Shadow of A Doubt Read online

  Judge Mulhern’s courtroom is in the same building as the Kerry County circuit courts, a situation the circuit judges find offensive since they consider Tommy and his jurisdiction to be a form of lesser legal and political life. Although only a few thousand dollars in salary separates them, circuit judges tend to view district judges the way French aristocrats used to view indentured peasants.

  But their long-nosed attitude didn’t bother Tommy. Face to face, he was civil to them, but everywhere else he consistently referred to the gentlemen as the Three Weird Sisters.

  It was standing room only in Tommy’s courtroom, the audience composed of ten percent curious and ninety percent reporters representing local, national, and even international print and television media. One television camera, per Michigan court rules, was set up at the side of the courtroom, its recorded product to be shared by all the electronic media.

  Everyone stood as the Honorable Thomas J. Mulhern took his place on the high bench. He looked out at all of us the way a farmer might gaze out at a particularly disappointing herd.

  I recognized the signs of a world-class hangover. His face was white as chalk, his eyes puffy and red. I used to look like that. I remembered, and I felt sorry for Tommy Mulhern.

  Angel sat next to me. She was as much an enigma to me as before. She might be an innocent child or she might be a sinister woman, or perhaps something even more complex, something I had never encountered before. I couldn’t tell. She had thanked me for having the suicide watch removed, but it was the kind of mechanical gratitude shown to waiters who bring the rolls. Robin had been allowed to visit with her for a few moments before the judge came out. I had watched to see what kind of chemistry might exist between the two women. I had expected an emotional reunion, hugging, kissing, assurances of support, the roles expected in these circumstances. They did kiss, and I thought I saw real affection, but they were both so cool and calm it was more like two friends meeting for lunch rather than the opening act in a murder case.

  Robin had returned to her front-row seat. She sat with Malcolm Dutton, who scowled at me with even greater disapproval than before. Robin and Dutton were wedged between two muscular young men garbed in matching off-the-rack suits. I presumed they were Harwell plant security men. They looked exactly like Secret Service agents but without the little radio earplugs.

  Mark Evola had greeted me with a solemn hello, his dignified attitude designed to conceal his jubilation at the media coverage he was about to receive. He hadn’t exactly thrown on his clothes willy-nilly. Evola was as splendidly dressed as a Brooks Brothers ad. Tall, blond, with a smile exhibiting teeth that nature could only envy, he was a magnet for the attentions of the photographers and the women reporters.

  I was clean and wearing my best shirt and suit but I couldn’t match him. Were this a movie, Evola would be played by Cary Grant or Robert Redford, and my part would be ideal for Jack Nicholson — a wrinkled, worried Jack Nicholson.

  But this wasn’t a movie.

  My mother, before she died, said I became a lawyer because it was like being a priest. She was talking of the ritual, not the spiritual, although I have heard more than a few confessions in my time.

  She was correct about the rites of trial. In this country we get our law and ritual from ancient England. Centuries ago the English liked to run around cold castles in robes, talk of justice, do a mumbo-jumbo routine, then take the guilty defendant outside and whack off his head with an axe.

  It’s about the same now, with some refinements, although the axe has fallen into disfavor. The castles have become courtrooms and they are heated now in the winter and air-conditioned in the summer. But my mother was right: I am fond of the ceremonial aspects of my profession.

  As his part in the ritual, Mark Evola got up, made a brief presentation to the judge, and then confronted Angel Harwell. He began to read the formal language of the charge, using archaic legal terms that old King Henry and the boys would have instantly recognized.

  He ended by charging Angel Harwell with the crime of first-degree murder.

  It only took a few minutes. The Honorable Thomas J. Mulhern looked out at me through pained eyes. He was anxious to get this over with, to perform his part of the ceremony, bind Angel over for examination without bond, and escape into his nice dark office. All I had to do was enter her plea — not guilty, stand mute, or guilty — then we could all go home.

  I chose not to follow the script.

  “If the court please,” I said, “the prosecution is wrongfully withholding evidence. I cannot advise my client properly unless I know all the circumstances of the case.”

  Tommy arched an eyebrow over one red eye. A person with a killer hangover doesn’t want to use his brain. It hurts too much.

  “What do you mean?” he snapped.

  “In conversations with the prosecuting attorney and the police, they allege my client has made statements detrimental to herself. I have demanded to see these so-called statements but I have been refused.”

  “That is untrue!” Evola was flushed. “I told Mr. Sloan his client’s confession was being typed up. I told him he would get a copy when it was. I resent the implication.”

  Tommy Mulhern sighed and placed a hand at the side of his head, as if thinking, but his fingertips were gently massaging his aching temple. “This statement, is it typed up now?”

  Evola paused. “Well, it’s in the process.”

  “Oh? Is there something unusual or difficult about it? Is it being hand-lettered by monks?” Mulhern tried to force a smile but failed.

  “Ah, it’s just been completed, or so the police inform me.”

  Morgan and Maguire, who hadn’t said a thing to him, sat there, their stoic expressions as stiff as if sculpted in stone.

  “Give it to him,” Judge Mulhern said, his voice barely above a rasp.

  “I had planned to do so,” Evola said with righteous indignation, “as soon as we had completed the arraignment.”

  “Now,” Mulhern commanded.

  His dignity bruised, Evola handed me a copy of Angel’s statement.

  “Take a minute,” Mulhern said, getting up and stomping off the bench. He would take a hair of the dog. I used to.

  I could hear Angel’s soft breathing as I read. It was the usual format, question and answer. I read quickly.

  Her statement was like one of those trick drawings — hold it one way you see one thing, twist it a bit, you see something else. Her words, if taken in different ways, could mean entirely different things.

  “Did you tell them you were responsible for your father’s death?” I whispered to Angel as I quickly read through the brief statement.

  She looked at me. “I could have said that. I was very upset.”

  Judge Mulhern, a little more color in his face, came back into the courtroom and took his place at the bench.

  He looked at me. “It’s up to you, Mr. Sloan. How do you plead?”

  I stood up slowly. I was conscious that the eye of the television camera was on me. If Evola was going to try the case in the glare of that public eye, I — or whoever succeeded me — would have to do so too.

  “This is no confession,” I said indignantly, holding the papers up as if they were emitting a terrible odor. “This is a legal outrage.”

  Evola popped to his feet, but the judge spoke first.

  “Please, no speeches! You might be in a mood to try the case this morning, Mr. Sloan, but we cannot. We have to go by the court rules, like it or not. And those rules demand that your client enter a plea today, nothing more. Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  I let my shoulders sink with studied sadness, as if he had just ordered me flogged. Put a camera on lawyers and we all become Olivier. “Ordinarily,” I said, “I would stand mute in order to preserve the prosecutor’s mistakes for appeal, but this charge is so rank, so patently unjust, that I’ve decided to advise my client to plead not guilty. And that’s the plea in this case, not guilty! Period!”

&nb
sp; There was some murmuring from the spectators. Mulhern glared out at the noise.

  “Okay,” he growled. “The plea of not guilty to first-degree murder will be entered. There is no bond, obviously. I shall set the examination for Friday.”

  Evola who had remained standing, spoke. “I would like a few more days than that to prepare, if the court please.”

  “For what? A homicide examination? If you aren’t sure of your facts by now, you shouldn’t have brought the charge.” Mulhern stood up. I sensed he was anxious to get back to his chambers and another restorative ounce or two. “Friday it is. If you can’t be ready, Mr. Evola, I’ll dismiss the charge until you are.”

  “The people will be ready,” Evola snapped, this time displaying real anger.

  *

  AFTER that, everything seemed like one of those old movies they speed up to produce a choppy, chaotic effect.

  Out on the courthouse steps I stepped into a throng of newspeople and found myself looking into a sea of camera lenses and facing a forest of microphones. Mark Evola, who had stationed himself at the other end of the steps, seemed to be making a hell of a speech to an equally large crowd of newsmen and cameras. Whoever got off the best line would end up on the six o’clock news. I did my best to snap off a couple of zingers to give Angel at least equal time in the media wars.

  After my fifteen minutes of fame, I walked to the jail and met with Angel, in the lawyer-client room, separated by glass and speaking through microphones. Although she faced the prospect of life in prison she seemed no more upset than if Gucci had sent over the wrong size shoes. Again, I was puzzled. I couldn’t relate her attitude to anything I had seen before. I wondered if she might still be numbed by the death of her father, her peculiar reactions those of a genuinely confused and innocent girl. Or she might be the most emotionless killer I had ever encountered.

  We went over her statement to the police. I read the questions and answers aloud.

  Question: (by Evola) “Did you stab your father?”

  Answer: (by Angel) “You say I did.”

  Q: “I’m not asking what I said, I’m asking what you did. Did you stab your father?”

  A; “I might have. I’m not sure.”

  Q: “What do you mean, not sure?”

  A: “My memory isn’t clear. My father is dead. I’m not thinking clearly.”

  Q: “Let me put it a different way. Were you responsible for your father’s death?”

  A; “Yes. You could say that.”

  Q: “Then you did stab him?”

  A: “I told you, my memory isn’t clear.”

  Q: “Your prints are on the handle of the knife. How did they get there if you didn’t stab him?”

  A: “I remember trying to pull it out of him, but I couldn’t.”

  Q: “After you stabbed him?”

  A: “I told you, I don’t remember that.”

  Q: “But you say you are responsible for his death, right?”

  A: “Yes.”

  I went over everything with her, twice.

  But I wasn’t doing any better with Angel than Evola had. She was either genuinely foggy or purposely evasive as we discussed the details of her statement. She told me that she did not stab her father, but her answers became even more vague and enigmatic when I asked what she had meant when she said she had been responsible for her father’s death. If she did testify, and if she gave the same answers on the witness stand, the case would be lost.

  Either way, foggy or evasive, I decided to give her a day or two to think things over before I questioned her again. I told Angel I would be back and cautioned her again not to talk to anyone but me about the case.

  Robin was expecting me. Her servants had talked to the police. I wanted to find out what each of them had said, but that would have to keep. I had something to do first.

  The defense of Angel Harwell wasn’t my only case. In the general scheme of things, a real-estate closing isn’t the equal of a front-page murder case, especially one involving wealth and fame. Unless, of course, it’s your real-estate closing.

  They were waiting for me at the Cruikshank Title Company. Harry Cruikshank insured the title to real estate and serviced mortgages at his small office. His place, near mine, was so convenient to realtors and bankers that he attracted most of the real-estate closings in Pickeral Point.

  My clients, Donald and Myra Flint, a nice young married couple who were buying their first home, were there when I arrived. The seller, a widower named Wagner, said hello and the strong odor of alcohol floated over me like a cloud. Old Wagner was moving into a senior citizen condo and I thought he didn’t look too happy about it.

  The real-estate agent, a hawk-faced woman with a long neck, glared at everyone as if she suspected someone might try to rob her of her commission. Harry ran the whole thing smoothly, doing a little practiced chant with each paper, getting signatures, and conducting everything with the quick efficiency of a symphony conductor working fast before anything went wrong.

  I had already checked the paperwork, Wagner’s title, and the fitness reports. Everything was in good shape. Like Cruikshank, I had a little verbal routine and I performed it with solemn authority. Clients expect a little show for their money.

  Robin had given me the twenty-thousand-dollar check. The fee I had set for my clients, the Flints, was a hundred-fifty bucks, which had looked big to me at the time. Now, as Donald Flint pushed his check to me, I almost regarded it as pocket money. Funny how quickly things can change.

  Another thing that changed was their reaction to me. If I was lucky, I managed to get one or two real-estate closings a week. I was always treated as a kind of necessary nuisance by everyone except my clients. But now my picture had been in the newspaper, front page. And now, Harry Cruikshank deferred to me as if he owed me money. Even the hawk-faced woman’s icy reserve melted slightly and I caught her sneaking peeks at me as the closing progressed.

  Clearly, I was being shown a degree of respect that hadn’t been forthcoming before, at least not for a long time, and never in Pickeral Point.

  I liked that. Perhaps too much.

  We all shook hands after the closing. Wagner watched the young married couple as they walked away arm in arm. I wondered if he was remembering other times, times when he wasn’t facing an old-folks condo with two hot meals provided daily until he was carted off to the cemetery or an affiliated nursing home. But he didn’t look nostalgic, just resentful.

  It was past my usual time for lunch, and I felt hungry. I thought a quick sandwich and coffee would help fortify me for my afternoon inquiries of the Harwell staff.

  Pickeral Point is not Paris, not even close. Restaurants are not big here. We have one good one, at the Pickeral Point Inn. It’s a place for rich tourists and locals with something special to celebrate. A competing big restaurant down the shore a mile serves second-class entertainment at night and third-class food from opening to closing. There’s hardly anyone there, ever. Everyone, including me, suspects it’s a money-laundering front for the mob.

  Other than those two ornate establishments and a few fast-food outlets there is only one other real restaurant. If it were located in a hotel it would be called a coffee shop. But it stands alone in a small one-story building near my office. It offers simple, quick meals. I eat there. Practically everyone I know eats there.

  Pickeral Point isn’t New York, either, and no one wastes much time at lunch. It was after one o’clock, so the main lunch time crowd had already hurried back to their stores and businesses.

  Bob was sitting alone at one of the rear tables. Bob, as in, “My name is Bob and I’m an alcoholic.” Bob is a member of the Club. Like me, he’s a transplanted Detroiter. We sometimes drove together into the city on Thursday nights for our regular meeting.

  Bob is Robert J. Williams, M.D., a psychiatrist who had a private practice in Pickeral Point and served on the staff of a number of hospitals.

  What does a typical psychiatrist look like? Probably no
thing like Bob Williams, who is big, trim but wide, and very tall. His brown hair was cut in a Marine-style brush cut. He once told me his great-grandmother was a Chippewa Indian. Apparently her genes skipped directly down the bloodline to him. His wide cheekbones were so high and prominent that his slate-gray eyes look slanted, almost Asian. He seldom smiled. The total effect was frightening, like looking into the eyes of an enormous threatening thug. But despite his awesome appearance, Bob Williams was a soft-hearted man, kindly, with a fast mind and a deceptive sense of humor.

  He was also the closest thing to a best friend I had.

  I joined him at the table. He nodded and washed the last of his hamburger down with a huge gulp of coffee.

  “Still talking to us common people?” His voice was surprisingly soft, a deep baritone whisper.

  “Depends on just how common they are.”

  “How did you land the Harwell case?” he asked.

  I ordered a hamburger and coffee from my regular waitress.

  “The new widow is an old girlfriend,” I said.

  He nodded. “Sex comes to Pickeral Point. Rumor has it that your client is guilty as hell.”

  “Sometimes that question gets decided by a jury. It’s a novel concept, but I think it’s catching on.”

  Those gray eyes hid his thoughts. “From what I hear, the girl confessed, left her prints on the murder weapon, and did everything but take an ad out in the paper that she had killed dear old papa. I presume you’ll work out a plea eventually?”

  The waitress served the burger, which had enough grease to be tasty but not enough to kill, immediately anyway.

  “Mark Evola, the prosecutor, won’t even consider a plea to a lesser offense. He knows a publicity cow when he sees one, and this one can be milked for buckets.”

  “He can’t lose, can he?”

  I shrugged. “You never know. Angel might have done it. It might even have been justified, self-defense. And if she didn’t do it, someone else did. A servant maybe.”

  “Or the wife?”