. “I’m Henry Spencer. SBPD, retired. I know this isn’t exactly the way things are done.”
“Everybody else is doing it,” the judge said wearily. “So jump on in. Ask Mr. Low your question.”
“Actually, I’d like to ask someone else,” Henry said. “Hugh Ralston, executive director of the Santa Barbara Museum of Art.”
“Hugh Ralston, come on down!” Shawn shouted.
Ralston looked like he’d just been shot. He stood weakly, then came down the aisle. At a gesture from the judge, Low got out of the witness box and held the door open for Ralston.
“Hugh, I remind you that you are still under the oath the last guy swore,” Shawn said.
“Is that real?” Ralston said in a quiet voice.
“Frankly, I’m not sure any of this is real,” the judge said. “I sincerely hope to wake up on the couch in my chambers within the next five minutes. But until then, proceed as if you are sworn.”
“Your witness, Dad,” Shawn said.
“Thanks, son,” Henry said. “Nice tux, by the way. Formal’s a good look on you.” He turned to the witness box. “Mr. Ralston, you told me you loved the museum.”
“It’s my life.” Ralston’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
“You told me it was more important than your life,” Henry said. “Because you could touch only the lives of the few people you were close to, but the museum could give joy to generations.”
“That’s true,” Ralston said.
“So if you found a way to protect the museum, to keep it open despite its financial difficulties, you would do it even if it weren’t strictly legal?” Henry said.
Ralston nodded, tears in his eyes.
Shawn clapped Henry on the shoulder. “Good work, Dad. We’ll take it from here.” He turned to Gus. “You want a shot at this?”
Gus worked furiously to put together all the pieces Shawn and the others had been laying out. How could a museum profit from a forgery, especially one it had possessed for only a few days?
And then he knew. He stepped up to the witness box as Henry headed back to his seat. “So, Hugh, after Flaxman Low came to you with the idea of this forgery, how much did you decide to soak the insurance company for?”
Ralston’s mouth was moving to speak when the courtroom doors burst open. A small, swarthy man marched down the aisle, two police officers chasing after him.
“Those two!” the swarthy man shouted, pointing at Shawn and Gus. “They are the ones who robbed me! I demand that they be arrested for grand theft!”
Chapter Forty-seven
“You have to admit:Things could have turned out a lot worse,” Gus said. “For one thing, these orange jumpsuits are much more comfortable than the tuxedoes.”
Shawn didn’t even waste a glare on him but just turned back to his hard labor.
“Okay,” Gus said. “I admit it. This was my fault. I got us into this, and you are paying the penalty for my mistake. But at least we’ve got the sun on our backs.”
A car tore by no more than five inches from Shawn’s foot, kicking dust in their faces at it sped down the 101 freeway.
“And don’t forget the fresh air,” Shawn said. “Lots and lots of fresh air.”
Gus lifted his stick and speared a cigarette butt from among the succulents, then dropped it in his shoulder bag. “Considering what we were charged with, it could have been a lot worse.”
It certainly could have been if Shawn hadn’t managed to put it all together. As soon as Ralston had been confronted on the witness stand, he broke down and confessed the whole thing.
Not all at once, and not coherently at first. Because he kept breaking into sobs and pleas to be forgiven. He’d taken part in the scam only to help the museum. He’d never dreamed that anyone would get hurt.
The plan had been Flaxman Low’s, of course. He’d been listening to Kitteredge obsess about that nonexistent painting for so many years he had half decided to paint it himself just as a prank. But once the idea was in his head, he realized it could be so much more lucrative if he took it beyond the level of practical joke.
Low knew how much financial trouble the Santa
Barbara museum was in, so he went to Ralston with a proposal. He would arrange for a lawyer to contact curator Filkins and offer the museum The Defence of Guenevere. Of course Filkins would leap at the chance, especially since the only condition of the bequest would be that it remain entirely anonymous, even to all museum personnel. Then they’d get Kitteredge to declare it a masterpiece, thus establishing its provenance. And then the painting would be tragically “stolen,” never to be seen again, and incurring an insurance payout in the tens of millions.
And it was all going so well until the day of the painting’s official unveiling. Filkins had never been completely comfortable with the anonymous gift, and he’d been studying the picture closely. That day he told Ralston he suspected a forgery, and took him into the gallery to show him what he’d discovered. That’s why the surveillance cameras had all been turned away—Filkins hadn’t wanted to alert anyone to his suspicions until he’d shared them with Ralston.
Panicked, Ralston told Filkins the truth, hoping to enlist him on his side. But the curator was outraged and vowed to go to the museum board and have Ralston fired. The executive director claimed his memory was fuzzy on precisely what happened next, but there was a scuffle, and when it was over Filkins was dead and Ralston was holding the bloody knife.
There was no way he could hope to transport the body through the museum. He knew he was going to be caught, and he was prepared to turn himself in. Then he had an idea. Thanks to Kitteredge, there was a mythology about a conspiracy surrounding this painting. Why not make it look like the Cabal had killed Filkins? He found a sword in the museum’s archives that was a fairly close match to the one in the picture and ran the corpse through with it.
But as the premiere drew closer, Ralston began to panic again. How could he hope that sane people—police detectives—would believe a ridiculous fantasy about a global conspiracy? They’d be much more likely to assume that anyone spinning such a tale was insane. And thus came the idea to slip the murder weapon into Kitteredge’s pocket when the professor hugged him on the museum steps. After that, all he had to do was cut the forged painting out of its frame and make sure it was never seen again.
A Fatal Frame of Mind Page 23