Desperate Measures (49 page)

“It is not the court's duty to assess the mental state of witnesses prior to their testimony,” Novak shot back at her.

Very softly the judge said, “Enough, both of you. I remind you, Mr. Novak; I know what the duty of the court is. Thank you. If Rachel Marchand is well enough to testify tomorrow, will the state rest its case?”

Novak hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Yes. I haven't heard anything to make me change my mind about what happened.”

“Ms. Holloway, do you intend to ask for a dismissal of charges without prejudice in that event?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Do you intend to cross-examine Rachel Marchand?”

“No. I'll ask that she be recalled as a hostile defense witness.”

He nodded. “Very well. At this time this meeting is over. I charge you to remain silent concerning what has been said here, and we will resume in the morning at nine.” He had a final word for Novak, however. “I order you not to try to question the girl before her appearance in court. You have her statement, now leave her alone.”

That evening in Frank's house Barbara told the group what had happened, what she had said. “So we play it out for another day,” she concluded. “I doubt that he'll rule on the motion to dismiss immediately, but he might. He could simply say no, and tell me to get on with the defense case. And I have to be prepared to do that.”

“But you won't question Rachel tomorrow?” Dr. Minick asked.

“No. If we have to defend, I'll question her later.”

“That's what's bothering my folks,” Alex said. “She thinks you should be tearing the witnesses limb from limb, and I believe Courtney Innes agrees. He said you've missed several opportunities to discredit witnesses. He's willing to come in and take over, and let you assist, however.”

Stiffly Barbara said, “It's your trial, Alex. You call the shots here. Not your mother or father, and not Courtney Innes.”

“I did that months ago,” Alex said. “If you want to call in that big Texan, your onetime cousin, to come shoot his eyelashes off, I won't tell a soul.”

“That's a thought,” she said. “But what I really want is a glass of wine, then back to the office and get my ducks lined up in case the defense opens tomorrow.”

She realized with her words that this was a defense she did not want to start; she did not want to subject Daniel to tough questions, and she did not want the blood of Rachel Marchand on her hands. What she would like to do, given the chance, was shoot Gus Marchand through the heart.

41

When the letters
on the paper Barbara was reading started to dance and even leap up into the air, she knew it was time to go home and sleep. But, she told herself wearily when she turned off the lights and walked out, she was ready for whatever happened the following day. Start her defense, make her opening statement formally, or take the afternoon off, maybe attend the rain dance planned for the Eugene mall on Friday evening.

No rain for sixty-nine days, the air heavy with forest-fire smoke, an inversion that made allergy sufferers head for the coast and had closed a few businesses, no timber operations allowed, no camping or even hiking in the forests…. Time for a rain dance.

So many pollen and dust masks were being worn day and night that Eugene looked like a town of apprentice bank robbers. And everything was permeated with woodsmoke; furniture, carpets, clothes. She fantasized about a cool, cleansing rain, about opening her apartment windows to let a cool, refreshing wind sweep through.

That night she woke with a start and realized she had been dreaming Alex's dream in which he had been rolled like a log and set ablaze. Her apartment smelled like woods on fire.

In court the following morning, there was not a sign that Judge Mac was going to refer in any way to the previous day's meeting. He nodded to Novak to call his first witness, and they began.

Although Rachel Marchand was thin and pale and looked ill, she was still a lovely girl. Today she appeared to be tranked to her eyes, Barbara decided, watching her walk to the witness stand and take her place. She was wearing a very simple blue dress, ankle socks and low shoes, and not a trace of makeup. Her long black hair was pulled up in a ponytail tied with a blue ribbon. Once seated, she kept her gaze lowered and did not move.

Novak led her through a few preliminary questions, then said, “Ms. Marchand, will you tell the court in your own words what happened on Opal Creek Road as you walked home from school?”

When she spoke, her voice had the quality of one who has memorized a lesson and can recite it flawlessly without a hint of understanding.

“I was walking and I heard a noise and I thought it was a deer. I looked and saw a man. I ran, and he moved behind the trees and kept even with me until I was in my driveway.”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“Yes.”

“Is that man in court?”

“Yes. It was him.”

“Please point to that man, Ms. Marchand.”

She barely raised her head and with a quick motion pointed to Alex. Her glance was so swift, it was hard to believe anything had time to register.

“Is the defendant the man you saw?”

She nodded, then said, “Yes.”

“Did the same thing happen again?”

“Yes. A lot of times.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

“No. Not right away.”

“Why not, Ms. Marchand?”

“I was afraid there would be trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I was afraid he'd get mad and do something.”

“Who would get mad? Your father?”

“No. Him. I didn't want to make him mad.”

“Who, Ms. Marchand? You have to tell the court who you were afraid of.”

“Him. The freak. The man over there,” she said, glancing again toward Alex.

“Do you mean the defendant, Alexander Feldman?”

“Yes.”

“How did your father find out about the incidents?”

“I told him.”

“When did the incidents start, Ms. Marchand?”

“I don't know. Last year sometime.”

“And when did you tell your parents?”

“I don't know. School was almost out.”

It was eerie to hear her unvarying monotone; her stillness was even eerier. She hardly moved a muscle.

“June? Was it in June?” Novak asked.

“Maybe. I don't know.”

“What was your father's reaction? What did he do when you told him?”

“He was sad, and we went to the living room and prayed. He told me not to worry because he would take care of me. And he met me on the road every day after that and walked partway with me.”

“Did you see Mr. Feldman behind the trees again after your father started meeting you on the road?”

“No.”

Novak had a few more questions, but nothing was added to her story. He turned to Barbara. “Your witness.”

“I have no questions for Ms. Marchand at this time,” Barbara said. “I ask the court to advise the witness that I'll recall her as a hostile witness when the defense presents its case.”

Judge Mac nodded and instructed Rachel to hold herself in readiness to be recalled at a future time. “Do you understand, Miss Rachel?” he asked kindly.

“Yes.”

“Please look at me, Miss Rachel,” he said then. Barbara had only vague memories of her own grandparents, but she was reminded of her grandfather. He had sounded just like that.

Rachel lifted her head and turned to face the judge. She looked more dead than alive, with no expression at all. Empty eyes, Dr. Minick had called that look. She looked empty.

For a moment the judge regarded her soberly, then he asked in a gentle voice, “Miss Rachel, when you told your father you had seen someone in the woods, who did you say it was?”

“Him,” she said, without shifting her gaze.

“Did you name him that day?”

“No. I didn't know his name.”

“What did you call him?”

“The devil freak.”

“Have you ever spoken to Alexander Feldman?”

“No.”

“Has he ever spoken to you?”

“No.”

“You may step down now. You are excused.”

There was not a sound in the courtroom as she stood up and in her sleepwalker manner left the stand and started for the rear of the room. Her aunt met her and took her by the arm, and they walked from the courtroom with Daniel Marchand close behind them.

Then the judge turned to Novak. “Counselor?”

“At this time the state rests, Your Honor.”

“Ms. Holloway?”

“Defense moves that the case against Mr. Feldman be dropped and the charges dismissed without prejudice.”

He tapped his gavel lightly on the bench. “The court will be in recess until Monday morning at nine. At that time the court will announce its decision about dismissal of the charges.”

This time when the judge left the room, it erupted into more than just a buzz of talk. A reporter pushed his way through to Barbara's table, tape recorder in his hand, and two other media types hurried out. They would make the noon news with this development.

“What's the significance of the judge not deciding immediately, Ms. Holloway?”

“No comment,” she said with a slight shrug. “You know as much as I do.”

“Is the girl in the care of a doctor? Is she under guard?”

Barbara shuffled papers and turned her back on the reporter.

“Why didn't you ask her anything?”

A bailiff came and told the reporter to beat it. Barbara could hear Dolly's voice: “That girl was drugged out of her skull. Or hypnotized. Or both.”

“Let's get the hell out of here,” Will said at her side. “Is Bailey on the way?”

“He'll be here by the time we get out,” Frank said.

There was not a big crowd in the corridor, but the reporters were persistent, sensing a story in the fact that Barbara had not cross-examined the star witness.

Courtney Innes pressed forward, and held out his hand to Barbara. She did not shift her briefcase and purse to shake his hand. “I have a plane to catch,” he said smoothly. ‘'I'll be back when it's time to appeal. I imagine we'll be working together then. I look forward to it.” He bowed, smiling, and turned to leave.

First, no doubt, he would find time to hobnob with television and newsprint reporters, she thought.

In the van, with Bailey at the wheel, Barbara asked Shelley if she wanted to go to the rain dance. “We can get something to eat first, and then help bring clouds and rain.”

“Me, too,” Will said. “I'll bring my trumpet.”

“You play the trumpet?” Barbara asked suspiciously.

“Me and Al Hirt used to be like that,” he said, holding up the right fingers in the right configuration.

“Tomorrow Dolly and Arnold are coming out to the house for dinner,” Dr. Minick said. “Shelley, they asked me to invite you. I believe Arnold has learned that your father is the boatbuilding McGinnis.”

“Well, he's out of luck,” she said sharply. “I don't know a thing about boats or how much money he makes.”

“But you know him,” Alex said. “That counts. Come on out. We'll play tic-tac-toe or something while the grown-ups talk about weighty matters.”

“And I have work to catch up on,” Will said, as if forestalling any possible invitation to join the dinner party.

“Tell me about it,” Barbara said with a groan.

They separated at Frank's house, taking the various cars and the van away, leaving her with her father and Bailey.

“Got a minute?” she asked. “You, too, Bailey.”

Then, inside the house, at the dinette table she said, “I have a very uneasy feeling about Alex, about his safety. I was going through papers last night, sorting hate mail, stuff like that, and some of it's vicious. Depending on the newscast, what they make of the judge not deciding immediately about dismissing the charges, I'm afraid some of those nuts might try to get at Alex. Especially if they think he might get off on a technicality.”

Frank recalled the conversation he had overheard at The Station many months earlier, when one of the men present had said if Alex so much as looked at his sister, he'd kill the son of a bitch. “It's going to be a long weekend,” he said. “It will take two people.”

“Alan and Cousin Herbert,” Bailey said promptly. “He's doing a little job in Salem, but I can have him down here in the morning, and Alan can take it tonight.”

Frank, thinking of his vegetable garden, which had gone unharvested during the past week, decided to pick a few things and take a run out to Opal Creek, make like a grocery deliveryman. “I'll wait for Alan out there,” he said.

When the noon news came on, Barbara, Shelley, and Maria watched in Barbara's office. “Goddamn it,” she said fervently. The talking heads were going on about the possibility of Holloway's pulling a technicality, getting Alexander Feldman off through a loophole. “She's wily,” one of them said, “and it looks as if the judge is considering dismissing the charges….”

“All we needed,” Barbara muttered, turning the television off when the newsreader went on to the latest happening at the campus. Shelley looked terrified, and Barbara added, “Don't worry. We're sending Alan and Herbert out to keep the barbarians on their side of the gate.”

Eugene liked parties. There was the annual First Night New Year's Eve celebration downtown, the annual Eugene Celebration bash, an annual bed race, a march or demonstration or bike race or butte-to-butte run, or something every other weekend, it seemed. And now there was a rain dance. Impromptu, unplanned as of a week earlier, it brought in thousands of people ready to party, chant, beat drums, sample vendors' wares, listen to bands hastily assembled, and dance.

The first rain dance was on the mall proper, hordes of people stamping, sweating, and dancing to the beat of drums. After that Will started to play the trumpet, “When the Saints Go Marching In.'' He marched, and drummers fell in behind him; Shelley had acquired bongos, and Barbara had a garbage can lid and stick; there was a saxophone and a clarinet…. They marched and sang, and then they danced some more. It was a Eugene party, a happening. Tree huggers, anarchists, Take Back the Night women, students, gay pride members, a Scout troop, jugglers, the Slug Queen, Gray Panthers, the balloon man—a Eugene party.