Murder, She Wrote Domestic Malice (11 page)

My musings reminded me of a day I’d spent with a British judge during a trip to London. Despite the fact that the American system of jurisprudence is based upon the British system, there are major differences. This particular judge was appalled that American lawyers were allowed to prep witnesses prior to their testimony or depositions. A British lawyer would find him- or herself in serious trouble should he or she do that. I was similarly surprised that this same judge, and all others in the British system, routinely sum up evidence for the jurors as they interpret it prior to the jury going into its deliberations. Not wanting to offend him and possibly end our informative discussion by expressing my discomfort with this practice, I simply tucked the knowledge away for use in a future book. As they say, we speak the same language as our British cousins—or do we?

Cy was as good as his word. The phone rang fifteen minutes later.

“Done,” he said. “Sheriff Metzger is expecting you at ten.”

When I arrived at police headquarters the next morning, O’Connor was waiting for me.

“I didn’t expect to see you until later,” I said.

“I thought Myriam might be more comfortable if I tagged along. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“We have a few minutes before they bring her to an interview room,” he said. “Let’s go outside and talk.”

We stood beneath an overhang in front of the building.

“First,” he said, “I want to thank you for taking an interest in Myriam and her case.”

“No thanks are necessary,” I said. “She’s suffering and asked for my help. I feel it’s the least I can do.”

“She’s mentioned you a number of times during our conversations and told me about the night she spoke with you and Ms. Wilkerson at the shelter.”

“That was a privileged conversation, but since Edwina and I both have been subpoenaed, I’m afraid the details of that night will be made public.”

“I’ll be present during your deposition,” he said. “Standard procedure.”

“Mind if I ask a question before we go in?” I said.

“Shoot.”

“Why did you take this case?”

He broke into a boyish grin. “I know why you’re asking. Criminal law isn’t my specialty. But I’m afraid that to answer that I’ll have to delve deeply into my psyche.”

“Digging into psyches is something I do with regularity in my books.”

“We don’t have time for a full-scale excavation at the moment,” he said, glancing at his watch again. “But if you’re free for dinner tonight . . . ?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I won’t keep you out late. I want you rested up for your deposition.”

“It’s not until Monday.”

“And I’ll be there to make sure the DA doesn’t go over the line.”

“Then we’ll all have to be on our toes. Let’s go see your client.”

Chapter Eleven

A
haggard Myriam Wolcott was led into the room where Cy and I had already taken seats. The deputy who delivered her indicated that she was to take a chair on the opposite side of the table from us. “Please don’t touch the prisoner,” she instructed.

I saw Myriam shiver.

“Hello, dear,” I said. “I hope it’s all right with you that I’ve come to visit.”

She muttered something and nodded. I’d expected that she’d be dressed in some sort of prison garb, but she wore gray slacks, a pale blue sweatshirt, and sneakers.

O’Connor took his seat and said, “Mrs. Fletcher asked me for permission to see you, Myriam. I was sure that you’d agree to it.”

Another nod from her.

“When you visited me at my house,” I said, “you said that you needed some support. Well, that’s why I’m here. Are they treating you all right?”

“They don’t beat me, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s good to hear,” said O’Connor through a forced laugh.

Until that moment, Myriam appeared to have been in a fugue state. She suddenly came forward in her chair and exclaimed to me, “I didn’t kill Josh! You have to believe me.”

Before I could reply, O’Connor leaned in and said, “I’m sure Mrs. Fletcher knows that you’re innocent. What’s important is that we convince a jury.”

His words caused her to shake. She sat back, folded her arms about herself, and sniffled. “A jury?” she said. “A trial?” She came forward again. “I don’t want that. I don’t deserve that. I didn’t kill anyone. Why won’t they let me out? What’s happening with my children? No one will tell me anything.”

I began to question my decision to visit. Rather than contribute comfort and support, my presence seemed to be upsetting her. I shifted in my chair and pondered how to leave gracefully.

“You have to keep up your spirits, Myriam,” O’Connor said, “stay optimistic. I know it’s hard for you to do that sitting here in jail, but it’s important. I already explained that the courts are closed and until they open, you can’t be officially charged and we can’t ask for bail. But I have confidence we’ll have you out of here soon. I’ve only just started putting together your case and—”

“And what do you know about putting together a murder case?” she growled, her expression stern.

I watched O’Connor’s face. If her pointed question stung him, it didn’t show. He smiled easily and said, “Don’t you worry. I know my job. But as I’ve told you, anytime you want to bring in another lawyer, all you have to do is let me know. Until then, if you’ll write down your questions”—he slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of her—“I’ll do my best to find the answers for you.”

Myriam looked at the blank sheet and sighed. She picked up the pen and wrote “1” and put a circle around it. Then she wrote “Children?” Tears filled her eyes and she put down the pen to press them away with her fingers. A gamut of emotions raced across her face as she scribbled on the page. Finally, she pulled into herself and seemed to shrivel in the chair. “I don’t know what to do,” she said softly.

“My best advice at this juncture,” said O’Connor, “is to keep that chin up and think positive thoughts. Being incarcerated isn’t pleasant. I know that. But it’s early in the investigation. I’m bringing in a private investigator tomorrow to work on your behalf. He’s top-notch. And with friends like Mrs. Fletcher—and you have legions of friends and supporters, I’m sure—things will work out for you.” He pulled her paper away, folded it in quarters, and tucked it in his breast pocket.

I forced myself to participate in the conversation. “Myriam, is there anyone you’d like me to call for you? Do you have what you need here? Can I bring you anything? Toiletries? Something to read? I can check with Sheriff Metzger as to what’s allowed.”

She answered each question with a nod—no, yes, no, no, no—as if too exhausted to talk.

There was a knock on the door and the deputy opened it. “There’s another visitor,” she said. “The prisoner’s mother.”

Before we could say anything, Mrs. Caldwell pushed past the deputy and stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her bosom, anger etched on her face.

“Madam, you have to wait your turn,” the deputy said.

“Hello, Mrs. Caldwell,” O’Connor said, standing. He waved at the deputy. “It’s all right. Let her in.”

Mrs. Caldwell pointed at me. “Why is this woman here?”

O’Connor looked at me; I suppose that my puzzled expression matched his.

“You may leave now, Myriam,” her mother said. “Tell the deputy to take you back inside. This meeting is over.” She glared at O’Connor. “I’ll be at your office in twenty minutes, and I expect to see you there.”

Cy’s face was flushed, and I waited for him to say something in defense of our being with his client. But he held his tongue, and Mrs. Caldwell stormed out.

Myriam slowly pushed out of her chair and shuffled over to the deputy, holding out her wrists so the officer could cuff her before returning her to her cell.

“I don’t believe what just happened,” I said, watching as a demoralized Myriam was led away.

O’Connor sat grim faced, his fingers rolling rhythmically on the tabletop.

“Do you have an explanation for what occurred?” I asked.

“Probably, but it will take a while to put it in plain words.”

“I have all the time in the world.”

He managed a tight smile and shook his head. “Are we still on for dinner?”

“Yes.”

He stood, closed his briefcase, and said, “I’ll pick you up at seven? I know you don’t drive.”

“Seven will be fine,” I replied.

He left me alone in a room filled with questions.

Chapter Twelve

C
y O’Connor arrived at my house at the stroke of seven, bounded from his racing green sports car, and rang the bell.

“Right on time,” I said.

“A family trait,” he said. “My father was a stickler for being prompt, claimed that people who ran late were just looking for attention.”

“He makes a good point,” I said. “Where are we going to dinner?”

“The Katahdin Club, if it’s all right with you.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “You’re a member?”

“Yeah. Dad was. When he died, his membership passed to me. I’ve kept it up. Good for business.”

The Katahdin Country Club was named after Maine’s Mount Katahdin, the state’s highest peak, the centerpiece of Baxter State Park. Henry David Thoreau once climbed the 5,268-foot-high mountain and wrote about it in a chapter from
The Maine Woods
, although he spelled it “Ktaadn.” Regardless of the spelling, the club was the second of two golf clubs to open in Cabot Cove once the town had begun to experience growth.

Its development was not without controversy. Many people in town objected to a pristine tract of land along the coast being developed for the privileged few, and they fought vigorously against it. It was eventually decided, however, that the area needed such a facility, and the plans were approved—but with a provision written at the last minute. In order for the private Katahdin Club to open and for its wealthy members to enjoy an eighteen-hole golf course designed by a leading architect, the developers were obliged to create a second eighteen-hole golf course on an adjacent tract of land that would be open to the public. That seemed to satisfy both sides, and the two facilities have flourished ever since.

A young man in a valet’s uniform took the car from O’Connor, and we entered the club beneath a long red canopy that stretched from the door to the circular drive. O’Connor, beautifully dressed in a gray suit, blue shirt, and multicolored tie, walked quickly and with a spring in his step, and I had to hasten my pace to keep up with him. He was greeted by other club members as we approached the maître d’, who led us to a table in the dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea.

“You a golfer, Jessica?” O’Connor asked after we’d been seated.

“I have played, but I wouldn’t call myself a golfer. I’m not very good at it. I take it that you play.”

“I hack away. Not my favorite way to spend time, but it’s good for my practice.”

The dining room was large and nicely lit. Tables were adorned with starched white tablecloths and glistening silverware; a vase of fresh red and purple flowers was on each table, and a pianist sat in a far corner at a white baby grand playing familiar show tunes.

“Is this your first time at the club?” he asked, taking menus from the waiter.

“No. I’ve been to a few functions here, not many.”

“Maybe you ought to join,” he suggested. “I’ll be happy to be your sponsor.”

“Thank you, but no. I’m afraid I’m not the country-club type.”

“I think I know what you mean,” he said through a smile. “Drink?”

“White wine would be nice.”

As the waiter took our order, I looked beyond him to another side of the room, where I spotted Richard Mauser standing with a group of men. They each held a glass and laughed heartily at something he’d said. O’Connor noted my interest in the group.

“Dick Mauser,” he said. “He’s the club president.”

A good reason not to take O’Connor up on his offer to sponsor me as a member.

“He spends a lot of time here.”

“I suppose he would, being president,” I said.

“Not the most simpatico of people.”

I avoided adding my verbal agreement.

“What appeals?” he asked, indicating the menu, which I hadn’t looked at yet. I picked it up, glanced at the entrees, and said, “Poached salmon and a salad would be fine.”

“I’m a hopeless carnivore,” he said. “Never met a steak I didn’t like.”

Our orders placed, I asked what he’d had on his mind when he issued the dinner invitation.

“Myriam Wolcott, of course,” he replied. “I need help.”

My first thought was that he was about to discuss not having any experience with criminal law. Instead he said, “You’ve met Mrs. Caldwell.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

He grinned and nodded. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”

“I—I don’t know what she is, except that she isn’t especially pleasant. I gather from what I’ve seen that she’s very much involved in her daughter’s defense.”

“Your turn for an understatement, Jessica. She’s hired me to be her daughter’s counsel.”

“Which brings up a question.”

“And I know what it is. Why would she choose me to handle a murder case, considering that it’ll be my first?”

“It’s a reasonable question, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is, and I’ve been hearing it asked around town every day. Why would I be retained when there are a dozen good criminal attorneys ready and willing to defend her?”

I didn’t have to encourage his answer.

“I’ll level with you, Jessica. When I decided to go to law school and follow in my father’s footsteps, my goal was always to practice criminal law.” His chuckle was self-effacing.

“What kept you from doing it?”

“Dad. He was sort of a crusty guy who considered criminal law to be—well, to be not exactly clean. Certainly not the field for his fair-haired boy. As far as he was concerned, criminal lawyers had to wallow in the same sties as their clients. He considered them the bottom of the legal barrel.”

“That isn’t true,” I said. “I’ve known many criminal lawyers who were fine men and women who believed that every person, even criminals, is entitled to a defense.”