Defense for the Devil (24 page)

On Saturday Papa Arno had said to Barbara, “A father should not have to testify against his son. Can they make me?”

‘’I’m sorry,” she had said. “If you appear reluctant, not cooperative, they will call you a hostile witness and it would be worse for Ray. I don’t think your testimony will be damaging.”

“I am talking about the son I had, Mitch. I don’t know anything about Ray that could hurt him.”

After going over his testimony, Barbara had said, “Just tell the truth, Mr. Arno. The jury will know you’re telling the truth.”

And now Roxbury was leading him into the fight between Ray and Mitch nearly eighteen years ago.

“Mitchell Arno was married to Maggie Folsum. He claimed his marital rights with her and she was in tears. So you and the defendant forced him outside and beat him up. Didn’t you?”

Barbara objected to his leading question; Judge Waldman sustained the objection, and Roxbury backed out of it and asked the same questions, one at a time.

“Did you and the defendant force him outside and beat him up?” he concluded.

“No, sir. Ray took him outside and they fought.”

“Wasn’t the defendant so enraged that he was uncontrollable?”

“He was outraged.”

“Did you publicly disown your son Mitchell that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did the defendant tell Mitchell Arno that if he came back again, he would not be able to walk away next time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Last summer on Friday, August second, did your son Mitchell return?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see him yourself that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did you do?”

“I pushed him into the shed and told him he had to leave because there was a big party at the house. I told Mama to call Ray and tell him to wait for us. And we took Mitch to Ray’s house in Eugene.”

“So, aware of the threat the defendant had made, you delivered your son into his hands. Aware of his uncontrollable temper, his violence toward Mitchell—”

“Objection!” Barbara cried. “Improper questions, as the prosecutor knows very well.”

“Sustained. Ask your question, Mr. Roxbury.”

“You delivered Mitchell into the keeping of the defendant, who had threatened him in public at their last meeting. Is that correct?”

“I took him to Ray’s house.”

“Did you give him an opportunity to explain the reason for his return?”

“No, we didn’t talk.”

“Was the occasion of the party his older daughter’s birthday?”

“It was her birthday.”

“Did it occur to you that Mitchell had come to celebrate his daughter’s birthday?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you give him an opportunity to explain his presence?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you talk to him on the drive to Eugene?”

“No, sir.”

“How did you transport him to the defendant’s house?”

“In the back of my truck.”

“You shoved him into the shed, then you bundled him into the back of a truck, the way you might transport an animal. Is that correct?”

Barbara objected, and it was sustained. Roxbury had made the point, though. He hammered away at Papa Arno. No one had permitted Mitch to explain himself. No one had talked to him, except to tell him to keep away from the inn. Papa Arno didn’t know what took place between Ray and Mitch after he left them. Finally Roxbury looked at the old man with open disgust and said no more questions.

“Mr. Arno,” Barbara started, “what happened in February of nineteen seventy-nine?”

“Doris Folsum called Mama and said—”

“Objection. Hearsay.”

“Your honor,” Barbara said quickly, “this goes directly to the state of mind of Mr. Arno at that period. It explains his subsequent actions.”

Judge Waldman looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. “Overruled,” she said. “You may continue, Mr. Arno.”

“Mama told me that Mitch was back at the Folsum house and had hurt Maggie.” Papa Arno’s face was set in rigid lines, but his voice was steady. He kept his gaze on Barbara and spoke in a low tone, pausing now and then, as if in pain. “We went up there and saw she was crying and had a big bruise on her face and on her arms. She said he raped her in front of the baby, that he hurt her down there. She said she told him to leave her alone and he knocked her down and raped her, and then hit her in the face.” He looked down at his big hands clasped together on the witness stand.

“You said that he was back. Had he been gone?”

“Yes, ma’am. He left in the spring and came back in February.”

“Did you know where he was during that time?”

“No. He just left one day.”

“How old was Maggie when he left?”

“Sixteen.”

“And how old was she in February when he came back?”

“Seventeen.”

She led him through the rest of it.

“Why did you disown Mitch, Mr. Arno?”

“Because he brought dishonor to his wife, our daughter Maggie, and to our family. He no longer could be my son.”

“You think of Maggie Folsum as your daughter?”

“She became the daughter we never had.”

“In all the years since that day in February until last summer did you ever hear from Mitch?” He said no. “Did he send Christmas presents or birthday cards, or call, or get in touch in any way?”

“No. Not once.”

“Why did you feel you had to get him away from Maggie Folsum’s inn?”

“There was a big party, a family reunion. It was Gwen’s eighteenth birthday, her graduation party, and all the family would be there—all the Folsums, all the Arnos, other relatives. There was a lot of bad feeling about Mitch, how he abandoned Maggie with two babies. I was afraid there would be terrible trouble if he stayed.”

“When you took him to Ray’s house, you said he was in the back of the truck. Why was that?”

“The truck was what I was driving. With a canopy on it. We hauled a lot of stuff out to the party in it. I put a blanket back there for him to use if it got drafty. Only two of us could ride in the front.”

“When you arrived at Ray’s house, did he talk then?”

“We didn’t stay long enough to talk. I just told Ray to let him stay until after the party, and we’d talk on Monday when we all got back. Ray said he would do that.”

“Was Ray enraged?”

“No, ma’am. He was surprised, same as me. And disgusted by the way Mitch looked. Not mad or anything.”

Slowly she then asked, “Mr. Arno, if you asked Ray to do something, would it occur to you that he might not do it if it was within his power?”

He looked surprised and shook his head. “No. Anything I asked, he’d do if it killed him.”

“And you asked him to let Mitch stay in his house until you all returned home on Monday, when you planned to talk. Is that right?”

“Yes. He said he would.”

“At what time did you get home on Monday?”

“About one-thirty or a little after.”

“Did you call Ray?”

Roxbury objected. “Beyond the scope of direct,” he snapped. Quickly Barbara said, “This whole line of inquiry was opened by the state. I want to complete it.”

“Overruled.”

Barbara repeated the question.

“He called me. He said Mitch had left, that he had torn up the place first and then took off. I told him someone had broken in at my house, and he said he would come to our place right away.”

“Objection!” Roxbury cried. “Irrelevant.”

“Your honor,” Barbara said, “this goes to the core of the defense. It is highly relevant.”

Judge Waldman beckoned them both to the bench, and there, out of hearing of the jury, she asked Barbara to explain.

“Someone was looking for Mitch Arno, first at Papa Arno’s house, then at Ray’s, where they found him.”

Judge Waldman frowned, tapping one finger lightly on an open notebook before her. After a moment she nodded. “I’ll permit the question and answer, but if it turns out to be a red herring, or irrelevant, I’ll so advise the jurors and have it stricken.”

Barbara thanked her and continued to question Papa Arno. “Did you tell anyone else about the break-in at your house, or that Mitch had come back?”

“Yes. I called both James and David and told them, and we decided that Ray would call Maggie so she wouldn’t be taken by surprise if he showed up at her place.”

Barbara finished with him soon after that, and Roxbury stood up and walked around his table to approach the witness chair. In a soft voice he asked, “Mr. Arno, on the occasion that your two sons fought, and you then put your injured son on a bus and sent him away, did you at any time consider filing charges against him, or even reporting the incident to the police?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you consider it a family matter, something to be taken care of within the family circle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your testimony is that you consider Maggie Folsum to be your daughter. Is that right?”

“Yes, she’s our daughter.”

“And as your daughter, she is to be protected, shielded from harm, and avenged if she is mistreated—”

“Objection!” Barbara said. “That’s a leading question if there ever was one.”

“Sustained. Rephrase your question, Mr. Roxbury.”

He bowed slightly to the judge, then asked, “Is it your belief that a daughter is to be guarded and protected by her father and her adult brothers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And do you believe that it is proper for a father and adult brothers to seek to punish anyone who brings harm or dishonor to that daughter?”

Barbara cried out an objection. “May I approach?” she asked.

“Your honor,” Roxbury said smoothly, “I am merely trying to clarify the position Ms. Folsum holds within the Arno family. We all know that different cultures regard the honor of the family in vastly different ways—”

“Your honor—” Barbara called out, but before she could say more, the judge beckoned her and Roxbury to approach the bench.

“Your honor,” Barbara said furiously in a low, intense voice, “he’s deliberately introducing a cultural distinction where none exists. The Arno family is an American family from generations back, not part of some big Mafia family. This is an outrageous attempt to prejudice the jury against Ray Arno.”

Judge Waldman nodded. “Mr. Roxbury, I am sustaining the objection, and I want you to back away from that line of questioning. We will not have a jury racially or culturally prejudiced in this case.”

But the damage had been done, Barbara knew. The jury had been prejudiced even if only infinitesimally. When Roxbury resumed his redirect, she watched him closely, aware that he was far more dangerous than she had originally assumed. His move to characterize Ray Arno as a stereotypical Italian-honor-crazed brother was as smart as it was reprehensible. She had no doubt he would allude to it again before this trial was over.

25

Today the media
were on hand, newspaper and television reporters as well as cameras; there had been little interest in the case before Barbara’s entrance. Frank bantered with the reporters good-naturedly, the way he always did, and Barbara said simply, “Of course, Ray Arno didn’t do it. And no comment beyond that.”

Then Frank drew her aside in a huddle with John and Shelley. “They’ll go on to the house,” he said. “We have a date with Trassi.”

Bailey was waiting at the curb in Frank’s Buick. “Hilton,” Frank said.

“What’s up?” she asked. “How did it go today? Will Trassi be held?”

“You kidding? He was given a choice: stay put or answer to an arrest warrant and face thirty days in the pokey for every hour he’s out of state. He’s not happy. Might say he’s boiling over, but it’s hard to tell with him.” Frank clearly was quite amused. “No New York lawyer should come to the boonies and try to outtalk a judge. Gets their back up for some reason.”

She grinned. “So what’s up now? This meeting?”

“Not sure. I told him no private talks except in your office, or in a public place. He opted for the Hilton bar. We’ll see. I made a reservation.”

Bailey drove them to the hotel and even got out to walk to the door with them, looking over everyone on the way. They took the elevator to the second floor, where Frank motioned toward a bar. “He didn’t want the top floor, too open,” he said.

The bar was dim, noisy, and crowded; after they were shown to a table at the back of the room, Frank excused himself to give Trassi a call. When he returned, they both ordered wine; Trassi appeared before it was served. He was stiffer than ever, and in the faint light, his complexion suggested that he had probably died since the last time Barbara had seen him.

“Mr. Palmer wants to talk to you,” he said curtly.

The waiter brought the wine, and Trassi snapped at him, “A telephone.”

No one spoke while they waited for the telephone. A pretty young woman was playing very good jazz on a piano; there were loud voices, an undercurrent of lower-pitched voices as counterpoint, now and then bursts of laughter…. Barbara sipped her wine.

The waiter returned with the telephone and plugged it in, retreated again. Trassi dialed a number; apparently an operator came on, and he gave his room number and name, then he waited.

Finally he said, “Trassi,” then handed the phone to Barbara.

“Hello,” she said. “Barbara Holloway.”

“Ms. Holloway, in the company I keep, when you make a deal, you honor it. What are you after now?”

She was very surprised at his voice; it was deep and almost lilting, with just a touch of a brogue, enough to sound charming. “I kept my end of the deal,” she said. “I delivered everything I said I would.”

“Let’s not play games,” he said. “Let Trassi go, release him from the subpoena, and let’s be done with all this business.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “I’m afraid he has to testify, and the only way we can be assured of his presence is by subpoena.”

“What do you want?”

“I want the two men who killed Mitch Arno, and the one who handled them.”

She was watching Trassi as he said this; his expression did not change by even a flicker. Dead man, she thought again.

Palmer paused only a second, then said easily, “I’m afraid I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“If you don’t, then you have some very dangerous loose cannons in your organization,” she said. “You should be warned about them and take measures before they do you grave harm.”