The Unbidden Truth (29 page)

 

After the recess Barbara called Gloria Love to the stand. She was in her thirties, with a pixie face and masses of dark curly hair down over her shoulders that tended to make her face seem even smaller. She owned and operated a beauty salon in south Eugene.

“Ms. Love, do you ever arrange wigs for your customers?” Barbara asked after Gloria had given preliminary information about herself.

“Yes, often.”

“Did you ever arrange hair on a wig similar to this one?” Barbara retrieved the wig from the exhibit table and handed it to her.

“Yes. It looked just like this one.”

“Did it have a serial number in it the way that one does?”

Gloria examined the wig again and found the number. “I couldn't see a number in the other one,” she said. “It had been covered over with a permanent laundry marker or something.”

“It wasn't cut out?”

“No. You can't cut them out without damaging the lining. It was just blacked out.”

Barbara took the wig back, then asked, “Will you please tell the court about that incident?”

“Well, this customer brought it in with a picture of how she wanted it to look, and I washed it and styled it for her. That's all.”

“I see,” Barbara said. “Do you recall when that occurred?”

“Yes. In September, the last day or two of the month. I forget the exact date.”

“Did you happen to take pictures of the wig you styled?”

“Yes.”

Barbara returned to her table and Shelley handed her two photographs. The wig was positioned on a closely woven wire mesh frame, a front and back view of the Cleopatra hairstyle. “Are those your photographs?”

She looked them over, then said yes.

“Did you take any pictures before you styled the wig?”

“No. Later I wished I had, but I didn't think of it in time.”

The photographs were entered as exhibits.

“Are you certain the wig you styled was like this one?” Barbara asked then. She held up the wig and Gloria said yes, exactly like that.

“What was the name of the customer?”

“Mrs. Nora Wenzel,” Gloria said without hesitation.

“Is she a regular customer?”

“Yes, she comes in once a week.”

Barbara turned to Mahoney. “Your witness.” Several rows behind him Luther Wenzel was writing furiously in a notebook. And behind him a reporter slipped from the courtroom.

“Ms. Love,” Mahoney said, “if you had ten wigs that all had black human hair could you positively say which two were identical?”

“You mean if they all were alike?” she asked.

Barbara suppressed a smile. Good question, she thought.

“Let me rephrase,” Mahoney said. “How can you, months
later, say that a wig you saw then is identical to one you're seeing today?”

“If I were just seeing it, probably I couldn't. But if I handled it, I probably could.”

“All you can say is that both wigs had black straight hair. Isn't that correct?”

“Objection,” Barbara said. “Leading question.”

“Sustained.”

Mahoney kept at it until he got her to admit that without having both wigs side by side to examine she was relying on her memory of one to say they were the same.

When she did her redirect examination Barbara asked, “What else do you rely on to compare two wigs, besides their outward appearance?”

“The quality of the hair, the workmanship of the wig, the quality of the lining.”

“Do you remember those characteristics of the wig you styled in September?”

“Yes.”

“What made them stick in your memory?”

“I never worked on a wig of such high quality before. It was the most expensive wig I ever handled.”

“Is the wig we have here in court comparable in those respects to the one you styled?”

“Yes, in every way.”

 

Barbara called Simon Ulrich next. He was fifty, stockily built, a freelance photographer whose photo essays sometimes appeared in local, state and even national publications.

“Mr. Ulrich, on Halloween night this year did you have an engagement to make photographs?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Please tell the court what that occasion was.”

“I was hired to do a photo shoot at a masquerade party.”

He gave the details of Sylvia's party and its purpose to raise money for the homeless. Barbara brought out the pictures of Nora Wenzel in her Cleopatra outfit with the wig on, and he identified them as his work.

“Did you ever photograph any other member of the Wenzel family?”

“Yes.”

“Please describe that occasion,” she said, expecting Mahoney to object, which he did. She assured the judge that she would connect it to the case and the objection was overruled.

“I was out on the Rogue River doing a photo shoot,” Ulrich said. “I heard about a group of businessmen who were out there fishing, and I decided to get some shots. I had an idea for a photo essay about how high-pressured businesspeople relax and I thought that would work in. So I took a couple dozen shots of the men, and the group included Mr. Larry Wenzel.”

Barbara showed him two pictures of the men, some of them holding fish. They were all wearing slickers and several faces were indistinct, or shadowed by rain hats. Ulrich identified the pictures as his, and explained how his stamp and numbers on the backs of them helped keep the sequence in order. He identified a release form the men had signed allowing permission for him to use the pictures. Larry Wenzel's name was on the form along with half a dozen other prominent local men.

She found the exhibit of Larry Wenzel that had been entered earlier and handed it to Ulrich. “Is that a picture from that series?” she asked him.

He said it was. “That was number nine of the series,” he said.

Mahoney was on his feet yelling, “Objection!”

Laughton motioned him and Barbara forward.

“She's been deceiving the court, lying to a witness, deceiving the jury,” Mahoney said, almost incoherently. “I move that that picture and everything connected to it be stricken.”

“I haven't lied to anyone,” Barbara said.

“We'll talk about this in chambers,” Laughton said, tight-lipped, and clearly as angry as Mahoney.

When Barbara returned to her table she mouthed to Frank: “Chambers,” and he winked at her. A recess was called, the judge stalked from the room and the jurors were led out. Instantly the bailiff collected Barbara and Mahoney to take them back to Judge Laughton's inner sanctum.

“Explain this fiasco,” the judge ordered as Barbara and Mahoney stood before his desk.

“She misled the jury, pretending that picture was Joe Wenzel when she knew damn well it wasn't. That's cause for a hearing, for sanctions, maybe disbarment.”

As Mahoney's anger mounted, his voice became shriller. Barbara crossed her arms and did not try to interrupt as he continued, but gazed at the wall behind the judge.

“She's been playing tricks on this court from the start. She knows Wenzel is out of it and she keeps trying to drag him in—”

“Jason, zip it!” Laughton snapped.

He looked at Barbara. “Well?”

“Neither of those women really saw the man they waited on that day,” she said calmly. “Both of them doubted his signature, and both of them said he didn't look like his photo ID. What they saw was a filthy, disreputable-looking man who
was unshaved and smelled of alcohol. I never said that picture was Joe Wenzel. I asked the teller if that was the man she saw that day and she said yes.” She turned to Mahoney. “You saw the picture and didn't raise a question. Unshaven, dirty, messed-up hair, the description of Joe Wenzel all the way.

“Your Honor,” she said, “no one else ever saw Joe Wenzel wear a wrist brace, he wasn't at the house site drinking and getting filthy that day, and I can't believe Larry Wenzel would ask a drunken blackmailer to drive his wife home and wait because he wanted his advice. That whole scene was a setup from the git-go.”

“He was in Bellingham!” Mahoney yelled.

“I told you to zip it,” Laughton said.

“I know he was,” Barbara said. “I thought we were discussing Friday, not Saturday night. On Friday he was masquerading as his brother.”

“You're the one who's been setting things up,” Mahoney muttered.

Laughton glared at him and he stopped. “I'm going to think about this and review that bit of testimony,” he said. “Are you through with your witness, the photographer?”

“I am,” Barbara said.

“I want him out of there as fast as we can move him along. It's about time for the lunch recess and at two I want you both back in here and meanwhile, in fact, for the duration of this trial, no talk outside of court. No press interviews, not a word. Do you understand? A complete and total gag order's in effect. So help me, if either of you crosses that line, I'll toss you in jail.”

A
fter meeting with the judge and Mahoney at two, Barbara told Frank, “He's waffling. He hasn't decided yet, but he will before closing statements. I think he's leaning toward striking the picture.” She didn't add that Judge Laughton had also said that one more such stunt from her, and she would sit the rest of the trial out in jail for contempt of court.

Frank had expected as much, but the jury had seen it and they would remember, no matter what the judge told them to consider in their deliberations.

Nora Wenzel was called to the stand. The whole family was in court again, all neat and clean and sober-faced. Elena Wenzel, Luther's wife, attended that afternoon. She was tall and slender with hair the color of ripe wheat and blue eyes, and a minimum of makeup. She looked like the perfect wife for a rising young executive. Barbara thought fleetingly that they
had missed a bet, they should have brought their two-year-old toddler with them to round out the picture of a wholesome family.

Nora's pale raw silk suit with a matching blouse, and a single strand of pearls, seemed to whisper good taste and money, but she still had on too much makeup. She was sworn in and gave some brief background. She had been with the company from its start and was a corporate director along with her husband. Her voice, not as sultry as it had been in Barbara's office, sounded refined, elegant and cool. She looked Barbara over when she stood up and did not look directly at her again as she testified. She looked and sounded a little bored.

“So you were aware of the various Wenzel Corporation enterprises. Is that correct?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, I was and still am.”

“Were you aware that the Cascadia Motel, restaurant and lounge had been having financial difficulties in the past few years?”

“I was.”

“Were you aware of the complaint lodged by Ms. Frederick about the behavior of Mr. Joe Wenzel?”

“Yes. My husband and I talked about it, certainly.”

Barbara asked her to relate what they did subsequently, and she repeated Larry's story almost word for word.

“How long did you stay in the lounge that night and listen to Ms. Frederick play?”

“We left when she took her break. We had seen quite enough. Just another showgirl who had caught Joe's eye.”

“You both decided your interest in the matter was solely a business concern. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Joe's romantic affairs were none of our business.”

“Do you know if your husband talked to his brother about the matter?”

“Yes. He told me he had talked to Joe.”

“When did he talk to his brother?”

“I don't remember.”

“When did he tell you he had done so?”

“I don't remember. That was not a pressing issue.”

“Were you in San Francisco the week of July twenty-ninth to August third?”

“Probably about then.”

“On July thirty did you visit a wig shop?”

“No.”

“Did you buy a wig while you were in San Francisco?”

“No.”

“When did you buy a wig, Mrs. Wenzel?”

“In September, right after Labor Day.”

“Where did you buy it?”

“A shop in Portland. I don't recall the name of it.”

“Did you retain a receipt?”

“No.”

Barbara picked up the wig from the exhibit table. “Was the wig you bought like this one?”

“It looked like that.”

“Did you have a fitting, need an adjustment made to the one you bought?”

“No. I just tried it on and bought it.”

Barbara regarded her for a moment, then asked, “How much did you pay for the wig you bought?”

“Four hundred dollars. I paid cash.”

“I see. How much after Labor Day would you say it was when you bought your wig?”

“Just a day or two. I don't remember exactly.”

“How did it happen that you bought a wig at that time, Mrs. Wenzel?”

Nora had not for a moment lacked self-confidence, but she looked almost triumphant when she said, “I was on a planning committee to stage a Halloween masquerade party to raise money for the homeless. I saw the wig in the shop window and decided on the spur of the moment to buy it and dress as Cleopatra for the party.”

Barbara returned to her table, leaned over and whispered to Frank, “Get Sylvia.” He stood up and walked out. She turned back to Nora.

“Did you already have a picture of how you wanted the hair to be arranged when you bought the wig?”

“No. I had to hunt for a suitable picture. I hadn't thought of it before.”

“Did you obliterate the serial number in the wig you bought?”

“No. I never saw a number in it. The previous owner might have done so. I don't know.”

The triumphant gleam had come back to her eyes. Another gotcha, Barbara thought. “Do you mean that the wig you bought was a used wig?” She looked Nora over and raised her eyebrows.

“Yes. For my purposes it didn't matter.”

“Where is that wig now?”

“I threw it in the trash after the party.”

Barbara looked from Nora to the jurors, who were remaining impassive, and shrugged slightly. Not a person on that jury could have bought such a wig and then just tossed it.

“Were you on friendly terms with your brother-in-law?” she asked Nora, keeping her voice noncommittal.

“Relatively friendly.”

“Did you meet him for lunch, or have him to dinner, invite him to parties, things of that sort?”

“No. It was a friendly business relationship.”

“On Friday, August ninth, who arranged for Joe Wenzel to meet you at the garage and drive you home?”

“My husband suggested it.”

“Does the garage provide a courtesy car for its customers?”

“I don't know.”

“Do both of your sons work at the same office complex where you have an office?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you ask one of your sons to drive you home that day?”

“My son Luther was out with a prospective client all afternoon and my other son was at a meeting.” She seemed bored again.

“Did you know that your husband would be out all day?”

“We thought he would be home by the time I got there.”

“Did Joe Wenzel come into the garage when he met you there?”

“No. He drove to the curb and blew the horn. I was ready to leave and went out to the car.”

“What kind of car was he driving?”

“A black Lexus.”

“And you had no trouble recognizing it?”

“No.”

“Was that a company car?”

“Yes.”

“Does your husband drive a black Lexus also?”

“Sometimes he does on company business.”

“When you got to the car did you notice that Joe Wenzel had been drinking?”

“Not until I got inside.”

“Did that alarm you? To be driving with someone who had been drinking enough for it to be noticeable?”

She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. But I was already in and he was already driving.”

“Was he using vulgar language that day?”

“Yes. He always did when he was drinking.”

“Why didn't you sign the check and hand it to him and take a taxi home?”

“I didn't think of it. And Larry wanted to talk to him.”

“Mrs. Wenzel, your husband testified that he didn't talk to his brother when he had been drinking. Are you saying now that he would have talked to him that day?”

She hesitated again, longer this time. “I didn't know he had been drinking until I got in the car. We didn't expect him to start drinking so early in the day.”

Barbara had been aware that Frank had returned, and now she went to the table to ask if he had reached Sylvia. “Another half hour,” he said. “She'll be here with her engagement book.” It was three-thirty.

Then, addressing Nora again, she asked, “Did you ever use the room at the motel reserved for your family?”

“No. I never was in it.”

“Do you have a key for it?”

Mahoney objected and was sustained. Judge Laughton looked impatient, as if he wanted a bit of refreshment.

“Did you call your brother-in-law on Saturday?” Barbara asked. Nora's eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. Bull's-eye, Barbara thought.

“No. I didn't.”

“Did you know that Joe Wenzel owned a handgun?” she asked.

“I know he used to. I didn't know he still did.”

“Were your sons on friendly terms with their uncle?”

Her eyes narrowed again. “Yes, they were.”

“They didn't object or resent it that he was on a large salary and did little or no work for the company?”

“Objection!” Mahoney yelled.

“Sustained. Move on, Counselor,” Judge Laughton said to Barbara.

She shrugged. “No further questions at this time.”

When she sat down, Shelley showed her a note that had just one word: Botox. She grinned, then looked up to see Nora watching her the way a snake might watch a mouse. She smiled at Nora who turned away quickly. Barbara wrote her own note and passed it to Frank.
Bailey, where was Luther that day?

Mahoney's questions were harmless. He had Nora repeat some of her statements and go into a few more details about the committee that had organized the masquerade party.

When Nora was excused, she looked as if she had won a fierce competition, and Barbara asked permission to approach the bench.

“Your Honor,” she said, “I would like a short recess at this time. I have one more witness for today, one not on my witness list. She should be here any minute.”

“I object,” Mahoney said. “It's too late in the game to be bringing in undisclosed witnesses without time to examine their statements.”

“It's Mrs. Sylvia Fenton,” Barbara said. “Just to clarify some facts about the committee for that masquerade party.”

“Will she be brief?” the judge asked.

“Yes. Just that one point about the committee and the timing.”

She looked at Mahoney. “Fair's fair,” she said. “You brought in an undisclosed witness earlier. Remember?”

Laughton shook his head at her. “Enough. We'll have a recess and then call her.”

 

Sylvia could enter her magic closet and emerge as a scrubwoman, Peter Pan, a can-can dancer, Florence Nightingale, or whatever else was demanded. She was older than sixty and probably younger than eighty, but where she fitted in between Frank had never been able to guess. He had seen her in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, as well as a slinky black evening gown, and she wore whatever it was with a certain elan. That day she appeared to be either the queen mother, or else the grandmother on her way to church with a turkey in the oven and pumpkin pie cooling on the counter. She wore a shapeless gray suit, a gray hat with a pink flower, fawn gray gloves, sensible low black shoes and black hose. What hair showed from under the hat was snow-white, although without the wig she might reveal lime-green hair, or sky-blue, or even be bald.

When she took the witness stand, she inclined her head respectfully toward the judge, bowed slightly more toward the jury and nodded at Mahoney, then folded her hands before her and regarded Barbara with interest. She did not acknowledge Frank with so much as a glance.

“Mrs. Fenton,” Barbara said, “will you please tell the court some of the charitable committees and causes you have been involved with over the past few years.”

It was an impressive list: Food for Lane County, Women-space, Friends of the Library, Literacy Forum, Oasis for the
Elderly, the Red Cross…She served either as a committee member, a director or the chair. Her voice was clear and the words articulated in a way that suggested her past as an actress at one time. She had presence, Frank thought, listening.

“This past fall, for Halloween, did you organize a new fund-raising endeavor?” Barbara asked.

“Yes, I did. It was to raise money for the homeless.”

“Please tell the court how that came about.”

“In mid-September it occurred to me that with so many ongoing projects to raise money for the neediest among us, there was a certain lassitude setting in, a certain reluctance to subscribe to yet another cause. There are so many requests that one becomes weary of being asked over and over. Yet, with winter approaching, I worried about the homeless whose needs are so very great. I began to think of a way to interest others with the thought that once one becomes involved, that involvement often is continuing. And I thought of a masquerade party, an event that would provide entertainment and also raise money. I wanted a steering committee to help organize it, and since time was running short, I knew I could not delay. In the following few days I began calling on others to contribute time and effort, and I invited seven women to a luncheon at which time we put together the final plans.”