by Elaine Fox
She gave Truman a tentative smile, and suddenly Strape jumped up and said, “Defense objects to this witness, your honor.”
Truman stopped.
Judge Bailey cast Strape a steely glare. “On what grounds, counselor?”
Strape sent a nasty look Marcy’s way. “On the grounds that defense has evidence that the witness and my esteemed colleague, Ms. Paglinowski, are engaged in a personal, and I can say with some authority, intimate relationship. Defense contends that because of this relationship this witness will say anything she tells him to regardless of the truth, making his testimony unreliable, or at the very least suspect.”
Marcy’s stomach hit the floor and for one perilous second she honestly thought she would pass out. Her head swam as the blood drained from it.
“That—that’s…” She turned to the judge. “Your honor, that accusation is at best irrelevant. It’s also erroneous. The witness and I are not engaged in a relationship of any sort.”
She cast a glance toward Truman whose expression gave little away, though she saw a tightening around his mouth and his eyes narrowed dangerously at Strape.
“I beg to contradict my esteemed colleague,” Strape said, pulling a manila folder from his briefcase from which Marcy saw with horror he tipped out several photographs. “If you’ll just take a look at these…”
Marcy placed a hand over her mouth, then quickly dropped it and said, “Your honor—”
Judge Bailey interrupted. “Mr. Strape, I will not have this courtroom turned into a peep show because of photographs you managed to dig up that are not directly relevant to the case at hand.”
Strape raised his voice. “They are relevant because—”
“I was not finished!” Judge Bailey boomed imperiously.
Strape bowed his head and put the photos on the table in front of him. Marcy noticed he pushed them toward the bench, obviously hoping the judge would catch a glimpse of something lewd.
What could be in them? she thought frantically. She closed her eyes briefly. Making out on a public street near the pool hall, she thought, for one thing…
Marcy’s heart hammered in her chest and she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak without losing her composure. She didn’t dare look back at Win Downey, whose eyes she could feel on the back of her head like a branding iron.
Consorting with a witness…
“I will consider,” Judge Bailey continued, “allowing you to address this issue on cross, Mr. Strape, if it seems relevant at that time. But I want it to be known that I do not like, nor do I condone, such tactics as these”—she gestured disgustedly toward the pictures—“in my courtroom.”
“I understand. Thank you for your consideration, your honor,” Strape said, sitting. He left the pictures where they were.
“The witness may continue,” the judge said, waving Truman forward.
Marcy watched him come down the aisle. Had he gone on a shopping spree at Brooks Brothers? Even his shoes were polished and looked like something straight out of a Johnston and Murphy store.
As he passed through the gate at the bar and walked confidently toward the witness stand he cast her a glance that she thought contained some sympathy—she even thought she detected a tiny, compassionate smile—but it was over so quickly she couldn’t be sure.
With a deep breath for fortitude, she rose from her chair and started asking the questions she’d prepared. Without looking at him any more than she had to, for fear of giving the judge the impression that Strape’s allegation had merit, she guided Truman through the beginning part of his testimony, allowing him to explain when he began working for Planners, what the conditions were, and whether or not he had known her client, Bob Burton.
But Marcy was so rattled by Strape’s accusation she couldn’t tell at all how it was going. She could barely tell if she was asking the questions in order or coherently, so distracted was she by the pile of photographs fanned across the opposing counsel’s table. She had notes on how to proceed, thank God, but she couldn’t for the life of her say if she was sticking to them logically or not.
At one point she glanced over and saw a thunderous expression on Win Downey’s face. He was looking slowly around the courtroom and when his eyes met hers her knees nearly folded beneath her. She remained standing only by placing a hand on the table and turning back to Truman.
“Mr. Fleming,” she said. Her voice was at least emerging normally, if not exactly powerfully. “What happened on the morning of February the ninth?”
Truman’s eyes were on her. Where they trying to convey commiseration or was that just wishful thinking? She let her gaze skitter away, feeling a blush burn her cheeks. She hoped to God the judge didn’t notice.
“February the ninth I arrived a couple of minutes late to work and ran across Chuck Lang, the site superintendent, and Larry Standish, foreman for the subcontractor’s crew, arguing in the parking lot.”
That same parking lot where she and Truman had met. Where she’d found Folly…Good Lord, could Strape have pictures of them stealing the dog?
Marcy kept her eyes on her notes. Where were they? What had Truman just said? “Was Bob Burton part of Larry Standish’s crew?”
Tru nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”
She imagined a photo of herself locked in Truman’s embrace by her car that night near the pool hall. The way she’d pressed herself against his body it would be a wonder if either one of them was recognizable in a photograph.
Yes. That’s right. That’s what Truman had just said, wasn’t it?
She cleared her throat, kept her eyes on her notes. If she looked at his face she would imagine them in bed. Jesus, did his bedroom have curtains? Could someone have gotten a picture of that?
Intimate, Strape had said.
“And what were Mr. Lang and Mr. Standish arguing about?” she asked, feeling sweat break out on her forehead.
“Objection, your honor!” Strape’s voice was so loud Marcy jumped and dropped her notes. The index cards fluttered across the floor in three different directions.
Judge Bailey looked at Strape. Marcy ducked to pick up the index card closest to her.
“This witness’s testimony is hearsay,” Strape declared in an incensed tone. “What he heard or didn’t hear is as inadmissible as whatever pillow talk these two engaged in to come up with this pathetic—”
“Mr. Strape!” Judge Bailey boomed.
Marcy froze where she crouched on the floor, her fingers on the edge of an index card. She could barely believe what he’d just said.
“Your honor—” she began, rising.
But Truman’s voice was louder, and far angrier. “It’s allowed as an admission of the defendant, you arrogant twit,” he said, glaring at Strape. “Because as superintendent, Chuck Lang is an agent of the corporation, making anything he says the same as a statement issued by Planners Building and Design. I would think even a sleazy, two-bit lawyer like yourself should know that.”
Strape colored deeply. “And just where, exactly, did you go to law school, Mr. Fleming?” he sneered. “Hm?”
Marcy opened her mouth to intervene, but Truman, who looked ready to kill, spoke first.
“Harvard,” he said firmly. “Class of 1994.”
Marcy’s jaw dropped.
He’d just perjured himself. He’d been trying to put Strape in his place and he’d perjured himself. His entire testimony would be thrown out.
She glanced over at Win Downey who was—smiling?
Strape, who’d just been purple, now grinned with malicious glee. “May I remind you, Mr. Fleming, that you, sir, are under oath?”
Truman’s face was composed. “I am aware of that, Mr. Strape.”
Strape looked desperately to the judge. Marcy followed suit.
Judge Bailey suddenly seemed to be enjoying herself. “I am,” she said slowly, “familiar with Mr. Fleming’s status as a member of this bar. And I will take his word for his credentials.”
Marcy’s breat
h left her as if she been sucker-punched in the gut.
Strape sat down in his chair, missed the seat, and clattered to the floor. While he struggled to rise, Marcy turned her gaze slowly to Truman.
He sat still in the witness box, his gaze on her. This time, however, she was sure the look in his eyes was a bit less certain than before.
“In addition, Mr. Fleming is correct,” Judge Bailey continued, once Strape had found his seat again. “Defendant’s objection is overruled.” She turned to Truman. “In the future, Mr. Fleming, while I’m aware of your status as a member of the bar, you should allow your attorney to speak to the admissibility of her line of questioning.”
Truman nodded. “Sorry, your honor.”
“You may continue, Ms. Paglinowski.” The judge inclined her head toward Marcy.
But Marcy’s mind was blank. The only words in her head were living honestly. Living. Honestly. Words that had resounded within her for weeks now.
Don’t you want to live honestly? Truman had demanded that night they had argued. Honestly? she thought again now with growing outrage. He was a lawyer, living in a slum and working construction, giving her shit for not living honestly when he did the exact same thing?
“Ms. Paglinowski?” the judge prompted.
Marcy looked up at her and swallowed. “I’m sorry,” she said vaguely, then cleared her throat and spoke firmly. “I was just taken by surprise by Mr. Fleming’s…credentials.”
She was amazed she could even get the mild words out. Fury grew within her at a frightening speed. Who the hell did he think he was?
“Do you require a break?” the judge asked, her expression clearly saying she shouldn’t need one.
Marcy shook her head slowly. “No, your honor. It’s not important. I’ll continue.” She looked back at Truman, whose eyes were still watching her, caution in every line of his body.
He should be cautious, she thought, glaring at him. Every superior word he’d uttered about her not knowing how real people lived, every guilt trip he’d sent her on for offering to pay or for lamenting his lack of a phone, every feeling she’d had that she’d been unfair to him because of his disadvantaged situation in life now snapped back upon her as clear as the crack of a whip.
“Now, Mr. Fleming,” she said as composedly as she could, “please tell the court what Mr. Lang and Mr. Standish were arguing about.”
“I heard Standish tell Lang that guardrails on open-sided floors were required by OSHA, and that if Lang didn’t put some up he’d be in direct violation of OSHA regulations.”
She strode toward the witness box, her eyes boring into his. “And what did Mr. Lang say to that?”
He met her gaze. “He told Standish that the job could be finished by the time he’d complied with all of OSHA’s requirements. Then he said something like, ‘OSHA, my ass,’ and flatly refused to install any guardrails.”
Marcy hesitated one deliberate moment, her eyes on Truman’s, then said, “Thank you,” in a tone just short of derisive. She turned to Judge Bailey. “No further questions, your honor.”
She turned on her heel and sat down at her table without looking at Truman again.
Truman could read anger on Marcy’s face. But it was anger that had been there since Strape had objected to his testimony, so he wasn’t sure what to think. Clearly she’d been shocked by his revelation, but if he’d been looking for relief, renewed interest, or anything to suggest his new status had affected her, he hadn’t seen it.
“Your witness, Mr. Strape,” Judge Bailey said.
Truman looked to Strape, wishing that for one brief moment he could have been imbued with the power to burn a hole in the man’s forehead with his eyes. He’d never met Strape before the deposition, and had heard nothing about him—surprising considering the cheap tactics he’d used today. Usually lawyers like him were known by reputation in a relatively short amount of time, making it easier for attorneys arguing against them to be prepared for something underhanded.
Obviously Marcy had heard nothing about him either.
Truman had felt such anger on her behalf and had wanted so badly to jump out of the witness box and strangle the wretched Strape for causing that devastated look on Marcy’s face that it was all he could do to keep seated. Never in his life had he seen such profound shock on anyone’s face, and he hoped never to see it again. Especially not on Marcy’s.
Strape rose to his feet and took a couple steps in Tru’s direction. He, too, looked nonplussed, however. The day’s proceedings had taken their toll on everyone. With the possible exception of Judge Bailey, who seemed abnormally pleased with the strafing of Strape. Apparently she’d seen his tactics before.
“Mr. Fleming,” Strape said, “what is the nature of your relationship with Ms. Paglinowski?” He tried to give Truman a penetrating glare but couldn’t sustain it. He let his eyes drop to a point on Truman’s tie.
“I wouldn’t say we have a relationship,” Truman said. He glanced at Marcy, who sat stiff-backed at her table, her eyes on a yellow legal pad in front of her on which she wrote rapidly.
“You wouldn’t say you have a relationship?” Strape repeated. “Surely you’re mistaken, Mr. Fleming. At the very least she is your attorney in this matter.”
“She is Bob Burton’s attorney. I am a fact witness for this case. That’s all.”
Strape narrowed his eyes at Truman. “Are you saying you have no personal relationship with Ms. Paglinowski?”
“Objection, your honor,” Marcy called, looking up from her paper at the judge. “Asked and answered.”
Good girl, Truman thought.
Judge Bailey nodded. “Sustained. Move on, Mr. Strape.”
Strape issued a hearty, long-suffering sigh. “Have you ever had a relationship with Ms. Paglinowski?”
“Objection,” Marcy said again. Her tone was calm. “Even if a current relationship could be construed as relevant because of its effect on this trial, surely any relationship terminated prior to the trial is not.”
“Sustained,” Judge Bailey said.
“But your honor,” Strape protested, “you said you would allow—”
“I said I would consider allowing questions and determine relevancy at that time. I have now allowed questions on the subject and have determined further exploration of this issue is irrelevant.”
Truman could barely contain a smile.
The rest of Strape’s questions were routine, spineless examinations of his answers on direct examination. He tried to keep Truman on the stand as long as he could, nitpicking every angle in hope of finding one that might discredit him, but Truman’s answers were so brief and unhelpful that Strape eventually gave up and excused him.
Truman rose from his seat in the witness box and moved across the well between the judge’s bench and attorneys’ tables. His eyes were on Marcy, hoping for a sign of what she was thinking, but she did not look up from her paper.
With an inward sigh, he moved past her, through the gate at the bar, and down the aisle to the courthouse lobby.
Once there, he stood, paralyzed with indecision. Should he leave? Or should he wait for Marcy? Tell her to her face that he knew they were finished, that he could never know now whether she wanted him for himself or his position.
He didn’t want to hurt her, though God knew he was hurting from the angry end to their relationship. He just knew, if they got together now, he’d always wonder if she was just another social-climbing woman. If she had her eye on the prize, more than the person.
He shook his head and turned back toward the closed courtroom doors. That wasn’t Marcy, he thought. That wasn’t the Marcy who’d bantered with him over half-smokes, the Marcy who’d stepped so passionately into his arms in his dingy little apartment.
Perhaps he should stay, he thought, indulging his deepest desire for just a moment. Maybe he should wait for her to emerge from the courtroom and confront her, have her tell him he was wrong, that she had always cared about him, and hadn’t cared a
t all that he was penniless.
But he knew that wasn’t true, either. She’d been honest enough to admit as much. She wanted someone with a career, with money—she’d said the very word herself. What else did he need? A stick to beat himself with?
No, he’d had his answer. She didn’t want him if he didn’t have money to provide that secure position for which she strived. Security, he thought with a pain in his chest. What an artful euphemism for wealth.
He turned back around and headed for the exit.
Marcy Paglinowski had made it clear what she wanted, he thought, walking with growing purpose across the marbled floor. And it wasn’t the Tru Fleming from Southeast.
But Tru Fleming had standards too, he thought, opening the courthouse doors and exiting into the frigid December sunshine. And they included a woman who would love him no matter what.
A woman who loved the man, not the money.
19
Thursday, December 12
WORD-A-DAY!
BONUS WORD
SOCKDOLOGER: n., a decisive declaration or knock-out blow that finishes the argument; quite often this blow is of an unexpected and startling nature
As the judge left the courtroom, Marcy stood and gathered her papers. They had one more day of the trial to go, but she had little fear that they would lose now. She’d seen the defense’s list of witnesses and knew they didn’t have much to refute what hers had proven today.
But she couldn’t feel good. In fact, she was so far from feeling good that all she wanted to do was go home and spend the next six months in bed.
She’d been lied to by Truman, betrayed in such an expansive, unexpected way she was still reeling from the shock. What had he been thinking? Had he wanted to hurt her, showing up in court this way and making his admission so public? Had surprising her in the middle of a trial been his way of avoiding a scene?
Or had he thought perhaps the truth would not have come out? Strape’s accusation was hardly predictable, and Marcy was pretty sure it was anger over that accusation that had triggered Truman’s experienced response to Strape’s hearsay objection.