More Twisted: Collected Stories - 2

  "And you'd put the tarp over the wood yourself?"

  "Yes."

  "When?" Lescroix demanded.

  "I don't remember."

  "No? Could it have been just a few days before you hired Jerry?"

  "No . . . . Well, maybe."

  "Did Jerry say anything about the tarp?"

  "I don't recall."

  Lescroix said patiently, "Didn't Jerry say to you that the stakes were pounded into the ground too hard to pull out and that he'd have to loosen them somehow to uncover the wood?"

  Cabot looked up at the judge, uneasy. He swallowed again, seemed to think about taking a sip of water but didn't. Maybe his hands were shaking too badly. "Do I have to answer these questions?"

  "Yes, you do," the judge said solemnly.

  "Maybe."

  "And did you tell him there were some tools in the garage he could use if he needed them?"

  Another weighty pause. Cabot sought the answer in the murky plaster heaven above them. "I might have."

  "Ah." Lescroix's face lit up. Easily half the jury was with him now, floating along with the music, wondering where the tune was going. "Could you tell our friends on the jury how many tools you have in your garage, sir?"

  "For Christ's sake, I don't know."

  A sacrilege in front of the jury. Deliciously bad form.

  "Let me be more specific," Lescroix said helpfully. "How many hammers do you own?"

  "Hammers?" He glanced at the murder weapon, a claw hammer, sitting, brown with his wife's stale blood, on the prosecution's table. The jury looked at it too.

  "Just one. That one."

  "So," Lescroix's voice rose, "when you told Jerry to get a tool from the garage to loosen the stakes you'd pounded into the ground, you knew there was only one tool he could pick. That hammer right there?"

  "No . . . . I mean, I don't know what he used--"

  "You didn't know he used that hammer to loosen the stakes?"

  "Well, I knew that. Yes. But . . . " The eyes grew dark. "Why're you ac--?"

  "Why am I what, sir?"

  Cabot sat back.

  Lescroix leaned toward the witness. "Accusing you? Is that what you were going to say? Why would I accuse you of anything?"

  "Nothing. I'm sorry."

  The judge muttered, "Okay, Mr. Lescroix. Let's move along."

  "Of course, Your Honor. And therefore, as a result of directing him to use that hammer, his fingerprints are now on the murder weapon. Isn't that the case?"

  Cabot stared at the prosecutor's disgusted face. "I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  Sonata for witness and jury.

  "Maybe it's true. But--"

  "Sir, let's go on. On that day, the second of June, after Jerry Pilsett had mowed the lawn and loaded the wood into his pickup truck to be carted off, you asked him inside to pay him, right?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  "And you asked him into your living room. Right?"

  "I don't remember."

  Lescroix flipped through a number of sheets in the folder, as if they were chock full of crime scene data and witnesses transcripts. He stared at one page for a moment, as blank as the others. Then closed the folder.

  "You don't?"

  Cabot too stared at the folder. "Well, I guess I did, yes."

  "You gave him a glass of water."

  "Maybe."

  "Did you or didn't you?"

  "Yes! I did."

  "And you showed him your latest possession, your new stereo. The one you later claimed he stole."

  "We were talking about music and I thought he might be interested in it."

  "I see." Lescroix was frowning. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cabot, but help me out here. This seems odd. Here's a man who's been working for hours in the summer heat. He's full of dirt, sweat, grass stains . . . and you ask him inside. Not into the entry hall, not into the kitchen, but into the living room."

  "I was just being civil."

  "Good of you. Only the result of this . . . this civility was to put his shoeprints on the carpet and his fingerprints on the stereo, a water glass, doorknobs and who knows what else?"

  "What are you saying?" Cabot asked. His expression was even better than Lescroix could have hoped for. It was supposed to be shocked but it looked mean and sneaky. A Nixon look.

  "Please answer, sir."

  "I suppose some footprints were there, and his fingerprints might be on some things. But that doesn't--"

  "Thank you. Now, Mr. Cabot, would you tell the jury whether or not you asked Jerry Pilsett to come back the following day."

  "What?"

  "Did you ask Jerry to come back to your house the next day? That would be Saturday, June third."

  "No, I didn't."

  Lescroix frowned dramatically. He opened the folder again, found another important blank sheet, and pretended to read. "You didn't say to Jerry Pilsett, and I quote, 'You did a good job, Jerry. Come back about five tomorrow and I'll have some more work for you'?"

  "I didn't say that. No."

  A breathless scoff. "You're denying you said that?"

  He hesitated, glanced at the prosecutor and offered a weak "Yes."

  "Mr. Cabot, His Honor will remind you that lying under oath is perjury and that's a serious crime. Now answer the question. Did you or did you not ask Jerry Pilsett to come back to your house at five p.m. on Saturday, June third?"

  "No, I didn't. Really, I swear." His voice was high from stress. Lescroix loved it when that happened since even the saintliest witness sounded like a liar. And qualifiers like "really" and "I swear" added to the cadence of deception.

  You poor bastard.

  Lescroix turning toward the jury, puffing air through cheeks. A few more sympathetic smiles. Some shaking heads too, revealing shared exasperation at a lying witness. The second movement of Lescroix's performance seemed to have gone over well.

  "All right," the lawyer muttered skeptically. "Let's go back to the events of June third, sir."

  Cabot put his hands in his lap. Purely a defensive gesture, again in response to the stress that he'd be feeling. Yet juries sometimes read another message in the pose: guilt. "You told the court that you came home about five p.m. Correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Where had you been?"

  "The office."

  "On Saturday?"

  Cabot managed a smile. "When you have your own business you frequently work on Saturdays. I do, at any rate."

  "You came back at five and found Jerry Pilsett standing in the doorway."

  "Yes, holding the hammer."

  "The bloody hammer."

  "Yes."

  "It was bloody, right?"

  "Yes."

  Another examination of the infamous file, this time looking over a document with actual writing on it. "Hmm. Now the police found your car on the parking strip fifty feet from the door where you allegedly saw Jerry. Is that what you claimed?"

  "It's where the car was. It's the truth."

  Lescroix forged on. "Why was the car that far away from the house?"

  "I . . . well, when I was driving up to the house I panicked and drove over the curb. I was worried about my wife."

  "But you couldn't see your wife, could you?"

  A pause. "Well, no. But I could see the hammer, the blood."

  "Fifty feet away's a pretty good distance. You could actually see the hammer in Jerry's hand?"

  Calling him "Jerry," never "the defendant" or "Pilsett." Make him human. Make him a buddy of every member of the jury. Make him the victim here.

  "Sure, I could."

  "And the blood on it?"

  "I'm sure I could. I--"

  Lescroix pounced. "You're sure you could." Just the faintest glissando of sarcasm. He scanned another page, shaking his head. "Your vision's not very good, is it?" The lawyer looked up. "In fact, isn't it illegal for you to drive without your glasses or contacts?"

  "I . . ." Taken aback by the amount of research Lescroix had done. Then
he smiled. "That's right. And I had my glasses on when I drove up to the house. So I could see the bloody hammer in his hand."

  "Well, sir, if that's the case, then why did an officer bring them to you in the house later that evening? When he needed you to look over some items in the house. He found them in your car."

  It was in the police report.

  "I don't . . . Wait, I must've . . . I probably took them off to dial the cell phone in the car--to call the police. They're distance glasses. I must've forgotten to put them back on."

  "I see. So you claim you saw a man in your doorway with a bloody hammer, you took off your driving glasses and you called nine-one-one."

  "Yes, I guess that's about right."

  He didn't notice the "you claim" part of the comment; the jury always does.

  "So that means you called nine-one-one from inside the car?"

  "I called right away, of course."

  "But from inside the car? You claim you see a man in your doorway with a bloody hammer and yet you park fifty feet away from the house, you stay in the safety of the car to call for help? Why didn't you jump out of the car and go see what was going on? See about your wife?"

  "Well, I did."

  "But after you called nine-one-one."

  "I don't know. I . . . Maybe I called later."

  "But then your glasses wouldn't have been in the car."

  Cabot was now as disoriented as a hooked pike. "I don't know. I panicked. I don't remember what happened."

  Which was, of course, the complete truth.

  And, accordingly, of no interest to Lescroix.

  He walked ten feet away from the witness stand, stopped and turned toward Cabot. The jury seemed to be leaning forward, awaiting the next movement.

  "At what time did you leave the office on Saturday, June third?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, you arrived home at about five, you claimed. It's a ten-minute drive from your office. So you must have left about four-thirty. Did you go straight home?"

  "I . . . I think I had some errands to run."

  "What errands? Where?"

  "I don't recall. How do you expect me to recall?"

  "But you'd think it'd be easy to remember at least one or two places you stopped during the course of two hours."

  "Two hours?" Cabot frowned.

  "You left the office at three p.m."

  The witness stared at his inquisitor.

  "According to the video security tape in your building's lobby."

  "Okay, maybe I did leave then. It was a while ago. And this's all so hard for me. It's not easy to remember . . ."

  His voice faded as Lescroix opened the private eye's report and found photocopies of Cabot's banking statements and canceled checks.

  "Who," the lawyer asked pointedly, "is Mary Henstroth?"

  Cabot's eyes slipped away from the lawyer's. "How did you know about . . . ?"

  I do my goddamn homework, Lescroix might have explained. "Who is she?"

  "A friend. She--"

  "A friend. I see. How long have you known her?"

  "I don't know. A few years."

  "Where does she live?"

  "In Gilroy."

  "Gilroy's a fifteen-minute drive from Hamilton, is that right?"

  "It depends."

  "Depends? On how eager you are to get to Gilroy?"

  "Objection."

  "Sustained. Please, Mr. Lescroix."

  "Sorry, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Cabot, on June third of this year, did you write a check to Ms. Henstroth in the amount of five hundred dollars?"

  Cabot closed his eyes. His jaw clenched. He nodded.

  "Answer for the court reporter, please."

  "Yes."

  "And did you deliver this check in person?"

  "I don't remember," he said weakly.

  "After you left work, you didn't drive to Gilroy and, during the course of your . . . visit, give Ms. Henstroth a check for five hundred dollars?"

  "I might have."

  "Have you written her other checks over the past several years?"

  "Yes." Whispered.

  "Louder, please, sir?"

  "Yes."

  "And did you give these other checks to Ms. Henstroth in person?"

  "Some of them. Most of them."

  "So it's reasonable to assume that the check you wrote on June third was delivered in person too."

  "I said I might have," he muttered.

  "These checks that you wrote to your 'friend' over the past few years were on your company account, not your joint home account, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So is it safe to assume that your wife would not be receiving the statement from the bank showing that you'd written these checks? Is that correct too?"

  "Yes." The witness's shoulders dipped. A slight gesture, but Lescroix was sure a number of the jurors saw it.

  They all saw the prosecutor toss his pencil onto the table in disgust. He whispered something to his sheepish assistant, who nodded even more sheepishly.

  "What was this money for?"

  "I . . . don't remember."

  Perfect. Better to let the evasive answer stand than to push it and have Cabot come up with a credible lie.

  "I see. Did you tell your wife you were going to see Ms. Henstroth that afternoon?"

  "I . . . no, I didn't."

  "I don't suppose you would," Lescroix muttered, eyes on the rapt jury; they loved this new movement of his symphony.

  "Your Honor," the prosecutor snapped.

  "Withdrawn," Lescroix said. He lifted a wrinkled piece of paper from the file; it contained several handwritten paragraphs and looked like a letter, though it was in fact an early draft of a speech Lescroix had given to the American Association of Trial Lawyers last year. He read the first paragraph slowly, shaking his head. Even the prosecutors seemed to be straining forward, waiting. Then he replaced the letter and looked up. "Isn't your relationship with Ms. Henstroth romantic in nature, sir?" he asked bluntly.

  Cabot tried to look indignant. He sputtered, "I resent--"

  "Oh, please, Mr. Cabot. You have the gall to accuse an innocent man of murder and you resent that I ask you a few questions about your mistress?"

  "Objection!"

  "Withdrawn, Your Honor."

  Lescroix shook his head and glanced at the jury, asking, What kind of monster are we dealing with here? Lescroix paced as he flipped to the last page of the file. He read for a moment, shook his head, then threw the papers onto the defense table with a huge slap. He whirled to Cabot and shouted, "Isn't it true you've been having an affair with Mary Henstroth for the past several years?"

  "No!"

  "Isn't it true that you were afraid if you divorced your wife you'd lose control of the company she and her father owned fifty-one percent of?"

  "That's a lie!" Cabot shouted.

  "Isn't it true that on June third of this year you left work early, stopped by Mary Henstroth's house in Gilroy, had sex with her, then proceeded to your house where you lay in wait for your wife with a hammer in your hand? That hammer there, People's Exhibit A?"

  "No, no, no!"

  "And then you beat her to death. You returned to your car and waited until Jerry Pilsett showed up, just like you'd asked him to do. And when he arrived you took off your glasses to look at your cell phone and called the police to report him--an innocent man--as the murderer?"

  "No, that's not true! It's ridiculous!"

  "Objection!"

  "Isn't it true?" Lescroix cried, "that you killed Patricia, your loving wife, in cold blood?"

  "No!"

  "Sustained! Mr. Lescroix, enough of this. I won't have these theatrics in my courtroom."

  But the lawyer would not be deflected by a mule-county judge. His energy was unstoppable, fueled by the murmurs and gasps from the spectators, and his outraged voice soared to the far reaches of the courtroom, reciting, "Isn't it true, isn't it true, isn't it true?"

  His audience in the jury
box sat forward as if they wanted to leap from their chairs and give the conductor a standing ovation, and Charles Cabot's horrified eyes, dots of steely anger no more, scanned the courtroom in panic. He was speechless, his voice choked off. As if his dead wife had materialized behind him and closed her arms around his throat to squeeze out what little life remained in his guilty heart.

  Three hours to acquit on all charges.

  Not a record but good enough, Lescroix reflected as he sat in his hotel room that evening. He was angry he'd missed the last of the two daily flights out of Hamilton but he had some whiskey in a glass at his side, music on his portable CD player and his feet were resting on the windowsill, revealing Italian socks as sheer as a woman's black stockings. He was passing the time replaying his victory and trying to decide if he should spend some of his fee on getting those jowl tucks done.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Lescroix rose and let Jerry Pilsett's uncle into the room. The lawyer hadn't paid much attention to him the first time they'd met and he realized now that with his quick eyes and tailored clothes this was no dirt jockey. He must've been connected with one of the big corporate farming companies. Probably hadn't had to hock the family spread at all and Lescroix regretted charging him only seventy-five K for the case; should've gone for an even hundred. Oh well.

  The elder Pilsett accepted a glass of whiskey and drank a large swallow. "Yessir. Need that after all of today's excitement. Yessir."

  He pulled an envelope out of his pocket and set it on the table. "Rest of your fee. Have to say, I didn't think you could do it. Didn't even get him on the burglary charges," the man added with some surprise.

  "Well, they couldn't very well do that, could they? Either he was guilty of everything or guilty of nothing."

  "Reckon."

  Lescroix nodded toward the fee. "A lot of people wouldn't've done this. Even for family."

  "I'm a firm believer in kin sticking together. Doing whatever has to be done."

  "That's a good sentiment," the lawyer offered.

  "You say that like you don't believe in sentiments. Or don't believe in kin."

  "Haven't had occasion to believe or disbelieve in either of them," Lescroix answered. "My life's my job."

  "Getting people out of jail."

  "Protecting justice's what I like to call it."

  "Justice?" the old man snorted. "Y'know, I watched that O.J. trial. And I heard a commentator after the verdict. He said it just goes to show if you have money--whatever your race--you can buy justice. I laughed at that. What'd he mean, justice? If you have money you can buy freedom. That's not necessarily justice at all."

  Lescroix tapped the envelope. "So what're you buying?"

  Pilsett laughed. "Peace of mind. That's what. Better'n justice and freedom put together. So, how'd my nephew stand his ordeal?"