Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (28 page)

“I want you to understand, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mackin said, “that this turn of events is somewhat unusual in a murder case. Then again, it’s been an unusual case from the beginning, so I’m willing to hear what you have to say. It’s evident to me that you’ve devoted considerable time and effort attempting to get at the truth. That’s what this courtroom is all about—getting at the truth. I’m also aware after having lived in Cabot Cove for many years that your reputation as not only a best-selling author, but as an investigator without credentials, precedes you. The floor is yours.”

“Your Honor, before Mrs. Fletcher starts,” O’Connor said, “I’d like to make it clear that the Wolcott children are not to be included in any of these proceedings. They were questioned at length immediately following the murder and had nothing to offer in the way of evidence. Ms. Cirilli and I agreed not to call them as witnesses, and that is still the case.”

“I’m aware of that agreement between you and Ms. Cirilli,” Judge Mackin said, “but considering these new circumstances, I might want to negate it. Is the defendant’s brother present outside?”

“No, sir,” O’Connor said.

“Issue a bench warrant for his arrest,” Mackin ordered his clerk. He then asked O’Connor whether the Wolcott children were on hand.

“Yes, sir,” O’Connor answered. “They’re with their grandmother. The defendant is present also. She’s with my associate, Ms. Bacon.”

“Fair enough,” Mackin said. “Go ahead, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I pulled notes from my purse. “I first became involved when Mrs. Wolcott visited the women’s shelter office seeking refuge from her abusive husband. I was there as an unpaid volunteer. A few days later, Mrs. Wolcott’s husband was shot dead in front of his house, and the focus of suspicion naturally fell on his wife. She proclaimed her innocence for days following Mr. Wolcott’s murder until, for no apparent and logical reason, she changed her story and declared that she had, indeed, killed her husband.

“Of course, it was possible that she had pulled the trigger. But somehow I couldn’t square that with my instincts. I set off on the theory that someone who’d suffered financial loss at the hands of Mr. Wolcott was the real killer, and I worked with the private investigator who was here yesterday to prove that thesis. I was wrong. Once Mr. McGraw learned that the defendant’s brother had taken the murder weapon from the scene and discarded it in a body of water near where he and his wife live, it became obvious to me that the weapon had indeed been fired by someone in the Wolcott household.”

“There you have it, Your Honor,” O’Connor said. “She’s admitting that my client killed Josh Wolcott.”

“I’m admitting nothing of the kind,” I said.

“I’m going to object again at allowing Mrs. Fletcher to, in effect, testify here in chambers without the benefit of a formal legal setting,” O’Connor said sternly.

“Would it be more amenable to you, Mr. O’Connor, if I swear her in?”

“You can do that?” I asked.

Mackin smiled. “I can do anything I wish,” he said. “This is, after all, my chambers and my courtroom.” He reached into a desk drawer, brought out a Bible, and extended it to me. “Place your right hand on it,” he said, which I did, and he administered the standard oath all witnesses in a courtroom are obligated to take.

“Done,” the judge said. “You’re sworn in, Mrs. Fletcher. Proceed with your statement.”

Did I detect the hint of a smile on his craggy face?

I continued. “Mrs. Wolcott’s sudden and unexplainable switch from pleading innocent to pleading guilty to the shooting raised a red flag with me. That was reinforced as a result of confrontations I had with the defendant’s mother, Mrs. Warren Caldwell, who I believe had choreographed this change in plea in order to protect someone else in the family.

“Who could that be? I wondered. Was Myriam protecting her brother, or perhaps her sister-in-law? They were there the night of the murder, although they supposedly responded to her call
after
Mr. Wolcott was shot. Was that true, or had they arrived earlier?”

O’Connor loudly guffawed. “This sounds as though Mrs. Fletcher is writing one of her murder mystery novels,” he said scornfully.

Judge Mackin gave O’Connor a withering look.

I pressed on. “The defendant’s brother certainly had a motive to kill Josh Wolcott,” I said. “He had been the victim of his brother-in-law’s financial shenanigans, along with others. But it didn’t make sense to me that Myriam would plead guilty to a crime she hadn’t committed to save
him
.”

I paused. No one said anything, so I added, “Much as I regret to say this, that left two other possibilities—the Wolcott children.”

“I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” O’Connor said.

“Calm down, Mr. O’Connor,” Mackin said. “You know, I knew your father. He was a fine lawyer and a true gentleman, and I never had to admonish him in court. I suggest that you keep his demeanor in mind.”

“My father was . . .”

Mackin directed his next words to me. “So you suspect that Mrs. Wolcott might be trying to protect her children.”

I thought before making a definitive statement. “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Mackin said.

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “But let me explain further. Myriam Wolcott participated in an online forum for abused women. The police discovered that a message from another participant on that forum had come from a neighbor’s house. I believe if you press him that Mrs. Wolcott’s sixteen-year-old son, Mark, will tell you that he was the source of the angry messages to his mother in which he suggested that she kill her abusive husband.”

Mackin looked to Ms. Cirilli for a response.

“The sheriff made me aware of that possibility, Your Honor,” she said, “but it was never substantiated.”

“And it still is unsubstantiated,” I said quickly, “but maybe it can be substantiated by speaking with Mark Wolcott.”

Judge Mackin pondered my request. Finally he said, “Of course, the young man has no legal obligation to discuss this with me, but there’s nothing to lose by trying.”

“Your Honor!” O’Connor said.

Mackin ignored him and asked Gary Lauder to bring Mark Wolcott to chambers.

O’Connor stood and followed the clerk out of the judge’s chambers and into the courtroom. It was only a minute or two later that he returned with Mark, his sister, Ruth, and Mrs. Caldwell.

“I didn’t expect a crowd,” Mackin said.

“I am the children’s grandmother,” Mrs. Caldwell said, “and I strenuously object. You have no right to subject a young boy to this charade created by this—this—this woman.” She pointed a long, red-tipped finger at me, like a talon about to spear a rodent.

“I simply wish to have a private chat with this young man,” Mackin said. “As his grandmother, you’re certainly invited to stay—I have grandchildren of my own—but you and everyone else will have to be quiet. Understood?”

Mackin indicated a chair in which he wanted Mark to sit. The young man, whose small stature made him seem even younger, tentatively sat, his hands clenched into a fist on his lap. The chair seemed to swallow him. I looked at twelve-year-old Ruth Wolcott, who was perched on the edge of a chair, her doting grandmother’s arm around her.

“I know that you and your family have been through a great deal,” Judge Mackin said in a friendly tone, “and I certainly don’t want to make you feel even worse than I’m sure you already do. Have you ever been in a judge’s chambers before?”

“No—no, sir.”

“It’s a little different in here from the courtroom, less formal, fewer rules. You can just consider this a friendly chat, nothing more.”

“Yes—yes, sir.”

“All right, then. There’s some confusion about what happened the night your father died. You were there?”

Mark looked to his grandmother, who shook her head. Mackin noticed it and said, “Although we’re less formal in here, young man, the rules regarding telling the truth prevail. It’s my job, along with the attorneys, to get at the truth. Now, your mom has said that she was the one who killed your father. Is
that
the truth?”

Mark’s eyes filled with tears.

“Telling the truth is always the best thing,” Mackin said. “We always feel better after we have.”

“That’s enough!” Mrs. Caldwell said, standing.

Mark, whose head had been lowered, looked up at her. “I don’t want to lie anymore,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

“I’ll have you disbarred,” his grandmother told the judge. “You have no right to put him through this.”

Mark’s pained scream filled the room. “She didn’t do it! She didn’t. Don’t send her to jail. He was so bad. He was a monster. He hit her all the time. I hated him! I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead.”

For the first time since we’d met, Mrs. Caldwell lost her regal bearing. She slumped back into her chair and pressed her hands to her face.

I looked to Judge Mackin to say something. When he didn’t, I felt I needed to fill the gap. My stomach was churning. It was distressing to have suspected that a child could pick up a gun and kill his father. But I knew his mother was
not
the murderer, and the truth needed to come out. I moved to where Mark sat sobbing, placed my hand on his shoulder, and said, “It must have been terrible for you to shoot your father, but you did it because of what he’d done to your mother. The court will understand.”

Suddenly Ruth, who’d also begun to cry, jumped up from where she was sitting and ran to her brother, flung herself across his lap, and said, “It’s okay, Mark. He won’t hurt anybody anymore.” She disengaged from him, stood, looked at Judge Mackin, swiped the tears from her cheeks, and declared, “I shot my father. I’m the one who did it.”

To say that I was shocked was a classic understatement. I looked at Mark, then at Ruth, and felt tears welling up. Could it be that I was so wrong in believing that Mark had shot his father? I’d been right about their mother—that she was lying when she claimed to have pulled the trigger and that she’d done it in order to spare her children.

But which child?

I had been certain it was Mark. I had been wrong.

Mrs. Caldwell answered that question. Dry-eyed and having again maintained her composure, she came to me. Her face, set in stony anger, was only inches from mine. “Are you satisfied, Mrs. Fletcher?” she said. “Are you satisfied that through your meddling, a twelve-year-old girl might be sent to prison?” She turned from me and addressed the judge. “We had it all worked out,” she said. “I convinced my daughter and Mr. O’Connor that if Myriam claimed that she’d killed Josh, it would protect this precious child and that she would never be found guilty by a jury because she’d acted to protect herself and her family from further abuse. Doesn’t that make sense? What was the harm in it? He was dead and deserved to die. The child would be spared, my daughter would be free, and that’s the way it would have ended were it not for Mrs. Fletcher’s intrusion.” She again looked at me. “May you rot in hell,” she said as she grabbed Mark and Ruth and herded them through the door to the courtroom where Myriam and Sharon Bacon waited.

Cy O’Connor, who’d said nothing during the wrenching events of the past few minutes, also headed for the door.

“Just a second, Mr. O’Connor,” Judge Mackin said. “As an officer of the court, you are entrusted to seek the truth. It sounds to me as though you’ve been involved in a scheme to thwart justice, which will have consequences. I dread to think what your father would have said.”

O’Connor started to respond, but no words came. He slunk from Mackin’s chambers and quietly closed the door.

Chapter Twenty-nine

W
hat occurred in Judge Mackin’s chambers that day had a profound impact on me. I’m very much a glass-half-full person who seldom gives in to depression. Yet I spent the days immediately following the confrontation—and the sad truth that emerged—in a funk, questioning myself and what my efforts had resulted in.

Mrs. Warren Caldwell’s words—“May you rot in hell”—stayed with me like a sore that wouldn’t heal. Intellectually I knew that she was wrong to assign blame to me for uncovering the true circumstances of the case, that her twelve-year-old granddaughter had wielded the weapon that killed her father. Ruth’s grandmother had tried to circumvent the law in her misguided belief that she was above it and that she was entitled to choreograph everything having to do with her son-in-law’s murder. She was wrong in that assumption, of course, but I understood what drove her. I might have been tempted to do the same thing were a grandchild of mine in a similar circumstance. But being tempted is different from taking action. She was wrong, and I hung on to that truth.

Harry McGraw visited me before heading back to Boston. Seeing him boosted my spirits; he has that effect on many people. We joked before he left: “That offer to hook up with me in my agency still stands, Jessica—McGraw and Fletcher, private investigators.”

“I still prefer Fletcher and McGraw,” I countered, and we both laughed.

Naturally, what came out of that day in Judge Mackin’s chambers was the talk of Cabot Cove. Evelyn Phillips and her young reporter, James Teller, badgered me for comments, which I declined to give. The articles they would write were compelling enough without any editorial input from me.

Myriam Wolcott recanted her story that she’d killed her husband and issued a statement in which she said she’d assumed blame in order to shield her young daughter. She pleaded for the child not to be judged harshly and pointed out that Ruth had become sick at seeing her mother physically and verbally abused over the years by her father. Myriam acknowledged that the night of the shooting, Josh had been especially brutal in his attacks on her, threatening to kill her in cruel ways, and describing how he would dispose of her dead body. Both Ruth and her brother, Mark, had pleaded with him to stop. When he persisted in his threats, Mark had run upstairs and grabbed his own deer rifle, an unregistered gun that his father had given him. Mark had pointed it at his father and demanded that he stop the abuse. But Josh laughed at him, and Mark couldn’t go through with it. Ruth, in hysterics, wrestled the weapon from her brother’s hands, followed her father out to the driveway, and pulled the trigger. She hadn’t aimed; she was incapable of that. But the single shot that was discharged remarkably found its mark. Josh Wolcott fell to the ground mortally wounded.