Running from the Law (15 page)

“Can’t fool you, can I? By the way, I heard about that stunt you pulled in court last week.” He laughed. “I could tell you stories.”

Maybe he could, but I’d be the last to admit it. I heard the sound of crinkling cellophane over the phone. “What are we eating now?”

“I’m eating Goobers, I don’t know what you’re eating. Why do you talk like a schoolteacher?”

“Because you act like a child. I have to go now.”

“You want me to come to the hearing? I’ll sit second chair. Subordinate to you, so you won’t feel threatened.”

“I don’t feel threatened.”

“Sure you do.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He laughed. “It’s your funeral. My only advice is to hammer the witness. She couldn’t have seen anything all that clearly. You could fit a fucking football field from the main house to the carriage house.”

“I know that. How do you?”

“I scoped it out. Just the outside, I couldn’t get in. Something about CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. They had a guard posted, he watched me the whole time. What a pain in the ass they are out there, nothing else to do—”

“Why’d you go to the carriage house?”

“I’m a helpful guy. You want my advice, the trick is to just listen at the hearing. The standard is low for the Commonwealth, so there’s no way you’re gonna win.”

“You call this helpful?”

“Pay attention and take notes. Anything you learn, cross-examine, but don’t try to score. Just let ’em know you’re there. That you’re comin’ at them.”

“Now who sounds like a teacher?”

“You can be a real bitch, you know that?”

“So I hear.”

He laughed. “Women. Fear them.”

“What?”

“Have it your way. Come back when you grow up, girl. In the meantime, DNFU.”

“What does that mean?”

“DNFU? It’s a term of art in criminal law. You must’ve heard it now that you’re trying murder cases.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Do not fuck up.”

Christ. I hung up the phone.

Later, standing in front of my closet in my robe, I realized I didn’t need to put on a suit today. It left me with almost nothing to wear.

You work too hard.

Tobin had said it with approval, but my father hadn’t. And neither had Paul, who had lectured me about it more times than I cared to remember. I found myself staring at Paul’s side of the closet, which used to be full of sports coats and hanging shirts. It was empty. He had taken everything, evidently planning a long stay. Good. I slapped one of his empty hangers, sending it rocking back and forth, screeching.

I wondered what else he had taken and nosed around his bureau. His boar brush was gone from the top, as was a tortoiseshell comb and the silver-framed photo of us he kept on the top. It was the one taken in Bermuda, the one used for the portrait in Patricia’s garage. I remembered the sketchbook with a vague uneasiness. Had Paul taken that, too?

I slipped into a shirt and khakis while I went through his drawers. Only some balled-up sweat socks and a pair of Jockey shorts. I padded downstairs in bare feet, the staircase creaking loudly in the quiet, empty house. The sketchbook wasn’t in the entrance hall where I’d thrown it, or in the living room or dining room. I checked the kitchen and the trash cans but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. I went upstairs to Paul’s desk, the one in his home office, but no sketchbook. He had taken it.

Why?

I ran a hand through tangled, wet hair. The sketchbook was the only link between Paul and Patricia.

So what? What was I thinking?

I pushed aside my questions and finished dressing hastily. Then I grabbed my briefcase and prepared to do the only thing I was really good at, after poker.

Work.

17

T
his being the provinces, a scuffed Formica dais stood at the front of the small courtroom, flanked by cheap nylon flags of the United States and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. The counsel tables were wobbly, with peeling veneer, and instead of the typical fixed pews for spectators, there were chairs arranged in rows, like at an Amway demonstration. In fact, with the reporters and police milling around, the courtroom felt more like a Tupperware party than a preliminary hearing, at least until the judge took her seat on the dais and the bailiff shouted:

“The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania versus the Honorable Fiske Harlan Hamilton.”

Fiske stiffened as he sat next to me in a dark blue suit.

The assistant district attorney launched into what turned out to be a histrionic opening statement; full of sound and fury, signifying no surprises. Apparently the witness ID, the license plate, and the fingerprints were all the Commonwealth had so far. Like they needed more.

“Ms. Morrone, are you representing Judge Hamilton?” asked Justice Sarah Millan. She was petite, with small features behind owlish glasses, and her short hair was clipped into salt-and-pepper waves. I’d never been before Justice Millan, but everyone called her a bitch. I figured we’d hit it off.

“I am, Your Honor,” I said, standing up.

“Make your opening statement, but keep it short and sweet.” Justice Millan looked sideways at the press clogging the perimeter of the courtroom. “I have a busy docket and I hate houseguests.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I made my opening, keeping the table pounding to a minimum, but using the words
distinguished
and
innocent
a lot, and even throwing in a
rush to judgment
or two.

Justice Millan looked at the assistant district attorney. “Okay, Mrs. Ryerson, let’s see what you got.”

Assistant D.A. Maura Ryerson was a young, slim Villanova grad with bobbed reddish hair. She wore a coral-colored lipstick that matched both her hair color and her summer suit; it showed doggedness, if not taste. “Your Honor, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has an eyewitness in this matter.”

“Good for you,” Justice Millan said. “Get him up there.”

“It’s a woman, Your Honor.”

“We take both. Call her.”

Everybody chuckled, except for a stony Fiske, who stared rigidly ahead. I read his fixed expression as pure mortification. He had downed serial Scotches last night when I told him I wasn’t going to let him testify. I had no choice. His alibi had sounded worse with each retelling, and since the defense didn’t have to prove anything, the safe bet was to stand pat.

“At this time,” Ryerson said, standing up stiff-kneed, “the Commonwealth would like to call Mrs. Allison Mateer to the stand.”

Justice Millan rolled her eyes. “So do it already.”

“Mrs. Mateer, please come up now,” Ryerson said, waving grandly, Bic in hand.

An older woman, Mrs. Mateer rose stiffly from the third row. She wore a white linen suit with a flowered scarf and smiled at me politely as she walked by. Funny, she hadn’t smiled yesterday when she closed the door in my face. I’d gotten the gist of her testimony from the affidavit the police had turned over at the last minute.

Mrs. Mateer was sworn in and Ryerson took her through her identification and address, but I was distracted by a noise from the back of the crowded courtroom. I looked back to see Tobin leaning against the door-jamb, eating Jujyfruits. Who invited him? I gave him a dirty look, but Paul, sitting in the front row with Kate, thought it was for him.

Men.

“Mrs. Mateer, will you please tell the court where you were on the afternoon of June 18 of this year?” Ryerson asked.

“I was at my home.”

“Where in your house were you, do you recall?”

“I was in the kitchen, at the back of the house.”

“Facing south?”

“Yes, that’s right. South. A wonderful exposure, plenty of sun, but you have to water constantly.”

“Water?”

“My garden. If you don’t, the flowers burn right up, and the lawn as well.”

I made a note on my legal pad and edged it toward Fiske.
Are you sure Mateer doesn’t know Kate? Maybe from garden club?
Fiske read it, frowned, and made a precise question mark with his fountain pen. I turned around to check with Kate. She was watching Mrs. Mateer but didn’t appear to recognize her.

“What were you doing at approximately 5:30 P.M.?” Ryerson asked.

“Preparing dinner. A salad. I eat lightly, generally.”

“Now, does your kitchen have a window in it, Mrs. Mateer?”

“Yes. Over the sink. It’s a rather large window, because it’s a double sink. I have a view of the backyard and the carriage house off to the right.”

“You rented the carriage house to Miss Sullivan, is that correct?”

“Yes. My late husband and I, for the past two years.”

“By the way,” Ryerson paused, “did you know Miss Sullivan?”

“We were friendly, I suppose, as one would be. She was a lovely girl. A lovely young woman.” Mrs. Mateer’s hooded eyes slid over to Fiske with a contempt the reporters picked up immediately. You could almost hear them scribbling away, and there was shuffling at the side of the room. I glanced back to see if it was the
Philadelphia Inquirer
duking out the
New York Times.
It was Stan Julicher, Patricia’s lawyer, elbowing for a better view, pissing off a reporter with a steno pad. He was managing to stay in the limelight even without a client.

“Patricia Sullivan was a lovely young woman, wasn’t she?” Ryerson asked.

Oh, please. “Your Honor, I’m willing to stipulate that the victim was lovely, and I sincerely hope the Commonwealth catches her murderer, because they don’t have him yet.”

The gallery laughed. Justice Millan caught my eye, amused, then said, “Overruled.”

Not amused enough.

“I’ll withdraw the question,” Ryerson continued. “Mrs. Mateer, what did you see from your kitchen window?”

“I looked out the window to check on the garden. It had been so hazy that afternoon, and then the storm blew up. I remember thinking, well, I won’t have to water tonight.”

“And what did you see? At the carriage house?”

“I saw a man getting into a car.”

Ryerson flashed me a set of head shots as quickly as legal ethics allowed, then approached the stand with them. “I move to have these photographs marked as Commonwealth Exhibits A through H.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Justice Millan said.

“Did the police show you these photographs, Mrs. Mateer?”

The witness glanced down at the pictures. “Yes.”

“And did you identify one of them as the man you saw running from Patricia Sullivan’s carriage house?”

“Objection,” I said, but Justice Millan waved me off like a fly.

“I picked out this one,” Mrs. Mateer said. She held up a picture of Fiske, taken from a newspaper the day he was arrested. “Judge Hamilton.”

Ouch. I tried to remain expressionless. Fiske tensed. The reporters scribbled and whispered.

“He was wearing a trenchcoat and hat when I saw him,” Mrs. Mateer added.

Fiske was wearing a tan trenchcoat that day, but so was I, so was everybody. It was raining like hell.

“What sort of hat was he wearing?” Ryerson asked.

“It was dark brown, a fedora. With a wide brim. It was over his nose.”

The hat still hadn’t been found, and I’d never known Fiske to have a hat like that. “Objection,” I said. “How could the witness identify this person if he had a hat covering his face?”

“She didn’t say it covered his face,” Ryerson said.

Mrs. Mateer sat forward on her chair. “I saw most of his face and chin, and I saw him when he drove by, too. I feel sure it was Judge Hamilton. I feel sure of that.”

Give me a break. “Your Honor, I have to object. The witness
feels sure
? Since when is that enough to support a murder charge? I also object to this witness being trumpeted as an eyewitness. If she didn’t see a murder being committed, she’s not an eyewitness.”

“Your Honor,” Ryerson said, “Mrs. Mateer has given a positive identification of Judge Hamilton and is an eyewitness to events subsequent to the murder. Of course, the Commonwealth has additional conclusive evidence to support its charge, such as an identification of the defendant’s car and license plate, and his fingerprints in the room where the victim was murdered.” The reporters began to whisper as the weight of the evidence made its impact.

“Is the district attorney testifying now?” I said, but I was wondering how Kate would take the news about the fingerprints. We had prepared her for it by saying Fiske had been to Patricia’s to drop work off.

“Overruled,” Justice Millan ordered, banging the gavel loudly. “Quiet in the back, or I’ll clear the courtroom. Ms. Morrone, save your objections for cross-examination. Let the witness tell me what she saw, ladies.”

Ryerson looked at me sideways, like a driver edging a slowpoke out of the fast lane. “Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Mrs. Mateer, you are positive it was Judge Hamilton you saw?”

“Absolutely. Also he was quite tall, about six feet, and of muscular build, like Judge Hamilton. It was him.”

“What did you see the defendant do next?” Ryerson asked.

“I saw him leave the carriage house and get into his car.”

“Was he running?”

“No, not running, but kind of hustling, with his head down, as if he didn’t want to be seen.”

I made a note and heard Fiske shift in his chair.

“What did the defendant do then?”

“He got into his car and backed out of the driveway. It’s rather long and curving, so you have to reverse quite a ways to get to the street.”

“So you got a good look at the car?”

“Objection,” I said.

Justice Millan smiled. “Relax, Ms. Morrone. She’s young, she can lead a little.”

Ryerson wasn’t sure whether she’d been insulted. “Mrs. Mateer, do you know what kind of car it was?”

“I do. It was a black Jaguar, a newer model.”

“How do you know it was a Jaguar?”

“I should know a Jaguar when I see one.”

There was mild laughter from the gallery, and Mrs. Mateer drew her scarf closer to her throat.

“I see,” Ryerson said. “Now, did you testify that the back end of the car was facing you as you looked out the window?”

“Yes. It had to reverse.”