Prosecution: A Legal Thriller (36 page)

There was no response, and when I looked up I found
myself under that same implacable gaze he used to use on a witness
who tried to lie. In that moment, I had the vague sensation of
having done something wrong and not being able to remember what it
was. I lowered my eyes and began to pace slowly back and forth in
front of the jury box.

"You lost both your legs in the war, didn't you?"
Again there was no response. Stopping, I looked up. "Didn't you?" I
insisted.

"Yes," he said, and somehow made that one word sound
like an accusation.

"And you went through a long period of adjustment,
didn't you?" I did not wait for his answer. "And your wife

did everything she could to help you through that
period of adjustment, didn't she?"

"Yes," he said. For the first time, he looked
away.

"She gave up her career for you, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"She gave up her friends, her family, everything she
knew, and left New York, so you could come out here to

Portland, didn't she?"

In a long, slow arc, his eyes moved back to mine.
"Yes, she did."

"You were in love with her, weren't you?"

"Yes."

The tight self-control, the formal, concise answers,
the way he seemed aloof from the proceedings as if he were
presiding from the bench instead of testifying from the witness
stand, brought it all back again—the resentment, the anger, the
sense of betrayal. I turned on him with a vengeance that surprised
even myself. "It just about killed you when you found out she was
having an affair with Russell Gray, didn't it?"

Clutching the arm of the witness chair, Horace glared
at me.

"She was all you had—she was everything to you—and
you found out she was sleeping with another man. How did that make
you feel?" I demanded. "Knowing she was going to bed with someone
else: a man so wealthy he could fly off to New York for the ballet,
to London for the theater, to all the places you knew your wife
dreamed about; a man who was not just wealthy but white; the kind
of man who stayed home while you went to war and didn't lose a
moment's sleep about it, while you lost your legs because of
it!"

I was beside myself with anger. "A man who felt sorry
for your wife because she was married to you. How did that make you
feel, Judge Woolner?"

The sound of the gavel beating on the solid wood
surface of the bench brought me partway back to myself. "You
couldn't stand it, could you? They had to pay, didn't they? Russell
Gray had to die, and your wife, Alma—the woman who had given you a
reason to live— had to take the blame, didn't she?"

The gavel struck again. Dropping my head, I turned
away from the witness stand and went back to the counsel table. To
stop my hands from shaking, I bent forward, spread my fingers, and
put all my weight on them. "How long had you known that your wife
was having an affair with Russell Gray?" I asked, forcing myself
under control.

"Long enough," he replied, strangely detached.

"Did you confront Russell Gray?"

Horace was breathing evenly, watching me the way he
had before, anticipating not just the next question but the one
after that.

"No, I did not."

"Did you confront your wife?"

He clenched his jaw. "I'm not going to talk about
anything I may have said to my wife."

I walked behind the counsel table, my hands no longer
trembling, and took a position at the corner, next to
Gilliland-O'Rourke. She was leaning forward, elbow on the table,
her face set in an attitude of rigid attention. On her right,
Victor Jenkins was busily making notes on a legal pad.

"Weapons used in the commission of a crime are kept
in the police property room, aren't they?" I asked, looking

across to the witness stand.

"Yes."

"As a circuit court judge, as a former district
attorney, it wouldn't be difficult for you to get access to it,
would it?"

"Objection!" Jenkins called out. "The defense is
assuming facts not in evidence." Out of the corner of my eye, I
noticed Gilliland-O'Rourke touch Jenkins on the sleeve.

"Withdraw the question, your Honor," I said, waving
my hand. "It's not difficult to find a gun if you really want
one,

is it?" I asked, as I began to move across the front
of the courtroom.

"No," he agreed.

"The prosecution has based most of its case on the
fact that the defendant's fingerprints were found on the gun used
to kill Russell Gray. But isn't it true that if your wife had held
that gun in her hand just once—if, for example, you were showing
her how to use it—her fingerprints would stay on it until someone
wiped them off?"

Jenkins started to get to his feet, but
Gilliland-O'Rourke held him back.

"Yes," Horace replied.

"So if someone took that gun—with her fingerprints on
it—and was careful to hold it with a handkerchief, or to wear a
glove, her fingerprints would continue to be the only ones on it,
wouldn't they?"

"Yes, I suppose. If someone did that."

So close to him I could have touched him with my
hand, I threw the words back in his face. "If someone did that?
It's exactly what you did, isn't it? You murdered Russell Gray
because he was having an affair with your wife. You murdered him
with a gun that had her fingerprints on it so she'd be blamed for
what you did."

"You forget," he said, defiance blazing in his eyes,
"your client admitted she was there. She admitted she shot
him."

"My client - your wife?" I asked. "Yes, she did say
that." I conceded it with a nod. "And we both know she was lying,
don't we? She lied because you convinced her it was the only way to
explain how her fingerprints got on the gun. She trusted you with
her life, and you betrayed her, didn't you? You killed Russell
Gray, didn't you?" He looked away and stared straight ahead.

"Why don't you deny it?" I demanded. "If you didn't
kill Russell Gray, deny it!"

Everyone was watching. The judge was peering down at
him. But still, nothing, not a sign he had even heard me. "If you
didn't do it, deny it!"

The obstinacy of his silence drove me over the brink.
"She saved your life, she gave you a reason to live, and you want
her to spend the rest of her life in prison for something she
didn't do? Don't you have any decency left?" I turned on my heel
and walked away.

"Russell Gray was sleeping with my wife!"

I stopped and looked back. Horace was bent forward,
shaking with rage, pointing at Alma. "What right did they have to
do that to me?" The words reverberated around the high walls of the
courtroom and then, like a complaint thrown at the gods, echoed
back.

Exhausted, I sank into my chair. Alma was hunched
over, rocking back and forth on the hard wooden chair, tears
streaming down her face. For a moment, no one said anything. In a
voice subdued and distant, Judge West asked if the prosecution
wished to cross-examine the witness.

Gilliland-O'Rourke's chair made a harsh, rasping
sound as it slid back over the varnished hardwood floor. "No, your
Honor."

Horace Woolner left the stand and, his eyes once
again on a point ten feet in front of him, walked out of the
courtroom.

"Mr. Antonelli, you may call your next witness." I
glanced over my shoulder, searching along the rows of spectators
until I found him. Andre Barbizon was sitting on the aisle in the
back row. His knees were pressed tight together and his hands were
folded in his lap. The corner of his mouth twitched nervously. I
had hoped to use him to show that someone other than the defendant
had a motive to murder Russell Gray; now the only reason to call
him was to have him confirm the affair that had given Horace
Woolner a reason to kill.

"The defense calls Andre Barbizon," I announced.

Gilliland-O'Rourke was on her feet. "Your Honor," she
said firmly, "I have a matter for the court."

We waited while the clerk led the jury out of the
room. Tapping his fingers together, the judge looked at
Gilliland-O'Rourke. "Your Honor," she began, standing straight, her
red hair swept back over a blue jacket, "the prosecution has a duty
to pursue justice. That sometimes means admitting a mistake."

I looked over, wondering what she was doing. "In
light of the testimony we have just heard, there can be no doubt
that a mistake has been made. The defendant is clearly innocent of
the murder of Russell Gray, and it would be a serious injustice to
subject her to the hazards of a jury verdict. For that reason, your
Honor, the state at this time moves to dismiss all charges against
the defendant."

The judge did not seem pleased. "Perhaps a more
thorough investigation should have been made before the charges
were brought in the first place," he said. "That might have been a
better exercise of prosecutorial discretion." Shaking his head, he
turned to me. "Mr. Antonelli, I assume the defense has no
objection?"

"No, your Honor."

"Very well. The case is dismissed."

It was over, just like that. Alma was a free woman,
and she looked more shattered than anyone I had ever seen
convicted. I started to say something to her, but I could not find
the words. She touched my arm, turned away, and disappeared into
the crowd.

No one paid any attention to me as I made my way out
of the courtroom. Everyone wanted to hear what the district
attorney had to say. In the hallway outside, Gilliland-O'Rourke
stood in front of a battery of television cameras while a dozen
reporters shouted the same question.

"I moved to dismiss the case because it became
obvious the defendant is not the person who murdered Russell

Gray," she explained patiently.

"How soon is Judge Woolner going to be charged?"
someone asked.

I did not want to hear any more. Feeling friendless
and alone, I shook my head and started to walk away. "But there
isn't any evidence that Horace Woolner killed Russell Gray, is
there?"

I stopped and looked back. On the other side of the
crowd, standing next to the last television camera, Harper Bryce
was waiting for an answer.

Gilliland-O'Rourke raised her chin and smiled. "He
confessed in open court. That's fairly conclusive, don't you
think?"

"He didn't confess to anything," Harper replied. One
hand shoved into his pocket, he turned the pages of his notebook
with his thumb. "Antonelli kept accusing him, kept challenging him
to deny it, but," he said, raising his eyes, "I didn't hear any
confession."

The smile vanished. "You've obviously forgotten that
outburst at the end."

His thumb flashed forward until he found the page he
wanted. " 'Russell Gray was sleeping with my wife. What right did
they have to do that to me?' " Harper closed the notebook and
looked up. "Did you think that was a confession?"

"The way you read it isn't the way he said it," she
replied irritably. She turned her head, looking for the next
reporter who had something to ask.

"Before you have him arrested," Harper drawled in a
voice she could not ignore, "you might want to have someone check
out his alibi."

Her eyes flashed. "Alibi?"

"The night Russell Gray was murdered, Horace Woolner
was playing poker with three other judges."

As soon as we were outside the courthouse and free of
the crowd, I asked. "How do you know what Horace Woolner was doing
the night of the murder?"

Harper started to smile, but when he saw the look in
my eyes he became serious. "Because I was there. We've had that
same poker game going for years. Just the five of us. Four judges
and me." He paused for a moment, a twinkle in his eye. "They needed
me. I was the only one who didn't cheat." He paused again and
stared down at the sidewalk. "The one thing you can be sure of,
whoever killed Russell Gray, it wasn't Horace Woolner."

Chapter Twenty Four

Why did I come back? What did I achieve? I convicted
a man who may have been innocent and convinced a courtroom that my
best friend was guilty of a murder he did not commit. The woman who
may have hired Travis Quentin on her own was living on the money
intended for Nancy Goodwin's child, and it was almost certain that
no one would ever know who really killed Russell Gray. The innocent
had been condemned and the guilty had gone free. I should have
stayed where I was, in the solitude of my library, reading all the
books I could, minding my own business, staying out of other
people's lives.

For the second night in a row, I could not sleep. The
two trials played over and over again in my mind, words, phrases,
whole paragraphs of testimony, more vivid in the way I now
remembered them than when I heard them spoken. I kept listening to
Horace Woolner's voice, answering each of the questions I asked,
listening this time without any of the anger and outrage I had felt
when I asked them. I kept hearing Kristin Maxfield, swearing her
husband had confessed to murder, no longer certain she was telling
the truth.