The Unbidden Truth (34 page)

She went on to Greg Wenzel's testimony. “On the night of the murder, Gregory Wenzel joined friends shortly after eleven and remained with them until two in the morning. After that time he drove Ms. Thorne and her friend to their apartments. Then he entered Ms. Thorne's apartment with her, arriving there at about fifteen minutes past two. So far their two stories, Ms. Thorne's and Mr. Wenzel's, coincide. Then they deviate. According to Ms. Thorne, Greg Wenzel left before two-thirty, and she was ready for bed and turned off her light at two-thirty. According to Mr. Wenzel, he left her apartment at about three in the morning and drove straight home, arriving there at three-ten. Both stories can't be correct. Black is not white. Yes is not no. He either left before two-thirty and
arrived home forty-five minutes later, or else he left at about three and arrived home ten minutes later.”

She examined their faces one by one, then said, “If you can see no reason for Ms. Thorne to have misspoken or misread her clock, then you have to ask where Greg Wenzel was during those forty-five minutes.”

She turned away and walked a few steps, then faced the jury once more and said briskly, “From testimony we know that Gregory Wenzel had a key to an empty room across the hallway from Joe Wenzel's suite. The maid couldn't tell if anyone had entered and spent time in it. We know there was a wig bought by Mrs. Nora Wenzel, and that Gregory Wenzel saw it before the hairdresser arranged it and he pronounced it ‘neat.' We know that hairs were cut from a human head or from a wig made of human hair and left in the room where Joe Wenzel was killed. We know that Joe Wenzel lived high, that he lived in a company house, drove a company car, and for the last weeks of his life lived in a company-owned suite at the motel. He traveled first-class and stayed in first-class hotels for months each year. If you see a pattern of misstatements, events or dates that cannot be recalled exactly, conflicting testimony, you have to ask in each and every instance which person testifying might have had cause to be evasive or claim a faulty memory.”

She paused again, then said more slowly. “Also you have to ask yourselves if a mother would charge one son with looking after the other when they were both healthy and robust, starting out in life with no signs of alcoholism and with no signs of such a problem in their family history. The father of Larry and Joe Wenzel was a workingman, devoted to his church, with no drinking problem when a tragic accident took
the life of the boys' mother. When would she have made such a demand? Why would she?

“And ask if Joe Wenzel was an alcoholic. No one ever saw him pass out from drink or lose control of himself. The medical examiner said his organs were healthy with no sign of disease such as cirrhosis of the liver, which afflicts alcoholics. The medical examiner testified that Joe Wenzel had been a healthy man with a slightly oversized heart and a bit overweight. Obviously he was not a man who needed looking after.

“Two of his ex-wives testified that when he was drinking he resorted to vulgar language, but also that he had never been physically abusive.

“Why would his brother paint such a contradictory picture, label him an alcoholic who needed looking after, and one who abused women?

“These are not insignificant questions, ladies and gentlemen. These are all questions that should have been asked and answered long before an arrest was made.”

She turned to regard Carrie for a moment, smiled slightly at her, then faced the jury again.

“Carrie Frederick is not on trial because she is homeless, or because of her lifestyle. We would grant a young man the right to roam all over the country, to see as much of it as possible, and we have to grant the same right to a young woman. She has been self-reliant and independent ever since she graduated from high school with honors. She has never asked for government help in any form. An accomplished pianist, she could have settled down anywhere she chose, but she chose to see the country first.

“You heard her testify about the night of the murder, and there's nothing more she can add to it. She did not enter that
room. She did not murder Joe Wenzel, and she had no motive to do so. She has no expensive habits, she doesn't drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes, and she does not do drugs. Everything she owns fits into her car…

“When she repulsed a drunken customer's unwanted embrace, that was not an assault. That was a woman protecting herself, and when Joe Wenzel made unwanted advances, she lodged a complaint with the management.”

Barbara looked at each juror in turn finally and said, “Carrie did not murder Joe Wenzel, but someone went to great lengths to cast the blame on her. The fibers that were not from her clothing, the hairs that were not from her head, the glass with her fingerprints, all placed in the room where murder was done were acts of deliberation intended to incriminate her. After hearing the testimony presented these two weeks, if you have any doubt about her guilt, you must find her not guilty. Any reasonable doubt is sufficient to find an accused person not guilty. And in this case there is overwhelming doubt.

“Did the investigators satisfy the requirements of their task to put to an end all such doubt? I say they did not, ladies and gentlemen. She is not on trial because she is homeless, a stranger in this city, friendless and penniless, but those facts played a part in her arrest. And they played a part in the superficial investigation that was conducted. A deeper and more thorough investigation would have exonerated her because she is innocent. Thank you.”

T
hat night, after turning off the light, Barbara stood at the kitchen window gazing at fog, thinking about patterns. The winter weather had a pattern: a front moved in from the Pacific Ocean bringing storms to the coast, torrential rain to the Coast Range, rain to the valley, snow to the Cascades, and when the rain ceased, fog followed. A day or two of some sun, some clouds, then another front blew in to repeat the pattern. Indoors, warm and snug, it was easy to admire the fog, softening every sharp edge, blurring every object, shrouding every light, but she always felt chilled by it, no matter how warm the room, and she always felt threatened by it. A result, she suspected, of early conditioning through the books of Conan Doyle, or other British writers who hid menaces in the fog of moors or London.

She was thinking of the pattern trials took as well as
weather. The prosecution presented a case, the defense answered, both sides made a plea to the jury to understand and agree with their arguments, the judge instructed the jury, and then everything stopped while the jurors did whatever they did in seclusion.

They had entered the foggy period, she thought, when things were obscure and concealed and all she could do was wait, chilled and apprehensive.

For her this was one case of many that she would try, winning some, losing some, but always free to move on to the next. For Carrie it was the difference between exoneration and freedom, or many years in prison with a future forever clouded by what happened in the next day or two. It was an unsettling thought, that if she had not done enough, if she had failed, another person's life would be destroyed. She wondered if that burden was not too much to take on over and over, if gambling with another person's life was not too big a risk for one's own peace of mind.

She heard footsteps and turned to see Frank in the doorway. He came to her side. “It's hard,” he said. “You do your best but you always have to ask if it was enough, if you were up to it.”

She nodded.

“You did your best, Bobby. You did a damn fine job, and I'm very proud of you.” He put his arm around her shoulders, drew her close and kissed her cheek. “Go on to bed. Get some rest. You've earned it.”

“If we get a hung jury, I don't think any of us can stand this kind of siege for six more months waiting for a new trial,” she said.

He knew which two jurors she suspected would not agree
to acquittal. Sometimes they made up their minds almost as soon as the trial began and never budged. Sometimes there was the attitude that innocent people did not end up in a courtroom accused of criminal acts. “Let it go for the night, Bobby. You've done what you could do. No one can ask for more than that.” Except the one who stood worrying about not doing enough, he added to himself. That one could always question if he or she had done enough.

 

She had warned Carrie about how it would go: they would have to appear in court, the judge would ask the jury if they had reached a verdict, they would say no, and everyone would leave, then return at closing time to be dismissed for the day, or else be called back if the jury signaled that they were ready to deliver their verdict. A waiting game, she had said lightly. Routine.

“I talked to Sylvia last night,” she told Carrie, “and we agreed that your aunt should come and help you wait. Sylvia will send a car with her to the mall and she'll take a taxi from there to her house to pick up a few things, and then come over. We don't want anyone to connect Sylvia with our secret hideaway if we can help it.”

Carrie's face brightened. “She can have the other bed in my room. I'm so glad, Barbara. Thanks.”

Everything followed the routine Barbara had described that morning, to a point. When they left the courtroom, Frank detoured for a minute to speak to Lt. Hoggarth, who had been waiting, then rejoined them and the police escort to Bailey's SUV. Inside, underway, he said, “There are a few things for Barbara and me to attend to at the office so we'll go there, and Shelley and Carrie can go on to the house.”

“Your office or hers?” Bailey asked.

“Mine,” Frank said.

Barbara gave him a sharp look, but asked no questions. He would have told more if had wanted to.

“What's up?” she asked after Bailey deposited them at Frank's office building and they were in the elevator.

“Hoggarth,” he said. “I don't know why, but he wants to talk to you. I said I'd deliver you to neutral ground.”

“Your office? Neutral? He must be desperate if he went for that.”

Lt. Hoggarth was in the waiting room already when they entered the outer office. He stood up and followed them down the corridor toward Frank's office. When they passed the receptionist, she looked startled to see Frank, and a moment later Patsy, his secretary, stuck her head out of her own office and looked overjoyed to see him, then cast a reproachful glance at Barbara, and a disapproving look at the lieutenant. Frank waved to her, and motioned Barbara and Hoggarth to enter his own office with him.

It was an impressive office, big, with windows on two walls, another wall of glass-fronted bookshelves, comfortable seating around a coffee table on one side and his spacious desk, as clean and polished as metal, on the other. He nodded toward the coffee table and chairs, then said, “What can I do for you, Milt?”

“Not you,” Hoggarth said. “Her.” He eyed Barbara curiously, and shook his head. “Have you seen today's paper yet?”

She sat down in an upholstered chair. “Nope. What's Doonesbury up to these days?”

“You'll think Doonesbury when you get a look. The Wenzels plan to sue you to hell and gone. Slander, besmirching
their reputation, malicious lies, false accusations, God knows what all.”

Barbara grinned. “I got me a mouthpiece, dude. Let them sue.”

“Way it plays back in the office is that you practically came out and accused the kid of conspiring to kill his uncle, hiring a gun, furnishing the key to the room, the wig, everything.”

She laughed outright. “Is that right? Is that what you came to tell me, a summing up of my case and that I'm going to get sued?”

He shook his head, then sat down opposite her. “A different mission.”

“First,” she said, “tell me something. I mentioned a while back that you might want to put that bunch under surveillance. Ever get around to it?”

“You know how shorthanded we are?” he said bitterly.

“Okay. Just asking. What's your mission?”

He was poker-faced when he said, “Two guys are in town who want to talk to your client. The D.A. said he couldn't produce her, that she's under your wraps until the trial is over. He got in touch with my captain and he said that since we have a good relationship, I should approach you and arrange a meeting.”

“They want to talk to Carrie? Why? Who are they?”

“They want to talk to Carolyn Frye,” he said, still expressionless. “One's from the Mexican Federales, the other one's a homicide captain from California State Special Investigations. And I don't know a damn thing about why they want her.” He looked at Frank. “For God's sake, what's going on? I feel like a messenger running around with a stick of dynamite and I don't know why, or if the fuse is lit. How did Carolyn Frye come back to life after all those years?”

Barbara and Frank exchanged a glance and she shook her head slightly. He shrugged. “It's her show.”

“I thought it might be,” Hoggarth said, frowning at her. “What are you up to?”

She held up her hand, then stood up and walked across the office and stood with her back to Hoggarth and Frank. When she turned around again, she said, “Lieutenant, let's make a deal.”

He groaned.

She sat down again and leaned forward. “It's simple enough. Quid pro quo. Tit for tat. You want something, I want something.”

“What do you want?”

“I want Carl Laudermilch. In my office today. You can come along if you want.”

“You're nuts,” he said. “I can't get Laudermilch to come at my beck and call. FBI, remember? They're got other things to do these days.”

“No,” she said. “You're wrong. I can't get him, but you can. Just tell him what you told me and tell him it's in his interest to come see me. And as I said, you can tag along and listen in.”

His eyes were narrowed as he watched her closely, shaking his head. “What do I get except a visit to your place?”

“After I talk to Laudermilch, bring along your new friends and we'll have a long talk. You can sit in on that one, too. Otherwise, I'll see them in private. In any event, they can't see Carrie.”

“We have ways to get her,” he said.

“And we have ways of fighting you. She doesn't have to talk to anyone she doesn't want to see, and I will defend her right to refuse an interview.”

“Jesus Christ!” he said after a moment. “You want too much. No deal.”

“Then beat it. I have things to do.”

He glowered at her, looked at Frank and got no help there, and glowered at her some more. “Supposing Laudermilch is in the area, and God knows he could be in Washington, or Kuwait, or on the moon, but supposing he's around, when?”

“I don't expect the jury will bring in a verdict today, but you never can tell. Any time, the sooner the better, just so I'm free to get back to court by four-thirty or five without interrupting a conversation. Maybe Laudermilch early, that talk won't take long, and the other two right after him. You have my cell phone number. That's the only phone I'm answering these days.”

Hoggarth stood up and went to the door where he turned and said, “You keep walking back and forth across that line, but one day you're going to go too far across and find yourself without a way to get back.” He left.

“Just what the devil are you planning?” Frank asked as soon as the door closed.

“I want a passport for Carrie, and Laudermilch's going to get it for her.”

Frank shook his head. “Like the man said, you'll go too far on the wrong side of that line one of these days.”

She was already on the phone calling Bailey for a ride home.

 

They stopped at her bank where she retrieved the tape of Nora and Joe talking, just in case, she said to Frank. At the house she examined the photographs of Carrie that Sylvia had made and added them to her briefcase with two of the tape recorders and an extra cassette, and then she waited.

Hoggarth called at eleven-thirty. “Your office, twelve-thirty,” he said brusquely. “It's his lunch hour.”

“And mine,” she said. “We'll be there.”

 

Carl Laudermilch was the most elegant man Barbara had ever met. That day, wearing a gray worsted suit, discreet maroon tie, mirror-polished shoes, with his gray hair neatly trimmed, his fingernails buffed, he looked more like a high-level banker than an FBI district chief. His manners were as impeccable as his clothing. He shook hands with her and Frank, inquired about their health very politely, then sat down and crossed his legs.

“I'm afraid I don't have very much time,” he said. “As you know we are quite busy these days.”

Barbara nodded. “I understand. Sometimes, Mr. Laudermilch, with the pressure of national and even international catastrophes piling up one on another, it is too easy to overlook single individuals. But I have to call your attention to just such an individual and her particular needs at this time, and hope you can alleviate a severe problem.”

He smiled slightly, an ironic smile that acknowledged that she was playing his game along with him. “And those needs are?”

“I want a passport for Carolyn Frye, and I don't want her to have to wait for many weeks or months for it to work its way through the maze.”

“I see,” he said. “I'm afraid that's not really in my job description.”

“Mr. Laudermilch,” she said, smiling, “make it your job. Okay? You can understand my dilemma, I'm sure. If she isn't free to leave immediately after the trial, I'm very afraid that the tabloids will get to her, and maybe Larry King or someone like that. A desperately injured little girl kidnapped by the FBI, hidden away, denied access to her loving relatives, labeled insane when she insisted her name was Carolyn Frye and
not the name assigned to her by a government agency. An ugly story, but a heartbreaking one, you'll agree. Pictures of her at the age of seven. A few tears when she talks about her pain and loneliness, never knowing what happened to her parents or why she was being so cruelly punished.” She shook her head. “The FBI has come under such fire recently, such a story could only fan the flames.”

He regarded her with the same ironic smile. “The alternative?”

“She has a passport, off she goes to a distant land without giving any interviews. In time the story fades into oblivion. Fifteen minutes of fame, isn't that about the limit of the public attention span?” She stood up and found the pictures of Carrie in her briefcase and held them out toward him.

He made no motion to take them. “I'm not sure that anyone could do what you want these days.”