Defense for the Devil (23 page)

Judge Waldman called for the recess then, and told the jurors that they must not talk about the case and they would resume at two.

Barbara and Shelley went to the office, where Patsy was at the receptionist desk, working on Frank’s book. Frank, she said, was explaining to the magistrate that no one had singled out Mr. Trassi for special treatment, that all Barbara’s witnesses were being subpoenaed and told not to leave the state. Patsy reported this perfectly straight-faced, knowing well that Trassi was the reason for all the subpoenas.

That afternoon Stan Truckee was the next witness. He worked in Ray’s sports shop, had worked there for twelve years, mostly part-time. He was a gangly man in his fifties, with a crippled hand, the fingers drawn inward in a claw-like position. All Roxbury wanted from Truckee was the fact that Ray often took customers home with him to see his collection of flies.

“So, since you work only part-time, you have no way of knowing who he takes home with him, or when? Is that right?”

“Well, he’s not real close-mouthed—”

“Just a yes or no, please. You have no way of knowing, do you?”

“He tells me—”

“Your honor, will you please instruct the witness to answer the question.”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Truckee,” she said kindly. “No,” he said. “Except—”

“The answer is no,” Roxbury snapped. “Your witness,” he said to Barbara.

Shelley had said Roxbury looked like an accountant, and at the moment he did, an accountant who had found a plus instead of a minus in the books. She smiled at him and stood up.

“Mr. Truckee, what exactly does your shop handle, what kind of merchandise do you sell there?”

“Fishing gear, hooks, lines, tackle, flies, lures, waders. Anything to do with fishing, freshwater or saltwater fishing.”

“No baseball bats or golf clubs? Just fishing gear?”

“That’s all. And we have customers from all over the world.”

“Objection,” Roxbury said. “The witness is advertising.”

“Sustained.”

“All right,” Barbara said easily. “You just sell fishing gear. Let’s talk a minute about the collection of flies Mr. Arno shows to some customers. Can you describe the collection?”

“Yes, ma’am. See, there are some people who have a real gift for tying flies, so real they would fool the insects’ mamas. One of our suppliers is famous for his flies, he wins competitions, has private showings. And another one is a lady down in Medford, who gets her material from around the world—alpaca from South America, phalarope feathers from South Africa—”

“Objection!” Roxbury cried. “This is irrelevant.”

“Overruled,” Judge Waldman said. “You may continue,” she said to Stan Truckee.

“Well,” he said, “it’s like that. Where common flies might use a copper bead, some of our suppliers use gold, real gold. Or instead of muskrat, they get wild boar, or instead of dying some pale fur orange, they get orange from an orangutan from Borneo. I mean, these are special, real works of art. And over the years Ray’s built up a real collection of those flies. He mounted them in glass boxes, and he shows them at conventions, and sometimes he sets up a display at the shop.”

“Does his collection have value for anyone besides other fishing enthusiasts?”

“Yes, ma’am. They’re insured for a lot of money. They’re all one of a kind, the best.”

“All right. So he has customers who know about the displays and ask to see them? Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Some regulars bring in new people and they can’t wait to see them, they get real excited about them.”

“If strangers come to the shop and ask to see the special collection, then what happens?”

“Well, he tells them when the next show’s going to be, and where. Or when he intends to bring them in to the shop.”

“To your knowledge, has he ever taken a stranger to his house to show off his collection?”

He shook his head emphatically. “No way. No, ma’am.”

“Would he be secretive about such a thing?”

Roxbury objected and Barbara said, “You brought it up, that he might do it without telling anyone.”

“I didn’t say anyone. I said this witness has no way of knowing that.”

“Sustained. Move on, Ms. Holloway.”

She nodded. “Mr. Truckee, do you know how much Mr. Arno pays for the special flies?”

Roxbury objected, and this time was overruled.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m in on everything.”

“You know all his suppliers?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And most of his regular customers?”

“All of them.”

“Do you set aside special lures and flies for special customers?”

“Yes, we do.”

“And discuss in advance that a customer might like the new ones? Something like that?”

“Yes, ma’am. We talk about it.”

“You talk about most of the business?”

“I’d say all of it.”

“If you got a new customer who proved to be an avid fisherman who wanted only the best you had, you would talk it over with Mr. Arno?”

“Every time. We keep an eye out for the real fishermen.”

“And he would do the same, mention to you that an avid fisherman had come in?”

“Yes, he would. We talk about the business all the time.”

“And it would take an avid fisherman, a real enthusiast who was knowledgeable about flies, who would gain admittance to his private collection?”

“Unless he knows the difference between an English Gold Bead Headstone and a Glass Bead Caddis Pupa, there wouldn’t be any point in it, would there?”

She smiled and shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Truckee. If such a customer came along, a new customer, would you learn about him?”

“Sure, I would.”

“Mr. Truckee, without giving any names, can you tell the jury the last time that you know Ray Arno took a customer to his house to look at the collection?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was in May, early May. A customer, a regular, came in with two friends from Michigan, and they asked if they could see them. Ray said sure, and they all went out to the house.”

She thanked him and sat down. “No more questions.”

Roxbury snapped at him, “The days you don’t work in the shop, you don’t know who comes in for certain, do you?”

“I find out.”

“You can’t know unless Ray Arno tells you, and you have no way of knowing if he tells you everything, do you?”

Truckee looked puzzled, then shook his head. “No, not if you put it that way. But he tells—”

“That’s all. The answer is no.”

When Truckee left the stand, Roxbury called his next witness, Alexandra Wharton.

24

Alexandra Wharton was
a large woman in her forties, five feet ten, one hundred eighty pounds, with dark brown hair, little makeup, dressed in a no-nonsense navy blue suit and white blouse. She walked to the stand, took her oath, and seated herself with a minimum of fuss, hardly a glance at the jury, and none at all toward Ray Arno.

Roxbury led her into her testimony quickly, and her story was simple. She went to the
Register-Guard
dock every night at two-thirty to collect bundles of newspapers, which she then distributed to route carriers.

“The corner of Stratton and River Road is the next-to-last stop I make,” she said. “I always get there between five-thirty and a quarter to six, and usually the Dyson kids are there waiting and we transfer their bundle to their truck and I take off. That’s Derek and Lina Dyson. She drives and he delivers the papers to the porches or the boxes out front.”

“Do you recall what happened on the morning of Tuesday, August sixth?”

“Yes. I pulled in to the church parking lot, and the truck hadn’t come yet, so I opened the back of my van and was getting the bundle ready for them when I saw headlights coming up Stratton. I thought it was the Dyson truck, but it wasn’t. A gray Honda Civic came speeding to the corner and hardly slowed down at all, took the turn, and raced up River Road toward town.”

“How far were you from the Honda?”

“No more than fifty feet.”

“And you saw it clearly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“Just that it was a man with dark hair; then it was gone.”

“Could you see how he was dressed?”

“Not really. A dark sweatshirt or sweater is all I could see.”

“What time did you see the Honda?”

“It had to have been about five-thirty. I got to my next stop at ten to six, and it’s usually about fifteen minutes after I leave Stratton that I get up to it.”

Roxbury was being silky smooth with this witness, showing not a sign of brusqueness or impatience. He drew her out slowly and carefully, covering every point with precision. She knew it was Tuesday, August sixth, because she had a dental appointment that day at nine, and the speeder had upset her and was still on her mind when she went to the dentist’s office; she had mentioned it there, how kids who delivered newspapers in the dark were at risk from speeders.

Barbara did not interrupt, not even when he showed Alexandra Wharton a photograph of a car and asked if that was the one she saw speeding that morning. She said yes. He identified the photograph as Ray Arno’s automobile and had it entered as a state exhibit. Soon after that he finished with her.

Barbara stood up and asked, “Ms. Wharton, was it still dark that morning when you got to Stratton?”

“Not real dark, but the sun wasn’t up yet. Twilight.”

“You said the speeding car had its headlights on, so it was dark enough to be using headlights?”

“Yes.”

“Are there traffic lights at that intersection?”

“No, just a stop sign.”

“Are there streetlights on the corners there?”

“No.”

“Are there any lights at all?”

“Yes. The church has a light pole; that’s why I pull in there, so we can see what we’re doing with the newspapers. And there’s a light on in the grocery store across Stratton.”

“A night-light in the grocery store? A dim light?”

“Yes.”

“All right. When you pull in, do you turn off your headlights? Stop your engine?”

“Yes. Sometimes I have to wait for them, and the church light is enough. They can see me fine.”

“Do you always pull in close to the church light?”

“Yes, so we can see what we’re doing.”

“Yes, of course. So the light was about fifty feet from the intersection, as you were. Is that correct?”

She nodded, then said, “About that far.”

“And the automobile you saw was a gray Honda Civic? Do you know what year it was?”

Wharton hesitated, then said, “I wasn’t thinking of what year it was or anything like that. I recognized it when I saw it, though.”

Barbara nodded, then went to her table, where Shelley handed her a photograph; it was a montage of fifteen gray hatchback automobiles—a Honda, Toyota, Nissan…. The years ranged from 1987 to 1994. The individual cars were numbered, and there were no other identifying marks. She showed the picture to Judge Waldman, then to Roxbury, who leaped up and objected.

“On what grounds, Mr. Roxbury?” the judge asked.

“May I approach?”

Roxbury and Barbara approached the bench, where Roxbury said furiously, “This witness made a positive identification. That picture is just to confuse her, make her doubt her own eyes. All those cars look—”

Both the judge and Barbara waited for him to finish. When he didn’t, Barbara said, “Alike. Is that the word you want? You had the witness pick out one from another. Let’s see if she is that positive when there’s a real choice.”

“Are the cars identified somewhere?” Judge Waldman asked. “Yes, on the back. Ray Arno’s car is one of them, in fact.”

The judge glanced at the back of the montage, then nodded. “Very well. Overruled, Mr. Roxbury.”

Barbara took the sheet of photographs to the witness then and handed it to her. “Ms. Wharton, can you identify the car you saw in this collection?”

Alexandra Wharton looked confused at the number of cars on the montage, then she began to study them; she pursed her lips and a frown creased her forehead after a moment. It took her a long time, but finally she looked at Barbara and shook her head.

“I can’t say for sure which one it was.”

“Can you be sure it was a Honda?”

“No, not for sure, I guess.

“Can you say for sure it was a 1991 model?”

“No.”

“How would you describe the car you saw that morning?”

“A little gray car, a hatchback.”

“Thank you,” Barbara said. “No more questions.” She had the sheet of photographs entered, and watched the bailiff pass it to the jury foreman. And some of them would know in a second which was the ’91 Honda Civic, she thought, satisfied.

Roxbury tried to undo the damage. Her memory when she identified the car in August had been clearer than it was now, after so many months. She had been certain at the time. Looking at so many gray cars was confusing…. He didn’t help the situation and might have hurt it. Some of the jurors knew a Honda from a Toyota.

Roxbury called Anthony Arno next.

When Papa Arno’s name was called, to Barbara’s surprise and consternation, Ray stood up; she heard a commotion behind her and twisted around to see James and David Arno also on their feet. Roxbury was shouting, and the bailiff was bawling for all to be seated. Judge Waldman raised her gavel, then gently put it down again; the jurors appeared as amazed as everyone else by this spontaneous display. They stared at Papa Arno, at the three tall sons, back to Papa Arno.

Then Judge Waldman said in her firm no-nonsense way, “Gentlemen, be seated. Please, there must be no further demonstrations of any sort in this courtroom.”

Papa Arno had seemed unaware of his sons’ actions; now he glanced behind him and nodded; it was as if his signal to sit down again was the one they needed. A guard had rushed to Ray Arno’s side when he rose; he withdrew as Ray took his chair again. James and David Arno sat down, and only then was Papa sworn in.

Craig Roxbury turned a bitter, icy glare toward Barbara; she shrugged. If he believed she had had anything to do with that, she was certain he was the only person in the courtroom who did. The jurors regarded Papa with heightened interest.