Kill All the Judges (28 page)

As court resumed, juror Tom Altieri caught Wentworth's eye and smiled broadly. He wondered if it was a message. Don't worry, pal, I'm on your side, a union brother is in trouble.

Cud's fan club occupied a back section of the gallery, bearded bohemians and braless girls in flouncy dresses. Wentworth had seen some of them talking to old farmer Vogel, who was back there with them, a kind of mascot.

Taking the stand was Shiny Shoe's wife, a sour little apple of a woman. Abigail went through the litany about Whynet-Moir being the affable host and Cud juicing it up. The Whitsons said their goodbyes early “because Terrence had a headache.” Abigail took all of four minutes with her.

Arthur contemplated her a while as if figuring out his approach, then asked, “You drove right home?”

“Yes.”

“What brought on your husband's headache? Was there a distressing event?”

“Not that I'm aware.”

“Before you left, he had an exchange with Judge Whynet-Moir. Did you see that?”

“I'm not sure…” She reflected. “Yes, they did have a discussion. Terrence had brought some papers to show him.”

“Did you pick up any ill feeling between them?”

Kroop had been clearing his throat, a sign he was going to jump in. “Where is this going, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“With respect, milord, I do not ask questions idly.”

Kroop looked sternly at the prosecutors. “I don't hear anyone objecting. Carry on.”

“Shall I repeat the question?”

“I remember Terrence wagging his finger at Judge Whynet-Moir, but he wasn't angry.”

“Was Mr. Whitson complaining about him on the way home?”

“I don't think he said anything.”

“Did you go directly to bed?”

“I did.”

“What about your husband?”

“I don't know.”

“Why?”

“We sleep in separate rooms.”

“Again, I don't see the prosecutor objecting as she ought to. This is a bit much, Mr. Beauchamp, prying into private lives.”

For the first time, Wentworth noticed flecks of impatience on Arthur's face, red spots. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitson.” He sat.

“We're grateful to you, madam. It's a trying experience, but alas the law requires that all present at the scene of a crime must be heard.”

“Alleged crime, milord. It could have been suicide.”

“Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Beauchamp. Alleged crime.”

Wentworth decided Arthur was baiting Kroop to force him into error. He'd won a lot of appeals doing that. At least thirteen, if you counted three for the Cape Mudge triple killing.

Terrence Whitson carried himself well as he entered court.
Dapper, silver-haired, robust, works out maybe, or plays handball at lunch. His marriage didn't seem real blissful, maybe he had a mistress. An investment counsellor–why would he have let Whynet-Moir engineer a deal that went sour?

Abigail had him identify Cud, who returned his look with a scowl. As she took him through drinks and hors d'oeuvre and dinner, he responded crisply, recalling a couple of exchanges with Cud. “I made a joke about his peace medallion, and he said he had one tattooed on his rear. I assumed he was being droll.”

As to their table talk: “Well, there wasn't much. I'd heard about his stint on a tree platform, one of those save-the-forest demonstrations, and I asked him about it, and he said, ‘You had to be there, pal.' I assume he'd had a little too much by then.”

“Any dealings with him after that?”

“After dinner, I went out for some air and saw him urinating on the lawn. He was behind a car–my car, actually–and he looked at me and lowered his pants. When he took off his under shorts, I turned and walked back in.”

Wentworth was horrified at how bad this sounded, Cud came across like a pervert. No one was finding it funny.

“We thanked the hosts and left soon after.”

“Your witness.”

Arthur didn't like this guy, Wentworth could tell from the way he rose, slow and controlled, adjusted his bifocals, snapped his suspenders. He'd seen that lots, Arthur going on the hunt. According to the police interview, Astrid Leich had heard “something slamming, maybe a door.” Like the door of a returning Lamborghini?

“You remember Mr. Brown rushing off from the table, don't you? I think there was a reading by Ms. Tinkerson from her latest novel, and he went outside during the applause.”

“I can't say…”

“You were seated across from him; surely you
can
say.”

He frowned. “Yes…Yes, I think I remember that.”

“Ever felt the need to relieve yourself in a hurry, Mr. Whitson?”

“Of course.”

“Mr. Brown lives in a rural area. So do I. We pee outside. You've done that yourself, I'd imagine.”

“Not in the city.”

“He had his backpack with him, did you see that?”

“It may have been behind the car.”

“And what he was doing was changing his pants.”

“I didn't see that part of it.”

“But later you saw he was wearing different pants. Jeans.”

“I'm not sure if I noticed.”

“You've had that happen too, haven't you? Stained your clothes at the dinner table and been forced to change them. It's embarrassing, but we've all done it, yes?”

“I…sure, it happens.”

“Mustard. Gravy. Tomato sauce. Mr. Sheriff, would you produce Exhibit 18, please.” The deputy unbagged and unfolded a pair of blue jeans. “It is an admitted fact that the accused had these on when arrested. It's also admitted that his backpack was found in the guest suite above the garage. I'd like a couple of items from it, Mr. Sheriff, first a pair of black slacks, number forty.”

All circuits were go. The boss was breezing along like nobody's business. Wentworth had worried that in working with him, riding saddle with him, his Tonto, he'd get let down, that Arthur wouldn't have the old quick draw. Not so.

“Show him the black pants.” The deputy brought them to the witness stand. “Quite an extensive stain in the crotch area–do you observe that?”

Whitson nodded. “Yes.”

“Now the underpants.” The sheriff borrowed a ruler from the clerk and picked up the underwear with it, white briefs discoloured a sickly yellow. Wentworth imagined they smelled rancid, because the witness curled his nose.

“Looks like something quite messy was going on, doesn't it?”

“I would hesitate to say.” He reared back from the exhibit.

Kroop chided the deputy. “You don't have to hold it right at his nose.”

“Madam prosecutor, I take it this substance has been analyzed.”

“Yes, it's butter.”

“Butter.” A long pause to let the jury absorb this. A few were stifling smiles. Someone in the gallery gave a snort, the sound made when you suppress laughter.

“Mr. Whitson, how long had you been the deceased's investment counsellor?”

“Oh, for seven or eight years.”

“So I take it you were fully conversant with his net worth during that time?”

“Of course.”

“Before and after his elevation to the bench?”

“Yes.”

“And prior to his appointment in 2006, what was his worth, in round figures?”

“Mr. Beauchamp, is this really necessary?”

“For every question, there is a reason, milord.”

“I'll be the judge of that. You're on a leash, counsel. Proceed at your own risk.”

Wentworth saw where Arthur was going: the alleged bribe to the justice minister. Whitson replied that his client's net worth was just under two million dollars in 2006, and when Arthur asked if there'd been a substantial shrinkage shortly before he was named to the court, Whitson said, “Not at all.”

Nor was Arthur able to show that a major sum moved from Whynet-Moir's accounts after his appointment. His assets actually grew after his marriage to Florenza, “in the form of a beneficial interest in the house at 2 Lighthouse Lane.”

Arthur wasn't getting very far with this, but when he snapped his braces again, Wentworth felt prickles–the boss was about to move in for the kill. “Mr. Whitson, I understand you and the deceased were jointly engaged in a business venture.”

The witness seemed taken off balance. “I wouldn't put it in those terms.”

“A venture that cost you a substantial loss.”

Whitson looked astonished. “Not at all.” Wentworth didn't like this. He glanced at the press table, at Loobie, who wouldn't meet his eye. “I'm an investment counsellor, Mr. Beauchamp, I don't enter into joint deals with clients. I don't take advice from them, I give them advice. And I don't suffer substantial losses.”

Kroop was getting off on seeing Arthur take one on the chin. “Counsel, exactly where is this going?”

“Nowhere,” he muttered to Wentworth, who was distraught. He thought Arthur might drop this like a hot potato, but maybe he was into it too much. “You were observed having a spirited conversation with the deceased just before you left. You were showing him a document, wagging a finger.”

“I was reprimanding him, but…no, it wasn't anything like that.”

“Why were you reprimanding him?”

“For making such a large donation to the Red Cross from his bond holdings when he was overweighted in equities.”

You could tell this was like a hammer blow, at least you could tell if you were Wentworth Chance. The way Arthur's face went dark. A fierce look at Loobie, whose head was down, like a dog who'd been bad. Kroop did a soft “Hmf, hmf.”

There was time for one more witness, Professor Chandra, a political writer often seen on TV, a tall older woman, in a business suit this time, not a sari. She was composed, well spoken, but didn't have much to add–she'd been corralled all evening by guests, admirers of her opinion pieces.

“Did you talk to the accused?” Abigail asked.

“For thirty seconds. I asked him if he was enjoying himself, and he said, ‘Pretty good'–he gestured at the elegant surroundings–‘considering all the famine and disease and poverty in the world.' I told him I'd be interested in hearing his solution to those problems.
A waiter came by with shrimp dip, diverting him, and I was drawn into another conversation.”

She wasn't so acerbic when describing Whynet-Moir, who was engaging, charming, and witty. Wentworth could picture him fawning over her at dinner, pelting her with praise for her new collected pieces, listening spellbound to her views on current events.

She recalled that Cud's bawdy recital was followed by embarrassed silence, guests scuttling about for their coats. “Judge Whynet-Moir seemed in a very sombre mood indeed as he led us out. I imagine he felt his party was spoiled.”

Wentworth whispered, “Is that admissible, what she imagines?” But there was no life from Arthur, who was morose, not paying much attention. That zinger from Whitson still stung; the boss had asked one question too many. Maybe not a historic first but a rare event. A sign the great man might be over the hill.

Chandra was one of the last to leave. On her way to her car she smelled cigar smoke and turned and saw Whynet-Moir on the deck talking to Cud in low tones. She thought of pausing to watch. “My sense of propriety, I suppose, held my curiosity in check, and I carried on to my car until they were out of view.”

“No more questions,” Abigail said.

“Professor Chandra, this court and all who serve here are forever in your debt. I deeply regret you waited so long…” Kroop finally noticed Arthur standing. “Ah, a moment, madam, I think Mr. Beauchamp may have a few questions.”

“Your Lordship is very kind. But may I suggest we break for the day? I'd like to complete my cross-examination in one fell swoop.”

“Are we on time?” Kroop asked.

“At least fifteen minutes early,” Abigail said.

“Then you've earned your reward. But we shall be doing shopkeeper's hours starting tomorrow. Nine-thirty. On the dot.”

 

THE SNAKE PIT

A
rthur left Wentworth to park the Chrysler in a lot near the Pomeroy, Macarthur offices, and as he entered, April Wu was at the copy machine. She removed a bundle of papers, handed them to him. “Mr. Pomeroy's collected works. It's five o'clock, so if you don't mind, I'll end my work day.”

“Yes, of course. I hope we haven't overburdened you.”

“There's no greater burden than having nothing to do.” She left with some homework in a file folder, nearly bumping into Wentworth on his way in.

“Intriguing young lady,” Arthur said.

In Pomeroy's office, he eased himself into the big swivel chair, put on his bifocals. He needed a new prescription, his eyes were aging. All his systems were aging. Why had he been so foolish as to have enlisted in this opéra bouffe? He'd just been getting into the trial, a little bit, when he pulled that gaffe, the nadir of a taxing day pulling teeth from the West Coast patriciate. He sighed.
Quod incepimus conficiemus;
what we have begun we shall finish.