A Death In Beverly Hills (32 page)

Chapter Forty-Nine

Markham felt a strange sense of deja-vu. Tom Travis flanked by Greg's two junior attorneys again sat beside him. Malcolm Burris was back on the bench, if anything more irascible than ever. And Ted Hamilton was his old pompous self, grinning as he led his pet witnesses through their paces like trained ponies. Hamilton finished with Harold Sampson Wednesday morning, then plugged some minor holes in his chain of evidence testimony with various clerks and paper pushers on Wednesday afternoon. He had asked Markham to stipulate to these points but, mindful of his desperate need to stall, Greg had refused, ending any hope he might have had for any similar courtesies from the D.A. should Markham need them later in the trial.

Thursday morning was consumed with testimony from the D.A.'s expert on the electrical wire which served as the murder weapon. Markham had managed to stretch his cross out for over an hour with a series of questions that seemed pointless even to him, surrendering only when it was close enough to noon that he knew Hamilton would be unable to get another witness on the stand before lunch. When they resumed Thursday afternoon, Hamilton called his final witness, Barry McGee.

Markham objected and drew out the argument for over ten minutes before the judge, red-faced with frustration, send him scuttling back to the defense table. McGee was dressed in black cotton pants, a freshly pressed white shirt, open at the collar, and a wheat colored sport coat, obviously specially bought for the occasion. Polished oxblood cowboy boots completed his outfit.

Hamilton began with McGee's name, address and occupation to which Barry replied with an exaggerated Good Old Boy twang, like, Markham thought, George Bush in a flannel shirt and jeans campaigning in Oklahoma. 'I'm just a simple country boy,' Markham heard as a vague echo in the back of his head, 'but I'll tell you the straight story without any fancy lawyer tricks, I'll tell you what.' But even an idiot could tell that the jury was buying it. They smiled at McGee's 'aw shucks' simplicity and hung on his every word. Hamilton was smart enough to begin with McGee's long relationship with Tom Travis, a little inside movie history that only increased the jury's interest.

"When is the first time you met the defendant, Tom Travis, Mr. McGee?"

"Well sir, that was, oh, ten years ago. I was just a kid. My daddy had a ranch in Colorado, near Golden, where they make the beer." McGee glanced at the jury and smiled. They smiled back. "Well, like a lot of kids I got it into my head to get into the movies. It wasn't as easy I thought." Another grin. "I had been here about three or four months and I'd just about run out of money when I got a job as an extra on a western,
Yuma Sunset
. Tom was the star. He saw me over by the horses and said, 'You look like you know your way around a pony' and I told him I could ride some. He looked at me and said that it looked like we were both pretty much the same size. Would I like to double for him in the big chase scene. He'd hurt his back, you see, and it was real painful for him to ride a horse at a full gallop. Anyway, I told him 'You bet,' and we've been friends ever since."

"How many movies have you worked on with Mr. Travis over the years?"

"Well, let me see. After
Yuma Sunset
there was
Double Cross
,
Against The Grain
,
Danger Nights
. . . I guess maybe ten movies all told."

"Did you always act as Mr. Travis's double?"

"No, he helped me get into the stuntman side of the business. Better pay. If you," Barry looked at the jury, "saw a movie in the last ten years where Tom Travis fell off a horse or crashed a car or was thrown out of a building, that was me." Barry gave the jurors a proud grin.

"Would you say that you and Tom Travis were friends?"

"Well," McGee said with small sad smile, "as much as crew and stars can be friends."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like when the rich guy goes into the market and says hi to the butcher. He's
friendly
but he's not going to invite the man over for Christmas dinner, if you take my meaning."

"But you and Mr. Travis were on good terms?"

"Oh, sure. Before he got married we used to go out together all the time, hit the clubs, chase some girls." Another smile. "We had some good times all right."

"What about after Mr. Travis and his wife Marian were married?"

"That pretty much put a stop to our running around, which, of course, was the right thing, him being married and all. I'd still see him at work though, you know, on the set."

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Travis before his wife disappeared?"

"It was a couple of days after Christmas, right before she went missing."

"And where was this?"

"At Tom's house in Beverly Hills."

"What was the occasion?"

"I hadn't seen him for a while and I gave him a call. I needed a job and I was hoping he could call some of his producer friends and help me out. He told me, 'Come on over to the house. We'll have a drink for old times' sake.'"

"So you went to Mr. Travis's home on North Rexford Drive on the afternoon of December 27
th
?"

"Don't have to offer me a free drink twice." Another smile.

"Was Mr. Travis alone when you arrived?"

"His wife and the maid was just leaving when I came in. She said hello. She seemed very nice, real friendly, then they left, her and the maid, and Tom took me into his family room and offered me a drink."

"Had Mr. Travis been drinking before you arrived."

"There was a half empty glass of scotch on the table next to him and I could tell--"

"Objection, speculation," Markham interrupted. "Mr. McGee's not a mind reader."

"Your honor, Mr. McGee has testified that he had gone out drinking with Mr. Travis on numerous occasions. He certainly has experience in observing the effect alcohol has on Mr. Travis over time."

"Overruled."

"You were saying, Mr. McGee?"

"I could tell that Tom had already had two or three drinks before I got there. His face gets this pink color after he's had a couple and I could tell by how he walked and the tone of his voice that he was at least two drinks ahead of me."

Suppressing a frown, Markham bent over his legal pad and pretended to take notes. Having established that McGee was a salt-of-the-earth fellow who was a long-time friend of the defendant, now Hamilton had given the jury a reason why Travis might have been foolish enough to shoot off his mouth about his marriage. Of course a half-drunk ego-maniac might let slip his boiling frustrations to an old companion in the privacy of his own home. What better venue for Tom Travis to reveal his deepest secrets?

Step by step, Hamilton led McGee through his story, Travis's sterility, his being kicked out of his wife's bed, her openly cuckolding him with another man, flaunting the bastard child growing in her belly, and Travis having to swallow every bitter drop of it, cowed by her blackmail threats, all with McGee there as a convenient witness to the defendant's growing rage.

"After Ms. Travis disappeared, did you contact the police?"

"No, sir," McGee admitted, embarrassed.

"Why not?"

"Well sir, where I come from a man doesn't volunteer to snitch on his friends."

"But a woman had been killed. Didn't you think this information might be important?"

A big sigh. "I tried not to think about it. I didn't want to believe that Tom did it, and besides, the police know their job. I figured that if they wanted to talk to me, they would."

"How then did you end up here in court today?"

McGee hung his head, embarrassed, then looked up. "A police detective visited me last Sunday and started asking me questions." He turned to the jury and gave them a sincere stare. "I couldn't lie to him."

"If you know, why did the police finally contact you after all this time?"

"Well sir, someone working for Tom's lawyer, a guy named Steven Janson, contacted the police and asked them about Tom's old friends. My name was mentioned and Mr. Janson talked to me. I guess the cops figured that they'd better find out whatever it was that I told Mr. Janson so they gave me a call. I told the detective the truth and he gave me a subpoena ordering me to court today." McGee pulled out a piece of paper. "I didn't have any choice," he added as if testifying against his old friend was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

"No more questions, Your Honor."

Clever
, Markham thought. Hamilton could have brought out all the dirt about McGee's drug arrest and the supposed bad blood between himself and Travis on direct but he decided to take a chance and let it go. Now, when Markham brought it up, McGee would give the jury his 'Aw Shucks' smile and deny that he was really mad at Tom. Hell, Tom had invited him into his house for a drink, hadn't he? The cops had come to McGee, hadn't they, not the other way around. They had even had to subpoena him just to get him to testify. If Markham tried to make it look like McGee was out to get Travis it would seem like a desperate attempt to discredit an obviously truthful witness.

Markham looked at the clock. Twenty to four.

"Your Honor, as the Court knows, Mr. McGee was added to the Prosecutor's witness list just yesterday morning."

"We've been through this, Mr. Markham."

"Yes, Your Honor. My point is that when a witness is added at the last moment, at the same time that the defense is working night and day to ready its own case, it makes it difficult to properly prepare for a proper cross examination. For that reason, the defense wishes to defer its examination of this witness until the sometime next week during the presentation of the defendant's case. We would ask the court to order Mr. McGee to return to court upon four hours telephone notice from the defense so that we may examine him after we have had sufficient time to properly prepare."

Burris frowned at what he assumed was a lawyer in love with the sound of his own voice. "Mr. McGee, you will come back to this court whenever the defendant's lawyer calls you on the phone and asks you to. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Your Honor. . . ."

"What now, Mr. Markham?"

"I would request that the Court instruct the jury not to form any opinions based on Mr. McGee's testimony until they've heard the whole story after I have had the opportunity to cross examine him."

"The jury will not form any opinions about this witnesses' testimony or about this case until they have heard all of the evidence. Anything else?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Mr. Hamilton?"

"Your Honor, the Prosecution rests."

Burris glanced at the clock. "We'll adjourn until nine-thirty tomorrow when the defense will begin presentation of its case." The judge's gavel made a loud THWOCK and everyone rose.

"Why didn't you tear him up?" Travis demanded in a terrified whisper.

"I've got to wait until I've got more than just blanks in my gun."

"When's that going to be? We start tomorrow for God's sake!"

"Fear not. The cavalry's on the way."

"What?" Travis asked in disbelief.

"Otherwise known as Steve Janson."

Ignoring Travis's fear and confusion, the deputy clasped handcuffs on Tom's wrists and led him away.

Chapter Fifty

At nine thirty Friday morning the judge turned to Greg Markham and ordered him to call his first witness.

"Stanley Haupman," Markham's assistant, Brian Wells called out.

"Who's Haupman?" Hamilton whispered to his Number Two followed by a rattle of papers as they leafed through Markham's witness list. They finally found the name near the bottom of the second page: Stanley Haupman, the mailman who had delivered a certified letter to the Travis house a little over a week before the murder.

While Markham pretended to take notes, Wells led Hauptman through his name, address, occupation, place of residence, age, educational background, occupational history, years of service with the Post Office, and every other vaguely relevant question he could think of, all at a measured, leisurely pace. After several objections, which Markham secretly welcomed since each took additional time to argue, Wells worked his way up to the day in question. Hauptman confirmed that he had delivered a certified letter and that the maid, Delfina Angelinez, had signed the form.

No, he hadn't heard any arguments. No, he hadn't seen anyone suspicious on that or any other occasion. Yes, he had pressed a buzzer out on the street and someone inside had released the gate. Finally, Wells could string things out no longer and sat down. Hamilton asked no questions.

"The defense calls Kyle Paulli," Wells announced after a few seconds delay. Paulli, the pizza delivery boy who had visited the house three weeks before the murder, was similarly put through his paces. Then came the pool man. At a quarter to four Markham ran out of what he described to Wells as 'canon fodder' and noting the lateness of the hour and the impending weekend, requested an early recess. The judge motioned for counsel to approach the bench.

"I know what you are doing, Mr. Markham," Burris began, "and I'm not going to stand for any more of it."

"Your Honor--"

"You are deliberately delaying this trial, wasting the Court's time with pointless witnesses who have no relevant testimony and I've had quite enough of it."

"Your Honor, I assure you that I am merely putting on my case in a way that I think is most advantageous to my client."

"I'm not interested in what is advantageous to your client, or what is advantageous to the Prosecution either, for that matter. I am interested in the proper conduct of this trial and as of now your stalling is over. I'm giving you until Monday morning to start calling real witnesses with real testimony or you will find yourself in contempt of court. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Your Honor. About my request for adjournment . . . ."

Burris frowned. "Step back. . . .We're adjourned until nine-thirty Monday morning," Burris announced sourly and slammed his gavel.

That morning Markham's staff together with Janson and the operatives at the Foster agency had swung into high gear. By six o'clock Friday evening Ms. Roberts had been contacted with the details of her court appearance; a declaration of the custodian of the records of the Los Angeles Times want ad department had been obtained; the locksmith who had installed Travis's security system was subpoenaed; certified copies of the Department Of Motor Vehicles records on the Windstar had been retrieved; the doctor who had treated Sheila Travis was served with a subpoena and ordered to bring her records to court with him, and the forensics experts had completed the disassembly of the cabin of Lorraine Goodwin's black van almost to the last nut and bolt.

In the process they had found dozens of hairs and fibers, all of which had to be tested. Most of the hairs were only shafts with no root tag from which a DNA match might be made. Only six hairs with roots had been recovered and only two of those matched Marian's or Sarah's coloring. The lab was doing a rush DNA test on both of them, and on the other four as well, just in case.

That Friday morning Steve had visited the Sunshine Pool Service and silently cursed Simon Katz for a fool. The company's offices consisted of a double wide trailer at the end of a large, fenced-in asphalt lot filled with service vans, every one of which was white with the words "Sunshine Pool Service" painted on the side in blue script. Steve took digital pictures of the van fleet and obtained a sworn affidavit from the manager that at the time of Marian's disappearance that Sunshine had owned only white vans similar to those in Steve's picture. Steve also served the man with a subpoena in case the D.A. refused to stipulate to the facts contained in his affidavit.

By Friday afternoon Steve and three investigators from the Foster Agency were working their way through every sign shop in the greater Los Angeles area hoping to find the one that McGee had used to make the fake Sunshine Pool Service logo that had been affixed to the side of the black van. Steve had started his search on the theory that if he were smart McGee would have picked a large, busy sign shop in hopes that his transaction soon would be forgotten, lost in the shuffle. He also assumed that McGee would have used a company as far away from his home and his job as possible, maybe even going as far as Orange County or San Diego to avoid detection. Since they couldn't check all of Southern California, they had started with the larger Los Angeles County locations most distant from McGee's haunts, completely without success.

Finally, Steve decided to assume that McGee was an idiot and began checking the smaller outlets close to Barry's apartment. Late on Friday afternoon, worn and sweaty and discouraged, Steve entered the eighth store on the revised list, Alfred's All Needs Signs on Victory Boulevard out in the Valley. Only seventy-three more to go.

As he entered Steve almost knocked over a stout man in his fifties.

"You here about a sign?" the man asked. Steve looked around. Signs of every description covered the walls. Metal signs: 'Posted - No Trespassing'; plastic signs: 'No Life Guard On Duty'; large signs: 'Big Sale Now'; small signs: 'Do Not Touch'. Signs of every color, material and description. The man looked at Steve expectantly.

"Yes, I'm here about a sign." It seemed a safe answer.

"Because I'm just about to close."

"You're Alfred?"

"Who?"

Next to the cash register was an engraved plastic sign reading: "Make All Checks Payable To 'Alfred's All Needs Signs'"

"Alfred? Alfred's Signs?"

"Oh, there's no Alfred. I just wanted an 'A.'"

"Excuse me?"

"An 'A,' you know, for the phone book. I could have made it Arthur's but, you know, Alfred comes before Arthur."

"Or you could have made it Abe's."

"Huh?"

Okay, not the sharpest knife in the drawer
, Steve decided.
Moving on.

"I'm Steve Janson." Steve smiled and held out his hand.

"Everett Yelley."

"Nice to meet you. Do you make those plastic signs, about two feet by three feet with raised letters that you can put on the side of a van or a truck?"

"Two feet by three feet? I don't know if I can make you one that size. Normally, we make them twenty by thirty four." Everett screwed up his face in thought. "I think two feet by three feet would be a special order."

Maybe closer to a spoon than a knife.
"Ummm, that's okay, Everett, twenty by thirty four is fine. So you do make those?"

"Oh sure, I make 'em all the time."

"I'm interested in a black one--"

"Black letters? That's what most people want, standard, you know, but we could make them blue or green if you like. How about red? Red stands out real good."

"No, Everett, I'm interested in a black sign with white letters. Sunshine Pool Service."

"Sure, we can do that. What happened to the other guy?"

"The other guy?"

"Did he quit or something, 'cause he was pretty particular about that sign. Knew exactly what he wanted. Of course, a sign's no good if it's got the wrong words on it."

Everett was definitely operating without net.

"You made another sign for the Sunshine Pool Service?"

"Well, sure. Isn't that why you're here?"

To Hell with it,
Steve decided.
Go with the flow.

"Yes, yes it is. Do you still have the paperwork on that. It would have been around mid-December, year before last."

"Sure, I remember. Black sixty mil with white letters, Verdana font." Everett hurried behind the counter with a rolling gate and pulled out a large green plastic binder. "Yep," he announced happily, "here it is. Verdana, just like I said." He laid the notebook flat on the counter and Steve studied the page. On December 28
th
a Bill Jackson had purchased a Sunshine Pool Service flexible raised plastic sign, white letters on a black background, twenty by thirty four inches for $92.20, including tax. He paid in cash.

"Do you remember this Bill Jackson?" Steve asked, tapping the page.

"Sure. I knew you weren't him, didn't I?"

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Why, is he missing?"

"Sort of. What do you remember about him?"

"Cowboy kind of guy, white, with a funny nose."

"Is this him?" Steve handed Everett a DMV photo of Barry McGee.

"If you've got his picture, why'd you ask me to describe him?"

"Just to be sure. This is Bill Jackson, right?"

"He worked for you, don't you know?"

Steve reminded himself that at least Everett was supporting himself instead living on public assistance.

"Yes, but I need to find out if you know." Steve gave Everett a wink.

Everett thought about that for a heartbeat, then smiled. "Right."

"So, Everett, who is this guy in the picture?"

"That's Bill Jackson," Everett said proudly.

"Did he buy a sign from you, a year ago December?"

"Yes, he did," Everett answered immediately, now getting into the swing of things.

"What was on the sign he bought?"

"Sunshine Pool Service, just like it says here." Everett proudly tapped the invoice.

"Everett, have you ever been a witness in court?"

"No," Everett said uneasily, confused again.

"Congratulations, you're about to get your chance." Steve smiled, shook Everett's hand, then pulled out a pre-issued subpoena and began filling in Everett's name.