Prosecution: A Legal Thriller (29 page)

She did not have to tell me what she did next. "Why
did you pick up the damn gun?" I asked, suddenly angry that she
should have done something so stupid.

Her eyes were filled with a puzzling intensity. "I
don't know. I hate guns. Maybe that was the reason. I'd never been
close enough to touch one before. And there it was lying there,
something that had just brought death to someone I knew, someone I
cared about. Whatever the reason," she said, lowering her gaze, "I
picked it up and looked at it."

As she clutched the near-empty paper cup, a shudder
ran through her. She raised her eyes and looked directly at me.

"When I became aware of what I was doing, I dropped
the gun on the floor and ran out as fast as I could. I panicked. I
should have called the police, but all I could think about was
getting as far away as I could."

She seemed haunted by what she had done. Her eyes
stayed fixed on mine, but she was looking right through me.

"Where did you go?" I asked.

"When?" she asked blankly.

"When you dropped the gun and ran out of the
house."

"I went home."

"Straight home? You didn't stop anywhere?"

"No," she insisted, with a trace of annoyance. "I
didn't stop anywhere."

"When you got home, was Horace still awake?"

"Horace wasn't there. He has dinner with some of the
other judges once a month."

I was more interested in something else. "Go back to
the gunshot. Try to think. Did you hear it, or didn't you?"

She cocked her head. "I must have."

"Did you wait in the bathroom until you thought it
was safe, or did you run out immediately to see what had
happened?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure. I think I opened the
door a crack and listened and then went out to the living
room."

"And what did you hear?"

"Nothing. So I left the bathroom and went to the
living room."

"Nothing?" I asked, watching her intently. "You heard
nothing at all? You hear a gunshot, you open the door, and you hear
nothing at all?"

"No."

"You didn't hear the sound of footsteps running away,
of a door slamming shut, the kind of noise someone trying to get
away in a hurry would have made? You heard nothing?" I asked.

She reached across with her hand and took hold of my
wrist. "Joe, it's me, Alma. Everything that happened is all mixed
up. I don't remember hearing anything. I'm not absolutely sure I
even heard the shot. But I must have. I think I did."

Her hand tightened around my wrist."Joe, I didn't do
it," she said. "I'm telling you the truth. You do believe me, don't
you?"

I slid my wrist away from her hand and straddled the
hard bench, my side to the table, staring out at the steep
hillside, watching the light climb toward the summit as the sun
kept moving west.

"Tell me about Russell Gray. What was he like?"

"He was fascinating."

With my knuckles, I beat out a hollow rhythm on the
bench between my legs. The surface was rough, irregular, and badly
in need of paint. I remembered Russell Gray— charming, urbane, and,
I suspected, literate and superficial.

"He loved the arts," I heard her saying, in the low,
somber tones of a eulogist. "He went to London every year for the
theater and to New York for the ballet." The sun hit the side of
her face, adding a luminous glow to her skin.

"Tell me about his personal life. I understand his
involvements were not limited to women."

"You really are a moralist, aren't you, Joe? His
'involvements.' She laughed quietly. "You want to know whether
Russell went both ways, don't you? Well, the answer is, one, I
don't really know, and, two, I would not be the least bit
surprised."

With a mocking glance, she added, "It's not all that
uncommon, you know." There was something in her voice, something in
the way she looked at me that I did not like. It was condescending,
too much the attitude of someone asked to explain the ways of the
world to someone else who is never going to be any part of it.

Over her shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Horace. He
had taken a seat on a bench on the other side of the walkway. He
was sitting erect, both feet on the ground, his eyes open, waiting
for whatever was going to happen next.

"And what about you, Alma? Were you part of Russell
Gray's sophisticated world?"

"Are you asking me whether I slept with him? Whether
I had an affair with him?"

"I have to know everything. If there was anything—
anything at all—between you and Russell Gray, I have to know," I
said.

"No," she said, "there was nothing going on between
us. We were just good friends."

She saw the doubt in my eyes. "There was no affair. I
never slept with Russell Gray."

"Gilliland-O'Rourke says you did," I replied,
watching her closely.

She tossed her head back. "People tell stories. There
wasn't any truth to them." She glanced over her shoulder to where
Horace was still waiting.

"I have to know, Alma. I can't help you unless I know
the truth."

Her eyes lit up. "I know," she said brightly, as she
sprang to her feet, "let's get Horace and go somewhere else. We
have all afternoon."

I watched her move gracefully down the steps and take
her husband by the arm. She was lying to me. I wondered if it was
because she was hoping Horace would never have to find out.

Chapter Twenty

Autumn came and the nights grew longer. Sidewalks
were slick with faded yellow leaves. At the northern edge of the
city, dark smoke curled up from the black-funneled freighters
riding on the murky waters of the Columbia. Winter was more than a
month away, and I was already dreaming of spring.

Harper Bryce was not dreaming of anything. He was too
busy gathering whatever information he could for his next story. He
had just drifted in, unannounced and uninvited, a dripping black
umbrella in his hand, obviously in a reflective mood. "It occurs to
me we have something in common, you and I," he said, as he dropped
into a chair. "Other than your one-time fling as a prosecutor, you
represent people accused of crimes and I report on what happens in
those proceedings. We both tell stories about what happened to
other people. And that makes us both outsiders, doesn't it?

"Do you ever wonder what it's like, to sit at that
counsel table and listen to you and the lawyer on the other side
describe what happened, and you're the only person who really
knows? You ever imagine, when you're up there telling a jury that
the evidence doesn't even come close to proving the defendant did
what he's accused of, that your client is sitting there laughing
his head off because he knows he did it? It's kind of a strange
business all the way round, isn't it? Clients lie to their lawyers,
and lawyers hardly ever tell the whole truth to reporters." His
nostrils flared as he drew in a breath, and his chest seemed to
sink as he let it out. "Do they?"

"I wouldn't go that far," I replied. "Some clients
tell their lawyers the truth."

He laughed appreciatively. "Those must be the ones
who plead guilty."

"Not everybody is guilty, Harper. And even when they
are, they're not always guilty of the crimes they're charged
with."

Making a wry face, he conceded that perhaps only a
large majority of people accused of breaking the law were guilty.
"There are a few who aren't." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'm even
willing to concede that Judge Woolner's wife might be one of
them."

"You can count on it," I said firmly.

"I'm just a reporter," he said cagily. "I try not to
count too much on anything, especially when it involves murder, and
particularly where it might be what they used to call a crime of
passion."

I gave him a blank look. "Crime of passion?"

"There are rumors out there, my friend," he said,
trying to gauge my reaction.

"There are always rumors when you have a murder
trial, Harper. You know that."

"And I know that sometimes rumors are true, and even
when they're not they sometimes point to something that is."

Leaning back, I held up my hands in surrender. "All
right. What rumors are you talking about?"

"The rumor that the late Russell Gray was having an
affair with the accused. Care to comment?"

"I never comment on rumor, and I never comment on a
case."

"Off the record."

"Off the record, on the record, doesn't matter. Alma
Woolner is innocent, absolutely innocent." But I did not stop
there. "It's bad enough she's charged with murder. Now she has to
defend herself against charges of infidelity? How the hell do you
think this is going to make her husband feel?" I exclaimed
angrily.

Harper sat up. "I didn't start it. I just told you
about it."

In silent apology, I held up a hand again. "You're
right," I said, looking at him.

Hastily, Harper tried to change the subject. "You
have two weeks before that case goes to trial. Tomorrow morning you
have the sentencing of Marshall Goodwin. What's going to
happen?"

"What do the rumors say?" I replied.

"There aren't any rumors." Pausing, he cast a shrewd
glance at me. "And there isn't any comment from the other side,
either."

"Richard Lee Jones refuses to talk to the press?
That's a first."

Harper was amused. "I didn't say he wouldn't talk, I
said he wouldn't comment. Actually, he talked a lot. He said
Goodwin was innocent, said he was sure he'd eventually win on
appeal. What he wouldn't comment on was whether his client was
going to turn State's evidence in return for a lesser
sentence."

He tugged on his sleeve and wiggled the fingers of
his free hand, apparently trying to increase the circulation in his
arm. It was a miracle that his heart held out against the burden of
that corpulent, undisciplined body.

"I'm afraid I can't comment, either, Harper."

He had been around the courthouse too many years not
to know what was going on. "You made him that offer, and he hasn't
made up his mind?"

"What do you think happened, Harper? You were there
through the whole trial. You take almost verbatim notes."

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
"Remember the testimony of her former fiance? What was his
name?"

"Atkinson," I reminded him. "Conrad Atkinson."

"Remember what he said? He was in love with Kristin
Maxfield, but she wasn't in love with him. I think that was the
reason he was in love with her, and I think that's the reason
Goodwin was in love with her," he said.

"All right," I said. "And?"

"They both knew—with a woman like that you'd have to
know—that they could never really have her, which made them want
her even more, and that made them willing to do whatever they had
to do to get her. You could see it on Atkinson's face when he
testified, a sense of relief that he'd been saved from his own
madness." He paused. "What I'm trying to say is, whether she knew
what was inside that envelope or not, she's the reason Goodwin
killed his wife."

I tried to make it sound like a casual observation, a
chance remark. "What if it was the other way round? What if she
knew what was inside the envelope because she put it there herself?
What if Goodwin didn't know anything about it?"

Sitting immobile, he stared down at the floor,
frowning. "Are you afraid you convicted the wrong one?" he asked,
glancing up.

Looking out the rain-streaked windows, I watched the
traffic crawl over the steel bridges. The door in the outer office
opened. Helen was back from lunch. "Tell me something, Harper," I
said, locking my fingers together behind my head as I leaned back
in the chair. "You must have thought about becoming a lawyer at
some point in your life. Why didn't you?"

He snorted. "Legal technicalities would have made me
suicidal. Besides, they don't let you in law school if you haven't
graduated from college."

"You didn't graduate?"

"I didn't go." His eyes rolled around his head. "And
I didn't go because they won't let you in unless you graduate from
high school first." He gave a shrug of nostalgia. "I was sixteen
years old, a little on the precocious side, certain I knew
everything worth knowing. I got a job on a small-town weekly and
worked my way up from there. Couldn't do it today. Nobody would
take a chance on a kid."

Helen stuck her head inside the door. "Good
afternoon, Mr. Bryce," she said, flashing a smile at Harper. "Can I
get you anything?"

Harper shook his head. "No, thank you. I need to get
going."

"It's no trouble," she assured him.

Reluctantly, he declined again. She turned to go, and
then, almost as an afterthought, glanced back and said to me,
"Don't forget, you have someone at one-thirty."