Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 02 - FINAL ARGUMENT - a Legal Thriller (45 page)

A blotch of color appeared on her pale cheek. “An urn crashed on the patio,” she said. “We heard the noise of its breaking. Solomon got up from the backgammon table—”

“Mrs. Zide, stop.” I wanted to be casual at this stage, but I had to control her. “Just answer my questions. Don’t volunteer information. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I thought…” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to be friendly, to defuse me.

“So the first thing that alerted you to the presence of burglars was the sound of an urn breaking, is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Didn’t you have what you once referred to as ‘a state-of-the-art security system’?”

She offered a rueful smile. “We thought we did.”

“Didn’t that security system include a number of spotlights called First Alert, which would snap on if anyone broke the path of their ultraviolet beams?”

“I’m not sure what they were called. But yes, that’s what was supposed to happen.”

“It didn’t happen? None of the lights went on to alert you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When Darryl Morgan and William Smith entered your property in the dead of night, you’re telling us they didn’t break any of those First Alert beams? Didn’t trigger
any
of the spotlights?”

“Objection,” Muriel called, rising. “Calls for speculation. She doesn’t know if Morgan and Smith broke any of the beams or not. All she remembers is that the lights didn’t go on, and she’s said so.”

“Objection sustained,” said the judge.

I could see that Connie was feeling confident again. This was all polite, friendly, and bearable. Muriel was protecting her.

“Do you recall, Mrs. Zide, when your son took the stand here on Monday, that I read aloud some of his testimony from the trial thirteen years ago?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Do you recall what he said in response to my asking him: ‘Did you see the intruders clearly?’ “

“Not really.”

“You don’t recall his saying”—once again I read from the transcript in my hand—” ‘the spotlights on the lawn had finally been triggered, I assume by these two men’? Didn’t you hear that, Mrs. Zide?”

“I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that you
did
see the lights go on outside —while your husband was still alive—and that you then went outside on the terrace in your bathrobe?”

“Objection! Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.”

I pointed my finger at Connie like a pistol. “And that’s also about the time, isn’t it, that you heard the Lhasa apso puppies barking?”

“Objection!” Muriel was still on her feet. “There’s no predicate for any barking Lhasa apso puppies.”

A murmur of laughter flowed through the courtroom.

“Objection sustained.”

“And therefore, Mrs. Zide,” I said, with as much righteous anger and conviction as I dared—since it was all speculation—”you got up from the backgammon table and went outside
before
any shots were fired?”

“Objection!”

“On what grounds, Ms. Suarez?” the judge asked.

“Argumentative, and when he says ‘therefore’ he’s assuming a fact not in evidence.”

“I don’t think so. Overruled. She can answer yes or no.”

A couple for you, and now one for you, the judge seemed to be saying to Muriel and me. No prejudice in
my
court. He smiled benevolently at Connie.

“No,” Connie said to me. “Whatever you say happened, that didn’t happen.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that you came outside in your bathrobe and saw Darryl Morgan on the lawn or on the terrace?”

Connie waited for Muriel’s objection, but none came. Muriel played by the rules. I didn’t intend to do that. I had more at stake than Muriel had.

“No, it’s not a fact,” Connie said.

“You didn’t see Darryl Morgan?”

“I saw two men. I didn’t know then that one of them was Darryl Morgan.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you saw the other intruder, William Smith, kick one of the puppies as he ran away toward the beach?”

“No,” Connie said. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Are you telling us that a puppy wasn’t taken to the vet later that morning by one of your servants, a woman named Martina Vargas?”

Terence had told me about this, but Martina was long vanished to her native León, and Gary hadn’t been able to find her. And when Terence was on the stand, I’d forgotten to ask him about it. I was tired; I’d managed about an hour’s sleep on the plane from Newark. There was nothing I could do now except try and jam it through.

But Connie couldn’t afford to lie blatantly; she didn’t know what other pieces of paper I might pull out of my conjuror’s hat.

“I’m not sure,” she said, placing her hands protectively across her breasts. “It’s hard to remember.”

“Try, Mrs. Zide.”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did the puppy live?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So you remember
that.
Were any of its ribs broken?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Any of its legs?”

“I don’t know.”

“Either of its shoulders?”

“Objection!” Muriel tried. “Badgering the witness!”

“Overruled,” the judge said. “He’s just asking questions.”

“Mrs. Zide,” I continued, “what’s the name of the vet who takes care of your dogs?”

Her scalp was rivering perspiration over her forehead, causing her to rub both palms over her eyes. She didn’t know if I knew the name of the vet or not. If I knew, I might have checked with him.

“Dr. Merrill,” she said. “I remember now. Harry Merrill. He’s still my vet. I have a black Labrador now, and two golden retrievers. One of the puppies was hurt that night. Broken leg, I seem to recall. Yes, he was probably kicked by one of the men when they ran away. How foolish of me not to remember it.”

It was a small point, but it loomed large. She had lied about the pistol and now about the kicked puppy. She could have admitted the story of the puppy at the very beginning and then could have disclaimed having seen what happened. It wouldn’t have hurt her at all. But she didn’t know what I knew or didn’t know. Didn’t know where each lie would lead. Didn’t know what was coming next. She and Neil had woven a tangled web; now it was coming undone. She hadn’t been in any real danger, but she had let herself stumble and appear counterfeit. She looked beseechingly at Muriel, but there was nothing Muriel could do … and maybe by then, for all I knew, nothing Muriel really wanted to do.

Connie looked quickly up at Judge Fleming. He was studying her with great curiosity.

I rose from the counsel table and moved two steps closer to the witness stand. I wasn’t in Connie’s territory, but I must have loomed larger to her, as if suddenly she’d trained a telescopic sight on me. But she was not the hunter, and I was not the hunted. And she could see the look in my eyes. There was none of the mercy she was looking for. Pity was there, but no mercy.

The courtroom was completely silent. No one coughed.

“Mrs. Zide,” I asked, “what happened to the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight Chief Special you carried in your handbag fourteen years ago?”

“The what?” She seemed confused. “You keep changing the subject, Ted.”

I knew that.

“Your pistol, Mrs. Zide. You told us about it earlier, don’t you remember? I ask you: What happened to it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still carry it?”

“No.”

“Do you still own it?”

“No.”

“Do you carry another pistol?”

She hesitated. “Yes. This is a dangerous city. I have a permit.”

“What kind of pistol do you carry now?”

“It’s called a Llama. An automatic.”

“What’s the caliber?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How about a thirty-two? Does that sound right?”

I knew the Llama Blackhawk; it was a woman’s gun. Muriel carried one too.

“Yes. It may be a thirty-two.”

“You carry it for protection?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You threw the Smith and Wesson thirty-eight away?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Neil threw it away?”

“Neil did what?”

“I’m asking
you,
Mrs. Zide. Did Neil throw it away?”

“I don’t know.”

“If Neil didn’t throw it away, what happened to it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It just vanished? Disappeared?”

“I think so.”

“Soon after the death of your husband?”

“I think so. I mean, no. I don’t remember.”

“Didn’t it vanish the night your husband died? Didn’t Neil throw it in the ocean, or the Intracoastal?”

“If she knows.” From behind me I heard Muriel speak quietly, dutifully.

“Yes, excuse me, Mrs. Zide. If you know.”

“I don’t know.”

“Neil didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot your husband, Mrs. Zide?”

“No, I didn’t, I swear that to you.”

“But on the night of December 5, in the early morning,
someone
fired your pistol, your Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, isn’t that so?”

She didn’t answer. Her lips twisted into a skeletal grimace. She had been licking them constantly, and the lipstick was gone, so that they seemed colorless. Her blue-green eyes had sunk deep into their sockets.

“Your husband was in a rage that night, wasn’t he, Mrs. Zide?”

She nodded her head up and down, slowly.

“He was angry at me, yes.”

“After the party?”

“Yes, after the party. You were there.”

“I was at the party, I wasn’t there afterward. Your husband took your pistol out of your handbag and fired it once, didn’t he?”

“No.”

“And the bullet lodged in the Swedish oak paneling on the far side of the living room from the terrace, isn’t that so?”

“No, not so.”

There was a half-smile on her bloodless lips and a cunning look in her eyes that at first I couldn’t define. But it slowly resolved itself into an expression of superiority. Then I understood. She knew something I didn’t know, and she was reveling in it.

“There in the living room, Mrs. Zide, after the party, Solly was in a rage?”

“Yes.”

“At you?”

“Yes.”

“And he screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“He frightened you?”

“Yes.”

“And then Neil came home?”

Her eyes grew stony, darker. “I don’t remember.”

“You testified under oath, at the trial, that Neil came home from a party while you and Solly were playing backgammon after the musicale. Do you remember that now?”

“Yes.”

“Was Neil drunk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“High on drugs?”

“I don’t know.”

“Solly was screaming at you when Neil came home?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it a fact, Mrs. Zide, that before any shots were fired from your pistol, you heard the puppies barking, and you went outside and surprised two black men on the lawn, and they ran away?”

“Objection. Asked and answered,” I heard Muriel say, but without the vigor of a short time ago.

“Withdrawn,” I said. “And when you came back into the living room, the argument with Solly grew worse?”

“I don’t remember.”

I had it now. “And
you
took your pistol out of your handbag, Mrs. Zide, and you fired a shot over his head, into the woodwork, as a warning?”

“No.” But that look of cunning fled her face. She would have made a poor poker player.

“And then Solly broke a bottle and cut you in the face, didn’t he?”

“No.” The cunning look returned.

“And you shot him, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“He was on the terrace, and you were just inside the living room, isn’t that a fact?”

“No.”

“You shot at him three times. One shot missed and went outside —the other two struck him and killed him. Isn’t that what happened, Mrs. Zide?”

“No,” she said, and the cunning look didn’t fade. Because, I realized now, that
wasn’t
what had happened. My mind swerved from one possibility to another. If Solly hadn’t cut her, who had? Not Neil. I believed the worst of Neil, but not that.

“And then,” I said, “Neil took over, didn’t he?”

“Took over?” Connie looked frightened, paler than before. “No, he didn’t take over. Took over what?”

“You were hurt and couldn’t think, so Neil took over and arranged matters, isn’t that so?”

“Asked and answered,” Muriel said.

“Strike the question,” I said. “Neil made a telephone call to the home of Victor Gambrel, chief of security at Zide Industries, didn’t he?”

“No, not then.”

“Then who did call Victor Gambrel?”

“Neil did, of course,” she said, confused. “I’m sorry.”

“Victor Gambrel lived close by, in Ponte Vedra, didn’t he?”

“He may have. I don’t remember.”

“And Victor Gambrel arrived before the police did, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, I think so. Does that matter?”

“Victor Gambrel helped Neil move your husband’s body so that it looked as if he’d been shot by someone standing
outside,
isn’t that so?”

Again, from behind me, Muriel said, “If she knows.”

“Yes,” I said,
“if
you know.”

“I do know. The answer is no. That didn’t happen.”

“Victor Gambrel helped you and Neil work out the story you needed to tell the police, didn’t he?”

“No. There was no story we needed to tell.”

“You decided to blame the murder of your husband on the two black men who’d bungled the burglary of your house, isn’t that so?”

“No, I didn’t do that.”

“When you saw Darryl Morgan outside the house that night, you didn’t recognize him as a man in your employ, isn’t that so?”

“That’s true. Yes, that’s so.”

“Neil deliberately gave to the police a vague description of the two men, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t know who they were
—you
hadn’t seen them clearly, and Neil hadn’t seen them
at all.
Isn’t that correct?”

“I don’t know,” she said, as if by rote.

“And that’s why no one described Darryl Morgan as tall, or big, until
after
he was arrested, isn’t that correct, Mrs. Zide?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then, that night, after you’d cooked up your story, Neil called the Jacksonville Beach police, a good twenty minutes after Victor Gambrel had arrived, and Gambrel called his friend Floyd Nickerson at JSO Homicide. Isn’t that what happened?
If
you know.”