Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller (32 page)

Rick whispered, "It goes to the relationship between the parties, and to motive."

"Fuck the parties!" Johnnie Faye whispered back.

Rick said softly, "One's dead and male, and the other's not my type."

A week before Clyde's death, Lorna Gerard continued, she came down to visit old friends in Houston. Staying at the house in River Oaks, she heard the Boudreau woman arguing with Clyde in other rooms. She couldn't make out what they were saying. At one point when they were sitting in the gardens watching Clyde play tennis with a friend, Johnnie Faye tried to find out from Lorna how much allowance Clyde was giving her. Lorna wouldn't say. "I love your stepdaddy to death," Johnnie Faye told Lorna, "but he can be crazy. Sometimes I lose my temper."

"And did she say anything else about your stepfather?" Altschuler prodded.

"Yes, she certainly did. A few days before she shot Clyde, she was rattling on one afternoon while I was trying to watch TV, and she said to me, 'When your stepdaddy gets mean and drunk and passes out, I could cut his throat in his sleep.' Those very words. And there may have been more, but I put my hands over my ears."

Despite himself, Warren glanced quickly at Rick, who was blinking. Johnnie Faye had never told them of this incident or of the argument in the Dallas restaurant. They had asked her if there had been any such moments; she had denied it.

Altschuler asked Lorna Gerard, "You took Ms. Boudreau seriously?"

"I didn't think it was a joke."

"Did you ever see your late stepfather strike Ms. Boudreau, or hear him threaten her in any way with bodily harm?"

"No, he just wanted to get rid of her. But he didn't know how. She had a hold on him of some kind. I can guess what it was."

"Move to strike!" Warren said sharply.

The judge solemnly instructed the jury to disregard all that Lorna Gerard had just said other than her answer in the negative.

"Your mother died in 1987, didn't she, Mrs. Gerard?"

"Yes."

"Under what circumstances?" Altschuler asked.

"She was murdered."

"Did Dr. Clyde Ott ever tell you who he thought had done it?"

"Objection," Warren snapped.

"Sustained. Don't answer, madam."

"Pass the witness," Altschuler said.

Warren took her on cross.

"How much allowance did your stepfather give you, Mrs. Gerard?"

"A hundred thousand dollars a year."

"And you also have an income of your own, don't you," Warren asked, "from your mother's estate?"

"Yes, I do."

"Did you love your stepfather?"

"Not really. I didn't know him well."

"Did you know Ms. Boudreau as well as your stepfather?"

"Of course not."

"You mean you knew her hardly at all — isn't that what you're saying?"

"I suppose so."

"And it's a fact, isn't it, that you didn't know her well enough to know when she was serious or when she was exaggerating?"

"Well, if you're referring to what she said about Clyde that night in front of the TV—"

Warren interrupted: "Mrs. Gerard, I didn't refer to anything. Just answer the question that I asked you."

"I knew her well enough for
that
."

Clearing his throat, Warren said, "Mrs. Gerard, you must have heard people say things like that many times. Do you always take them seriously?"

"I took
her
seriously. You should have seen the look in her eyes."

Warren could have asked the judge to instruct her to be responsive and stop commenting, but he sensed that her prejudice against Johnnie Faye favored the defense.

"When Ms. Boudreau made the remark you attributed to her, about cutting Dr. Ott's throat in his sleep, you were downstairs watching TV?"

"Yes."

"Do you recall what program you were watching?"

"A movie, I think."

"You don't remember which one?"

"No."

"You were enjoying it?"

"Well, I was
trying
to."

"Where was Ms. Boudreau standing?"

"Behind me. Near me. I don't remember exactly."

"You were seated and she was standing, isn't that correct?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"Don't guess. Tell us if she was seated and you were standing."

"All right. Yes, that's how it was."

"Can you look in two directions at once, Mrs. Gerard?"

"No, of course not."

"Isn't it a fact that if you were watching a movie and Ms. Boudreau was standing behind you, you couldn't possibly see what you describe as 'the look in her eyes' when she made the remark you say she made? Just tell us yes or no, please."

"Well, I
saw
it. Don't ask me how. I
did.
"

"And then, after the alleged remark, you say you covered up your ears so that you wouldn't hear any more?"

"It wasn't an alleged remark. She said it."

"I didn't ask you that, Mrs. Gerard. I asked if you covered up your ears so you wouldn't hear any more."

"Yes, I did."

"Did you hear anything more that she said?"

"No. I didn't want to."

"So that if Ms. Boudreau said anything else, such as 'I was just joking' or 'I didn't mean it,' you wouldn't have heard her — isn't that right?"

"She didn't say anything like that."

Warren smiled. "No further questions."

"Nice work," Rick said when Warren returned to the defense table, just as the judge called a break so that Maria could stretch and flex her hands from the stenograph.

Johnnie Faye pulled her lawyers to a secluded spot down the corridor. Crimson spots burned on her cheeks. "I don't like the way this is going."

"You should have told us about that stuff," Warren said.

"Well, it's all a lie."

"You didn't have that discussion in the Anatole in Dallas?"

"No fucking way."

"You didn't say anything about Clyde when Lorna was watching television?"

"You think I'm nuts? Listen, that Lorna is a paranoid schizophrenic. You know what that is? She hates my guts! She's making the whole thing up!"

Neither Warren nor Rick said anything. Johnnie Faye fled to the bathroom down the hall.

"Our client's in deep shit," Rick said.

"Richly deserved. It's a lie from beginning to end. We should have expected it."

"What made us think this was an easy case?"

"Yeah, my dog could win this case, you said."

"Your dog
could
have won it if our client was telling the truth."

"Truth," said Warren, "is not her strong suit."

"Don't panic. You may have it in for her because of Quintana, but you've got to help her."

"I'm doing all I can," Warren said angrily.

After the coffee break, Kenneth Underhill testified. He was Sharon's dissolute son, a man in his late thirties, unemployed and unemployable, as he readily admitted. He had a drug habit; he was in treatment. He stated that twice he had witnessed angry arguments between Clyde Ott and Ms. Boudreau. One had been at dinner in the Anatole with his sister present, and he recounted it much as Lorna Gerard had done. The other had been at River Oaks; he couldn't remember exactly what had been said, but Ms. Boudreau had definitely been abusive.

When Altschuler passed the witness, Warren said, "No questions."

Johnnie Faye kicked him under the table in the ankle, and Warren gasped in pain. Just loudly enough for the judge and jury to hear, she hissed, "He's lying! What's
with
you?"

Clenching his teeth, bending to rub his sore ankle with one hand, Warren said quietly, "Don't
ever
do that again. Now listen to me. We may have to live with this, but the arguments cut two ways. Clyde provoked you. You provoked him. Get it?"

"And you provoke me. Get it?"

Warren smiled for the jury to see. "Now shut the fuck up. And if you kick me again, I'm walking out of the courtroom."

With the afternoon waning, Dr. Gordon Butterfield took the stand for the prosecution. Altschuler's aim was to defuse the issue of Clyde's threat made at the Houston Racquet Club.

"… so, after the drink had been thrown by Ms. Boudreau, when Dr. Ott said, 'You bitch, I could happily kill you for that,' your firm impression was that he didn't mean it literally?"

"Absolutely not, and my wife had exactly the same impression. Clyde calmed down right away."

"Dr. Butterfield, how would you characterize Dr. Ott?"

"A hardworking, hard-living, gregarious man. Loyal, generous, and amusing. Quick-tempered but also very forgiving."

Altschuler passed the witness.

"Just one or two questions," Warren said casually. "Dr. Butterfield — hard-living, among other things, means hard-drinking?"

"Yes, to an extent."

"Partying?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Sexually promiscuous?"

"It might mean that."

"Quick-tempered means he lost his temper easily, isn't that right?"

"Yes, but—"

Warren cut him off: "You've answered. And losing one's temper means unreasonable anger and shouting, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so."

"Did Dr. Ott habitually use cocaine, to your knowledge?"

Butterfield glared and his cheeks flushed a rosy red. "You know the answer to that. I told you when you came to our house. He was a
doctor."

"You're telling us, Dr. Butterfield, that it's impossible for a doctor to ever use cocaine?"

"It's
very
rare."

"No more questions."

Judge Bingham rapped his gavel and announced that the court would adjourn until nine o'clock the following morning. As they all rose while the jury left the courtroom, Rick turned to Warren and said, "You done good."

Johnnie Faye looked with a dignified curiosity at each member of the retreating jury. When she turned on her lawyers the expression was replaced by a glare of rage.

"What a bunch of happy horseshit. You know that Clyde sniffed cocaine and you're just not smart enough to get that tightassed doctor pal of his to admit it. You let Ken — a goddam druggie! — say whatever he wanted to." She sneered: " 'Pass the fucking witness.' I could have any lawyer in town in a big case like this and I wind up with a pair of douche bags like you guys. Two cupcakes! One of them goes off to the racetrack every chance he gets, and the other slobbers in his beer because his wife left him, which I now fully understand. You didn't even ask that peckerhead fingerprint guy any questions! Did you guys make a deal with the prosecutor? This isn't a trial, it's a farce — a fucking kangaroo court! I think I have to talk to the judge."

"I'm not sure he'd be willing to listen," Rick said. "Now try to calm down."

"Calm down? I'm calm! I'm just shit-scared!"

"You don't have to be," Warren said. "We haven't told our side of the story yet. We have you to testify. How can we lose?"

===OO=OOO=OO===

After Johnnie Faye and Rick had gone, Warren trudged through the tunnel to the jail to visit Hector Quintana. He brought with him a Spanish-language newspaper and a paperback book of stories by Garcia Márquez.

"I don't want you to think I've forgotten you," he said.

Hector, behind the steel mesh, looked listless and weary. He was having trouble sleeping, he said. The bed was lumpy, bowed in the middle. His back ached. One of his two friends in the jail, a man from Matamoros,
had just pled out to twenty years in a drug-smuggling rap and been transferred
up to Huntsville to do his time. The other friend, from Mexico City, who was
awaiting sentencing on a guilty plea of manslaughter and who worked with him as
a dishwasher, was always bringing Hector gifts: toothpaste, a new bar of Ivory soap, cigarettes. He was always asking questions about Hector's case.

"You think he's a snitch?" Warren asked.

"I doan know. I thought he was my fren'. Now I doan know." Hector looked as if he wanted to cry.

"Don't talk to him. I know that's tough, but it's the only way. Have you heard from your wife?"

Not lately. He hadn't written Francisca that he was in trouble. He didn't want her to worry.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" Warren asked.

Hector shook his head.

"I found your amigos, Pedro and Armando. They can't visit you, they'd have to show I.D. and they're afraid they'd get busted by Immigration. But they send you a hug, a big
abrazo.
They're going to testify for you. Say that you had no pistol."

He didn't tell him that they were also out hunting for the man called Jim. If indeed they were.

"I been thinking," Hector said. "I talk to my fren' from Mexico City, and some other guys. They say it's bad to have a trial. The jury kill you. I think maybe that happen. They look at me in a bad way. My fren' say TDC so crowded that in a few years they going to cut everyone's time down to
una tercera." A
third. "So maybe I should do what you say before."

"Do what, Hector?"

"Say I did it. Go for forty years, to jail. Get out in
una tercera.
"

Warren knew that Hector had understood little of what had gone down in the courtroom with Siva Singh. He had been watching the jury. And listening to jailhouse lawyers.

"Hector, the choice is always yours. It's never too late until the jury leaves the courtroom to make up its mind. But don't be frightened. We can win. You can go home to El Palmito."

"I am frightened," Hector said.

As well he should be, Warren thought. It was his life at risk, his years in jeopardy. There was the problem of the possession of the gun, the murder weapon. Nothing would erase that from the mind of the jury. Warren's heart felt weak. He summoned up all his courage and said, "Don't worry. Have faith in me."

He left the jail in a chastened mood. For Hector, he realized, I would do anything and I'm always asking myself: Am I doing
enough!
But not for Johnnie Faye. Rummaging in memory, he saw himself standing before Judge Parker after the Freer fiasco. "We're supposed to do all we can to help our clients," he had said then, "even if they've sold cocaine to children."

"I'm doing the best I can," he had said to Rick. But was that really true? He wanted to fulfill his obligation, triumph, win the case. Losing would not ruin his life, but it would put him right back where he had started from. But a powerful unreasoning part of him wanted her to be found guilty. Now he believed that the plea of self-defense was a sham; either she had coolly planned the murder of Clyde Ott or shot him in a rage and then, with equal cunning, calculated the best way to wear the cloak of innocence. She was guilty, Warren believed. She should pay the price. Go to prison for life. Rot, you fucking barracuda. If she walks out of that courtroom a free woman, and if Hector dies, I'll gladly kill her. He felt shipwrecked on an island of doubt. Yet he had willed it. He had chosen. Crazy, he thought again. Crazy. Like a shipwrecked sailor staring up at a copper sun, going blind.