“She asked me to help redecorate her den,” Mrs. Jasper said.
“She asked, or you offered?” asked Mason.
Mrs. Jasper paused. “I honestly don’t remember.”
This seemed to satisfy Winona Mason, and she sat down. I felt a small grain of sympathy for Mrs. Jasper. She believed she was Ruth Riordan’s best friend because she wanted to be that person. She was shaking slightly as she sat back down.
Next Mr. Small called the attorney who had redrawn Mrs. Riordan’s will after the divorce. Porter Harrison was, there’s no other word for it, portly. He was one of those men who seemed to think that if he wore a very large vest over his very large stomach that the proportion of the latter might not be as obvious. Wrong. His chins jiggled as he talked, and every now and then his glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back.
Harrison recounted that prior to the divorce Mrs. Riordan had planned to divide her property equally between husband and son. She had also had each man as equal beneficiaries in her life insurance policy.
After the divorce, the will had been revised to leave all to Michael except for $20,000 to her maid of ten years and ten percent of the net worth of the estate to be divided among various local charities, specifically, the local Red Cross, Hospice, and First Presbyterian Church, with special instructions that the money go to the latter’s social services work. Mrs. Jasper nodded firmly and leaned over to me. “I asked her to do that,” she said.
I ignored her. Mrs. Riordan had been generous to her maid. I liked that.
“While the will had not been recently revised,” the prosecuting attorney continued, “I believe there had been discussion of revisions.”
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied the attorney.
Though I could only see Mr. Small’s profile, his irritation was obvious. “Mr. Harrison, I believe you are aware that Mrs. Riordan planned to leave her house to the Ocean Alley Arts Council.”
“No,” he replied patiently. “She planned to deed it to them prior to her death. She did not intend for her home to become part of the estate.”
“And now this is up to her heirs?” Mr. Small asked.
“Yes,” said Mr. Harrison, nodding all his chins.
“And what would happen if Michael Riordan were found to be the cause of his mother’s death, other than in an accident?” Mr. Small asked.
“Mrs. Riordan, of course, had no provision for that, but the State of New Jersey would not permit him to inherit.”
“Who would get it?”
“Barring lawsuits from others who felt they were entitled, his portion of the estate would probably be divided among the other beneficiaries, primarily the three charities, since she designated a specific amount for her maid.”
Despite their mission to help those who are dying, I couldn’t quite see the Hospice organization actually planning Mrs. Riordan’s death. I stifled a giggle and Aunt Madge gave me a reproving look.
The prosecuting attorney had no other questions. Winona Mason asked Mr. Harrison if he knew if Mrs. Riordan had planned any further changes in her will, and he said he did not know of any. “So, as far as you know, she had no plans to take Michael Riordan out of her will, or reduce his share of what would ultimately comprise the estate?” she asked. He did not know of any such plans.
Mason had only one more question. “If Mrs. Riordan died when Michael Riordan was still married to his wife Darla, from whom he is now legally separated, would his wife be entitled to a share of the estate?”
Mr. Harrison shrugged. “A lot of those decisions are resolved in negotiation between the attorneys of the two parties seeking a divorce.” He hesitated. “She would of course have a better chance of securing some of it prior to the divorce rather than afterwards.” There was again a buzz in the courtroom, but it died as the judge picked up his gavel. He didn’t even have to use it.
The prosecuting attorney’s next witness was Elmira Washington, which seemed to surprise a lot of people. “Mrs. Washington, would you describe the encounter you saw between Mrs. Riordan and her son Michael in Newhart’s Restaurant a few nights before she died?”
She looked decidedly uncomfortable. I noticed that Mrs. Jasper leaned forward in her seat, anxious to hear.
“Well, I’m not sure encounter is the right word...”
“Just tell us what you saw,” Mr. Small said.
“They were talking,” she said.
“Just talking?” Impatience was creeping into the prosecuting attorney’s voice.
“It looked as if they were arguing,” she said, looking quickly at Michael and then away.
Exasperation oozed from the Small’s every pore. “Mrs. Washington, you used the word ‘fight’ when you first discussed this with my office.”
“Argument, fight. What’s the difference?”
“As you described the event,” he continued, his voice even, “You said it appeared Mrs. Riordan was…” he turned around and Annie handed him some papers. He consulted them and read, “Mrs. Riordan looked as if she was really upset with Michael. Like she was kinda mad about something.” He looked at Mrs. Washington. “Those were your exact words.”
I saw Michael’s attorney lean over and say something to him and he nodded.
“I might have…” she rearranged herself in the witness chair, “I mean, it was noisy in there. I didn’t exactly hear what they were saying.”
There was true fury in the prosecuting attorney’s posture when he said he had no more questions for Mrs. Washington. Winona smiled at her as she approached the witness stand. “Kind of nerve-wracking to be up here, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It surely is,” Mrs. Washington nodded and smiled weakly.
“Tell me, Mrs. Washington, I infer that you did not hear what Mrs. Riordan and her son were discussing that evening in the restaurant. Is that true?” Winona asked.
“Not the words, no.” No smile now.
“Then how do you know it was an argument?” Winona asked.
“The expressions on their faces,” was the prompt reply.
After several more questions it was apparent that Elmira Washington could have seen a discussion about local politics or whether it would snow by Christmas. My guess was that she wanted to appear in the know and had not expected to have to take her story to the witness stand. She had the decency to look embarrassed as she stepped down.
But still, what if they had been arguing?
I didn’t like where this train of thought was heading, and decided to ignore it, at least for the moment.
The prosecuting attorney’s final witness was Roger Handley, another vice-president from USA Energy Distributors. He seemed to try to catch Michael’s eye, but Michael stared at some notes on a pad in front of him. Mr. Small asked Handley to describe the business Michael helped found, and he said that it had been formed to buy energy from a variety of sources, generally companies that had an excess supply, and resell to utilities in the West.
“So,” Mr. Small said, “you were formed after the legislation to deregulate the energy industry in 1992?”
“That’s correct. We didn’t form until after California deregulated, which was several years later.”
“Would you say your firm has been successful?”
“Some years have been better than others. We were somewhat caught up in the last big energy crisis that hit the west, especially California.” My sense was that Handley was hedging a bit. As I recalled, it was the consumers who got shafted during those brownout and blackout times, not the energy companies.
The prosecuting attorney did not pick up on this. Instead, he switched to Michael’s relationship with the firm. “I believe you fired Mr. Riordan, did you not?”
Handley reddened. “Absolutely not.”
“How would you characterize his departure from the firm?” he persisted.
“First, it was simply a disagreement among the founding partners. Second, he hasn’t left yet.”
“Just a disagreement?” Mr. Small acted as if he were puzzled. This was probably the most attention he’d ever had from the media, and he was milking it for all it was worth. “But this disagreement was going to cost Michael Riordan about $200,000 per year in salary and some nice profit sharing, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“And why is he not off the payroll yet?”
Handley really didn’t seem to like this question. “Because, because of his mother’s illness and his impending divorce.”
“So,” the prosecuting attorney said, “you would call yourselves a ‘family friendly’ company, would you?”
Handley said, “You can call it what you want, sir.”
“When will he be leaving the company?”
“In the near future.”
“And at that point,” the prosecuting attorney continued, “he will lose that salary and any share of the profits?”
“Yes.”
“Is his silver Mercedes a company car?”
“No.” Handley was really going for the mono-syllabic answers now. I couldn’t understand why he looked so uncomfortable.
“Is it paid for?” Mr. Small asked.
“You’d have to ask him.”
The prosecuting attorney actually smiled at the row of reporters sitting near the front of the courtroom, “I already know there is a substantial note on the car.”
Winona Mason had no questions. This whole business about USA Energy Distributors was pretty boring to me. Who cared what his company did?
Now it was Michael’s lawyer’s turn to call witnesses. First she called the local pharmacist and, after noting Michael had had his own prescription filled in Texas, asked the pharmacist how often he filled prescriptions for cyclobenzaprine. He said it varied from summer to winter, because of course there were so many more people in Ocean Alley during the summer. In the end, he characterized it as a very common drug for back spasms, strained muscles in other parts of the body, and even headaches that were caused by tension in the neck. The prosecuting attorney had no questions.
Ms. Mason’s next witness was Madge Richards. I almost tripped her on her way past me, for not telling me. Aunt Madge did not characterize herself as Ruth Riordan’s best friend, but said one of the reasons they were fond of each other was because they both enjoyed people but “not talking about people,” so they could spend time together without gossiping. I blinked back tears.
How could I have even thought about tripping this dear woman?
Especially in a court room.
Then Mason asked Aunt Madge to talk about recent changes in the relationship between mother and son. “I wouldn’t actually characterize the relationship as changing, just evolving to spend more time together again.” When asked, Aunt Madge said that Ruth Riordan had been very sad when her son’s wife did not want to spend time in Ocean Alley and did not want Michael to do so, either. However, she said, Michael had always made it clear to Ruth that he loved her and his father very much. It was Larry Riordan’s turn to dab his eyes.
Winona Mason’s final witness was Michael himself. He answered very directly that he had not killed his mother, and said he missed her very much.
“Were you and your mother arguing in Newton’s Restaurant, Michael?” she asked.
“We were having a discussion about when I would finish up with my firm. She favored sooner rather than later.” He paused. “I was trying to find a nice way to tell her it was none of her business.” There was some brief murmuring and the judge banged his gavel without saying anything.
“Why,” she asked, “do you believe that the police and prosecuting attorney have accused you of this crime?”
“Because they haven’t had a murder here in many years, and don’t have the faintest idea how to investigate one.”
This did not appear to be the answer his attorney had coached him to give, as she turned crimson.
IT WAS JUST AS WELL that Aunt Madge had not shown me the
Ocean Alley Press
article before the hearing, as I might have gone after George Winters in the courtroom and it could have reflected badly on Harry’s business, to say nothing of Michael’s defense.
The gist of the article was that Michael and I were “close friends from high school” and the implication was clear—I was in cahoots with him to murder his mother before the house, assessed for tax purposes at almost $400,000, was deeded to the Arts Council. The article also noted that my former husband was a confessed embezzler who had raided our personal funds as well, and implied that I thus had a motive (the almighty dollar) for helping Michael.
Perhaps I should rethink hanging up on reporters.
The only real good news was that after we were back at Cozy Corner, Joel Kenner told me he had a better understanding of why I thought Michael might be innocent. “Really,” he said, “it’s all pretty circumstantial.”
“Too bad you wrote that first article before you knew much about what the police were going on, isn’t it?” He walked away without comment. Oh well, no one in Houston knows me.
I wondered if George Winters would see it as Kenner did. In truth, it only mattered what the judge thought. He said he would issue his ruling in about one week as to whether the case should go to trial.
THE NEXT MORNING I was in the county Register of Deeds Office in the court house looking up recent home sales in the popsicle district when who should come in but Winters himself. “You know,” he said, “you really have a knack for pissing people off.”