A Reasonable Doubt

by Phillip Margolin

  Quinlan parked and the three men rushed under an overhang that shielded the front door from the fury of the storm. Moments later, the door opened into a flagstone entryway where they were greeted by Robert Chesterfield, who was dressed in neatly pressed slacks, a tan sweater, and a sky blue shirt. Chesterfield asked the deputy DA and the detectives to come in. Their host had a charming British accent, and Dillon imagined him standing in the vaulted hall of an English castle, welcoming members of a fox hunt before the chase.

  “How are you, Peter? I don’t think I’ve seen you since we battled over bridge. Sorry you had to drive out in this ghastly weather.”

  “The drive wasn’t so bad. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “It’s no trouble. We’re quite isolated out here, and I welcome the company.”

  “This is Morris Quinlan and Roger Dillon. They’re the detectives who are investigating Sophie Randall’s murder.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Can I get you anything to drink, coffee, tea? In the movies policemen always reject spirits when they’re working, but we’re out of the public eye. Can you imbibe when you’re on duty? I’ve got some exceptional, fifteen-year-old, single malt Scotch.”

  “Coffee would be great,” Peter said.

  “I’m good,” Quinlan said.

  “Coffee for me, if it’s not too much trouble,” Dillon told Chesterfield.

  “The houseman and maid are off today, so I’ll have to do the honors. Why don’t you get comfortable while I get the coffee?”

  The detectives and the prosecutor walked down three steps into a spacious sunken living room where floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the ocean. The burning logs in a stone fireplace radiated heat into the cavernous space. Ragland chose an armchair near the fire, and the detectives sat on a couch.

  “Is Mrs. Dowd going to join us?” Quinlan asked when Chesterfield returned carrying a silver tray with coffee, sugar, and cream.

  “Unfortunately, Lily is indisposed. A vicious bug has attacked her. Not unexpected in this inclement weather.”

  “Give her my regards,” Peter said.

  “I will. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

  Chesterfield sat in a comfortable armchair across from the deputy DA and the detectives. “How can I be of assistance, Peter?”

  “We’re trying to get background information about anyone who might have had a reason to poison Sophie Randall or Samuel Moser. You knew Sophie Randall, didn’t you?”

  “I saw her around the club.”

  “And you know Sam Moser?”

  “I do.”

  “I understand that you and Sam had a row.”

  “We did.”

  “It concerned Mrs. Randall, didn’t it?”

  “In part.”

  “Didn’t she accuse you of making a pass at her?”

  “That’s what Moser said. It wasn’t true.”

  “Then why did she accuse you?”

  “We only have Moser’s word that she did accuse me, and the poor girl is deceased. I assure you that contrary to the vicious rumors Moser’s been spreading, I never said or did anything inappropriate where Mrs. Randall was concerned.”

  “Mr. Moser was the recipient of the chocolates that poisoned Mrs. Randall. Obviously, he was the intended victim. You don’t deny that you threatened him, do you?”

  Chesterfield looked amused. “Really, Peter, you’re playing this hand as badly as you play bridge. There’s no need to beat around the bush. If you think I tried to kill Moser, why not come out and say so.”

  “Well?”

  “No, Peter, I did not send poisoned chocolates to Samuel Moser.”

  “What about Arthur Gentry?”

  “What about him?”

  “Did you cause his death?”

  “Why would I poison Arthur Gentry? I barely knew the man.”

  “Arthur Gentry was an old friend of your wife’s. He wanted to marry her. Gentry stood between you and Mrs. Dowd’s fortune.”

  Chesterfield shook his head. “Really, Peter, I don’t know where you get your information. Lily and Gentry were friends, but she had no romantic feelings toward him. Believe me, I didn’t have to poison Arthur Gentry to get him out of the picture when I was courting Lily.”

  Chesterfield looked sad. “I’m sorry you have such a poor opinion of me, Peter. You could have saved yourself the trouble of a drive in this awful weather if you’d told me why you wanted to talk to me when you called.”

  Chesterfield cast a condescending look in Ragland’s direction. “And, if I did kill someone, do you think I would confess to you and these nice gentlemen?”

  Quinlan couldn’t believe how badly Ragland was botching the interview. Chesterfield was making a fool of him. Even worse, he now knew that they suspected that Arthur Gentry had been murdered and he was a suspect.

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” Ragland stammered as he scrambled to save the situation. “We’re not accusing you of anything. We just want to know if you have any information that will help us solve these murders.”

  “How could I? I resigned several months before Mrs. Randall was poisoned, and I had no contact with the Westmont after I resigned. I’m not surprised that someone tried to murder Moser. He is thoroughly unlikable and he treated me with a total lack of respect. I’m sure I’m not the only person who was upset by his superior attitude—an attitude that I don’t appreciate in an employee. Do you have any more questions for me?”

  Quinlan was fed up. “Yeah,” he said, “I got a few. How did you know Arthur Gentry was poisoned?”

  For the first time since they’d entered his house, Chesterfield looked flustered. “I … I didn’t. We’ve been talking about poisoning and it just came out. If Sophie Randall had been stabbed, I would probably have denied stabbing Arthur. Was he poisoned?”

  “Nice catch,” Quinlan said. “By the way, that accent, it’s phony, right?”

  Chesterfield’s jaw tightened. “Pardon me?”

  “This whole business about being an English lord, that’s a load of shit, isn’t it? Aren’t you really little Bobby Chesterfield from the Manchester slums who cheats at cards and fucks women old enough to be his mother?”

  Chesterfield’s hands curled into fists, and Dillon could tell that it was taking him every ounce of energy to keep from exploding.

  “I’ve had enough of this interrogation. It’s time for you gentlemen to leave. If you wish to speak to me again, you can contact me through my solicitor.”

  Quinlan smiled as he stood. “We don’t have solicitors in the US of A. We got attorneys, and you should look into hiring a good one who’s up on his criminal law.”

  * * *

  “That went well,” Quinlan said sarcastically when they were back on the highway.

  “That son of a bitch,” Ragland fumed. “We’ll see how smug he is when he’s rotting on death row.”

  “Look, Peter, you’ve got to start being objective,” Quinlan said. “Chesterfield is a horse’s ass, but he’s a very intelligent horse’s ass. He was baiting you because he knows you don’t have a prosecutable case.”

  “That’s where you and I disagree. I think I can get an indictment with what I have. Once Chesterfield is in custody, dressed in an orange jumpsuit instead of an Armani, we’ll see how fast he changes his tune.”

  Quinlan was smart enough to know that he wasn’t going to change Ragland’s mind, so he stopped trying. Getting an indictment would not be a problem. Any prosecutor worth his salt could convince a grand jury to indict the pope for John Kennedy’s assassination. Winning this case when it went to trial was something else.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Morris Quinlan was sound asleep when his phone rang.

  “My hunch paid off,” Peter Ragland bragged as soon as Quinlan answered.

  “What hunch?” Quinlan asked, groggy and annoyed at being jarred out of a deep sleep.

  “You know I got the murder indictments for Chesterfield last week?”

&nb
sp; “I testified at the grand jury, Peter.”

  “Well, I don’t just want to arrest His Lordship, I want to shake him up. I knew a guy like Chesterfield wouldn’t be able to keep it in his pants, so I called in a favor from an undercover at Vice and had a tail put on him. Guess what?” Ragland asked gleefully.

  “You woke me from a deep sleep, Peter. I’m too tired for games. Please cut to the chase.”

  “Lily Dowd is at her house on the coast. About an hour ago, Chesterfield escorted an attractive young woman up to Dowd’s Portland condo. They’re probably in the sack, doing the dirty right now, so I thought that this would be a perfect time to come calling. I’m in the lobby of the condo with two uniforms. Hustle on down, and you’ll be just in time to get in on the bust.”

  * * *

  Robert Chesterfield had just finished giving a young woman whose name he couldn’t remember her second orgasm when loud banging on the front door interrupted a most enjoyable evening.

  “Stay here, my dear,” Chesterfield said as he got out of bed and slipped on a robe.

  “Open up, police!” a familiar voice shouted.

  Motherfucker, thought Chesterfield, who remained outwardly composed. “Is that you, Peter?” he asked through the door.

  “Open up, Robert.”

  “Why should I do that? It’s the middle of the night and I have a guest.”

  “Tell your guest to get dressed. Playtime is over. I have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “Put on some clothes, dear. The police are calling!” Chesterfield shouted. Then he sighed and opened the door. “Did you plan this bit of theater in the hopes of embarrassing me?” Chesterfield asked wearily. “Because you haven’t succeeded.”

  Ragland walked into the penthouse and handed Chesterfield the arrest warrant. “Robert Chesterfield, I am arresting you for the murders of Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall and the attempted murder of Samuel Moser,” the deputy DA said.

  While Chesterfield was reading the warrant, Ragland told him his Miranda rights. He was just finishing when a frightened young woman walked out of Chesterfield’s bedroom.

  Chesterfield turned toward her and flashed a reassuring smile. “Megan—” he began.

  “It’s Mary,” the woman corrected.

  “I apologize. This dapper young man is Peter Ragland, and he’s arresting me for several murders.”

  Mary’s eyes grew wide.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t murder anyone, so you were never in any danger. Peter just loves to grab headlines.” Chesterfield turned to Ragland. “May Mary leave? I only met her a few hours ago.”

  Ragland hesitated and Quinlan stepped in. “Let the young woman go, Peter, so we can get on with this.”

  Ragland gestured toward the door. “Give these officers your name, address, and phone number. Then you can take off.”

  Mary gripped her purse tightly to her chest and scurried out of the condo. One of the uniforms followed her.

  “What shall we do now?” Chesterfield asked. “Would you and your companions like some tea?”

  Ragland reddened. “Don’t you ever get tired of this phony Brit act? Put your hands behind your back so we can cuff them. You’ll have your tea and crumpets in the jail.”

  “May I dress first?”

  Quinlan was afraid Ragland would try to take Chesterfield to jail in his birthday suit, so he stepped in. “Go with him while he dresses,” the detective told the other uniform.

  Ragland frowned, but he didn’t countermand the order.

  “This has been a productive evening, if I do say so myself,” Ragland gloated when Chesterfield was out of sight.

  “I hope you’re right,” Quinlan said. Ragland had acted rashly, and Quinlan was very worried that the case was going to blow up in Peter’s face.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For the past four days, Regina Barrister had been in court in a county located in the desert, a five-hour drive from Portland. Her client was charged with murder, and the case was anything but easy. When the jury brought in the not guilty verdict, Regina had been relieved and subdued. That had not been the case when she was alone in her car. As soon as the engine started, Regina broke into a massive grin, put on Jump Back: The Best of The Rolling Stones, and sang along at the top of her lungs all the way back to Portland.

  Regina arrived home a little before midnight and crawled into bed. She had just fallen asleep when the ringing of her phone jerked her awake again.

  “I have a Mr. Chesterfield on the line, Miss Barrister,” said the operator at the answering service that put through urgent calls after hours. “He’s an inmate at the jail.”

  “Have I the pleasure of talking to Regina Barrister?” a man asked when the call was put through.

  “I’m Regina.”

  “My name is Robert Chesterfield and I’ve just been arrested for two murders.”

  * * *

  Regina walked out of the jail elevator. Moments later, a guard opened a thick steel door and led her into a narrow corridor that ran in front of three contact visiting rooms. When she stopped in front of the middle room, Regina looked through a large window of shatterproof glass into a narrow concrete room where Robert Chesterfield was sitting at a table that was bolted to the floor. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit that should have made him look common. Instead, he brought to mind the handsome British prisoners of war in World War II movies who faced captivity with a stiff upper lip while they plotted their escape.

  “What an appropriate name for a successful trial attorney,” Chesterfield said when Regina was seated across from him.

  “When my parents emigrated from Russia to the US, my family name was Batiashivili. My father learned English by reading British mystery novels. When he realized that Americans had a hard time with his last name, he changed it to Barrister.”

  “Ah yes, Dorothy Sayers’s Lord Peter Wimsey and Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot, not to mention the immortal Sherlock, the heroes of my youth. I believe that your father and I would have gotten along.”

  Regina flashed an indulgent smile. “That’s enough about me, Mr. Chesterfield. You said you’ve been charged with two murders. Tell me what the police think you did.”

  “Are you by any chance a member of the Westmont Country Club?”

  “No.”

  “Did you read about the secretary at the club who was poisoned?”

  “I did, but I don’t usually pay much attention to a murder case when I’m not involved.”

  “Busman’s holiday, eh?” Chesterfield said with a smile. Then he stopped smiling. “I moved to Oregon from London several years ago and began seeing Lily Dowd, who was a widow and a member of the Westmont. A gentleman named Arthur Gentry was also courting Lily. Mr. Gentry passed away quite suddenly. I married Lily soon after and became a member of the Westmont.

  “Several months ago, Samuel Moser, the manager of the club, accused me of sexually harassing female members and staff, including his secretary, Sophie Randall. He also accused me of cheating at cards. There was no truth to these accusations, and I told him so. Mr. Moser continued to insult me, and I demanded that he be fired. When the board refused, my wife and I resigned.

  “In December, someone sent Mr. Moser a box of chocolates. He gave the box to Mrs. Randall. She ate a few pieces and died. The papers reported that the chocolates contained cyanide. Now I’ve learned that the police believe that Mr. Gentry may have been poisoned.”

  “Are you being accused of murdering both victims?” Regina asked.

  Chesterfield nodded. “Do you know a prosecutor named Peter Ragland?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you had any cases against him?”

  “I have.”

  “How did you do?”

  “Of the four cases I tried against Peter, three ended in not guilty verdicts. I lost one case, but I appealed, and the Oregon Court of Appeals reversed because Peter failed to tell me that his key witness had not identified my client at a lineup and a photo throwdown. Wh
en the case was sent back for a new trial, Peter’s boss told him to dismiss it. Is Peter the DA on your case?”

  “Yes. He’s also a member of the Westmont and he seems to be having the time of his life harassing me with these ridiculous charges. Recently, Mr. Ragland drove to my house on the coast with Detectives Quinlan and Dillon and tried to interrogate me. When I realized what he was up to, I sent them packing. Then he showed up at my condominium tonight while I was entertaining a young woman and dragged me downtown. If it hadn’t been for Detective Quinlan, I’m sure he would have perp-walked me out of my building in the nude.”

  “Did they tell you why you’re a suspect?”

  “It has to be because of the argument I had with Moser. Ragland asked me about it. And, of course, if Arthur Gentry and I were both courting Lily and he was also poisoned…” Chesterfield shrugged.

  “If you decide to retain me, I’ll contact Peter and get discovery. Then we’ll know the state’s evidence.”

  “I understand that there’s no bail in a murder case.”

  “There’s no automatic bail, but I can get bail for you by asking for a bail hearing and convincing the judge that the DA doesn’t have a strong case. That doesn’t always work. Judges are reluctant to release defendants charged with murder.”

  “How much will you want as a retainer if I hire you today?”

  “We’re talking six figures if you’re charged with murder and high six figures if you’re facing the death penalty. There could be further expenses for expert witnesses and investigators.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. My wife is quite wealthy.”

  “Didn’t you just tell me that you were in bed with a young woman when Ragland arrested you? Won’t your wife be angry?”

  Chesterfield smiled. “Lily is very understanding. Give her a call and tell her I’m in jail, and I’m sure she’ll come to the rescue. But I trust you’ll treat the circumstances of my arrest as an attorney-client confidence.”