Prosecution: A Legal Thriller (34 page)

"I don't believe you," she said, pulling back. "It
doesn't matter. She must have had a lot of affairs. What choice did
she have?" Kristin took another mouthful. "They don't have a
marriage," she said, as she wiped her mouth with a napkin, "they
have an alliance. One of the richest families in the state and one
of the most powerful political families. People must have thought
it was the start of a dynasty. How was anyone to know Arthur
O'Rourke was gay?"

Suddenly serious, and a little withdrawn, she looked
down and etched a figure into the tablecloth with her nail. "It's
too bad," she said. "Arthur is a very nice man. It must have been
difficult for him, growing up when he did, knowing he could never
let anyone know the way he really felt, the way he really was."

She looked up, reached for her glass, and took a
drink, her eyes still on me. "Poor Arthur. Everyone used him.
Gwendolyn knew what he was before she married him—she had to have
known—but she did it anyway because she wanted the money and
everything that went with it. Russell was even worse."

I sat across from her, an attentive audience, and
listened to her describe the ways in which Russell Gray had
exploited his friend.

"A long time ago, when they were both much younger,
they were lovers for a while."

"Arthur O'Rourke and Russell Gray?"

"Yes. Arthur is ten or fifteen years older, and when
Russell was a young man he was really quite good looking.: thin,
blond, blue-eyed. Arthur fell in love with him."

She paused.

"Was Russell in love with him?" I asked.

"Arthur was always a very generous man, and Russell
never did anything to discourage generosity."

"I thought Russell Gray was one of the wealthiest men
in town."

"He wanted everyone to think so," she said, a shrewd
glint in her eyes. "His family had been wealthy, though nothing
like as rich as the O'Rourke's. But Russell had to split the
inheritance with a brother and a sister. And then, of course, he
spent a good deal of what he had. Without his good friend Arthur
O'Rourke, I'm not sure what he would have done, especially in the
last year or two."

She took another sip from her glass before she went
on. "He was in serious financial trouble. He was borrowing money
anywhere he could get it. He even borrowed some from Conrad. But of
course he borrowed more from Arthur, a lot more. They were friends,
but even with friends there is a limit. Apparently, Russell started
making threats, suggesting that he hoped he could find a way out of
his financial difficulties before he started talking about things
he shouldn't."

She gave a short, dry laugh. "Even when they
blackmail each other, the rich try to be polite."

I was not interested in their manners. "Are you
telling me you think Gray was killed by someone he was trying to
blackmail? Arthur O'Rourke?"

She laughed again. "Have you ever met Arthur?"

When I told her I had, she looked at me as if I had
just answered my own question. "Arthur O'Rourke isn't capable of
hurting anyone, but Gwendolyn may be," she said. "And she isn't the
only one. There are a lot of people who would have wanted to
prevent the kind of scandal Russell Gray might have caused.
Although, when you think about it," she said, settling back against
her chair, "Gwendolyn had the most to lose. What do you think it
would have done to her political career if people knew her husband
was involved with someone like Andre Barbizon?"

"Barbizon? The one in charge of the household?"

Her eyes opened wide. "I suppose that's one way of
describing what he did." The look of derision passed. "Arthur
O'Rourke was a decent, lonely man, and his friend Russell
introduced him to people who were willing to provide him comfort."
She paused and considered what she had just said. "Yes, that's
perhaps the most charitable way of describing what Russell did for
his friends."

We ordered coffee, and while she stirred her cup I
asked her about Russell Gray and Alma.

"They were having an affair," she reported matter of
factly. "Everyone knew."

"Conrad Atkinson told me he didn't know if they were
or not," I retorted, interested in what her reaction would be.

"They take care of their own," she said, casting an
indulgent look at me. "Conrad didn't lie to you. He just didn't
tell you the truth."

"So everyone knew?"

"It wasn't a secret."

I had to ask. "Do you think her husband knew?"

She held her cup with both hands, elbows on the
table. "He wouldn't have been difficult to fool. Horace Woolner is
a straight arrow if there ever was one." She put the cup down,
folded her hands together, and rested her chin on top of them. "And
who would have told him? He doesn't exactly move in the same
circles, does he?"

I placed a credit card on top of the bill and waited
until the waiter took it away.

"And what about you, Kristin? Why did you decide that
wasn't the circle you wanted to be in?"

"Marshall was exciting," she said, her eyes perfectly
still. "Conrad and his friends are all a little too predictable." A
slow smile started across her mouth. "You wouldn't fit in there
either. You'd be bored out of your mind. Under the surface—" she
said, and broke off. Tossing her head back, she laughed. "There is
no under the surface."

She took my arm when we left the restaurant and kept
holding it while we walked to the car. As we drove across town, I
asked her why she had told me.

"I wanted you to know that I trust you," she replied,
her eyes on the road. "And because I want you to trust me." She
glanced over. "I didn't have anything to do with what Marshall did.
You have to believe that." She pulled up in front of my building
and turned off the engine.

"Tell me something. Did Marshall really admit to you
that he had his wife killed?"

A brief, enigmatic smile floated across her mouth.
"It's what you wanted me to say, wasn't it?"

"I wanted you to tell the truth."

"And I just thought you wanted to win. That's what I
always liked about you. The way you do whatever you have to
do."

"I wanted you to tell the truth," I insisted.

"The truth is that Marshall did it, and I had nothing
to do with it. That's the only truth worth talking about."

I opened the door and started to get out.

"You've never seen my house, have you?" Her voice was
a soft whisper. "We could go out there for a while and talk. It
might be good for both of us."

I looked back at her. "I'll be up half the night,
getting ready for tomorrow. You remember what it's like, preparing
for trial."

I stayed in the office just long enough to gather up
everything I needed and then drove home, trying hard to convince
myself that liars sometimes told the truth and that Marshall
Goodwin might be guilty after all.

Chapter Twenty Three

I reached Andre Barbizon just in time. When he
answered the door, he thought his cab had arrived and began
pointing toward the bags on the floor of the entryway before he
realized his mistake.

"Taking a trip?" I asked, as I stepped inside. He
remembered my face, but he could not quite remember my name.

"Antonelli," I reminded him.

"Yes," he replied, a look of impatience flickering
across his mouth. "What can I do for you, Mr. Antonelli?"

"You can tell me all about your relationship with
Arthur O'Rourke, and then you can tell me about everything else you
did for Russell Gray."

His eyes darted toward a dark mahogany grandfather
clock.

"I'm afraid you'll have to change your travel plans.
You're coming back to court."

He refused to believe it. "I've already testified. I
finished with that. The judge excused me."

I handed him a subpoena. "You're coming back to
testify for the defense."

He still did not want to believe it. He tore the
subpoena out of my hand and began to read it.

"You're making a mistake," he said after he examined
it. "Arthur didn't have anything to do with this. He was with me
when it happened. We had dinner together that night. Remember I
said I was having dinner in town with friends?"

A car pulled up in front, and a moment later the
doorbell rang. It was the cab Barbizon had been expecting. He gave
the driver a few dollars and explained he did not need a ride after
all. I spent an hour with Andre Barbizon, and at the end of it I
was convinced that Kristin had been right. There were a lot of
people who would have wanted Russell Gray dead, but Arthur O'Rourke
would have been the last person to kill him.

"Russell may have taken advantage of Arthur,"
Barbizon told me, as we said good-bye at the door. "I don't know
anything about that. But I care about Arthur, and I'm worried about
him."

"A heart attack is serious," I replied. "But at least
he's in stable condition."

"You don't understand, Mr. Antonelli. I don't think
he had a heart attack. That was just an excuse so you couldn't talk
to him. They didn't want you to find out about him and
Russell."

I did not know whether to believe him. Barbizon was
afraid, and fear feeds on itself. Everyone involved with Russell
Gray had found they had something to fear. Most of all, they feared
that people would learn they were living a lie.

We can spend a lifetime misleading others and
deceiving ourselves, but most of us still believe there is nothing
more important than the truth. I could see it on the faces of the
clerk and the judge as they walked single file toward the bench,
the twelve men and women who entered the jury box, the spectators
who waited on benches for the proceedings to begin. A courtroom is
the only place in which no one is allowed to answer a question who
has not first sworn an oath not to lie.

Serious and precise, Judge West explained to the jury
the next stage in the trial. "You will remember that last Friday
the prosecution finished with its case. It is now the turn of the
defense, if it wishes, to call witnesses of its own. Let me remind
you all," he said gravely, "that because the burden of proof is on
the prosecution to prove the defendant guilty beyond a reasonable
doubt, the defense is under no obligation to do anything." As he
turned toward me, I rose from my chair. "Is the defense ready to
proceed?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"You reserved your opening. Do you wish to make it
now?"

When I said I did, he looked back at the jury."At the
beginning of the trial, Mr. Jenkins made an opening statement in
which he gave you an outline, a preview, of the evidence the
prosecution was going to offer. Mr. Antonelli is now going to do
the same thing for the defense. I will tell you again what I told
you then. The statements of the attorneys are not evidence; they
are simply a description of what they believe the evidence will
be."

Unbuttoning the jacket of my dark pinstripe suit, I
stood at the end of the jury box and stared down at the floor. "The
State has methodically put on one witness after another to prove
that the defendant, Alma Woolner, was in Russell Gray's home the
night he was killed and that her fingerprints were on the gun that
killed him."

I moved my feet closer together. "She was there," I
said, raising my head. "Her fingerprints are on the gun. But what
does it mean? Does it mean that the prosecution is right, that she
left with everyone else, came back later with a gun, shot him
point-blank, and then, having gone to all this trouble, left the
gun with her fingerprints on it for the police to find and just ran
away?"

Gilliland-O'Rourke jumped to her feet. "Objection!
He's supposed to be making an opening statement, not a closing
argument."

Judge West raised his moody eyes from what he was
reading. "She has a point, Mr. Antonelli."

"Yes, your Honor," I replied. We exchanged a brief
glance. "The State has proven that the defendant's fingerprints
were on the murder weapon," I said, as if I were starting over.
"The defense will explain how they got there. The defendant, Alma
Woolner, will tell us. She will tell us that she was in another
part of the house, she heard something, she came into the living
room, she found Russell Gray lying dead on the floor, she saw the
gun, and in a state of shock she picked it up, looked at it, and
then, terrified, let go of it, and, too frightened to know what to
do next, ran away."

Pausing, I looked around the courtroom until my eyes
settled on Gilliland-O'Rourke. "But if Alma Woolner did not kill
Russell Gray, who did? The defense will call a witness who may be
able to help us answer that question." Her face a rigid mask,
Gilliland-O'Rourke stared back at me, waiting for what I was going
to say next.

"The prosecution knows all about this witness. They
called him first. Andre Barbizon will now testify for the defense."
There was no reaction, nothing in her green eyes to tell me what
she felt or what she thought.