Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests (3 page)

But a call in the morning brought only a request for the time and place of the accident, and he had to go to Judge Wanamaker’s
office for that information. The judge was not in a mood to cooperate. “He’s really going through with this secret-session
business tomorrow?”

“Apparently,” Fine told him. “But if I can dig up some evidence, I can act as something of a defense attorney for you.”

“I’m well able to defend myself, thanks. The accident occurred about six forty-five a.m. I know because I was listening to
a morning show on the radio. I used my cell phone to report it, but it was ten minutes before a trooper arrived and filled
out an accident report. Luckily I could still drive the car, and I got back to my house before seven thirty to shower and
change.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Route nine, just south of the city line.”

Fine phoned the state police again and gave them the information, requesting they fax him a copy of the accident report. Ten
minutes later it was on his desk. It seemed straightforward enough: “At 6:57 a.m. I responded to a 911 call and found a silver
SUV at the side of Route 9 near the 13-mile marker. A young buck deer, dead at the scene, had run onto the highway in the
dark from the woods on the eastern side, hitting the right front fender of the northbound vehicle. A large piece of the plastic
fender was broken off, and there was blood and deer fur at the point of impact, but no other damage. Driver and sole occupant
of the SUV was Judge Zachery Wanamaker of the Court of Appeals. He was uninjured and was able to drive the car home after
filing the report. I phoned the highway department to remove the deer carcass and remained on the scene until it was picked
up at 8:05.”

That seemed to be proof enough for Fine. He poked his head in Wanamaker’s office and said, “I have a fax of the police report.”

“Good! One more thing I forgot to mention. I have a witness who saw me arrive home with the damaged car.”

“Who would that be?”

“Oddly enough, it was Colin Penny. He’s a neighbor of mine.”

____

A
T ELEVEN O’CLOCK
Wednesday morning, when Judge Bangor gaveled the secret session to order in his office, all five justices were in attendance.
Fine shared the leather sofa with Susan Quinn while Judge Wanamaker sat alone in the far corner and Rockwell pulled up another
armchair to be closer to the desk.

“All right, the session will come to order,” Bangor announced. “I hadn’t expected the need for another of these so soon after
the last one, but the untimely death of Maeve McGuire has made it a necessity. As I stated before, this session is in no way
a trial. It is more of an informal inquest to determine the truth or falsity of the rumors going around. I’ve asked our newest
member, Judge Fine, to handle the investigation as it concerns Judge Wanamaker, and he will report to us now.”

Fine rose to his feet, feeling a bit out of his element. He stepped away from the sofa into the neutral area at the center
of the room. “Your Honors, Maeve McGuire’s violent death came shortly after she hinted to the Chief that another member of
the appellate court had accepted bribes and illegal campaign contributions. It was the same charge that forced Colin Penny’s
resignation and my own appointment to this august body. Miss McGuire was killed by a hit-and-run driver in an early- morning
accident near her apartment. When we learned of damage that morning to Judge Wanamaker’s vehicle, a natural suspicion arose.
The judge’s story was that he hit a deer while driving back from a skiing weekend. This is the story I was asked to investigate.”

“It’s not a story,” Wanamaker interrupted. “It’s the truth.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Fine told the court.

“In fact, I have here the state police report on the incident.” He read them the report and then continued, “I also have a
witness that I’d like to bring before this session.”

Judge Bangor immediately objected. “This entire session is informal and extralegal. We could not admit a stranger to these
proceedings.”

“This is no stranger. In fact, he played a major part in your most recent secret session. I’m referring to Colin Penny.”

It was Judge Rockwell who spoke up then. “There’s no need to revisit that affair. Penny has resigned from this court and we’re
the better for it.”

But Susan Quinn protested. “Colin’s not here to get his job back! Apparently he can verify Zach’s movements on Monday morning,
and we should hear him out. By inviting him in here, we’re not telling him anything he doesn’t already know from firsthand
experience.”

Judge Bangor sighed. “All right. When can he be here?”

“I asked him to come at eleven fifteen,” Fine replied. “He should be waiting outside now.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” Bangor asked.

“I am, yes.”

“Very well. Bring him in.”

Fine went out to the reception room and found Penny seated nervously in one of the chairs. “They’re ready for you, Colin.”

“I still feel it’s a mistake to come here like this.”

“It’s not a mistake to help clear an innocent man.”

He followed Fine into Judge Bangor’s office, nodding to the others. Only Susan Quinn made an effort to put him at ease. “We’ve
missed you, Colin. How are you doing?”

“Well enough. I’m going back into private practice next month.”

“That’s great,” she told him. “You’ll probably be arguing cases before us.”

“Let’s get on with this,” the Chief ordered.

“What evidence do you have to supply, Penny?”

The former judge cleared his throat. “I was wheeling my trash Dumpster out to the curb on Monday morning—”

Fine interrupted to ask, “What time?”

“Before seven thirty, but close to it. I was back in the house in time for the seven thirty news. I had just reached the curb
when Judge Wanamaker’s car turned into the street. I saw its headlights, though it was getting light by then, and I noticed
a large piece out of the right front fender. He slowed down, lowered the window, and told me he’d just hit a deer. He was
going to change his clothes and take the car in for repairs.”

“What did you do then?”

“I wished him good luck and went back in the house.”

“Tell me something, Penny. Did you ever have a hint that another member of this court besides you was receiving illegal payments?”

“A hint,” he admitted. “I never knew if it was true.”

Bangor asked a few more questions and seemed satisfied there was no more to tell. “Thank you for coming in,” he said as Penny
left. “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.”

When he’d gone, Zach Wanamaker spoke from his corner chair. “Satisfied now, or do we get the deer in to testify?”

“We owe you an apology for even considering the possibility that you killed that woman. But the fact remains, someone killed
her, either accidentally or deliberately.” Bangor shuffled the papers on his desk. “This court cannot afford a scandal, and
I will do everything in my power to prevent one.”

Susan Quinn spoke up. “Are you still thinking one of us accepted a bribe for our vote? With Zach cleared, that only leaves
Frank and myself.”

“And me,” Bangor reminded them. “I’m not above suspicion.”

“Wait a minute,” Fine said. “We’re assuming she was killed to prevent her naming a second member of this court accepting bribes.
But suppose the motive wasn’t in the future but in the past. Suppose she was killed in an act of vengeance over something
she already did?”

“What would that be?” Judge Rockwell wondered.

“She was going to publish the information about Colin Penny. When he saw the damage to Judge Wanamaker’s car, it gave him
an opportunity for revenge. He could have driven over to her street, less than ten minutes away, saw her crossing to her car,
and run her down, knowing that Wanamaker would become at least a temporary suspect.”

“I can’t believe that!” Susan responded with a touch of anger in her voice.

But Judge Bangor nodded. “It’s certainly a possibility.”

She turned and lit into him. “Haven’t you done enough to the poor man already? You drove him from the bench, ruined his career!”

“Not without cause,” Bangor reminded her.

Fine tried to calm them down. “I only mentioned it as a possibility to be considered. There’s no proof that he killed her.”

“There’d be proof on his car,” Bangor said.

“I’ll have the police take a look at it.”

Zach Wanamaker cleared his throat. “If you’re done with this little charade, I’ll be getting back to work.” He picked up a
folder and departed.

Fine glanced down at the state police fax on the table in front of him. He was sorry now he’d ever gotten involved in this.
Was he as bad as Bangor in besmirching an innocent man?

“Wait a minute!” he said, staring at the fax as if seeing it for the first time. “There’s something wrong here.”

“What’s that?” Susan asked.

Fine didn’t answer her. Instead, he grabbed the fax and followed Judge Wanamaker out of the office, ignoring a question from
the Chief. He strode quickly across the reception area to Wanamaker’s door and went in without knocking.

The judge looked up from his desk. “What is it now?”

“You killed her after all, Zach,” he managed to blurt out. “You really killed her, didn’t you?”

Judge Wanamaker stood up, his face aghast with shock or anger. “What are you talking about, Fine? You just proved my innocence.”

“That was my mistake, wasn’t it?” He tossed the fax down on Wanamaker’s desk. “Read it and weep, Zach.”

“What? This is the state police report. I admit I killed the deer. This has nothing to do with McGuire’s death.”

“Doesn’t it? He says you had a broken right front fender, with blood and bits of fur on the car, but no other damage. Yet
your garage is installing a new fender and a new right headlight.”

The judge tried to shrug it off. “So the trooper missed the headlight.”

“Hard to do when it was still dark out. He might not have let you drive home with just one headlight.”

“It might have been damaged and failed on the way home.”

Fine shook his head. “No, because Colin Penny mentioned seeing your headlights when you turned into the street.”

“That was almost seven thirty. How could I have showered and changed and still killed the woman?”

“You didn’t shower and change till later, if at all. You were only ten minutes from the spot where Maeve McGuire was run down
and killed.” As he spoke, he was aware of the door opening behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Judge Bangor
enter the office.

“That’s crazy,” Wanamaker tried to argue. “It was morning by that time. Even on her little street there might have been traffic
and pedestrians to see what happened, to take down a license number.”

“But there weren’t, were there? If you’d seen another car or person, you’d just have driven on and done nothing. It was a
crime of convenience, though not too convenient for Maeve. You had to silence her before she revealed the bribery charges
against you, and that was a perfect opportunity.”

“Do you think you can prove any of this?”

“I do,” Fine told him. “If the headlight was broken when you hit her, there’d have been pieces of glass at the scene. I’m
sure the forensics lab will be able to match them to your headlight.”

Wanamaker turned to the Chief. “Do you believe any of this?”

“I do,” Bangor said. “You’re finished, Zach.”

“At least give me the deal you gave Penny. Accept my resignation. The whole thing can be hushed up for the good of the court.”

But the Chief only shook his head. “You killed Maeve, Zach. You killed her, and there’s no way I’m hushing that up. If it
means a black eye for my court, at least her death won’t go unpunished.”

“Judge—”

Bangor shook his head and pronounced his verdict.

“You’re guilty as charged.”

BY PHYLLIS COHEN

N
ever long on patience, Harold Vekt was beginning to think about giving up. His feet hurt and his beer-laden bladder was trying
to get his attention.

His luck, he decided, stank. Forty minutes had passed since he’d positioned himself behind the hedges leading to the elaborate
teak-and-glass entryway of the Waterside Club, on the edge of the river that divided the city. Every departing couple had
been ushered into a taxi hailed by one of the plushly uniformed doormen, or into a limo that glided up to the entrance at
just the right moment.

Half the women wore furs, although the night was mild. Many of the men, and some of the women, carried leather briefcases.
All were well dressed and well groomed. Jewelry with possibilities showed on all the women and many of the men.

Didn’t any of them live within walking distance?

He was about to take a chance on assuaging his bladder in the hedges when the door opened once again and a baritone voice
declared, “No thank you, Antonio. It’s a fine evening. We’ll walk home.” Vekt gritted his teeth and zipped up.

The couple appeared to be in their late forties, a few years younger than Harold’s mother. Though with their easy-street life,
he thought, they could look like that and be much older. The woman’s hair was honey gold and sleekly coiffed. She wore a beige
fur jacket over an amber silk dress, oval earrings of gold rimmed with tiny diamonds, a thick gold bracelet, and a ring that
was simple in style but held a diamond of several carats. The man, in a three-piece gray suit, wore a gold pocket watch and
carried a tan leather briefcase of the old-fashioned envelope style, with a flap and two buckled straps.

The man and woman walked up First Avenue, busy and well lit, and turned east on 56th Street. Vekt stayed three-quarters of
a block behind them. They crossed Sutton Place; here no one else was about, and the bare but thickly branched trees dimmed
the street lighting. Vekt grasped the weapon in the pocket of his gray hooded jacket and increased his pace until he was about
twenty feet from them. “Excuse me, sir.”