Defense for the Devil (29 page)

“I’ll do it,” John said. He quickly went into the kitchen, and she understood that he needed time to think.

She felt almost numb as she gazed at the living room, at his massive desk spread with maps, opened books on end tables, pages of printout on the couch…. She looked down at the steaming coffee and took another sip. Not too much, she thought, and realized she had eaten nothing all day, not since a hasty breakfast. Her system was miswired, that was the problem; she never got the signals for hunger or fatigue or… John had stopped rummaging about in the kitchen.

“Barbara,” he said, his back to her, his posture stiff and even hostile-looking, “you can’t really believe a man like Palmer has a woman like Marta Delancey in his pocket. Aren’t you taking a gamble a little too far?”

“I do believe it,” she said. “And it’s a gamble, but not mine. It’s Ray’s gamble. He’s innocent!”

“She saw him, recognized him, fingered the place where he dumped the bag, and they found it there, or nearby.” Now he turned to look at her. His face was expressionless, the way it became when he was unwilling to reveal his thoughts, his feelings, a way that revealed everything by concealing too much.

“She’s lying,” Barbara said.

“Someone’s lying. This whole case started with a big lie, and it’s gone on from there. You got it into your head from the beginning that it’s a single case, the Palmer affair and Mitch’s murder, but maybe they’re really not connected. Can’t you even consider the possibility that there’s no connection? The murder might be a family affair; most murders are.”

“And sometimes they aren’t that simple.”

“Have you considered that if you’re right, if Palmer can send in a senator’s wife to do his dirty work, no one here is safe, no matter if you have armed guards? Have you considered what it would mean to bring two kids into an armed camp where they could become targets?” The scar on his face flared, then turned livid. His mouth drew up, and abruptly he spun around and stalked from the kitchen. “I don’t think I’m hungry. I’m going for a walk.”

She didn’t move as she heard him at the coat tree, then going down the stairs fast and hard; she heard the outside door close with a bang.

He had not returned when Bailey rang the bell with his characteristic signal; she had made herself a sandwich but after a few bites had put it down. She tossed it into the garbage. When she went down, swathed in her heavy poncho, it was still raining hard. He would get soaked, she thought distantly, and hoped he would come home and take a hot bath, hoped he had ducked inside somewhere to brood over a beer or two, that he was not out tramping around in the weather.

In Frank’s living room, Barbara reported on the day’s events and the new schedule. Both Shelley and Bailey groaned. Batting a thousand, Barbara thought.

“Forget Harry Chisolm as a possible witness,” Shelley said glumly. “He thinks Marta’s guilty of whatever sin has been reported, starting with the Fall of Rome. But he said that Joel Chisolm never went fishing in his life and he, Harry, never did, either. He was able to give me some dates—when Joel and Marta got married, when they moved to New York, when they came home for the father’s funeral, and then again a couple of weeks before their mother’s death, and so on. He said all the antiques went straight to an auction house.” She pushed her report across the table to Barbara.

“Also,” she said, “I talked to Lorinne and went over old photograph albums with her. We found pictures of the various places where Ray’s had his business, starting with day one. She let me have copies made of the snapshots. They’re in here, too. Then,” she said, “I did a little research on the various sites, what they were like when Ray was there, things like that, and what they are now. There have been a lot of changes since he started in 1978.”

“Why?” Barbara asked.

“I thought that if Marta Delancey is lying, she might not know where Ray’s shop was back then, what it looked like. I was surprised by it; that’s what sent me searching.”

She opened her file folder and drew out the pictures. “See, a corner in a warehouse in an area that was zoned industrial. It was temporary, but still, there it is.”

“Good work,” Barbara said, studying the photograph. “You’ve had yourself a real day, earned your keep plenty.”

Shelley beamed at her and blushed.

The corner in the warehouse looked like a dismal, poorly lighted space with a picnic table that kids might have used to sell lemonade.

Bailey had been less successful. “Okay,” he said, “the cops were suspicious of Joel Chisolm’s death, but they didn’t have a thing to go on except a gut feeling. Joel and Marta left the show at ten after eleven and decided to walk three or four blocks to the supper club, where Joel had made reservations earlier that day. After a block, a car drove past them and stopped, and two guys got out. One of them grabbed Joel’s arm and snatched the wallet from his coat pocket; the other one shot him in the head. No one could describe the guys, happened too fast, they said.” He spread his hands. “Gut feeling says it was a setup. Hard facts, zilch.”

“Any link between Marta and Palmer? Did he move the family heirlooms?”

“Don’t know. They’re trying to find out, but it might take days, weeks. That was a long time ago, remember.”

Barbara frowned. “So, unless and until it’s proved one way or the other, we go on the assumption that he did, that he and Marta were acquainted, and she used his services.”

Bailey nodded noncommittally. “She and the senator were married nine months after Joel bit the dust. According to interviews, they had met years earlier. Two kids: a son by Joel, a daughter by the senator. One of the successful marriages, not a word of scandal, Caesar’s wife, all that.” He shrugged. “We need a little time, Barbara. You know how it goes. They’ll make her out to be Mother Teresa.”

She did know, and ignored his complaint. “So Palmer’s got something on her that makes her jump when he gives the word. Why would he get involved? Why now? He doesn’t want Trassi and his two goons implicated, for openers. Is that enough to bring out a big gun like Marta?” She stopped, considering, then said, “Trassi could be making demands. Maybe he’s hanging on to the printouts until Palmer gets him out of this mess. He must think that Ray will take the plea bargain. They must believe they have an unimpeachable witness.” She looked at Frank and asked, “Is that how most lawyers would think at this point?”

“A plea bargain is a powerful inducement to deal,” Frank said after a moment. “Trassi knows that.” Slowly he went on. “Most attorneys who aren’t trial lawyers would say, ‘Take the deal.’ Many trial lawyers would say the same simply because there isn’t enough time to refute Marta’s statement, to discredit her. Stover was ready to deal even without her testimony. They could be counting on you to dig as much as you can in the time allotted, and then conclude that you can’t impeach her. And, Bobby, maybe you can’t. We know things from the old boys’ network, but they aren’t worth a tinker’s damn in court. If you can’t impeach her, can’t convince the jury that she’s lying, will she carry the burden of a conviction with her testimony? That’s the question. They must think the answer is yes, and that you will arrive at the same conclusion.”

At twelve Bailey and Barbara drove Shelley to the townhouse and he saw her safely inside; then he drove Barbara to her apartment and went up with her, ostensibly to have a word with Alan Macagno, but she knew it was to see her all the way in, not leave her at the outside door. Armed camps, she thought; Pete McClure had arrived at Frank’s house at eleven to spend the night in his living room.

John and Alan were watching a movie, which seemed to involve a lot of men on horses, a lot of dust, and a lot of shooting. A pizza tray was on the table.

John left Alan and Bailey and followed her into the other apartment. He didn’t get closer than arm’s length. “I put pizza in the fridge,” he said. “It needs a minute in the microwave.”

“Thanks. Maybe later.”

“Coffee’s in the carafe. Are your feet wet?”

She looked down, then nodded. “I’ll change. How about yours?”

“Okay. Well, back to justice, frontier-style. Don’t work too late.”

She watched him walk stiffly through her hall, through the landing, into his own hall, then vanish into the other living room, where the gunfire sounded like corn popping.

29

If Barbara had
kept a diary, what she would have written for Friday was:
Notified Judge and Roxbury, no deal. Rain.
For Saturday it would have been:
Reports, work. Rain.
Sunday:
Work. Rain.

What she would not have written was an account of the strange new behavior that had developed between her and John. Either they clung to each other like desperate teens or they were as distant as polite, well-mannered acquaintances. No middle ground. Ominously, neither of them had referred even once to his outburst of Thursday, or to the new schedule she had to observe, or to the trial in any way.

On Monday, Marta Delancey was sworn in and seated herself gracefully. She was tall with broad shoulders, very handsome in a salon-finish gloss from head to foot. Her hair was an indeterminate color between blond and brown, cut stylishly short, with a few wisps down on her forehead. Her jewelry was discreet—small pearl earrings, a pearl necklace against a pale blue silk blouse that was exactly the right color to go with her dark blue silk suit. Her blouse matched the blue of her eyes.

Roxbury led her through her past history, her marriage to Joel Chisolm, his untimely death, and her later marriage to the senator from California. He had her list the various committees on which she had served, those on which she was presently active. It was all very impressive. Her voice was pleasant, carrying without being strident or overly forceful as she answered his questions concisely.

Barbara could tell nothing about what the jury was thinking. The members were as unreadable as petroglyphs on granite walls.

“Mrs. Delancey,” Roxbury said, finally getting to the point, “are you acquainted with the defendant, Ray Arno?”

“Not really. I have seen him two times in my life.”

“Will you please tell the court the circumstances of the first occasion on which you saw him.”

“Yes. It was in the fall of 1978. My late husband and I were in Eugene visiting his mother. We were strolling, looking in windows, and noticed a new shop, The Sporting Chance. Joel, my late husband, said he would try to find a gift for his brother there. It was a fishing supply shop, and Joel knew nothing about fishing; therefore, he engaged the young man at the counter in a rather lengthy conversation. I knew even less about fishing than Joel did, and I was not interested in the conversation, but I found the proprietor very interesting. He said he had recently opened the shop and business was not very good, but he had great hopes for the future. He was very handsome and, frankly, I studied him quite a bit, enough to make him uncomfortable, I’m afraid. I realized I had embarrassed him, and stopped, of course. When we left the shop, I turned and wished him luck, and he said thank you. He was the defendant, Ray Arno.”

“Was he very different from the man you see today? Has he changed very much since then?”

“He’s hardly different at all. He might be a few pounds heavier, but he looks almost exactly the same as he did then.”

“Would you have been able to pick him out of a crowd?”

“Objection. Speculation,” Barbara said.

It was sustained, and Roxbury moved on. “Mrs. Delancey, please tell the court the circumstances of the second time you saw the defendant, Ray Arno.”

“That was last August. I had come to Eugene to visit my mother, who is quite ill and resides here in a nursing home. On the morning of August sixth, I decided to take a drive up in the mountains. I left early that morning, and I was on the McKenzie Highway, heading east, when I saw a car stopped on the bridge ahead. I slowed down, thinking the driver might need assistance. Then, just as I had driven onto the bridge, a man came from around the back of the car, carrying a large plastic bag that appeared to be heavy. He lifted it over the bridge railing and let it drop into the water, and then he looked in my direction, as if he had not previously heard my approach. He seemed startled, and for a second or two he didn’t move, just looked at me. I had drawn up almost even with him by then. Suddenly he hurried to the driver’s side of his car and got in and drove away fast, toward Eugene. I recognized him, although I didn’t know his name then. I don’t believe I had ever heard his name, but it was the same man I saw in the fishing shop, the defendant, Ray Arno.”

“Are you positive it was Ray Arno you saw on the morning of August sixth?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall what time that was?”

“About eight.”

“Do you recall what kind of car he was driving?”

“I don’t know makes and models, but it was a small gray car with a hatchback. I watched it out my rearview mirror as he drove away.”

She was a very good witness, Barbara had to admit silently; her answers were fluent and to all appearances unrehearsed. Roxbury asked what she had done after seeing Ray Arno, and she answered readily.

“I was troubled by what seemed to be illegal dumping, but I was here because my mother was having a crisis, and by the time I returned to visit her later that morning, I’m afraid I let the matter of Mr. Arno slip my mind. I was trying to decide if I should take my mother to California, where I could visit with her more often, weighing the pros and cons of moving her away from doctors and nurses she had grown fond of, a comfortable setting with other residents she had become friends with. It was a difficult decision, one that occupied my thoughts for the remainder of my visit. I forgot about Mr. Arno.”

“Did you read about the murder of Mitchell Arno?”

“Not at that time. I was gone before it was reported in the local newspapers, and I didn’t know anything about it.”

“And what made you come forward now?”

“I was visiting again last week. I try to get up here as often as possible. I came across an account of the murder; it was summarized when Ms. Holloway joined the defense case, and there was a picture of Ray Arno. I remembered seeing him on the bridge that day, and I knew I had to tell what I had seen.”