Defense for the Devil (26 page)

“Well, I got a good look at him,” she said. “I got up and walked to the end of the hedges, where I had a good look at him.”

“Could you see him or the car he was driving before you walked to the end of the hedges?”

“Not much. Just a glimpse of the car, dark, like the one Ray usually drove, that’s what made me think it was him.”

“When she got in the car, did he put his arms around her?”

“No. Just leaned over and kissed her.”

“Did he kiss her on the lips?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, did she turn toward him?”

“Not much. She knew I was watching.”

“Was she facing the windshield, the front of the car?”

“Yes, like I said, she knew I was watching.”

“Yes, you said that. All right, when she came back on Sunday night, what were you doing at the time?”

“Watching television in the front room.”

“But you were able to hear the car drive up and stop? Is that right?”

“Yes, I heard it.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Like I said, I got up to have a look, to see if anyone was coming in.”

“Where did you look from? The windows in the front room?”

“No. I went to the hall and the front door; there are two windows by the door, one on each side.”

“Was it very dark outside?”

“It was after ten, yes, dark.”

“Did they have the dome light on in the car?”

“No. They wouldn’t do that, not with all the hugging and kissing and such.”

“Were they parked under a streetlight?”

“No. There isn’t any light out there.”

“I see. How far back is your front door from the curb?”

“I don’t know. I never measured it.”

“Let’s reconstruct your property,” Barbara said pleasantly. “Is there a porch?”

“Yes.”

Step by step Barbara drew from her a description of the house and the landscaping in the front. Finally she said, “So there are bushes, a hedge, several trees. Forty feet? Is that about right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe that’s about right.”

“Was there a porch light on?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Was there a light in the hall where you were standing?”

“No.”

“So you left watching television to stand in the dark hallway, where you looked out past the porch light, past shrubs and trees, to a dark car at the curb. Ms. Ludlum, what could you actually see in the car under those conditions?”

“Enough,” she said indignantly. “I could see them just fine.”

Barbara shook her head. “Were you watching television again when she entered the house?”

“Yes. I could see her fine. I turned on the hall light by then.”

“Do you usually stay in the front room with the door open to the hall?”

“Yes, of course. I have to know who’s coming and going.”

“Oh, I see. The other time you mentioned, you said Lorinne had put camping gear inside her car earlier. Is that right?”

“Yes, a sleeping bag, a pack of some sort.”

“Did you answer the phone when the call came for her?”

“No. I was in the front room. One of the girls picked up the phone.”

“But you could hear what was said?”

She hesitated, then said yes.

“Were you watching television that afternoon?”

“Yes, but the sound was turned real low. I could hear her.”

“You testified that she asked him where he was, and said she knew where that was. Do you know where she met him?”

“Yes, at the Black Angus Motel.”

“Before, you said she knew where it was. Is it now your testimony that she mentioned the motel by name?”

Ludlum’s lips tightened even more and she nodded, then said almost defiantly, “Yes. The Black Angus.”

“Is there an extension phone in the front room?” Barbara asked coolly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Ms. Ludlum, in fact, didn’t you listen to part of her conversation on the extension phone, up to the point where she asked you to hang it up?”

“I can explain that,” Ludlum said swiftly. “Sometimes the girls upstairs don’t hear if someone yells for them to come to the phone, and it stays off the hook for hours. I wanted to make certain she took her call and then hung up, that’s all.”

“Did you hear what Mitch told her when she said she would meet him after work?”

“No, that’s when she came to the door and said to hang up the phone.”

“Did you hear her say for him not to tell Ray something in particular?”

“Just not to tell him, not to call him.”

“So, after you hung up the telephone, you continued to listen to her half of the conversation?”

“I could hear every word.”

“Do you know where she went camping that weekend?”

“No.”

“Did you see her with Mitch that weekend?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did it make you angry for her to tell you to stop eavesdropping on her private call?”

“I was doing my duty, trying to keep my house respectable, that’s all.”

Barbara gave her a scathing look, then took her seat. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

26

Lunch that day
was a hurried business in Barbara’s office.
Bailey was waiting for her with a report on the neighbors of Victor Radiman, the next witness; she read his report as she ate a sandwich.

“Good job,” she said. “All right, Roxbury will wrap it up today, and we’ll have the rest of the week to get our act together. Anything yet on Palmer?”

“Nope. Hasn’t budged,” Bailey said. “And Trassi hasn’t had a visitor yet, but he’s burning up the telephone lines.”

Frank walked in and looked over the remaining sandwiches. “Got it,” he said, giving Barbara a Xerox copy of an inventory. “Took a court order, but I got it.” He had a police report of the possessions that had been taken from Radiman the night he was arrested, which had been the first night that Ray Arno had spent in jail. Frank helped himself to a sandwich while Barbara scanned the list he had handed her.

Then they were back in court and Victor Radiman was called. Roxbury was brusque with him, as if he wanted the jury to know he had little sympathy for this witness, but it was necessary to hear him out.

Radiman was a florid-faced man in his late forties, with the telltale broken veins in his cheeks and the bulbous nose of a heavy drinker who suffered from rosacea. He was a scaler for a lumber mill, he said. He kept his gaze fixed on Roxbury, listening intently to the questions, then turned to address the jury when he answered in a too-loud voice. His story was that he had been arrested on the night of August sixteenth for disorderly conduct and had spent the night in the Lane County jail.

“Tell the jury what happened that night,” Roxbury said.

“I was trying to sleep and I kept hearing this guy sort of moaning and making noise. He woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I could hear him crying and saying he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to do it, and praying for God to forgive him, things like that.”

“Can you repeat his exact words?” Roxbury asked harshly.

“Some of them. He said, ‘I didn’t mean to hit him that hard. I didn’t mean to kill him. I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. Dear God, forgive me, I’m sorry.’ Then he said, ‘God, have mercy on his soul. Have mercy on my soul.’’’ His voice was not only too loud, the words were curiously uninflected, almost flat, turning the prayer into a recitation that could as easily have been a laundry list.

“Then what happened?”

“I yelled at him to shut up, and after that he was quieter, but he kept praying for a long time.”

“Do you know who that man was?”

“It was the defendant over there. Ray Arno.”

“Was he in the same cell with you?”

“No. I saw him in a cell when they took me to lockup. I noticed because he looked wild and like he’d been crying. His eyes were red, like they get when you’ve been crying. And one of the other guys in my cell said he was in for murder.”

“You got a good look at him, at Ray Arno?”

“Yes. And I heard him like I said.”

Roxbury sat down.

“Mr. Radiman,” Barbara said, standing at her table, “what were you arrested for that night?”

“Like I said, disorderly conduct.”

“That’s the charge you pleaded guilty to, but what were you charged with by the arresting officer?”

Roxbury objected. “Prejudicial,” he snapped.

“No, it isn’t,” Barbara said quickly. “There is no one clear definition of disorderly conduct; what constitutes disorderly conduct is in the eye of the beholder, and since Mr. Roxbury brought it up, the jury has a right to know precisely what is meant in this situation.”

She was allowed to continue, but Radiman shook his head. “All’s I know is that my lawyer said if they asked me if I was disorderly, I should say yes, and I did.”

“I have here the arresting officer’s report from that night,” Barbara said, picking it up. “Let me refresh your memory.” She showed the report to the judge and to Roxbury, then read from it: “Suspect was in a drunken state; the television was on loud enough to hear from the street; his neighbors—” She stopped and said, “I’ll leave out the names of the neighbors who brought the complaint.” Judge Waldman nodded, and Barbara read the rest of the report: “His neighbors complained that other times when they asked him to turn down the volume, he threatened to set his dog on them. When they knocked on his door on the morning of August seventeenth, he shoved one of them off the porch and used loud and abusive threatening language. Plaintiffs then called the police….” She looked up at Radiman and said clearly and slowly, “The arresting officer charged you with drunkenness, with maintaining a public nuisance, with assault and battery, and with resisting arrest. Do you recall those charges, Mr. Radiman?”

He shook his head. “I said I was probably disorderly and that’s what I was guilty of.”

“Did you pay your neighbor’s doctor bill as a result of that incident?”

“Yeah, I agreed to pay it.”

“What time of night did all this take place?”

“I don’t remember.”

“The arresting officer has the time on his report, Mr. Radiman. It’s given as twelve-forty A.M. Do you recall that now?”

“It wasn’t that late.”

“And it says here that you were booked into the Lane County jail at one-ten in the morning. Do you recall that?”

“No. It wasn’t that late.”

“I see. So everyone else has the time wrong. Do you recall what time was right?”

“No. I don’t remember.”

“After a person is taken to jail, there is a certain routine that they follow, isn’t there? Fingerprints are recorded, an inventory of possessions is made, things of that sort. Do you recall being searched and fingerprinted?”

“Sure.”

“Do you recall being taken to a cell where there were others already locked up?”

“Yes. I was drinking earlier, but by then I was pretty sober.”

“Were lights on all through the jail?”

He hesitated, as if trying to remember, then nodded. “Not real bright lights, but there were lights.”

“Lights in the various cells? Really? At two in the morning? Are you sure, Mr. Radiman?”

Roxbury objected. “Witness has already answered the question.”

“But perhaps he misspoke,” Barbara said.

“Overruled,” Judge Waldman said.

Radiman was watching Barbara as closely as he had watched Roxbury. When she repeated the question, he nodded. “I could see in the cells just fine.”

She smiled slightly, although his loud, flat voice was starting to grate on her nerves; then she turned her back to pick up a second report. “I have here the inventory of your possessions from that morning. Do you recall signing it?”

When he didn’t reply, she faced him again. “Did you hear the question?”

“No, I didn’t. Your back was turned and you were mumbling.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Do you recall signing the inventory of your possessions on that occasion?”

“Yes,” he said.

Still facing him, but holding the sheet of paper in front of her mouth, she asked clearly, “Why do you play the television so loud that it can be heard from the street?”

He fidgeted a little, glanced at Roxbury, then at the jury, and finally said, “Can you ask the question again? I didn’t catch it all.” His face, florid to start with, was a darker red.

She repeated the question, and he said angrily, “I don’t play it that loud. They’re just troublemakers, looking to make trouble for me.”

She covered her mouth again and read from the list of belongings the police had taken from him the night he was arrested: “A wallet, and the amount of money in it, credit card, driver’s license, change, pocket knife, keys, hearing-aid battery pack and hearing aid…” She put the list down and asked him, “Did you sign the inventory for those items?”

He hesitated again, then nodded. “I signed something. I don’t remember what it was.”

“When did you tell the police that you had heard Mr. Arno talking in the next cell?”

“I don’t know, after a day or two.”

“Was it after you retained an attorney? As a result, were the charges reduced to disorderly conduct?”

Roxbury was shouting his objection before she finished the question.

This time, with a look of sharp rebuke, Judge Waldman sustained the objection.

Barbara nodded and turned to her table again; then facing away from Radiman, she asked, “How long have you used a hearing aid?”

She had to repeat the question, and he flushed even darker and said, “I hardly ever use one. Just for movies.”

“In fact,” she said coldly, “you are an expert lip reader, aren’t you?”

“I can hear you.”

“But not if I cover my mouth, can you?” she said, covering her mouth.

“I can hear you,” he said angrily.

Keeping her hand in front of her mouth, she asked, “What time is lights-out in the jail?”

“I can hear you, I said,” he snapped.

“Then answer the question,” she snapped back, even sharper.

When he made no response, Barbara said to the judge, “Please direct the witness to answer the question, or else admit he couldn’t hear it.” When she turned to look at the judge, Radiman did, also.

“Did you hear the question, Mr. Radiman?” Judge Waldman asked clearly.