Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 03 - THE SPRING -- a Legal Thriller (18 page)

Dennis paused. He didn’t want to go too quickly. He wanted the judge to absorb the facts, sort them out, and hang on to them. He had heard that the judge had a thoughtful, somber demeanor, but for the most part it cloaked a slowness of perception.

Judge Florian nodded at Ray Bond. “And what say you to that, Ray, on behalf of the People?”

Ray?
Dennis felt a twinge of dismay. Aspen was a sophisticated and overpriced part of the world, but it was still a small town. The legal community had done business together for years, broken bread together at Men’s Club luncheons, waved to one another on chairlifts, cheered in unison at high school hockey games. Dennis wondered if he was being put in his place—and being so informed—by virtue of his being a newcomer. As for the Hendersons, it also bore in on him that they too might be looked on as foreigners; indeed, the local good-humored expression was
downvalley dirtbags.
How much was jest and how much was evidence of that class structure which Americans so vigorously denied and so religiously practiced? Springhill—remote, insular, supposedly unfriendly—might even be in a worse category than merely
dowmvalley.

Ray Bond stepped forward, blue eyes aglow with pleasure—a man who loved his work. To complement his no-nonsense blue serge business suit, the deputy district attorney wore black elephant-hide boots with pointed toes. After Vietnam, Dennis had gone through a boot period, and he knew that those elephant-hide boots on Bond’s feet had cost the prosecutor in the neighborhood of $1,000.

The heels clicked like gunshots as Bond strode across the courtroom’s parquet floor. “If it please the court,” Bond said, “I’d like to explain to defense counsel the way I see the nature of what he calls ‘flimsy circumstantial evidence.’ “

The judge nodded his approval. Bond swiveled his narrow hips and turned his attention to Dennis. “This is a true story, sir. I’m sitting in my living room one Sunday and I hear a crash outside in the street, where my green Ford Explorer is parked by the curb. My wife and I run out and there’s a brand-new big dent in the fender of the Ford, with a red streak. And about fifty yards down the road, at the end of a trail of antifreeze, there’s this old red Chevy pickup that’s run up on someone’s lawn at a cockeyed angle. We can hear that the guy behind the wheel is trying to get his engine started. And his front bumper has a big streak of green paint that matches the color of my Ford Explorer.”

Ray Bond faced Judge Florian. “Your Honor, I didn’t see him sideswipe my car. And no one else in the neighborhood saw it. I have only circumstantial evidence to go on, plus common sense. What does common sense tell me? The only intelligent explanation—and I’ll bet my paycheck that counsel for the defense, even though he probably never saw a Chevy pickup until he moved here from New York, will agree with me—is that the guy in the Chevy hit my Explorer. If I had to I could have made a case out of that and won it hands down. Just like I can make a case out of what we’ve got against Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. And if we can get an impartial jury of Colorado folk with a minimum of common sense, which shouldn’t be difficult, I believe I can win.”

Dennis had already guessed that this speech was one that Ray Bond made time and time again to the judge and to various juries. Before this trial’s over, he decided—if there’s going to be a trial—this man’s going to make me puke. I just hope that when I do it he’s close enough so I don’t miss his boots.

Dennis stood again. “Your Honor—”

Judge Florian raised a pale hand. “I heard you out, Mr. Conway, and I heard Mr. Bond. Anyway, the evidence isn’t all circumstantial. Isn’t there the matter of the confession? You don’t call that ‘circumstantial,’ do you?”

Dennis took a copy of Queenie O’Hare’s report from his briefcase. He arched his back a little, so that the vertebrae crackled. As firmly as he could without risking judicial wrath, he said, “Your Honor, I’ve studied the document you refer to. I’m obliged to point out to the court that it is not a confession. That word has a specific meaning and this report does not qualify. It’s a report of a conversation in a moving vehicle in which, allegedly, Mrs. Henderson makes several statements about—I quote—’what we did up there at Pearl Pass.’ Judge,”—Dennis raised the pages between two fingers, far from his face and equally far from the judge’s bench, as if they were contaminated—”please read carefully. Is there anything that Deputy O’Hare claims my client said about what she did, specifically, up at Pearl Pass? No, there is not. The deputy leaves that out, because Mrs. Henderson made no such admission or confession. What she said barely rises to the level of vague reminiscence.”

Dennis waited, mustering as grave an expression on his face as he was capable of.

“Anything more?” the judge asked.

“No sir.”

Judge Florian said, “I’ll let a jury decide about that matter. I’m the judge of the law—the jury is the judge of the facts. I’m going to tell them that. Let them decide if it’s a confession, or an admission, or a reminiscence, as you put it, or even a daydream of this charming deputy, Ms. O’Hare. Mr. Conway, I’m going to deny your motion to dismiss the charge. The information has merit. This court accepts it. So let’s move along.”

Dennis absorbed the blow. He looked at Bibsy, who seemed calm. Sophie, in the rear of the courtroom, had gone pale.

“Did you come here prepared to plead?” Judge Florian asked Dennis. “And if so, how does your client plead?”

“Not guilty,” Dennis said.

“And you, sir?” The judge looked down at Scott Henderson, who stood tall in his old, well-cut, wide-lapelled gray flannel suit, looking like a contemporary Moses.

“Not guilty,” Scott said.

“Then we’ll try these two cases together. Anyone object to that? If so, I’ll hear argument.” The judge looked from one lawyer to another.

“The People don’t object,” Bond said.

“I don’t either,” Scott said.

Dennis knew there was no hope to ask for a severance. Under other circumstances he might have battled to separate the two defendants, on the theory that he didn’t want to be burdened by what Scott might have done at Pearl Pass or might say in court. But these were his wife’s parents: it was nearly impossible to separate them in terms of his feelings, or to let one of them suffer a fate different from the other’s. And it certainly would be more efficient and less painful to try them together.

“Mrs. Henderson does not object,” he said.

“The defendants will stand trial together. We come to the matter of bond. Ray?”

The prosecutor said, “Judge, this is first-degree murder. The People don’t believe that bail is proper in such cases. There’s plenty of precedent and I won’t insult your knowledge of the law by quoting it to you. We request no bail for either defendant.”

“Mr. Dennis Conway?”

Progress, Dennis realized. First I was “Mr. Conway,” and now I’m “Mr. Dennis Conway.” After twenty years of practice here and fifty more lunches at the Ritz-Carlton, I might be just plain “Dennis.”

“These defendants,” he said, “are long-term citizens of the community. They have absolutely no criminal record. All their property is in nextdoor Gunnison County. Their family is here. They’re taxpayers. They’re not young. It’s not their habit to travel. On behalf of Mrs. Henderson, a registered nurse who served her township for nearly forty years before retirement, I ask for bail on her own recognizance. And Mr. Henderson—a lawyer, an officer of this court—joins me in that request on behalf of himself.”

The judge made an effort to convince the lawyers that he was considering the request. The truth was that he had made up his mind on all these matters days ago, in chambers, while munching an apple and drinking a Sprite for his afternoon snack, and nothing short of startling new evidence would have forced him to change his intentions.

“Mr. Ray Bond,” he said, “I have to tell you the presumption of guilt in this case is not great. It’s there, but it’s not overwhelming. And there is definitely a great deal of circumstantial evidence alongside that reported confession. Mr. Scott Henderson was arrested on what I’d call bare probable cause. Mr. Dennis Conway’s comments about the nature of Mrs. Beatrice Henderson’s alleged confession have some merit. So, no, I am not going to pen these people up until the day of trial.”

He turned to Dennis. “But I can’t let them just wander around under their own recognizance, sir. There’s no precedent for that in a first-degree murder case. These folks will have to post bond of $250,000 each. They own property up in Springhill, and everything’s sky high these days, so that should make no problem. You can work out the details with my clerk. Now, as to the matter of the trial date …”

Scott Henderson stood. “Your Honor,” he said in his deep, lawyerly voice, “under the Colorado speedy trial statute, I’m allowed to request trial within ninety days. I so request. I’ll be ready in ninety days, and I’m sure Mr. Conway will be ready on behalf of my wife.”

Color drained from what could be seen of Dennis’s cheeks under his beard. This matter of speedy trial had not been discussed.

The judge’s voice was surprisingly soft. “Yes, Mr. Henderson, it’s your right under the law. You’re correct about that. But…” His voice trailed off. He muttered something under his breath. Then his brow furrowed.

“Ray, what do the People say?”

“It’s not convenient, Your Honor,” Ray Bond blurted. “We’re talking about a crime scene that’s under ten feet of snow! No one can get up into that Pearl Pass quadrant to gather evidence until June at the earliest-—maybe not even until July. And if there’s a heavy spring snowfall, not until August. Your Honor, a speedy trial would not be fair!”

“But it’s their right under the law, Ray,” Judge Florian pointed out.

“It doesn’t serve the interest of justice, Your Honor. It would contradict the purpose of the statute.”

“The statute doesn’t say anything about melting snow. You can look till the cows come home, but you still won’t find that clause. It just says that a defendant has the right to trial within ninety days of indictment, if he or she requests it. You knew that, Ray. It would have been smarter to hold off on the indictment until May—but you didn’t do that. So I have to grant the motion.”

Clucking his tongue, the judge consulted a calendar, while Ray Bond silently fumed.

“Trial date will be Monday, April tenth, upcoming. Nine A.M. in the morning to pick a jury. Suit you, Scott Henderson?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Scott said.

“Anyone can’t make it?”

No one spoke.

“You think you all might come to some kind of understanding,” the judge inquired in his most winning manner—he almost, but not quite, managed to smile—”before that date?”

He meant: will you cut a deal? Will you crank up a plea? Will you save me a lot of decision-making?

“It’s a heinous and brutal crime,” Ray Bond said, “but the People are willing to negotiate.”

“My client will not plea-bargain,” Dennis shot back. He took Bibsy’s hand. “She’s not guilty of any wrongdoing.”

It was the obligation of both prosecutor and defense attorney to attack and defend with full arsenals of weaponry. From these warring polarities a hoped-for vision of facts—even truth—might emerge. The outcome was not a pure ingredient, but a soup that resulted from the mixing of sour and sweet, black and white, thesis and antithesis, accusation and defense. Did it taste good? That was not necessarily the point. It had to be digestible.

“Mr. Henderson?”

Scott said, “My client also doesn’t choose to negotiate.”

The judge’s thin cheeks crumpled like much-folded sheets of gray paper. “In that case, let’s all be here on April tenth.”

Chapter 16
Connecting the Dots

IN DENNIS’S OFFICE, the sheriff gazed up at the smooth ascent of the gondola toward the top of Aspen Mountain. “Nice view,” he said.

“If you had this view,” Dennis observed, “law enforcement in Pitkin County could grind to a total halt.”

“I know how to delegate.”

“Did you come to talk about the view?”

“Your client’s in the clear with the potassium,” Josh said. “Never put in any request for any lethal drugs in the last five years. Not the Versed either, or the Pentothal.”

“I could have told you that.”

“I don’t doubt it. I always tell people you’re a Dartmouth man—a little closemouthed, but not dumb. You know a doctor in your neck of the woods named Pendergast?”

“Sure.”

“She the only doctor up there?”

“It’s a town of three hundred and fifty people, Josh. Two doctors would starve. Two lawyers, on the other hand, might drum up a nice little trade.”

“Your Dr. Pendergast gets her drugs through a medical supply house over in Grand Junction. Hang on, I want to make sure I’ve got these figures right.” The sheriff consulted his notebook. “In the past five years, in Grand Junction, Dr. Pendergast ordered about a hundred and fifteen vials of twenty microequivalents of potassium chloride. You remember what Jeff told us? Takes ten vials to kill someone.”

“It’s used for lifesaving reasons too,” Dennis reminded him. But he wondered who in Springhill was that ill. He knew of no one.

“That’s what I like about you,” Josh said. “You always look on the bright side of things. Think it over. If you have any brilliant conclusions to share with me, you know where I live.”

Dennis called on Grace Pendergast early the next morning. She had a small office in a blue wood frame building next to the bank in Springhill. He relayed the sheriff’s discovery.

“They already contacted me about that,” Grace said. “I have a patient with a chronic and dangerous potassium imbalance. An older woman. A neighbor of yours who doesn’t care to air her troubles in the usual circles of gossip. You can figure out who it is.”

“Did you tell that to the sheriff?”

“To his deputy, a woman named O’Hare. But I didn’t give her the name of the patient. I can’t do that.”

“You could have, but you chose not to.”

Dennis had come about another matter too. “You have patients’ records, Grace, including those of Henry and Susan Lovell. I realize that under ordinary circumstances they contain privileged information. Your patients are deceased—those records could be subpoenaed. Or you could give them up voluntarily. I’m Bibsy’s attorney, not the law. If you showed the medical records to me, you wouldn’t at all be infringing on the rights of two dead persons.”