“Thank
you, Captain,” said
Ebden
, “I have no more questions
for Detective
Petrowski
, your honor.”
“Do
you wish to question this witness?” asked the judge, preparing himself for
another tactical maneuver.
“Yes,
I most certainly
do,
your honor.”
Fletcher
remained seated while he turned a page of his legal pad. “Detective
Petrowski
, you told the court that my client’s fingerprints
were on the gun.”
“Not
just his fingerprints, also a palm print on the butt as confirmed in the
forensic report.”
“And
didn’t you also tell the court that in your experience, criminals often try to
leave conflicting evidence in order to fool the police?”
Petrowski
nodded, but made no reply.
“Yes
or no, Captain?”
“Yes,”
said
Petrowski
.
“Would
you describe Mr. Cartwright as a fool?”
Petrowski
hesitated while he tried to work out where Fletcher was attempting to lead him.
“No, I would say he was a highly intelligent man.”
“Would
you describe leaving your fingerprints and a palm print on the murder weapon as
the act of a highly intelligent man?” asked Fletcher.
“No,
but then Mr. Cartwright is not a professional criminal, and doesn’t think like
one.
Amateurs
often panic and that’s when they make simple mistakes.”
“Like
dropping the gun on the floor, covered in his prints, and running out of the
house leaving the front door wide open?”
“Yes,
that doesn’t surprise me, given the circumstances.”
“You
spent several hours questioning Mr. Cartwright, Captain; does he strike you as
the type of man who panics and then runs away?”
“Objection,
your honor,” said
Ebden
, rising from his place, “how
can Detective
Petrowski
be expected to answer that
question?”
“Your
honor, Detective
Petrowski
has been only too willing
to give his opinion on the habits of amateur and professional criminals, so I
can’t see why he wouldn’t feel comfortable answering my was question.”
“Overruled, counselor.
Move on.”
Fletcher
bowed to the judge, stood up, walked over to the witness stand and came to a
halt in front of the detective. “Were there any other fingerprints on the gun?”
“Yes,”
said
Petrowski
, not appearing to be fazed by
Fletcher’s presence, “there were partials of Mr. Elliot’s prints, but they have
been accounted for, remembering that he took the gun from his desk to protect
himself.”
“But
his prints were on the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Did
you check to see if there was any powder residue under his fingernails?”
“No,”
said
Petrowski
.
“And
why not?” asked Fletcher.
“Because you’d need very long arms to shoot yourself
from a distance of four feet.”
Laughter
broke out in the court.
Fletcher
waited for silence before he said, “But he could well have fired the first
bullet that ended up in the ceiling.”
“It
could have been the second bullet,” rebutted
Petrowski
.
Fletcher
turned away from the witness box and walked over to the jury. “When you took
the statement from Mrs. Elliot, what was she wearing?”
“A
robe-as she explained, she had been asleep at the time when the first shot was
fired.”
“Ah
yes, I remember,” said Fletcher before he walked back to the table. He picked
up a single sheet of paper and read from it. “It was when Mrs. Elliot heard the
second shot that she came out of the bedroom and ran to the top of the stairs.”
Petrowski
nodded.
“Please
answer the question, detective, yes or no?”
“I
don’t recall the question,” said
Petrowski
, sounding
flustered.
“It
was when she heard the second shot that Mrs. Elliot came out of the bedroom and
ran to the top of the stairs.”
“Yes,
that’s what she told us.”
“And
she stood there watching Mr. Cartwright as he ran out of the front door. Is
that also correct?”
Fletcher
asked, turning around to look directly at
Petrowski
.
“Yes
it is,” said
Petrowski
, trying to remain calm.
“Detective,
you told the court that among the professionals you called in to assist you was
a police photographer.”
“Yes,
that’s standard practice in a case like this, and all the photographs taken
that night have been submitted as evidence.”
“Indeed
they have,” said Fletcher as he returned to the table and emptied a large
package of photographs onto his table. He selected one, and walked back to the
witness stand. “Is this one of those photographs?” he asked.
Petrowski
studied it carefully, and then looked at the stamp on the back. “Yes, it is.”
“Would
you describe it to the jury?”
“It’s
a picture of the
Elliots
’ front door, taken from
their driveway.”
“Why
was this particular photograph submitted as evidence?”
“Because
it proved that the door had been left open when the murderer made good his
escape. It also shows the long corridor leading through to Mr. Elliot’s study.”
“Yes,
of course it does, I should have worked that out for myself,” said Fletcher. He
paused. “And the figure crouched in the corridor, is that Mrs. Elliot?”
The
detective took a second look, “Yes it is, she seemed calm at the time, so we
decided not to disturb her.”
“How
considerate,” said
Fletcher.
“So let me ask you
finally, detective, you told the district attorney that you did not call for an
ambulance until your investigation had been completed?”
“That
is correct, paramedics sometimes turn up at the scene of a crime before the
police have arrived, and they are notorious for disturbing evidence.”
“Are
they?” asked Fletcher. “But that didn’t happen on this occasion, because you
were the first person to arrive following Mrs. Elliot’s call to the chief.”
“Yes,
I was.”
“Most
commendable,” said Fletcher.” “Do you have any idea how long it took you to
reach Mrs. Elliot’s home in West Hartford?”
“Five, maybe six minutes.”
“You
must have had to break the speed limit to achieve that,” said Fletcher, with a
smile.
“I
put my siren on, but as it was two in the morning, there was very little
traffic.”
“I’m
grateful for that explanation,” said Fletcher. “No more questions, your honor.”
“What
was all that about?” muttered Nat when Fletcher had returned to his place.
“Ah,
I’m glad you didn’t work it out,” said Fletcher. “Now we must hope that the
state’s attorney hasn’t either.”
“I
call Rebecca Elliot to the stand.”
When
Rebecca entered the courtroom, every head turned except Nat’s. He remained
staring resolutely ahead. She walked slowly down the center aisle, making the
sort of entrance that an actress looks for in every script. The court had been
packed from the moment the doors were opened at eight o’clock that morning. The
front three rows of the public benches had been cordoned off, and only the
presence of uniformed police officers kept them from being colonized.
Fletcher
had looked around when Don Culver, the chief of police, and Detective
Petrowski
had taken their seats in the front row, directly
behind the state’s attorney’s table. At one minute to ten, only thirteen seats
remained unoccupied.
Nat
glanced across at Fletcher, who had a little stack of yellow legal pads in
front of him.
He
could see that the top sheet was blank and prayed that the other three unopened
pads had something written on them. A court officer stepped forward to show
Mrs. Elliot into the well of the court and guide her to the witness stand. Nat
looked up at Rebecca for the first time. She was wearing her widow’s
weeds-fashionable black tailored suit, buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that
fell several inches below the knee. Her only jewelry other than her wedding and
engagement ring was a simple string of pearls. Fletcher glanced at her left
wrist and made the first note on his pad. As she took the stand, Rebecca turned
to face the judge, and gave him a shy smile. He nodded courteously. She then
haltingly took the oath.
She
finally sat down and, turning
I
to face the jury, gave
them the same shy smile. Fletcher noticed
I
that
several of them returned the compliment. Rebecca touched the side of her hair,
and Fletcher knew where she must have spent most of the previous afternoon. The
state’s attorney hadn’t missed a trick, and if he could have called for the
jury to deliver their verdict before a question had been asked, he suspected
that they would have happily sentenced him, as well as his client, to the
electric chair.
The
judge nodded, and the state’s attorney rose from his place. Mr.
Ebden
had also joined in the charade. He was dressed in a
dark charcoal suit, white shirt and a sober blue tie-the appropriate attire in
which to question the Virgin Mother.
“Mrs.
Elliot,” he said quietly, as he stepped on into the well of the court.
“Everyone in this courtroom is aware of the ordeal you have been put through,
and are now going to have to painfully relive. Let me reassure you that it is
my intention to take you through any questions I might have as painlessly as possible,
in the hope that you will not have to remain in the witness stand any longer
than is necessary.”
“Especially
as we have been able to rehearse every question again and again for the past
five months,” murmured Fletcher. Nat tried not to smile.
“Let
me begin by asking you, Mrs. Elliot, how long were you married to your late
husband?”
“Tomorrow
would have been our seventeenth wedding anniversary.”
“And
how did you plan to celebrate that occasion?”
“We
were going to stay at the Salisbury Inn, where we had spent the first night of
our honeymoon, because I knew Ralph couldn’t spare more than a few hours off
from his campaign.”
“Typical
of Mr. Elliot’s commitment and conscientious approach to public service,” said
the state’s attorney as he walked out into the well of the court and across to
the jury. “I must, Mrs. Elliot, ask you to bear with me while I return to the
night of your husband’s tragic and untimely death,” Rebecca bowed her head
slightly. “You didn’t attend the debate that Mr. Elliot took part in earlier
that evening: Was there any particular reason for that?” a “Yes,” said Rebecca,
facing the jury, “Ralph liked me to stay at home and watch him whenever he was
on television, where I could make detailed notes that we would discuss later.
He
felt that if I was part of the studio audience, I might be influenced by those
sitting around me, especially once they realized that I was the candidate’s
wife.”
“That
makes a great deal of sense,” said
Ebden
.
Fletcher
penned a second note on the pad in front of him.
“Was
there anything in particular you recall about that evening’s broadcast?”
“Yes,”
said Rebecca. She paused and bowed her head. “I felt sick when Mr. Cartwright
threatened my husband with the words “I will still kill you.”“ She slowly
raised her head and looked at the jury, as Fletcher made a further note.
“And
once the debate was over your husband returned home to West Hartford?”
“Yes,
I had prepared a light supper for him which we had in the kitchen, because he
sometimes forgets.”
She
paused again. “I’m so sorry, forgot, to take a break from his arduous schedule
to eat.”
“Do
you recall anything in particular about that supper?”
“Yes,
I went over my notes with him, as I felt strongly about some of the issues that
had been raised during the debate.” Fletcher turned the page and made another
note. “In fact, it was over supper that I learned Mr. Cartwright had accused
him of setting up the last question.”
“How
did you react to such a suggestion?”
“I
was appalled that anyone could think Ralph might have been involved in such
underhanded tactics.
However
I remained convinced that the public would not be taken in by Mr. Cartwright’s
false accusations, and that his petulant outburst would only increase my
husband’s chances of winning the election the following day.”
“And
after supper did you both go to bed?”