Compelling Evidence (15 page)

him over to the office and pop him with the shotgun whe janitor hears it. The shot takes out the rest of the slug. Or it fragmented on the way in, on some bone, and now pass pellets, all except for this monster thing in the ganglion."

I shake my head. "Why not?" says Harry. I'm not denying the plausibility of this scenario. I'm my head in futility, for I have nothing with which to coun

"And it fits the fiber analysis of forensics," says Harry.

Forensics has found traces of two carpet fibers on Ben's ing, an inexpensive mamnade fiber used chiefly in some carpets and an array of recreational vehicles and trailers, more ex .pensive nylon fiber. The second matches exac burgundy carpet in the trunk of Ben's Rolls‐Royce.

"We need to talk to Talia," I say. "There must be Solt to confirm where she was that day."

She's already told us no alibi for the time of death. According to Talia she was of looking at some property at the time of Ben's murder, a from.an estate sale down in Vacaville. I've come up with that can place her there, no telephone calls she made, no purchases with credit cards.

She entered the deserted house using a lockbox. key and let herself out when she was For all intents she slipped off the face of the earth durm hours immediately preceding and following Ben's death. lit well for the state in showing that Talia possessed one of *J@ ingredients of any murder, the opportunity to kill.. One of the double French doors behind us opens. We're to the smiling countenance of Ron Brown. He swaggers poise in a gray pinstripe with French cuffs a mile long from the sleeves. With one hand he fingers the center of his coat, which is closed over a trim stomach. His u ripples under the pencil‐thin mustache, a sure sign that tw@ something we don't. "I've got some good news," be says. "In fact it's a major coup for our side."

"Fine, I can handle some good news," I say. I can see by the look on his face that Harry's about to puke. Brown hesitates briefly, relishing the moment. "I couldn't tell you earlier. Sensitive negotiations were going on," he says. "Spare us," says Harry. I wonder what Cheetam and the eunuch have been up to. Then it hits me. They've cut a deal with the DA, a plea bargain to save Talia. Maybe Cheetam's not as dumb as I think.

"Gil," he says. "Mr. Cheetam has just landed a six‐figure deal with a New York publishing house for the book rights to Talia's case. Seems they're interested in the inside story‐the death of a high court nominee."

I look at Harry in disbelief. I can feel my face fall on the table.

"You're kidding." Brown's voice goes up an octave. "Would I joke about something like this? Cheetarn is a real operator," he says. "Why not make the most of an opportunity?"

He looks over at the tangled mass of pages on the table in front of us.

"Now tell me," he says, "what little stones of wisdom have you two found?"

Harry's seething. I can see the cords standing out on his neck like steel cables. "Would I could put them in your kidneys," he says. "Emm?"

It has sailed over Brown's head. :

CHAPTER10.

BY the time I arrive at

Talia's it's nearly eight in the evening. I've called and asked for this meeting outside the office, where Cheetam and Skarpellos won't interfere. I ring the bell and discover that Talia has yet to learn the meaning of discretion. The door is opened by her young friend Tod Hamilton. The only thing brighter than the light over the front door is his broad smile. It seems he's now providing comfort and support around the clock. I can feel the eyes of a thousand neighbors on us as we stand there. I am beginning to play the state's game. I am wondering where Tod Hamilton was on the night Ben was killed. Hamilton holds up a large brandy snifter, tea‐colored liquid swirling in the bottom. "Come in," he says. "Something to drink?"

"Scotch if you got it. No ice, a little water."

He leads me to the living room, where Talia is waiting. She's wearing a pair of black lace lounging pajamas, sitting with her legs curled under her on the sofa, like the prized wife in some harem. Tod brings my drink and sinks into the oversized wicker chair across from my own. We sit like two end pieces at an angle, facing Talia on the couch. Hamilton crosses a leg at the knee, a Boston loafer dangling from one foot, a button‐down shirt open at the collar. He is in all respects the vision of preppiness. Here, I think, is a body well suited to a leopard‐skin G‐string. Talia makes no pretence of sociability but instead goes straight to the core of our meeting, what I've found in the state's evidence. I open my note pad and start at the top. After my first question she thinks for a moment, then s

"Yes, it was a cute little

thing." She motions with the first n of each hand, about three inches aparl

"Ben bought it for white handles, very shiny. It was really quite beautiful." Thi how Talia describes the small semiautomatic handgun prese to her by Ben two years ago, when an assailant known as "woolly rapist" terrorized the east side of town. "What caliber?" I ask. This is important, since the found in Ben may show signs of steel jacketing.

This would a larger‐caliber semiautomatic load, like a nine‐millimeter, I can distinguish the round from the gun she owned. "I don't know. The bullets were very small," she says,' I guess a twenty‐five caliber or a twenty‐two. A weapon. "Do you have the gunt' "I haven't seen it‐it must be over a year now. We u 11 keep it up in the bedroom in Ben's side table. Harry's'. clairvoyance, I think. "Ben moved it last Christmas.

Some young children visit; his niece and her kids were here for the holidays. He th it wasn't safe to have the gun where the children might find tell you the truth, I wouldn't have known how to use it. He"" me out to this shooting range one time, loaded it, and shoot it several times. I really didn't think it was neces you know Benjamin." 7 "Did the police search for a gun the day they came to the the day Aer Ben was killed?"

"They might have. I didn't pay much attention. "Did they have a search warrantt' "I don't think so. They rang the doorbell, asked if they look around. I said sure. I was confused, upset with Ben's Thought it best to cooperate. I had nothing to hide," she least I didn't think so."

Ordinarily it would be good news for our side, the a warrant. If they found anything it could be suppres given Talia's consent to the search and the fact that at stage, suspicion had probably not begun to focus on moot point. "Did they take anything from the house?"

"I don't remember." There's a moment of pained sile thinks back to that day. "They left with a couple of s A bags, I think. I don't know what was in them. No gun. I would have remembered that." Talia's now certain either they weren't looking or, if they were, they didn't find the gun.

"I think they took some bullets from the study. Said something about wanting to compam them with the bullet from the gun."

"Me shotgun?"

"I think so. I can't remember. It's been so long. You have to remember, I had a few other things on my mind." She says this with more than a little sarcasm. "Is it importarit?" asks Tod. "It could be. I'd like you to look for the gun. If you find it, don't touch it. There may be prints. Just call me."

I think Talia's right on (his point. It is a virtual certainty the cops didn't find the gun the day they searched the house. It hasn't shown up on the inventory of evidence held in the police locker. Under the circumstances a missing gun is as good as one in the hand, as far as the state is concerned. The minute bullet fragment found in Ben is unlikely to be sufficient for any serious ballistics analysis. Given its size and the damage sustained by what is left of the round, a match to the gun would be next to impossible. But it may be enough to show that the fragment was indeed part of a small‐caliber bullet. That, coupled with proof of registration showing that either Ben or Talia possessed such a weapon, fills an important gap in their case. It leaves us in the position of dealing with a double negative, that the bullet fired into Ben's head didn't come from a gun Talia can't find. It is from just such deficits that jurors form damning conclusions. "We'll look for it," says Tod. "I'll help her." There's a genuineness in his tone. Tod is one of those souls who is either very slick or naive in the extreme. It's difficult to tell. "I assume that this gun is important or you wouldn't be looking for it," he says. "But.. "But whatt' "Mr. Potter wasn't shot with a handgun," he says. "You know that for a factt' He's perceptive enough not to say the obvious‐that it was in All the newspapers. "You have evidence showing that a handgun was used?"

The man is not naive, I decide. "Let's just say that there may be Some conflicting evidence. Right now we're exploring a number Of different leads, which takes me to the next point‐an alibi. We Wed more information on your whereabouts the day of the killing. I know we've been through this before. But one more time." Taliws getting a little testy on this. We have been over it ,4 many times, but she humors me.

"Well, as I've said, I was MT in Vacaville, looking at property. I didn't get home until @iisiiii, ten. The police were here at the house waiting for me @.Ijr arrived."

There are knowing looks exchanged here, between Talia o@z! Tod, the kind that make normal people paranoid and F,77r@jll'‐rn, nervous. I tell myself it may be simply that they have ‐opi the obvious. The absence of any plausible evidence an alibi makes Talia the perfect defendant. Nk I gamble a little and press. "No, no. None of this," I say. I'M" somewhat bug‐eyed at them, exaggerating their glances. more than a little aggression in my tone, and the message is @@k Don't waste my time with lies. "Either you tell me the of it now, or I can't help you!' "We are:'

she says. "I mean I am. I'm telling you all 1 1, "Well, then it's just not good enough" I say. It's a Tr Mlf attempting to draw out a client, getting her to help herself ,@j @', suborning pedury. There must be something you've I'm Somebody you talked to. A stop along the way that's I mind. Think."

There comes a long moment of pained silence as she memory. I've already taken signed consent forms from I In Iro Y, sent them to all of the companies from which she holds cards on the off chance that she made a credit purchase a transaction she's forgotten about

"I'm sorry." She can

read the frustration in my that bad?"

I nod. "You can tell 'em you heard it here MMC%17'@` Cheetarn."

Seeing how Cheetam's been glossing it am here in part to let her know the truth. "We could a deal with the DA." I'm breaking new ground now.

No yet dared to discuss the possibility of a plea bargain A, N, "You aren't serioust' Tod plants both feet on the M'.Z4 now leaning forward in his chair, looking at me

"I do mean it. I couldn't be more serious.

We're MM gas chamber, ' I say. To Tod these words may be %;Mi @ ‐VP

still, for him, it is an abstraction. I wish I could say I have been waking in a cold sweat at night, behind i7Zj,' vision of Brian Danley twisting under the straps in that ‐V voice howling for mercy. I wonder after all these wowif'p@ 4@1

"Tod, shut up." Talia's heard enough. I have the stage. "This brings us to the sorry fact that chances of beating this thing in the preliminary are slim none. I've seen their best evidence." I hesitate a moment dropping the hammer. "If you want my assessment, you wv@il bound over for trial on a charge of first‐degree murder."

Talia appears shaken, not so much by the news as by the manner in which it is delivered. "I didn't do it," she says. "It pains me to tell you this, but that doesn't e io dence says you did. And in the prelim, all they =rio'tsh criminal agency, that Ben died at the hands of another, and there is a reasonable basis to believe that you're guilty of crime."

I focus A the urgency possible in my voice, the clari my words. "Believe me, unless you can give me something they're certain to make their case in the prelim."

"Could they convict me?" she asks. To this I don't give an answer, except for the archin eyebrows and a slight tilt of my head, like the odds‐m still out. Both of them are astounded. It appears that e invested in Cheetam's fairy tale of exoneration a 'y@ ly n 't an s s, Talia, it seems, is on the verge of taking offen el as if saying these things only because I do not believe her prote of innocence. She vents her spleen, then closes. "You're bundle of confidence," she says. Tod is more subdued, his gaze cast down into the bran g cradled in his hands. I can see gyrations of liquid ii the I little temblors on a seismograph.

Reality is beginning to on him. He looks at her. "Talia, maybe we should.. "No, she says. I think maybe he is counselin a deal with the DA

.9 m Talia calms herself finally and takes me on a ii iental trip to Vacaville the day Ben died. What I hear is rendition of no alibi, a journey that began and ended to @u ealt 's lockbox key she use‐ c tells me ' t the r' or dd let s, into ‐ de cribes as a mansion out in the co'

more an two hours going throug n nly thetoms, but the glitzy furnishit

\had hata taste for modern (clecor. The The h use visi& c and its contents were bein# voice ho., It was one of those properties, bought by the forty thieves, real estate speculators who traffic in good buys from the probate courts and public administrators, a circle in which Talia does not usually travel, How she was clued into this one I 'do not know.

She returned to the city without making further stops for meals or gas.

She claims she saw and spoke to no one. "Great," I say. "Talia, listen to me." Tod's trying to reason with her. "Can we have a minute alonet'

I'm not anxious to allow Tod to talk to her alone, but from the signs of intimacy here, whatever damage may be done has probably already occurred‐long before my arrival. "Sure," I say. "Talk."

I get up, leaving my briefcase and note pad on the chair, and exit the room. I wander across the entry and through the open door to Ben's old study. I turn on the desk lamp so that I'm not in the dark. I can hear a lot of naysaying from Talia in the other room. Tod is not having much success at persuasion. The study is like a living museum. There are pages on the desk written in Ben's hand. A book is open under the lamp, as if he's about to return at any moment to pick up his place in the text. I look at the cover. It's a volume of West's Digest, the firm's name stamped across the ends of the pages, library style. There is probably some sorry associate running around the office wondering what has happened to it, I think. There is a loud and final