by Ron Schwab
Celeste was again seated next to Casey. This morning she had appeared bored with the entire proceedings, yawning frequently as some of the testimony grew tedious, rolling her eyes at witness responses she found ludicrous. Casey had chastened her to at least pretend being interested and sincere and to avoid theatrics that might offend, but she was not certain her words had not fallen on deaf ears. They had argued quietly but heatedly over Celeste’s announcement she would like to testify in her own defense. Casey had bluntly told Celeste she would be a fool to do so but placated her by promising to discuss it before she presented the defense case.
Casey expected Karl Wainwright’s testimony to take most of the afternoon. She felt inadequately prepared for the witness, who had successfully evaded her efforts to locate and interview him. Sheriff Isaac Bell and Jess Cooper had told her Karl was an eyewitness and little more. She turned to Celeste and asked, “Again, is there anything at all I should know about this man? Any reason why he would contrive a story?”
Celeste smiled benignly. “Honey, I’ve told you everything I know. This man’s mouth opens and a lie pops out. Ralph always said that lying was just a habit with Karl. Even if the truth was in his favor, he’d rather fib his way out of trouble than tell the truth. He’s a goddamn snake . . . that’s what he is.”
The jury members had taken their seats for the afternoon session now, and momentarily Judge Hutchens limped to his station and reconvened the court. “Mr. Cooper,” he said, “let’s head this train up the tracks. Call your next witness.”
“Yes, your Honor. The state calls Mr. Karl Wainwright.”
A slight, almost skeletal, man emerged from the crowd of spectators and made his way to the witness chair. Karl Wainwright was a pale man, with white-blond hair and feral, washed-out blue eyes, who reminded Casey of an emaciated, albino mountain lion she had seen when she lived among the Comanche. As he sat down, Wainwright’s long, effeminate fingers smoothed a thin moustache that was nearly invisible from the defense table. He was dressed impeccably in a fashionable black suit and string tie.
Jess Cooper commenced his examination of Karl Wainwright, spending unnecessary time, Casey thought, on the preliminaries, but it gave her a chance to size up the witness. She concluded this was a man who was serenely confident and, who, despite a voice with an irritating nasal quality, was well spoken and probably not easily derailed from whatever story he had to tell.
Finally, Cooper cut into the meat of Wainwright’s testimony. “Mr. Wainwright, were you a frequent visitor in the home of your father and stepmother?”
“A point of clarification, sir. The defendant is not my stepmother. Her name . . . as near as I know . . . is Celeste Kimball. She was never married to my father.”
Celeste’s marital status had been brought out in early testimony, but Karl had been quick to respond to Cooper’s subtle prompt to remind the jury this was not a chaste and Christian woman upon whom they were rendering judgment.
Wainwright continued. “But to respond more directly to your question: I was not a frequent visitor to the home. Miss Kimball had made it very clear after she took up residence with my father that my presence was not welcome.”
“Did she say why?”
“Objection, your Honor. Irrelevant,” Casey interjected.
“Sustained. You’ll need to lay more foundation if you wish to pursue that issue, Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper proceeded with his examination. “Mr. Wainwright, you testified earlier that you have resided in Kansas City for the past several years. How often did you see your father during that time?”
“Perhaps twice a year. When he made business trips to Kansas City.”
“And when was his most recent visit?”
“About a month before his death.”
“Did he say anything at the time of that final visit that gave you concern about his well being?”
“Yes, sir, he did.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he feared for his life.”
“And did he say why?”
“Yes. He said that Miss Kimball had threatened to kill him. He was afraid she would poison him, and he said he wanted me to know in case of his unexpected death under suspicious circumstances. His statement left me very concerned.”
The jurors leaned forward, almost as one, to give the witness their undivided attention. Casey studied Wainwright’s face. She saw no sign of nervousness. His eyes betrayed nothing. His testimony was calm, matter of fact, as though he were observer, not participant, in the events he related.
“Did your father say why the defendant threatened to kill him?”
“Yes. He told me in a very summary way about his relationship with the maid, Miss Kleine. He said Miss Kimball had found out about the liaison and had told him he would be dead before he left her for another woman.”
“You said you were concerned about your father. Did you act upon those concerns?”
“Yes, sir. A week before my father’s death I returned to Borderview.”
“To visit your father?”
“No. To see Miss Kimball.”
“Why did you return to visit Miss Kimball?”
“I felt I should make her aware that I knew of her threats and that I would cause a serious investigation to be made if any ill fortune should come to my father. I did not want to embarrass my father with any perceived interference, so I determined I would not make him aware of my presence until I had more or less settled the issues with Miss Kimball.”
“And did you speak with Miss Kimball?”
“Yes, I did, on two occasions.”
“And where did this take place?”
“At the home. I went there while my father was at work.”
“Did you confront Miss Kimball?”
“Yes. The first time was the Tuesday afternoon prior to my father’s death.”
“And what happened on that occasion?”
“We met in the library and I told Miss Kimball that I knew about her threats. I warned her that she would not get away with it if any harm came to my father.”
“What was her response?”
“She just laughed and insisted she had made no such threats . . . that my father had been drinking heavily and was hallucinating. She urged me to return on Thursday, however, to discuss what she called ‘mutual concerns’ about my father’s condition.”
“Did you comply with her request?”
“Yes, I went to the house again on Thursday afternoon.”
“What happened on that occasion?”
“Miss Kimball made a proposition.”
Cooper was silent for a few moments, heightening the suspense. “What was the nature of the proposition?”
“She proposed we form an alliance for the murder of my father. She said there was a will that left all of my father’s estate to her, but she feared he would change it and leave everything to Greta Kleine and ‘her bastard,’ as she put it. She said she would divide the estate with me in equal shares if I would kill my father.”
“How did she propose to murder your father?”
“She said we could make it look like an accident. She would lure him into a drinking binge and then I was to kill him with a hammer or other such implement, and we would make it appear he had fallen down the stairway in a drunken stupor.”
“What was your response to this proposal?”
Wainwright showed no emotion. “I told her she was insane and that I would have no part of it. I warned her I would go to my father if she persisted in such talk. She responded with profanities I would rather not repeat. Our conversation lasted no more than fifteen minutes that day. I left when I saw her outrage allowed no rational discussion.”
“Did you see Miss Kimball again that week?”
“Yes, I did. The night of my father’s death.”
“Would you describe the circumstances.”
“Yes, of course. It was Saturday evening. Dusk was just coming on. Miss Kimball’s proposal had been we
ighing heavily on my mind, and I determined that I must make my father aware that his worst fears . . . which I had to that point doubted . . . were undeniably justified. I went to the home to alert him to the danger and to persuade him that he must cut all connections to this woman, vacate the house immediately, if necessary.”
“You are referring to your father’s house?”
“Well, Miss Kimball’s house, actually. At least she had so informed me on my first visit. He had succumbed to her pressure to deed the house to her.”
“Objection, your Honor,” Casey snapped. “The witness is testifying as to facts which are not within his knowledge. His reply includes elements of speculation prejudicial to the defendant.”
The judge nodded in agreement. “Sustained. The jury will disregard the reference to the deceased’s motivation for deeding the residence to the defendant.”
Casey knew that the judge’s admonition was to no avail, but the occasional objection might force opposing counsel and witness to tiptoe more carefully around such testimony. The outcome of her case did not hinge upon this particular statement.
The county attorney continued. “Mr. Wainwright, please tell the jury what happened when you arrived at the house.”
“Well, when I arrived, I knocked at the door, but there was no answer. Then it occurred to me the maid was probably off for the day. My father usually granted his servants a day’s respite on Saturdays. So I checked the door, found it unlocked and entered the house.”
“Then what happened?’
“I heard movement in the kitchen, so I walked down the hallway in that direction. When I reached the doorway, I saw my father sitting there with his head drooped on the kitchen table. The defendant was standing behind him holding a pistol aimed at the back of his head. Before I could say a word, the gun fired. I can remember blood spreading across the table, the smell of gunpowder and a terrible ringing in my ears. I am not proud to say I turned and ran from the house.”
“Did the defendant see you there?”
“She gave no indication of it. I left quietly, not wanting to draw her fire.”
“Can you describe the weapon?”
“It was an Army Colt revolver. My father kept one in his library desk, one he brought home from the war. I assume it was his . . . but I don’t know.”
Casey had not intended to interpose an objection over Wainwright’s conjecture, but he had obviously anticipated one. This man was a witness to be reckoned with. The ownership of the weapon was not the essential issue here, but she made a mental note to ask Celeste what she knew concerning the whereabouts of Ralph Wainwright’s revolver.
Cooper asked, “You said your father’s head was ‘drooped’ on the kitchen table when you first saw him. Would you explain what you meant by that? Was he unconscious?”
“That was my impression. He was not moving.”
“Did you see any blood or other evidence of violence before the gun fired.”
“No, he might have been sleeping, for all I could tell.”
“So, the defendant shot him in cold blood.”
Before Wainwright could respond, Casey leaped to her feet. “Objection, your Honor. Counsel is not only leading the witness, he is doing so with inflammatory words.”
“Sustained. The jury will disregard.” Judge Hutchens looked sternly at the county attorney. “Consider yourself duly warned, Mr. Cooper.”
“Yes, your Honor.” Cooper turned back to his witness. “Now, Mr. Wainwright, I would like to go back over these events with you in more detail.”
The county attorney spent the next hour laying the bricks of Karl Wainwright’s testimony like a stonemason, filling in the chinks and cracks, smoothing out the words with care as he built the foundation of his case. Casey gave Cooper his due. He was making effective use of a witness who appeared quite credible, and who thus far had been unflappable.
When Cooper was finished with Wainwright’s examination, the judge asked, “Miss McGlaun, I assume you will have a question or two of the witness?”
“Yes, your Honor, I expect to spend some time with this witness.”
“Very well. We’ll take a fifteen minute recess.” The judge moved as quickly out of the building as his gimpy leg would permit and headed for the privy behind the building that Deputy Jimmy Hawkins would guard like a military outpost against all invaders until the judge had finished his mission and tried to emerge with some remnant of judicial dignity intact.
While Casey waited for court to reconvene, she reviewed Karl Wainwright’s testimony with Celeste. “Is there anything I should know, Celeste? Karl’s cross-examination could decide the outcome of your case.”
“I told you before. He’s a weasel. He’s concocted this whole story. He approached me about killing Ralph. He couldn’t have known about the holographic will until it was filed for probate. I never told him about it. He probably assumed he would get Ralph's estate. He was the only child. Ralph had been sending him money for one wild scheme after another ever since he left Borderview.”
“Why would Karl kill Ralph if he depended on him for funds?”
“Because Ralph was going to cut him off. That’s what they talked about on Ralph's last trip to Kansas City. That’s what Ralph told me anyway. He said Karl threw one of his tantrums. He’s not always the iceman you’ve seen today. When he doesn’t get his way, he goes absolutely berserk. He might do anything in one of his rages. That’s probably what happened when he killed that little girl.”
Casey had heard the story from Emily Stanton. Emily had not been inclined to shrug off the tale as rumor. “Do you know he raped and killed the girl?”
“Can I prove it? No. But Ralph and I both knew. Ralph wasn’t blind, even to his flesh and blood. He saw Karl’s twisted side. Once, when he was drunk, he told me about Karl’s cruelties as a boy . . . how one time he poured lamp oil on a cat and set it on fire, how he tortured frogs and mice by cutting off their legs while they still lived. When he was seventeen, he buggered a twelve-year old stable boy, and Ralph had to pay off the parents to stave off the law. He was always in some kind of trouble when he was away at school, and when Karl couldn’t lie out of it, Ralph had to pay. But Ralph was going to yank away the money tit.”
“So, you are telling me you think Karl killed Ralph?”
“I don’t know who killed Ralph. But it wasn’t me. I’d put Karl at the top of the list.”
“What about the gun? Did Ralph have an Army Colt?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t to be found when Ike Bell showed up with his warrant. I don’t know what became of it. I haven’t seen the weapon but once, when Ralph opened the locked drawer to get some legal papers out a year or so ago. It could have been gone a long time for all I know. Karl certainly knew about the gun, though, didn’t he?”
Casey digested what Celeste had told her. She did not know whether Celeste had committed the murder, and it did not matter. She was dutybound to defend the woman to the best of her ability. The prosecution was short of hard evidence, but so was the defense. Karl Wainwright had motive to commit the murder, and, accordingly, ample motive to lie. He was Casey’s best bet to squeeze out some reasonable doubt in favor of her client.
After the judge returned and called the courtroom to order, Casey stood and commenced her cross-examination of Karl Wainwright. Their eyes locked and he did not flinch, but she could see the sparks of his contempt there. “Mr. Wainwright, you have testified that you are familiar with the contents of a certain holographic will which names Celeste Kimball as the recipient of your father’s estate . . . a will which has been admitted as evidence in this proceeding. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you consulted with an attorney about the legal effect of this will?”
The county attorney stood, shaking his head in feigned disbelief. “Objection, your Honor. Irrelevant. The terms of the will are clear. This witness’s testimony on that question has no bearing on the defendant’s guilt or innocence.”
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br /> The judge looked at Casey, granting her a chance to reply.
“Your Honor, if the court will be patient for a few moments, I will be able to show relevance, not only as to the credibility of this witness but as to the fact that the defendant is not the only person with motive to murder Ralph Wainwright.”
A stunned silence settled on the courtroom. Casey stole a glance at her anointed jurors, the blacksmith and the schoolteacher. Their attention was undivided.
“Proceed, counselor, but I’ll reign you in the minute I decide this testimony’s not going anywhere.”
“Thank you, Judge.” Casey turned back to her witness. “Mr. Wainwright, do you want me to repeat my question?”
“No, ma’am. I did consult with a lawyer.”
“Good. Then I would ask you to indulge me a moment and hypothesize with me. Just for the sake of argument, assume that the holographic will is admitted to probate. Assume further that the defendant is convicted of the murder of your father. Who would inherit his estate?”
Wainwright looked bored. “His next of kin.”
Karl was being just a little too clever, unnecessarily evasive when it served no point. “And who might that be?”
“Me, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I was advised that a murderer . . . in this case a murderess . . . cannot benefit from the death of a victim, so any provision in the will for Miss Kimball would be invalid.”