Break and Enter (7 page)

And now it was time to pump up today’s righteousness. Morgan had come to court that morning to do battle on this, his final day of presenting witnesses, and Peter could see in Morgan’s busy movements—the scribbling of notes, the constant whispered statements to the defendant—the rising energy of a man who has departed from rationality in the service of a ludicrous goal. Morgan had probably ingested too much coffee that morning, and Peter remembered Berger’s advice from the day before to get Morgan as agitated as possible.

Now Morgan began with Mrs. McGuane, the Robinsons’ housekeeper, in his attempt to prove Billy Robinson’s innocence of the murder of Judy Warren. Mrs. McGuane was a fiftyish woman wearing glasses with heavy designer frames and a rosary around her proud, bullish neck.

The opening questions established that Mrs. McGuane had been in the employment of Dr. and Mrs. Robinson since the late 1960s, serving all of that time as their housekeeper on the estate, that she had completed the ninth grade, and was once briefly married, long ago. These were easy factual questions, which Morgan lingered over in his attempt to have the jury know and like and trust her. The man’s job was to attack the facts, as presented by the prosecution. Yet he could not focus on the method by which the police had gathered the facts—the evidence, including yesterday’s confession—for that information had been ruled admissible in court. Instead, Morgan would attack the
perception
of the confession by carefully building the fabric of mundane details upon which to base an alibi. Mrs. McGuane was essential to this task, and Morgan’s toothy, predatory smile went on and off like a light as he worked Mrs. McGuane with the control of a puppeteer, nodding reassuringly as she sang out the predetermined answers, rephrasing a question slowly if she became flustered. Morgan was the kind of man who became more irrational the closer he came to large sums of money, and no doubt he viewed this case as entry into the Robinson vaults. Usually
he was quite happy to slobber all over the reporters’ microphones outside a courtroom, but this time he had been strangely quiet. Such a change, which was another reason the media had ignored the case, could only be due to some explicit instructions from whichever faceless, high-powered firm oversaw Dr. Robinson’s affairs. No matter how little or ineptly the parents actually cared for their sons, they had their pride to maintain, and that was worth whatever fee Morgan might charge. If Morgan won this unwinnable case, many similar ones would come his way. The incentives to get witnesses to lie were enormous.

The defendant—hair still slick from the shower—was particularly motionless and attentive as the housekeeper described herself. For though Robinson had not received a mother’s unquestioning love, he enjoyed the fierce, doglike loyalty of Mrs. McGuane, who, it became clear, was a well-intentioned yet limited woman who ran the household and knew more about the sons than anyone. She possessed the conviction of the wholly self-deceived and thus was a hostile witness, one whose testimony Peter had to tear apart.

“… I heard Billy come in downstairs in the front—or rather, I should say I heard
somebody
—and so I walked out of my room and saw him over the balcony and talked with him a minute and that’s how I knew it was him,” she was saying, her voice loud and emotional. “I saw Billy and that’s how come I say he was home that night. He ain’t guilty of nothing, that’s why I’m here to tell it to you.”

“Objection,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “Witness’s answer is not responsive to the question.”

“Sustained.” Judge Scarletti nodded. “Please restrict your answers to the questions, Mrs. McGuane.”

Mrs. McGuane had spent a lot of time putting on makeup that morning, and now, as she was unable to avoid crying, her mascara started to run, dripping over the foundation and blush applied so heavily on her cheeks. Peter saw that the jury was buying it, the eight women understanding completely the humiliation of running mascara, thereby empathizing with her, and thereby more likely to believe her story. In fact, Peter thought angrily, nearly everyone was tortured by this bit of melodrama, and Mrs. McGuane, perhaps sensing her advantage, carefully refused to dab at the inky tear of mascara clinging to her cheek.

She made a show of controlling herself and nestled into the witness chair to describe in her earnest, self-interrupting manner the evening in question. She explained the nature of the radio show she’d been listening to and how she remembered she was listening to it when Robinson came into the house. The time of the radio show fixed the time of his entrance, which
of course
was exactly the victim’s approximate time of death, as fixed by the city medical examiner, a time known to Morgan, who now entered into evidence the published programming format of the radio station. On it was listed the radio show Mrs. McGuane described. All this testimony was designed to dovetail with the statements made the previous afternoon by Robinson’s drinking pals. Mrs. McGuane, prompted by Morgan, even admitted that William Robinson might have driven home a little drunk—the strategy, of course, was to admit a bit of wrongdoing and thereby humanize the defendant, trade down on sins. Mrs. McGuane was doing her part well.

And Judge Scarletti, seeing this, glanced at Peter.
How are you going to counter this?
his lifted eyebrow inquired. The judge, a prosecutor back in the days when the American public erroneously believed it had reached the zenith of cynicism, was a fair man with a good legal mind who nonetheless generally despised defense counsel for representing such scum of the earth and disliked prosecutors for their inevitable mistakes—thus, he was a man who had only predilections, not favorites.

Morgan stood close to the witness stand throughout the examination, which was unusual behavior for a man who liked to pace around, lean on the jury rail, fuss with his notes, twist his gold pinkie ring, and dispel as much nervous energy as possible with such bad courtroom habits. No doubt Morgan had decided to slow his movements. The jury saw everything that courtroom lawyers did, their mumbling and shuffling, their herky-jerky karate chopping of the air to emphasize a point, their surreptitious scratching of testicles, their yawns jammed with a fist. As Morgan quizzed the housekeeper about meaningless things—how she’d put water in the dog’s bowl before going to bed—Peter wondered where Janice was right now. Helping or comforting someone besides him. That had been the pattern a long time now and he’d always been jealous, wanting so badly a few minutes’ worth of affection, guiltily
hating the women in the shelter who got his wife’s best energies. The house key was just gratuitous knife-twisting and they both knew it, and she was too hurt or too good to make something out of it. He hated his pettiness. If she had walked into the courtroom and said,
Peter, let’s get out of Philadelphia, just go somewhere,
he might actually leave and never come back. She’d take off those beautiful black heels and place them side by side, toes touching, in her closet in the house. He’d find the highway maps in the third kitchen drawer, and they’d go camping in West Virginia, sing songs, and eat apples in the car.

Morgan finished up and it was Peter’s turn. Attacking the alibi testimony of a weepy woman before a jury was tricky; he could find that he had dismantled the alibi yet won the jury’s reproach. Peter stood up and walked over to the witness stand.

“Now, Mrs. McGuane, we are interested in justice here,” he began evenly, looking in her eyes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did Mr. Robinson ever tell you about Judy Warren?”

“He mentioned her.”

“It’s true they saw each other for almost six months?”

“Well—for a time,” she agreed reluctantly.

“Isn’t it true he brought her home a number of times and that they stayed in his room?”

“I can’t say, exactly.”

“Where did they sleep?” Peter asked.

“In his room.”

“And where is that?” he said.

“On the second floor.”

Peter remembered the layout of the house from a detective’s diagram.

“And where is that room?”

“All the boys have their rooms over the kitchen, either on the second or third floors.”

“Miss Warren left Mr. Robinson last July, isn’t that right?”

“Sometime. I think he was glad to see her go.”

“I didn’t ask you to tell me your opinion of her. Now then, did he ever say that he was jealous of her new boyfriend?”

“No, certainly not.”

Peter turned, to check the jury’s attention. Robinson was watching raptly, his sharp nose pointed up and his eyebrows lifting repeatedly. He seemed almost happy—perhaps the defendant was getting the attention now that he needed when he was young. Peter turned back to the witness and decided to change the tempo of the questions so that Mrs. McGuane would not have time to remember everything that she had said.

“Did Mr. Robinson ever complain that he knew that Judy was having sexual relations with another man?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that you and Mr. Robinson are good friends—old friends, one might say?”

“Well, I’ve known him most of his life.”

“You have done a great deal for the defendant and his brothers, haven’t you? They have come to depend on you.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“And you don’t mind? You don’t mind working for them all the time?” he said sarcastically.

“I love these boys. I’d do anything for them and they know it.”

“Would you lie for one of them?” he snapped.

“No!” Mrs. McGuane spat, leaning forward.

“Do you receive pleasure from the fact that you are so willing to wait on them hand and foot?”

“Well, sir,” she bristled, “I suppose I care a great deal for those boys.”

“Is the defendant close to his parents?” Peter followed.

“I would say that they are reasonably close.”

“Does he kiss his mother from time to time?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“When was the last time you saw it happen?”

“Well—”

“Does he kiss you sometimes, like a son would?”

“He might have, he and his brothers.”

“Did he kiss you on the night of August sixteenth?”

“No, I spoke to him from the balcony above the front door.”

“Is it fair to assume the Robinson sons are closer to you than they are to their mother?”

“I could never say that was true.”

“You are here, now, testifying for the defense.”

“Yes.”

“Do you see the defendant’s mother here in this room?”

“No.”

“We’re talking about human emotions here, Mrs. McGuane. About a young man, and I’m simply asking you to characterize your relationship with the defendant. It seems that you’ve done so much for him, that you’ve cared for him in so many small ways.”

“Yes,” Mrs. McGuane admitted softly. “I guess you could say that.”

Peter paused, surprised that Morgan hadn’t objected to the questioning, which was meant to convince the jury how unreliable a witness Mrs. McGuane was. Perhaps Morgan was saving his objections.

“You say you heard Mr. Robinson downstairs on the night of August sixteenth?”

“Yes. I lay in bed listening to the radio. I always do, right next to my bed, it is. It relaxes my nerves, see.” Mrs. McGuane smiled in seemingly genuine embarrassment. “I saw the lights in the window and then he came in and I talked with him for a little while.”

“This is what you told the police after the defendant was arrested?”

“Yes.”

“And you say you remember the radio show?”

“Yes. As I just got done telling, it was this show where mentally ill people call in and tell about being crazy.”

“Well, I’m certain none of
us
in the courtroom today were calling in that night.”

“Oh, yes,” she agreed tentatively.

“We have heard a description of the Robinson estate already. Now, would you describe the security arrangements?”

“Objection,” Morgan said. “Your Honor, this information is confidential, for the protection of the defendant’s family.”

The judge looked at the housekeeper. “Just answer in a way that will not compromise your employer,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir,” the woman said.

“Would you say that crime is bad in your neighborhood?” Peter asked casually. The old country estates were easy pickings for motorcycle gangs looking for antiques to fence.

“It’s not real bad, but you have to keep your doors locked, if you see what I mean. Even with the neighbors.”

“Can’t trust them?”

“Even people you think you know.”

“Someone ever break and enter that house?”

“Yes, they took some of the silver and the big rug in the dining room. Then Mrs. Robinson had the new system put in. About two years ago.”

“Your Honor,” Morgan barked from his table, “I fail to see how the general patterns of crime in the suburbs of Philadelphia can have
anything
to do with this witness’s testimony.”

“What are you getting at?” the judge growled at Peter.

“Behaviors, Your Honor. I’m interested in behaviors here.”

“Proceed,” the judge replied after a moment’s thought. “Let’s find out what behaviors you mean.”

Buried deep in the police report was a brief description of the workings of the Robinson alarm system. Peter had seen it and realized that it weakened the defendant’s alibi. He knew, too, that if he had subpoenaed the company that had installed and programmed the security system, and thus conveyed this fact when listing his probable witnesses, then Morgan would have been tipped off to Peter’s interest. Mrs. McGuane had originally told the police Robinson had come in through the front door—apparently blurting this out before thinking clearly—and had been forced to stick to this testimony all along. By not calling the security system representatives in to testify, Peter had
appeared
to indicate to Morgan—if Morgan had in fact considered it—that he, Peter, had either missed the information in the report or deemed it of no importance. Thus Morgan had not adjusted Mrs. McGuane’s testimony. Morgan may have just missed the fact. After all, the man had other things to worry about, namely Robinson’s boastful, sick confession. But there was a gamble here. A good prosecutor didn’t ask questions to which he didn’t know the answers. And Peter didn’t intend to depart from that rule, except that he didn’t know if Mrs. McGuane would provide the answers. He was betting that the housekeeper had intimate knowledge of all the workings of the house, from the number of best-silver spoons to the schedule of when to turn the mattresses around, to this, the routines of the security system. She did not seem bright enough to spontaneously
amend her testimony if Peter could jar her out of her rehearsed version of events. He had spent many hours flipping through the police reports, sorting and discarding facts, trying not to think of Janice’s departure, and even though he had mastered those facts, he knew now that he needed to feel his way toward the right order of testimony—set bits of information in the jury’s minds without tipping off the witness. He checked his notes and looked up. Morgan, seeing the direction of the questioning, and perhaps realizing that he might have made an oversight, was nervous now, eager to fend off Peter’s questions with objections. The defense attorney compulsively tapped a pencil against his pants leg while waiting for another chance to object. Peter looked at the witness. Mrs. McGuane smiled to the court, appearing helpful. “Now then,” he said, “I would like to turn the questions to what happened that night.”