Flat Lake in Winter (12 page)

“You can tell me if you wrote a will for a man named Carter Hamilton.” Gunn figured he’d keep things simple, talk about one will first.

“I most certainly did,” Maple beamed.

“I was wondering if I could get a look at it,” Gunn said.

“‘Fraid not.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re too late, sonny.”

“Excuse me?”

“Already turned it over to the DA,” Maple explained. “Fella from his office showed up middle of last week, with a subpoena
duces tecum.
And he
tecumed
it, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you keep a copy?” Gunn looked around hopefully, but there was no sign of a copy machine. The most modern piece of machinery in sight was a portable manual Smith-Corona typewriter, circa 1935.

“Nope. Don’t need one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Two reasons,” said Maple, tapping one finger against the side of his head. “First off, I got it all in here.”

“Okay,” said Gunn, who was willing to play. “What’s it say?”

“In the event Carter and his wife died together, everything goes to the boy, Jonathan. That’s your client, right?”

“Right.”

“Lucky fella.”

“Well-”

“‘Course, I wrote the bank in as trustee and all that,” Maple said, “seeing as the boy’s a bit on the slow side, if you catch my drift.”

“And if the estate couldn’t go to Jonathan?” asked Gunn, who remembered reading somewhere about a law that barred convicted murderers from inheriting anything from the victims of their crimes.

“Normal stuff.” Maple shrugged. “Estate would go to any great-grandchildren living at the time of the testators’ deaths, on a per capita basis. Seeing as there aren’t any, then I s’pose we’ll have to look a little further. I seem to remember the boy’s got an uncle off somewhere or other. Austria, maybe?”

“I see,” said Gunn. “You said something about a second reason you didn’t make a copy of the will.”

“Yup,” said Maple.

“What was that?”

“I wrote Carter and Mary Alice joint and mutual wills. So hers is the same as his, ‘cept for the signatures.”

Gunn had never heard of joint and mutual wills, which had gone out of vogue some forty years earlier, primarily because they tended to afford insufficient protection in the event of joint and mutual deaths. But he knew enough to frame the next question. “Think I could have hers?” he asked.

“Don’t see why not,” Maple said, “‘long as you get it back to me, so’s I can file it for probate.”

Gunn gladly traded his promise for Mary Alice Hamilton’s will. But his victory had been a Pyrrhic one: Like every other piece of evidence in the case, it led directly and inexorably to Jonathan. Worse yet, it was, for all practical purposes, already in the hands of the enemy.

Matt Fielder had his will, all right.

But Gil Cavanaugh had his motive.

ON THE WAY from state police headquarters to the offices of Miller and Munson, Fielder found himself whistling, checking his appearance in his rearview mirror, and smoothing down his hair, which had become windblown and disheveled from the drive. But it wasn’t until he caught himself stroking his chin to feel how closely he’d shaved, that he finally realized precisely who and what all these little mannerisms were about. Who they were about, of course, was Hillary Munson. What they were about, came down to a single word.

Horny.

As much as Fielder hated to admit it, his solitary life in the woods didn’t fulfill quite all of his needs. He would deny the point adamantly, insisting that he was every bit as content to be away from civilization as Thoreau ever had been. But at moments like this, he knew better.

He tried to focus by asking himself what he knew about Hillary. That she was cute and petite, smart as a whip, and full of life? Fine for starters. What he didn’t know was whether she had a boyfriend, or even a husband. After all, he hadn’t seen her in nearly two years. The way things worked these days, a cute young thing like her wouldn’t stay single on the open market for two months. She could have kids by now. She could be nine months pregnant! He told himself to calm down and think logically.

But horniness can be a funny thing, and it is seldom, if ever, affected by logic. As he drove through the streets of Albany that afternoon, trying in vain to think pure thoughts and concentrate on the business at hand, Matt Fielder was already busy scheming.

Much has been written on the subject of just what it is that makes a person an effective lawyer and, in particular, an effective litigator. Contrary to popular perception, it is not merely a gift for oratory that is required. The fact is that, statistically speaking, precious few cases ever go to trial; the overwhelming majority test skills quite different from those ultimately needed in front of a jury. An analytical mind, a talent for organizing, and a willingness to put in long hours of preparation - all of these attributes are certainly important. But perhaps the most essential ingredient of all is one that carries a slightly derogatory label. “Show me an effective lawyer,” someone once said, “and I’ll show you a master manipulator.” Lawyers manipulate. They manipulate not only junors, but judges, witnesses, other lawyers, court personnel, probation officers, parole boards, their own clients . . .
everyone.
A “
master manipulator”
is one whose victims aren’t even aware they’re being manipulated. A “
grand master
” takes it one step further: His victims praise him specifically for being so
straightforward
and unmanipulative
.

None of this thought process went through Matt Fielder’s conscious mind, naturally, during his drive to meet Hillary Munson. What did occur to him was that it would be a smart thing to skip lunch. Right off, he’d have nothing to fear from embarrassing tuna breath or dreaded lettuce-stuck-between-the-teeth syndrome. What’s more, he’d be able to tell Hillary that he hadn’t had a chance to eat all day, and inquire if perhaps she might know of a quiet place where they could adjourn for a bite of dinner, while, of course, continuing to talk strategy.

Unless, that is, she was nine months pregnant.

AROUND 3:40 that afternoon, some ancient circadian rhythm deep inside Pearson Gunn’s body told him it was time to head over to the Dew Drop and check in with Pete. It has been Gunn’s general experience that bartenders can supply late-breaking stories, tips, gossip, rumors, local color, and important background information. Failing all that, they can at very least supply cold mugs of Adirondack Amber Ale.

Twenty minutes later, the bear-bells above the door of the Dew Drop jangled twice, and Gunn walked in. Pete reflexively glanced up at his clock and noticed that it was running a minute slow.

HILLARY MUNSON DEFINITELY was not nine months pregnant. To Matt Fielder, she looked better than ever. What’s more, she seemed genuinely happy to see him, and if her greeting hug struck him as being a bit on the sisterly side, he figured he had all evening to work on that. Besides which, they weren’t exactly alone. There was a secretary working at a computer station ten feet away, and a third woman, an attractive blonde, not much taller than Hillary.

“Matt Fielder” - Hillary did the honors - “this is my partner, Lois Miller.”

They exchanged handshakes. Lois’s was pleasantly firm.

“Looks like you guys have a live one here,” she said.

“So far,” Fielder said, hoping to amuse them with his clever gallows humor.

He followed Hillary to a back office, where they proceeded to spend the next two hours working on the task of trying to save Jonathan Hamilton’s life. Specifically, they outlined the written presentation Fielder would submit to Gil Cavanaugh, in which he’d set forth what he believed to be the case for mitigation - the various reasons why the prosecution should decide against seeking the death penalty for this particular defendant.

Never mind that they both knew it was an all-but-foregone conclusion that their plea would fall on deaf ears; they knew they couldn’t let that knowledge deter them from their work. What they did have to be careful about was tipping their hand too much. First they had to guard against implicitly conceding that Jonathan had in fact committed the crimes. That called for a liberal dose of such phrases as “alleged,” “purported,” and “assuming
arguendo.
” Second, they had to steer clear altogether from subjects like
motive, intent, and remorse - areas which lay too close to the border of factual guilt. This left them with Jonathan himself: who he was, what was redeeming or sympathetic about him, and why a person like him simply was not an appropriate candidate for the state to kill.

At the top of their list was Jonathan’s limited level of intellectual functioning. They needed to talk about it - indeed, they realized it was their very strongest argument - but at the same time they wanted to avoid making an outright claim at this stage that Jonathan was “mentally retarded” in the eyes of the law. Such a claim, made in writing, would rise to the level of an outright defense, and might prompt Cavanaugh to invoke his right to have his own mental-health experts examine Jonathan, so that the DA might test - and ultimately refute - the claim. That opportunity was the last thing the defense wanted to give him. Long before acceding to it, they wanted to find what examinations of Jonathan had been made in the past, and precisely what the results had been. If previous findings conclusively showed retardation, the defense might very well want to rely on them, much the way a blackjack player sticks with a hand of seventeen or eighteen showing. Even if the earlier exams proved to have been more equivocal, suggesting that a new series ought to be conducted, the defense wanted to have their own experts do the testing, rather than leave it to some Dr. Death selected from Cavanaugh’s Rolodex.

And again, there was the problem of the origin of Jonathan’s possible retardation. If it predated his carbon monoxide poisoning during the fire, all was well and good. But if it didn’t, the defense was going to find itself up against the rule that, in order to exempt him from death, Jonathan’s retardation must have manifested itself before he turned eighteen.

As a result, in describing Jonathan’s mental capacity, they restricted themselves to words like “slow,” “compromised,” “limited,” and “restricted.” They spoke of low reading levels, poor learning skills, and minor behavioral problems, of concrete ideation and difficulty in adjustment. But never did they come right out and state what they would have loved to and what Matt Fielder knew he’d probably end up having to argue to a jury at the eleventh hour, at a point where they’d already convicted Jonathan, and when their only remaining decision was whether he lived out his life in prison, or went to his death. “You can’t kill this kid, because he’s retarded.”

Next Hillary and Fielder turned to other areas of mitigation. The tragic deaths of Jonathan’s parents were high on their list, coming as they had when Jonathan was only eighteen. So, too, was the fact that, with his grandparents now dead, Jonathan was left with no family whatever. But the irony here wasn’t lost on Fielder: The claim they were making was dangerously close to the joke about the child who murders his parents and then asks for leniency because he’s an orphan.

Jonathan’s lack of any prior record or history of violence was certainly worthy of mention, particularly when weighed against the lengthy and violent records of most death-row inmates. Similarly, Jonathan’s behavior in the hours following the crimes was noteworthy: Even assuming that he’d committed the crimes, he’d made no attempt to flee, and had barely tried to hide what appeared to be the weapon. Then he himself had called the authorities and waited there until someone arrived. Hardly the acts one might expect from a vicious killer.

The list went on. By the end of two hours, they had compiled an outline of some dozen mitigators, each carefully phrased so as to avoid giving the prosecution more ammunition than it already had, or provoking Cavanaugh to react with any increased zeal. The whole time, Fielder never once let his thoughts stray from the business at hand, with the possible exception of noting at one point that Hillary Munson wore no ring on the fourth finger of her left hand, and a little later deciding that whatever perfume she was wearing reminded him of jasmine. Up near Big Moose, the only women he’d run into smelled of sawdust and chain oil.

“I’ve got a splitting headache,” Fielder finally said, only slightly exaggerating. “Do you have any aspirin?”

“I think I may have some Midol,” Hillary offered, reaching for her handbag and beginning to rummage around in it.

“I don’t have cramps, or my period, or anything like that,” Fielder told her. “I just want some aspirin,” he said. “Good, old-fashioned aspirin.”

“On second thought,” Hillary said, “maybe we’ve got something around here for grumpiness.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

She raised an eyebrow. For some reason, Fielder found the act highly seductive. If his headache complaint had been genuine, and not simply step one of his Master Plan (and to this day Fielder insists with a straight face that it was the former), then the sight of Hillary’s one raised eyebrow brought about an immediate shift of gears, no less so than had it been a skirt or a blouse that she’d raised instead.

The Plan, of course, called for Fielder to somehow segue gracefully and unobtrusively to the topic of dinner. The headache certainly provided him an ideal jumping-off spot. The cause of the headache was the fact that he hadn’t eaten a thing all day; the remedy was all too obvious.

The problem was Hillary’s raised eyebrow. It had the immediate effect of shattering Fielder’s concentration.

Looking back at what happened next, it is reasonable to accept Fielder’s claim that what he meant to do was to repeat “I’m not grumpy,” followed by the words “I’m just hungry.” From there, dinner would be a done deal.

Instead, the words that actually came out of Fielder’s mouth were, “I’m not grumpy, I’m just horny.”

PEARSON GUNN SAT the bar for a while, catching up on local news with Pete, and gradually lowering the level of Adirondack Amber in his pitcher. But the bar stools at the Dew Drop were too small - or Gunn’s butt was too big - for true comfort, and eventually he repaired to one of the tables, somehow managing to make it in one trip - pitcher, glass, briefcase, hat, and all.