Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) (17 page)

He rolled his eyes as he stood for the sheriff’s deputy to cuff him. “Do you really think . . .” He broke off. “Ah, hell. I’ll do what I can.”

After lunch, a sheriff’s deputy brought in Bob Shorter and uncuffed him so he could take a seat. As you may have noticed, the ritual of cuffing and uncuffing always takes place while the jury is out of the courtroom. Seeing a man in shackles a couple of times a day is likely to prejudice a jury of his peers.

I sat silently beside my client as the courtroom filled behind us. This time I wasn’t looking through photographs or flipping through my notes. I was just sitting. Eventually I glanced at my watch. Maxwell was late.

Shorter leaned toward me. “You know why nobody likes me, don’t you?”

I rolled my head toward him and raised my eyebrows.

“It’s not because I carry an ax handle or that I look at people the wrong way. It’s because they can’t control me.”

“I thought it was because you were a nasty piece of work.”

“Come on, Starling. You’re better than that. Social conventions, religion, law . . . all of it is designed to control us, to bend us to the will of others. We reject that. We can be independent, free, completely autonomous.”

I glanced behind me, but no one seemed to be within earshot. “Are you telling me you killed Bill Hill?”

“No. You’re missing the point.”

“You’re saying you could have killed him and felt no moral compunctions about doing it.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t, though. I told you I didn’t.”

“Yes, you told me. I’m thinking we’ve been indoctrinated to tell the truth, though. That it’s one more attempt by society to control us. It doesn’t work with you, though, does it?”

“You don’t like me, do you?”

“Should I? If you want me to like you, then I’m controlling you. If I ought to like you, then you’re controlling me. Enlightened people such as ourselves reject that.”

Maxwell pushed through the rail. This time Aubrey Biggs, Richmond’s vertically challenged commonwealth’s attorney, was with him. Biggs met my gaze and smiled, an expression that made him look like the Grinch as he contemplated the evils he was planning to inflict on Whoville.

“Who’s that?” Shorter asked, and my skin prickled at the feel of his breath on my shoulder and the smell of cigarette smoke.

“Richmond’s commonwealth attorney,” I said.

“Moving in for the kill?”

“Maybe. He may have the idea I’m self-destructing, and he just wants to watch.”

“Wonder what gave him the idea you’re self-destructing.”

The jury started coming in. “Remember what I told you,” I said. “Your performance starts now.”

Once again the bailiff called the court to order. When everyone sat, Aubrey Biggs remained on his feet. Judge Cooley’s eyes fixed on him. “Mr. Biggs? To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“If it please the court, I’m joining Mr. Maxwell as ‘of counsel’ in this case.”

The judge’s mouth worked. “I can’t say that it does please me particularly, but if you must, you must.”

Someone in the jury laughed. My gaze focused on a skinny young man in a three-piece suit and several days’ growth of beard. He was still grinning, and the light from the overhead fluorescents winked from one lens of his glasses. I got my jury folder out of my briefcase and flipped it open. The juror was Andrew Hartman, age twenty-nine, logistics analyst with WestRock.

Biggs himself went to the lectern to call the prosecution’s next witness: Larkin Entwistle. Biggs had cleaned him up for the occasion. Larkin came to the stand wearing khakis and polished loafers rather than the baggy jeans stuffed into oversize, unlaced high-tops I’d last seen him in. His long bangs were combed back off his face, and his shirt was a white button-down. Overall he looked like someone a girl could take home to meet her parents.

As Larkin was swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I glanced at Maxwell, seated alone at the prosecution’s table. He gave me a shrug. Larkin stepped up into the witness box and took a seat, slouching and looking at Biggs through slitted eyes.
Hard to take the ’hood out of the boy,
I thought. Biggs moved from behind the lectern to stand next to it, honoring an adage of good showmanship: show them your body.

“Mr. Entwistle,” he said. “Could you tell us your full name?”

Larkin nodded. “Larkin Entwistle.”

“How old are you, Mr. Entwistle?”

“You can call me Larkin. Mr. Entwistle’s my old man.”

Biggs gave him a smile and a nod. “Larkin. Very well. How old are you, Larkin?”

“Seventeen.”

“Have you ever been in a courtroom before?”

Larkin shook his head.

“Witness indicates no,” Biggs said. To Larkin he said, “It’s not such a scary place, is it? I ask questions—you answer them. When we’re done, Ms. Robin Starling, the attorney for the defense, will ask you some questions. That’s all it is: question and answer, question and answer. We’re having a conversation.”

Larkin continued to sit with his head back, looking at Biggs from beneath lowered eyelids. If Biggs relaxed him any more, he was going to slide out of his chair.

Biggs smoothed his jacket against his sides. “What can you tell us about the events of Friday, March 9?” he asked Larkin. “Do you remember March 9?”

“Sure. It was the day old Mr. Shorter offed Bill Hill.”

There was a stir in the gallery and among the jurors, and Biggs looked at the judge. “We’ll strike the last part of Mr. Entwistle’s answer.”

Judge Cooley nodded. To the jury he said, “The witness has just offered an answer to the ultimate question, which it is incumbent on you to decide. You’re to disregard it.”

“Did you see Mr. Shorter that day?” Biggs asked Larkin.

“Sure did. I seen him coming out of Hill’s place.”

“That’s the house owned by William Hill, the decedent?”

“That would be the one.”

“And the man you saw coming out of that house was the defendant in this case, the man seated right there in this courtroom.” He pointed, and Larkin nodded.

Biggs said, “Your responses to my questions need to be oral so the court reporter can get them down. Can you do that for us?”

Larkin nodded again. “I got it. My response is oral. Right.”

“Very well. What time was it when you saw the defendant Robert Shorter coming out of William Hill’s house?”

“Oral,” Larkin said.

In the jury box, Andrew Hartman’s bray of laughter was immediate. Others in the courtroom were a bit slower on the uptake, but the laughter grew until Judge Cooley quelled it with a few bangs of his gavel.

“That’s enough,” the judge told the courtroom. He looked over the tops of his glasses at Larkin. “Young man,” he said, and he waited until Larkin looked up at him. “I see you have a sense of humor. Very good, but this is not the place for it.”

“Sorry, Judge.”

“You may call me ‘Your Honor.’”

Larkin gave a nod. “Sorry, Your Honor. He just set it up so nice, you know?”

Judge Cooley’s mouth stretched, but it was more an expression of distaste than a smile. “Just respond to the questions out loud rather than with head shakes and nods. Do you understand?”

Larkin nodded.

“Out loud, Mr. Larkin.”

“I can do that.”

With a glance at the jury box, Biggs asked again, “What time did you see Robert Shorter coming out of William Hill’s house?”

“It musta been four o’clock or maybe a little before. I’d just got back from school.”

“That’s the Armstrong High School?”

Larkin started to nod, stopped himself, and said, “Yes. Armstrong High School.”

“Do you take the bus to and from school?”

“Every day.”

“Where is the bus stop in relation to William Hill’s house?”

“Down the street maybe half a block.”

“You got off the bus and were walking home when you saw Robert Shorter?”

“That’s right.”

“Could you describe him for us?”

“He looked just like that old man sitting right there.” Larkin pointed at Shorter.

Another wave of laughter swept the courtroom, and this time the judge didn’t try to stop it. Biggs, getting red in the face, took a breath and exhaled it slowly as the laughter faded.

“Did he look just like he looks now? Was he wearing the same clothes, for instance?”

“Oh, do you mean was he covered with blood?”

“Was he?”

“Yeah, he had blood on him, on his pants and one sleeve of his shirt, I think.”

“Where did you see him in relation to William Hill’s house?”

“Coming out, like I said. He come out, and he walked to the street and turned toward his own house.”

“Was he carrying anything? Anything in his hands?”

“Just that old ax handle he always carries.”

Biggs looked at me, then back at the witness. “Have you ever had occasion to talk to Ms. Starling, the defendant’s attorney?”

“Sure.”

“Tell us about that occasion, please.”

“I told her just what I’m telling you about seeing Mr. Shorter.” Larkin moistened his lips with his tongue. “She told me not to tell anyone.”

“Counsel for the defense said this? Not to tell anyone?”

Larkin nodded. “Don’t tell anyone or else.”

“She said, ‘Or else’? Or else what?”

Larkin shrugged. “Or else nothing.”

“She didn’t threaten you more specifically?”

I stood. “Objection. Counsel is leading the witness.”

Biggs looked at me as if I were a species of vermin.

“Sustained,” Judge Cooley said.

Larkin said, “Oh, you mean like with the ax handle?”

“Did she threaten you with an ax handle?” Biggs asked.

“Sure did.” Emphatic nod. “She had old Mr. Shorter’s equalizer that day, and she was waving it around like a crazy woman, knocking everybody down and stuff. ‘You talk to the police, and I be bustin’ some heads,’ she said. ‘You talk to
anyone
about this, and I be bustin’ heads.’”

Biggs went to his table and extracted some eight-by-ten photographs from a folder. He held them up. “May I?” he asked the judge.

Cooley nodded his assent, and Biggs brought one of the photographs to my table and took another to the judge. The third photograph he held out to the witness. As I looked at my own copy, which showed me standing over Larkin’s friend Warren with the ax handle, I smelled Shorter’s tobacco breath and felt him looking over my shoulder. I didn’t look at him.

Biggs said, “Can you identify this photograph?”

“Sure can. It’s a picture of Mr. Shorter’s lawyer there beating my friend Warren with that ax handle I told you about.”

“Objection,” I said, half standing and trying to sound bored. “Relevance.”

“Does the photograph fairly represent what was happening on the occasion of your meeting with Ms. Starling?” Biggs asked his witness.

“Your Honor, that question is misconduct,” I said. “He is trying to get this testimony before the jury without giving the court the opportunity to rule on my objection.”

The judge held his hand toward Larkin Entwistle, his palm out, but he was looking at me. “Approach the bench, both of you.”

We went forward and stood looking up. The court reporter moved closer, as well, pushing the bench-conference button to trigger the white noise.

“Mr. Biggs, what is the relevance of this photograph?”

“It shows that the defendant has been trying, through his attorney, to suppress evidence against him.”

“That would be a very serious matter, and certainly relevant to these proceedings,” Judge Cooley told me.

“It would be if it were true, but Mr. Biggs has presented no evidence that Bob Shorter orchestrated the events the witness has just related or that he even knew about them before this moment.”

“It may well show that counsel has made herself an accessory after the fact to the crime of murder,” Biggs said.

“I am not on trial.”

“Yet,” Biggs said.

“I am not on trial yet,” I amended. “When I am, we can come back to the question of the relevance of this photograph.”

Judge Cooley fixed his gaze on Biggs. “Do you have evidence linking the defendant to these events, Mr. Big?”

“Biggs, Your Honor. No. Not at this time.”

“Then this line of inquiry is over,” Judge Cooley said.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I said.

The judge gave me a baleful look, but Biggs was more entertaining. His neck swelled up, his face reddened, and his nostrils flared.

“Do you understand me, Mr. Big?” Judge Cooley said.

“Biggs, Your Honor. I understand you.” Despite the circumstances, I felt a surge of something very like joy. It was moments like this that made me love trial work.

“Very well.” Judge Cooley nodded to the court reporter, who turned off the white noise and moved back to his seat near the witness stand.

“Mr. Big, you may continue.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.” He looked at me, and his mouth twisted as if he smelled something sour. “Your witness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bigness.” Feeling unaccountably lighthearted, I went to the lectern. “Hi, Larkin.”

Larkin smirked at me.

“I guess the last time I saw you was when I found you and your friends all over the hood of my car. You and Warren and . . . who was your other buddy?”

Biggs sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, the court has ruled this line of inquiry irrelevant. To proceed with it in light of that ruling is misconduct.”

Judge Cooley looked at me over the top of his glasses, fixing me with his gaze. “Counsel would seem to have a point, Ms. Sterling.”

I was enjoying myself too much to correct the mispronunciation of my name. “Could we ask the court reporter to read back the last question Mr. Biggs asked his witness, along with the response to that question?”

The judge looked at his court reporter. “Mr. Yielding?

Mr. Yielding, a middle-aged man with thick, iron-gray hair, peered at the display of his paperless stenograph machine as he scrolled back through the testimony. He said, “Mr. Biggs: Can you identify this photograph? Witness: Sure can. It’s a picture of Mr. Shorter’s lawyer there beating my friend Warren with that ax handle I told you about.”

“That’s in the record on direct,” I said. “Since Mr. Biggs elicited testimony about one part of the encounter, I’m entitled to go into all of it on cross-examination.”