"Heartstone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Margolin Phillip)

8

“Mr. Boggs, are you a homosexual?”

“Objection, Your Honor.”

Harry Jamison was on his feet shouting before the last words of the question had carried across the courtroom to the frightened little man in the witness box. Judge Jacob Samuels tried to hide his displeasure with Philip Heider, but the jury could not help but notice the scathing look he flashed at the prosecutor as soon as the question was asked.

Heider, although he did not show it, was delighted with Jamison’s reaction. He had planned on it. Now, no matter how the judge ruled on the propriety of his question, the seeds of doubt were sown.

“I will see you gentlemen in chambers,” Samuels said as he gathered his black robes around him and disappeared through the door behind his dais.

Harry Jamison waddled after him, his enormous belly shifting with each step. He was a tragicomic figure made more for vaudeville than the courtroom and he heightened this impression by tenting his body in clashing checks and stripes.

Philip Heider, in contrast, was streamlined. He looked every bit the bright young man. Those who knew him well, knew that he was cold, ruthless and pragmatic. Those who saw him in court were usually fooled by the red hair and freckles that gave him a Tom Sawyerish look.

Judge Samuels was seated behind his desk when Heider and Jamison entered his wood-paneled office. He had been expecting Heider’s question for the past half hour: ever since Jamison had asked his own incredibly stupid questions on direct examination of the defendant, Lowell Boggs. Even so, he found the whole line of questioning distasteful and he knew that he had to decide if it was sufficiently prejudicial to compel his declaring the four-day murder case a mistrial or sufficiently relevant to permit inquiry.

Samuels looked at the two attorneys with disgust. Jamison was an incompetent joke. He had not done one thing right since the case started. It was a sorry system that even permitted someone like Jamison to practice.

And Heider…That was a different matter. He was every inch Stewart Heider’s son. Vicious, unprincipled. He could go on, but did not. Stewart Heider had made his money the hard way. He tried to buy respectability by sending his son to the best schools. But there was always heredity. The same criminal streak that was rumored to be behind the money Heider had made in lumber manifested itself in the way Philip Heider prosecuted his cases.

The problem was that, like the father, the son never quite crossed the border of unethical behavior. And, like the father, Samuels had to admit grudgingly, the son was good-very good. Samuels had seen a great many lawyers during his seventeen years on the bench and, despite the fact that Heider was relatively inexperienced, having practiced law with the district attorney’s office for only two years, he was one of the best the judge had ever seen.

“I want a mistrial. I warned the Court that Mr. Heider would try to go into this. I see no way that Mr. Boggs can get a fair trial, now that Mr. Heider has engaged in this disgusting piece of theatrics.”

“Mr. Heider?” the judge asked.

“Your Honor, this goes directly to motive. It is the State’s position that Boggs is a homosexual and that he killed Bobby Washington during a lover’s quarrel. The ferocity with which Mr. Washington was stabbed indicates great passion on the part of the killer.”

“But there is no evidence that Mr. Boggs is a homosexual. It’s all speculation,” Jamison whined. “He has to produce evidence if he is going to drag in this dirt and he didn’t during the State’s case.”

“Yes, Mr. Heider, I made a ruling on that before we started this trial. I ruled that we were not going into this area without proof.”

“I know that, Your Honor, and I did stay away from it, but Mr. Jamison opened the door during his examination of Mr. Boggs when he tried to raise as a defense that Washington was a homosexual who had accosted Mr. Boggs and that Boggs stabbed him in self-defense after wresting the knife from Washington.

“Mr. Jamison went into the sex angle first and I think I have a right to cross-exam on his defense.”

As Heider spoke, he watched the expression on Jamison’s face as the older attorney realized what he had done. A quick grin flashed across his face as he savored his moment. Judge Samuels caught the look of triumph and stifled a feeling of anger. Heider was a prick. He had no concept of professional responsibility.

Jamison was babbling now. Grasping at straws, as he tried to explain what he had and had not intended by his question. Samuels let him have his say, because he knew how he would have to rule and he wanted to make sure that Jamison had every chance to make his record.

“I am afraid Mr. Heider is right, Harry. I was astonished when you asked those questions, especially after our discussion in chambers. But you did and I am going to have to allow Mr. Heider to continue along this line for a while.”

“I see,” Jamison said weakly. He was crushed and he seemed to sag as he lifted himself from his chair and headed back to the courtroom.

Samuels stopped Heider before he could leave the chambers.

“This is a cheap shot, Mr. Heider, and I am watching you at each step. If you don’t tie this in, or if you push this too far, I will give Mr. Jamison his mistrial.”

“I understand, Your Honor,” Heider replied politely. He had won and there was no profit in gloating. He cast a quick glance at Jamison as he returned to his seat. That fat slob was so stupid he couldn’t tie his shoelaces without a blueprint, he thought. A good attorney could have made a real fight out of this case. Still, Heider was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The win would not hurt his reputation and he would not mind seeing that simpering little fag behind bars anyway. He hated weakness and Boggs was weak. He had sensed it during the trial and on each occasion he had met the defendant. Boggs was a worm, begging the jury for a second chance. And he might have gotten it, Heider mused, if it had not been for the incompetence of his counsel. The jury might have acquitted a sixty-seven-year-old white bookkeeper with no prior record for the murder of a black junkie. But they would never acquit a queer for the murder of his lover. Heider leaned back in his chair and looked across the courtroom at Boggs. Then he glanced at his note pad and asked his next question.

Five hours later Heider strode through the gate next to Fanny Maser’s desk and headed for the interior of the district attorney’s office with two reporters in tow. Heider was grinning.

“Guilty?” asked a young D.A. who was standing in the corridor as Heider’s flying wedge swept by.

“What else?” Heider said and the reporters laughed. They liked Heider. He was colorful and always willing to talk to the press.

“Mr. Heider,” Fanny yelled after him, “Mr. Holman wants to see you. He said it was important.”

Heider wondered what the D.A. wanted to see him about. Besides being his boss, Herb Holman was an old family friend who owed his present position, in large part, to Stewart Heider’s financial and political support.

Heider excused himself and the reporters settled at a small table to jot down notes for their story. Holman’s private office was isolated at the far end of the District Attorney’s Office. Heider had to pass by several of his colleagues on his way, but few offered congratulations or even bothered to ask about the Boggs verdict. Heider was not well liked by the other deputies. Their attitude stemmed in part from the obvious favoritism shown him by Holman and partly from Heider’s superior attitude.

Herb Holman was a little man with a ruddy complexion. He smiled when Phil entered and he extended his hand.

“Very well done. Judge Samuels’s clerk called me.”

Heider shrugged and grinned.

“With Jamison on the other side, it was like having an assistant.”

Holman laughed and they both sat down.

“Phil, are you still serious about trying for state representative next year?”

“Dad and I have talked it over a few times,” Heider answered, puzzled by the question. “He thinks Faulk can be had and I agree.”

“Okay. Well, something has come up that may help you get the nomination. How well do you remember the Murray-Walters murder case?”

“‘Murray-Walters,’? Isn’t that the rape-murder in Lookout Park that happened about five or six years ago?”

“Right.”

“I remember a little about it. I was in college at the time and I remember it even made the eastern papers.”

“I received a call from a Portsmouth detective named Roy Shindler this afternoon. Do you know Shindler?”

“Sure. He’s worked on a couple of my cases. Very sharp.”

“Yes, I agree. Shindler thinks he has enough to get an indictment in Murray-Walters. I want you to talk to him. If you agree, take it to Grand Jury and all the way after that.”

Heider could hear his heart beat. “Murray-Walters” was a household name in Portsmouth. Parents still used it as a bugaboo to keep their teenage children out of Lookout Park at night. Trying the case would mean front-page headlines for months. Assuming that he could get an indictment within a month, and that the trial started within three months, the publicity could carry him right up to the time for filing.

Holman smiled.

“I thought this would interest you. Hell, if I thought I was going to have any opposition next fall, I would have taken the case myself. Shindler will be expecting your call. Treat this one with kid gloves. And, Phil, no leaks.”

“I read you.”

“Good boy.”

Heider was thinking and listening while Shindler talked and drove. The whole thing was fantastic. The problems involved…How do you make a jury believe in a witness who did not believe that she was a witness until six years after the crime? The papers would call it trial by voodoo. Still, Shindler was no wild-eyed kid. He was steady, intelligent, not a man to make rash decisions. Everything depended on the girl. That was why he had insisted that Shindler take him to see her. If he did not believe her, the jury would not believe her.

“Dr. Hollander is certain that she’s telling the truth?”

“Oh, absolutely. We’ve been over her story dozens of times.”

“And she has an independent recollection now?”

“Yes.”

“Independent of the tapes? She doesn’t have to listen to the tapes?”

“No. She can tell it from memory now. She remembers it all. Dr. Hollander says that the blocks were removed when she made the breakthrough under the drug.”

“Because, if she can’t remember it without the tapes, it will look like a put-up job.”

“No, this is the real thing. We have other witnesses that corroborate her story. The guy who saw the drag race and the woman who owns the dogs. There are the people at the party who saw Billy Coolidge with the knife.”

Heider studied the passing scenery. Shindler reminded himself not to talk too much. It was hard. He was so high. He had worked so long and so hard on this case that had seemed so hopeless and now to see the end in sight…he felt an awful calm in his body and a terrible elation of the spirit, as if only part of him was tied to the earth, the other part soaring, unstoppable.

Esther’s apartment was just ahead. He had called her after Heider’s call to tell her that they were coming over. He had not spoken to her in two weeks and she sounded like a puppy, overjoyed to hear from him, anxious to know why he had not called. When he told her that he was bringing the district attorney with him, she had become frightened, but he had soothed her by promising to visit her that evening.

“We’re here,” Shindler said, edging the car into the curb.

“Did you bring the flashlight?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah. Here,” Gary said, handing it to Toller. “Don’t be so nervous, will ya? It’s startin’ to get to me.”

“I ain’t nervous. I just wanted to make sure we had everything.”

“Well, I had it.”

Eddie zipped up his jacket and turned his collar up to obscure his face. There weren’t supposed to be any security guards in the place, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Gary had parked in the rear of the Cameron Street Medical Building. Eddie looked at his watch for the third time in the last two minutes and licked his lips nervously. It was three in the morning and there was no moon. They had cruised the street for a few nights running to check the area for police patrols. The Medical Building was located in a quiet residential area and there was no one about at this hour of the morning.

Gary slipped on his gloves and grabbed the pillow cases they had brought along for the drugs. The rear parking lot was deserted and the car was parked next to the rear door. The back of the building was dark, but Eddie had misgivings, because the pharmacy, which fronted the street, was lit. He had remarked on this to Gary, but Barrick had explained that the room where the drugs were kept was in the rear of the pharmacy and was difficult to see from the street.

Gary took the duplicate keys from his pocket and tested one in the rear door. The door opened easily and Gary smiled as he preceded Eddie into the dark interior of the empty building.

“This is gonna be cake, Eddie,” he whispered.

Eddie looked around cautiously. It was bad luck to talk about how easy a job was going to be. Something about this one had made him nervous from the start.

The corridor ended and Gary turned to the right. Eddie could see the street through the glass front door. Gary made a small jog to the left and stopped in front of a heavy, solid wooden door. While Gary tried the keys in the lock, Eddie flashed his light nervously up and down the corridor. He heard Gary curse and he turned to see what was the matter.

“The goddamn key don’t fit.”

“What?”

“It don’t work.”

“Let me try.” He handed Gary the flashlight and tried both keys in the lock. Neither worked.

“What is this?” Eddie asked, a tinge of panic in his voice.

“I don’t know. It was supposed to open the door to the pharmacy.”

“What do you mean, supposed to? Didn’t you try it out?”

“Jesus, Eddie, someone mightta seen me.”

“Oh, shit. You mean you…Why did you think it would open the goddamn door?”

“I heard Laura say once that this one opened the street door and this one opened all the offices.”

“Oh, no. She probably meant her offices, you dumb…”

Gary held up his hand for silence.

“Don’t get excited, Eddie. This ain’t no big thing. I got this place all cased. I know where they keep a pry bar. It’ll just mean some extra work, is all. Just wait here.”

Eddie started to say something, but Gary was gone, down the hall and up a flight of stairs by the sound of the echoes. Eddie knew he should get out now. The vibes were bad. He thought he heard a noise in the darkness and turned out the flashlight and tried to squeeze into a corner near the door.

“Turn on the goddamn flash, Eddie, it’s me,” Gary whispered. He had returned with his arms loaded with tools. He dumped them in front of the door and selected a pry bar. Eddie sat on the floor with his back to the wall and told himself “I told you so” over and over while Gary worked on the door. There was grunting and puffing for a few minutes, then Gary signaled him and the door swung open. Gary crouched down and Eddie followed him in.

He straightened up for a second, then realized the reason for Gary’s crouch. The inside of the pharmacy was as bright as day and the front of the pharmacy was all glass. If they straightened up, anyone outside could see them easily.

Gary moved behind some couches to a door in the side of a small room. The lower half of the room was opaque, but the top half was glass. The walls of the room were lined with shelves stocked with drugs. There was a refrigerator in the back.

“Let’s start movin’,” Gary said as he straightened up and began shoving drugs into one of the pillow cases.

“Wait a minute,” Eddie said. “What is this stuff? This stuff ain’t worth anything.”

“Sure it is,” Gary said, moving to the next shelf.

While Gary rummaged through the shelves, Eddie picked up a few boxes and bottles and looked at them. They were pain killers, tranquilizers, cough syrups. No narcotics.

“This guy is gonna pay you for this shit?” Eddie asked unbelievingly.

“Yeah. Sure. Look, Eddie, stop talkin’ and get movin’.”

“Jesus, Gary. This is worthless.”

Gary threw down the pillow case he was holding in a rage.

“Shut up, shut up,” he yelled. “You done nothin’ but complain since we left tonight. I asked you along because of all that talk in the joint on how you are this big-time burglar. You ain’t shit, Eddie. Now get these fuckin’ pillow cases full or…”

Gary froze and his eyes bugged out. Eddie whirled around and heard Gary make for the rear door. He headed after him. There were two cops staring at them through the front window.

Eddie could only think of the car. He dashed around a corner and realized that he had lost Gary. Well, fuck him. He wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for that dumb…

He skidded to a halt at a dead end. Damn. He couldn’t remember where the back corridor was. He raced around another corner and spotted the rear door. He could hear footsteps behind him. The cops were in the building. He dashed for the door and there was a policeman suddenly framed in it, gun pointed at him in a classic pistol range pose. The footsteps behind were gaining. “Freeze, you fucker,” the policeman said through the glass. Eddie sank to the floor and clasped his hands behind his head.

Norman Walters watched his office door remove Shindler from view and wished that the man could be made to vanish that easily.

“Hold my calls,” he said into his intercom. He felt very old and very tired. He wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep for a long time, but he knew that, instead, he would have to call on emotional reserves, which had grown smaller and smaller since his son’s death and go home to tell Carla.

Carla. To tell her. He felt drained by the thought of it. In the six months following Richie’s death he had watched her grow old. The spark that seemed to keep her eternally youthful had been extinguished by Shindler’s visit. She had recovered, of course. Time heals, etc. But never fully recovered. She was quieter now. More tired.

He had changed too. A lot of the self-confidence had gone out of his grip. The things he used to care about so much, his law practice, his cars, his golf game, didn’t interest him as much. There was a dimension missing from both their lives.

Still, they had coped and the intervening years had helped to dull the memory of the healthy, loving boy who had been his son. Until now. Until Shindler had made him feel the pain again, just as strongly as he had felt it that first time. And soon-when he could muster the courage-he would have to go home and make Carla feel that same pain.

Detective Avritt slammed the car door on the driver’s side and Shindler glanced over at the marked patrol car that had followed them from the courthouse. Heider had called him as soon as the Grand Jury had returned the indictments and he had rushed to the courthouse to get a judge to sign the warrants. On the way he had remembered the shame and frustration he had felt when he was relieved of the case. No one in the department knew about his weekly visits to Dr. Hollander. His investigation had been carried out on his own time. When he had the evidence he needed, he had taken it to the captain. He still savored the apology the captain had made when he returned the case to him.

After securing the warrants, he had driven to Norman Walters’s office. He had expected more of a reaction from Richie’s father, yet he could understand the emotions the man must have experienced when he received the news that his son was finally to be avenged. Walters had been cool to him in recent years, but Shindler felt that this was a reaction to his failure to solve the case. All that would change now.

Shindler absent-mindedly touched the arrest warrant in his left inside jacket pocket and looked up at the third-floor apartment where Sarah Rhodes lived. His watch showed eleven-thirty. It was a warm, sunny day. The beginning of spring. In a half hour, police detectives carrying a similar warrant would arrive at the State Penitentiary.

The uniformed policemen were out of their car now and Shindler, followed by Avritt, entered the apartment building. The calm was still inside him. It was the feeling of victory, of satisfaction. He had known all along, from the first moment he had seen Billy Coolidge. He thought of the long years when the case had floated in limbo. How often he had despaired of ever proving what he knew in his heart to be the truth.

Shindler paused in front of the apartment door and waited for the others. When they caught up, he rang the bell. A girl answered the door.

“Miss Rhodes?”

“Yes.”

He showed her his badge. The girl looked confused. A man’s voice called out from the other room and Shindler’s pulse began to race.

“Is Bobby Coolidge here?” Shindler asked.

“Yes. Is anything wrong?”

Shindler smiled. He was the fisherman, the hunter. The prey was close, the line was taut.

“We have a matter to discuss with Mr. Coolidge. I wonder if you could ask him to step in here for a moment.”

“Of course,” she said, hesitantly. She disappeared into another room and the officers filled up the entry way.

Sarah returned. Shindler studied Bobby as he came down the hall. The D.A. haircut was gone and so was the arrogance. He had put on a little weight, but he was the same person Shindler had seen on the night in ’61 when they had interrogated the brothers at the station house.

“Robert Coolidge?”

“Yes.”

“I have a warrant for your arrest. You will have to accompany us to the station house.”

Bobby smiled and looked back and forth between Shindler and the other policemen.

“Is this a joke?”

“I’m afraid not,” Shindler said, handing Coolidge a copy of the warrant. Bobby did not look at it.

“Well, what’s the charge?”

“Mr. Coolidge, I am here to arrest you for the murders of Elaine Murray and Richie Walters.”