In Self Defense (28 page)

Clare sighed.  “I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame the police,” she said.  “You were all just trying to help.  How could any of you have known it was going to turn out so differently?”

***

Nina Jacobsen did indeed take the stand on Friday morning.

“This is all my fault, you know,” she told the jury.  “I’m the one who should be standing trial here.”

“What do you mean?” David asked.

“If it hadn’t been for me, the police wouldn’t have gotten involved, and Richard would still be alive,” she explained.  “Clare was right to be angry with me.”

“Angry about what?”

“Because I’m the one who called the police when the stalker wouldn’t stop harassing her.  I thought I was doing the right thing,.  I thought I was being so smart. Yeah, well, I was so smart, I’m the one who got Richard killed.”

“Why do you say that?  You didn’t shoot him.”

“I just as good as shot him,” Nina replied.  “Not only did I involve the police when I should have been minding my own business, I’m the one who told Clare she should protect herself -- I’m the one who told her to go learn how to shoot a gun.”

“She didn’t already know how?”

“No,” the witness declared, shaking her head.  “She had to have Richard show her how.”

“But the prosecutor seems to think Mrs. Durant knew she was shooting her husband that night.”

“Well, there’s just no accounting for what some people think,” Nina retorted.  “But I was there.  I saw how destroyed Clare was when she realized she’d shot Richard.  She was practically catatonic.”

“Did the Durants have a good marriage?” David asked.

Nina shrugged.  “Better than some, worse than others,” she replied.  “Richard was a cad who came from nothing and married his way into the big leagues, but Clare didn’t seem to care.  As far as she was concerned, he really did walk on water.”

“Yet we’ve heard testimony here that Richard Durant wanted a divorce.”

“Pooh,” Nina said.  “He may have found a squeeze he thought he wanted to hang onto for a while longer than the rest, but he knew which side of his bread was buttered -- whatever he told the socialite, he’d never have given up Nicolaidis Industries.  Not for anyone.  Clare knew that.”

“You were at the house the night Richard Durant died, weren’t you?”

“Yes, three doors down the hall.”

“Tell us what you did, what you saw, and what you heard.”

“I got to Clare’s place around four o’clock in the afternoon,” Nina said.  “It was the housekeeper’s day off, and I was there to try to keep Clare sane.”

“Sane?”

“The police had set up this big sting operation to catch their stalker, using Clare as bait.  She was a wreck.  We talked, we watched a couple of movies, we had dinner, and we split a bottle of wine.”

“A whole bottle?”

“Yes.  I admit it.  Our nerves were frazzled.  We both needed to relax.”

“Where were the children?”

“Clare would never have allowed them to come within a hair of harm, at least, not knowingly,” Nina declared.  “She’d arranged for her sister-in-law to take them while Richard was away and the police were staging their stake-out.  They were in Ravenna.”

“All right, after the movie and the dinner and the wine, what did you do?”

“We went to bed.  And that’s where else I failed.  I was going to stay up all night, and stand guard, so to speak, but I fell asleep.  I guess the wine worked.”

“What’s the next thing you remember?”

“Hearing the shots.”

“The shots woke you up?”

“Yes,” Nina confirmed.  “I didn’t know what was going on.  For a few seconds, I didn’t even know where I was.  And then I remembered, and I jumped out of bed and got to the door, just as the police came running up the stairs.”

“What else?”

“The scream -- I heard the scream,” the witness recounted.  “It almost wasn’t human, you know.  It was more like the wail of some wounded animal.”  Nina shuddered.  “I’ll remember that sound as long as I live.”

“And Mrs. Durant?  You said something earlier about her being almost catatonic?”

The witness nodded.  “I don’t think she knew she was making that sound.  I don’t think she even knew where she was or what had happened.  After the police came in and took the gun away from her, they were focused on Richard.  Clare just sort of collapsed on the floor and then she sort of crawled into a corner, out of the way, and just stayed there.  She was there the rest of the night.  She wouldn’t -- or couldn’t -- move.  I got a robe over her, but that was the best I could do.  The doctor came, and he gave her a sedative, but that didn’t do any good, either.  She was beyond sedating.”

“What did the police do?”

“Detective Hall was the last to leave.  She was trying to talk to Clare, but I could see Clare wasn’t responding.  She just huddled in that corner, shivering, staring at Richard’s body, and then, after the police took him away, she kept staring at the place where his body had been, with this sort of glassy-eyed look, and all the time, she kept making that hideous sound.  It was awful.  It was worse than awful.  I hope I never have to witness such a thing again.”

***

“Ms. Jacobsen, are you a trained psychiatrist?” Mark Sundstrom inquired on cross.

“No, I’m a book editor,” Nina replied.

“Then I take it we should chalk your analysis of the defendant on the night of the murder up to your fictional expertise?”

“I know what I saw,” Nina said.

“Yes, of course,” the prosecutor said dismissively.  “Now, have you any first-hand knowledge that Richard Durant had abandoned his quest for a divorce?”

“First-hand?  No.  I know only what Clare told me.”

“Which was?”

“Which was that Richard would never leave her if it meant leaving Nicolaidis Industries.”

“And Mrs. Durant was all right with that?” Sundstrom asked, his tone incredulous.  “She was all right with knowing that the only reason her husband would stay married to her was to keep his job?”

“Clare is a very practical woman,” Nina replied.

“Practical enough to know that a grieving widow plays a lot better than a discarded wife?”

“Objection!” David cried.

“Withdrawn,” Sundstrom said lightly.  “Nothing further.”

***

And then it was the weekend again, and Clare had two whole days she could spend without having to step foot out of her house or off her property.  Of course, that didn’t stop the paparazzi from climbing the fences and trampling the shrubbery and tying motorboats up to the dock in hopes of getting a shot at an unguarded moment.  But they went away empty-handed, literally, having left their garbage behind, strewn all over the lawns and flowerbeds.

              “Who do I send the bill to,” Clare said in disgust, looking out an upstairs window at her gardeners cleaning up the mess.

“Whoever you can hold responsible for the death of chivalry in this country,” Doreen suggested.

***

Soon enough, it was Monday morning, and the end of the third week of trial.

“Defense calls Clare Durant,” David said.

The buzz in the courtroom was audible. While everyone in a trial wanted to hear from the defendant, and while David had as good as promised in his opening statement that she would testify, no one had believed it would actually happen -- until it happened.

Dressed in a tailored blue gabardine suit that would never be mistaken for a Givenchy, Clare got up from her seat at the defense table and walked slowly to the witness box.  She gave her name, in a clear if tremulous voice, swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, and took the stand.

              David wasted no time getting right to the heart of the matter.  “On the night your husband died,” he asked, “who did you think you were shooting at?”

“I thought I was shooting at someone who was trying to kill me,” Clare replied.

“You mean -- the stalker?”

“The police had led me to believe that there was a serial stalker who would be coming after me.”

“Did you speak to your husband that day?’

“Yes, I did.”

“Did he tell you he was coming home a day early from his business trip?”

“No, he did not.”

“Did you know, for certain, before you pulled the trigger, that you were not shooting at a stalker that night in your bedroom, but at your husband?” David inquired.

“No, I did not.”

“In that case, I have nothing further,” David said and took his seat.

***

“So,” Mark Sundstrom began, “you thought you were shooting at someone who was trying to kill you -- is that what you said?”

“Yes, I believe that’s what I said,” Clare responded.

“Not someone who was trying to divorce you -- but someone who was trying to kill you?”

“Yes.”

“Your houseguest could have walked into your bedroom that night,” the prosecutor suggested.  “If she had, would you have thought she was trying to kill you?”

“Certainly not.” Clare said.  “I think I would have been able to tell the difference between a man and a woman.  Besides, Nina would have knocked first.”

“So, you could see enough to know whether it was a man or a woman coming into the room, but not enough to know whether the man resembled your husband or not?”

Clare opened her mouth to respond and then changed her mind about what she wanted to say.  She glanced over at David, who nodded imperceptibly, and then she took a deep breath and turned back to the prosecutor.

“All I can tell you is that whatever man was going to walk into the bedroom unannounced that night was someone who wanted to kill me,” she said, choosing her words very carefully.

Sundstrom frowned.  “Wait a minute -- did I just hear you right?” he inquired.  “Did I just hear you say that whatever man walked into your bedroom wanted to kill you?”

Clare let out a deep breath.  “Yes, that’s exactly what I said”

“But it was your husband who walked into the bedroom, Mrs. Durant,” the prosecutor reminded her.

“Yes,” she said calmly.  “As it happens, it was.”

Sundstrom almost laughed out loud.  “So now you’re telling this jury that your husband wanted to kill you?”

“I don’t know why that should come as such a big surprise,” Clare said, her tone dispassionate.  “He’d already tried and failed three times.  I’m afraid I was unwilling to take the chance that he would succeed the fourth time.”

Everyone was stunned.  Richard Durant’s family was shocked. Several spectators actually cried out.  Eager reporters dashed out.  Even the jurors couldn’t keep themselves from gasping.  Judge Lazarus banged her gavel.

And Erin Hall sat in her seat with a smile of admiration on her face, because now, of course, it all made sense.

Mark Sundstrom, on the other hand, was apoplectic.  “And just why do you think your husband was trying to kill you?” he demanded to know as soon as he could be heard.

“I think you’ve already made the reason painfully clear in this courtroom, don’t you?” Clare suggested.

“What reason?”

“Apparently, my husband decided that he had at last met the woman of his dreams, and while taking up residence with her might have been worth giving up his marriage, it wasn’t worth giving up his position at Nicolaidis Industries.  I believe, once Richard realized what a divorce would really cost him, he figured out there was perhaps a better way he could go.”

“And that way was to kill you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Clare said.  “After all, a grieving widower plays a lot better than a cuckolded husband, doesn’t he?”

An excited murmur began to ripple across the courtroom, and Sundstrom felt a hollow clunk in the pit of his stomach.  He had been out-maneuvered and he knew it.  Damn it, the whole courtroom knew it.  Whether by the defendant or her attorney didn’t matter right now.  What mattered was how -- and if -- he was going to be able to find a way to fix it.

“Your Honor, in order to properly assess these startling new allegations,” he said with what he hoped would be construed as a hint of disdain in his voice, “the people request a brief recess.”

“Yes, I thought you might,” Judge Naomi Lazarus replied mildly.  She glanced up at the clock that hangs above the jury box.  It read just after three.  She looked over at David.

“Defense has no objection,” the defense attorney said with a casual shrug.

“In that case, court will be adjourned until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock,” she declared and then she turned to the jury to give the usual admonitions.

But they could hardly hear a word she was saying.  The murmur had exploded into mayhem.

***

“They played me like a fucking violin,” Sundstrom fumed the moment he gained the sanctity of his office.  “They set the trap and I walked right into it like a goddamned first-year law student!”

“Feel sorry for yourself some other time,” Tom Colby suggested.  “Right now, you have to figure a way out of this.”