Death Penalty (41 page)

“I'm afraid I don't recognize you.”

If he was offended, he didn't show it. “I'm Reggie O'Malley. I'm on television.”

“Australian television?” I wondered if Dr. Stewart's reputation had spread to the other side of the globe.

“No, mate. Right here, the good old United States of America. I'm with ‘Inside Eye.'”

I had heard of the program, although I had never seen it. It competed with a number of exposé shows that did half-hour daily stories of prison rapes and child mutilations. None of the shows were likely to win a Peabody Award for excellence, but people in great numbers watched them. I had read that “Inside Eye” was the worst of a bad bunch.

“This case is going to turn into a real circus, Charley,” he said. “You and your client are going to get knocked about by the press. I can help you.”

“How?”

“Let my camera follow your every step, so to speak. Ours is a national show, good ratings. You'll get the chance to put your point across with us. We'll be on your side.”

“Did you ever do any selling, Mr. O'Malley?”

The grin widened. “That's how I started out, mate. That's what this television thing is all about, isn't it? Salesmanship?”

I noticed out of the corner of my eye that we were being filmed by a burly cameraman holding a professional camcorder.

“Well, go somewhere else and sell something. I appreciate the offer, but what you suggest would be a breach of ethics.”

The smile grew into a leer. “Hoo, Charley boy, when were you ever concerned about ethics? We hear you're a right nasty piece of work, even for a lawyer.”

“G'day, mate,” I said, walking past him and up the courthouse steps.

“It can go the other way, too, Sloan,” he snarled. “We can make you out a perfect ass!”

I was going to say I did a pretty good job of that on my own, but I didn't. It would have looked bad and sounded worse on their tape.

I just waved, holding one finger slightly raised above the others. I wondered if that gesture was understood in Australian.

It had begun, the greatest show on earth. Doctor Death was becoming as well known as a rock star.

So was I. But maybe not in the context I wished.

EDDIE RAND SEEMED
less laid back, but the young prosecutor was just as friendly as before. I thought he might be having a case of preshow nerves.

He gave me the autopsy report without the slightest hesitancy.

Dr. Clyde Anderson had a national reputation. He was a fair-minded man as well as being a good pathologist. I read the report carefully, including the toxology reports concerning the blood levels. I had had a master's course in the first Stewart trial, and it paid off now. I understood almost everything in the report, including the basis for the finding of felonious homicide.

“Pretty bad for your side,” Rand said.

“More or less. Who do you plan on calling as witnesses tomorrow?”

“The deputy who went out to the Cronin place. The private duty nurse who was there when Stewart killed him.”

“Did she see it done?”

“No. Your man isn't stupid. He said he'd look after Cronin while she took a coffee break. But she can testify to the old man being alive when your man came into the room, and being very dead shortly thereafter.” Despite himself, he allowed a grin.

“Who else?”

“The treating physician.”

“Why?”

“Again, to show Sean Cronin's condition before your man arrived.”

“When did this treating physician last see the patient?”

“That morning. That was before Stewart arrived.”

“Anybody else?”

Now he seemed distressed. “I suppose I have to call Miss Donna. She was there in the doorway when Stewart gave him the deadly dose.”

“You suppose?”

He smiled sadly. “She's such a nice lady, I hate to put her through all this. But I guess there's no other way.”

“And that's it?”

“Well, for the examination anyway. I might add some witnesses when we go to trial on this thing.”

“So you think you'll win tomorrow?”

“Pride goeth before a fall, I know that. But if you can get this guy off tomorrow, Charley, I'll shave my head and follow you around as your first disciple.”

“Only if you wear a saffron robe. What's the name of the treating physician?”

“Dr. Kim S. A. Kim. Everybody up here calls him Sam. He's the only doctor we've got. A little Korean guy, but everybody loves him.”

“I want to talk to Donna Cronin.”

He frowned. “Do you have to?”

I nodded. “That a problem?”

“Well, a little maybe. She may look ferocious, but
she's as shy and frightened as a barn owl.”

“In that case, come with me.”

“To keep you honest?”

“That, too, but also maybe to help ease her anxiety.”

Eddie nodded slowly. “Do they do this sort of thing in the big city? You know, the prosecutor and the defense lawyer both interview the witnesses?”

“Sometimes.”

“Okay, I'll call out there and let them know we're coming.”

We drove in Eddie Rand's car, a Chevy sports model with racy lines and a motor that seemed to plead for exercise. It was a hunter's car, but only for two-legged game.

“You got to understand about the Cronin girls,” he said as we sped along a dusty country road. “They're well liked up here. They aren't what you'd call pretty.” He sighed. “They have the bodies of linebackers and the faces of bulldogs, frankly, but you won't find two nicer people. They contribute to everything, and not just a little. And they make pies and cakes for community things. They usually don't come. Too shy. If somebody gets sick or dies, they always send something over. Around here, they're considered minor-league saints.”

“How about their father?”

“The opposite. A mean old bastard who didn't care a fig about this place. His girls doted on him, waited on him hand and foot. The people up here felt sorry for the daughters,”

“So, no big turnout for the funeral then?”

He shook his head. “Huge. But everybody came out for Doreen and Donna's sake, not for his.”

He nodded. “We're coming up now on the local gold coast.”

I could see large Victorian homes set along a high ridge. Plenty of room between them, there they sat, separately, like decorative and elegant castles.

“Most of the owners only come up in the summer,” Eddie said, “but the Cronins live here year-round. Like I say, they're very much a part of our community.”

“Is that why you haven't charged Doreen Cronin with murder?”

He looked at me sharply, this time I saw nothing friendly. “Sloan, we're getting along real well here. There's no reason to bring that up.”

“If things happened the way you say they did, Doreen contracted for her father's murder and paid for it. If that isn't murder, I don't know what is. Conspiracy to murder, accessory to murder. There are a barrel of charges to be brought.”

“Are you going to bring this up in court?”

“Eddie, I'm the defense lawyer, remember? You can't have selective enforcement. Sure I'll bring it up. If not at the examination, then certainly at the trial. Anything less would be malpractice.”

He looked troubled as he turned the car onto a paved road that led to the old wooden palaces.

“I suppose it's one of those bridges I'll have to cross when I get there.”

“So you're not going to charge her?”

He smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “If I did, the people up here would lynch me.”

He pulled into the driveway of one of the palaces, joining a number of other cars.

“This is it. I wonder what's going on?”

Reggie O'Malley and his cameraman were standing at the door. O'Malley was banging a slow cadence against the wood with his fist. The cameraman stood by at the ready. Several other people were nearby. I didn't recognize them, but I assumed they were also media people.

O'Malley stopped when he saw me. “Well, Sloan, what are you doing here? Going to put in the fix, are you?” He
looked at Eddie. “Eh, this guy's the prosecutor, isn't he? I smell corruption here.”

“Who the hell is this?” Eddie asked me.

“The press, my boy. The eyes and ears of the republic. This is just the tip of the iceberg. I imagine an army is at this moment descending.”

Eddie grabbed O'Malley and tossed him away from the door. I noticed the cameraman was grinning as he filmed the action.

The door was opened by a wizened old lady, and Rand and I quickly stepped in. She bolted the door. O'Malley was shouting and again slowly banging at the door.

“Hi, Mrs. Legrand,” Eddie said.

She smiled, crinkling her face into a million wrinkles. She reminded me of an ancient mummy.

She led the way through the enormous house.

“Who's she?” I whispered to Eddie.

“Mrs. Legrand, the maid.”

“The maid?”

“In name only. She's too old for anything except serving tea. They have one of her granddaughters for the real work. They keep her on so she'll have some income in addition to Social Security. The Legrands are a big family up here and work is scarce. Her wages help out.” He spoke in a normal voice, and then smiled. “Don't worry, Charley. Mrs. Legrand is almost stone deaf.”

We were brought into a small sitting room in the interior of the house. I could see mighty Lake Huron beyond the windows.

Two women, both dressed identically in black, sat primly side by side on a couch that matched the house for age. They were not pleasant to look upon, more like two Chicago Bear tackles in drag. Eddie had described them as looking like two bulldogs. I had thought he was exaggerating.

He wasn't.

He introduced me, and we took two chairs opposite them.

“Charley here would like to ask you some questions, Miss Donna. I would prefer that he ask only you.”

“Hey,” I said.

He ignored me. “Why don't you leave the room, Miss Doreen. That way we can get this over quickly.”

Before I could say a thing, she was up and gone.

“Who are those awful people out there?” The voice chirped like a small nervous bird. I looked around for a second before I realized it was Donna Cronin who was speaking.

“Just some trash from the television,” Eddie said. “I'm going to call Cork and have them run off. Don't you worry about them, Miss Donna. Go ahead, Charley.”

She looked nervous, perhaps even close to tears. It was unnerving, as if Dick Butkus were about to sob.

“Just a few questions,” I said softly, trying to soothe her. “I'm told you saw Doctor Stewart inject your father. Is that true?”

She paused. “I saw him with the syringe.”

“Well, start from the beginning and tell me what you did see, in your own words.”

She was careful to protect her sister. She said that Dr. Stewart had been her sister's guest. She denied knowing that he had been paid any money. She said she had heard of his reputation. I asked her if her sister had wanted to end their father's suffering. She said it was true, but she, Donna, had said it was in God's hands.

I asked her if she knew Doreen had brought Dr. Stewart up to end their father's suffering. She evaded the question. For a shy person, she seemed to know how to answer so that her sister wouldn't be part of any conspiracy.

She said she had seen Dr. Stewart go into her father's
room. She denied that she had been watching him for just that reason. She said she saw him with his back to her, and when he turned he had a syringe in his hand. She said Stewart, mistaking her for her sister, had waved her away. She ran to get her sister and by the time they came back, Dr. Stewart told them Sean Cronin had died. She admitted she hadn't seen the actual injection.

Miss Donna said she had called the sheriff, that she had been angry when she had done so. She sounded as if she really regretted it now.

I didn't press. She was being truthful, except for the Miss Doreen part. I didn't want to expose any more of my hand by going further.

We thanked her and declined the offer of tea. Eddie called Sheriff Cork Miller, and within minutes two deputies came storming up and pushed the media people back to the road. The two officers took up positions blocking the drive entrance.

Eddie and I got back into his car.

As we drove out, Reggie O'Malley spat at us.

He missed.

The rest of Wednesday passed quickly. I was busy. I talked to the prospective witnesses, again with the benign help of the prosecutor, who began to act as my own personal ambassador.

Of course, he felt he had nothing to lose. In his mind Doctor Death was tried, convicted, and sentenced. All that remained was to go through the routine steps.

I had lunch with the sheriff and the prosecutor. Cork Miller was something of a cornpone comedian, an act that helped him at election time, and the lunch was filled as much with laughter as good food. For a while it seemed as if we were all on the same side. I think they felt a little sorry for me.

My last interview of the day was with my famous client.

The media army had rolled into town, and I found clusters of them wherever I went. Photographers snapped my picture as I entered the jail. I tried to look resolute and confident.

Hoping to provoke an angry response they might be able to use, a few of the reporters yelled hostile questions. I ignored them.

The few days in jail had done nothing to curb Dr. Miles Stewart's natural tendencies. I sat in the cell and listened to ten minutes of complaints. Some about the facilities, some about the legal system, some about me. There was nothing I could do but wait him out.

“And they have canceled my appellate bond,” he snarled. “I suppose you know that?”

“It's what happens, Doctor, when you're on bond for one murder and they arrest you for another.”