She repeated her denial without a change of expression or voice.
“Do you know if your son Craig and Mr. Gallead are business associates?”
A flicker of life came into her eyes.
“No, they aren’t!”
“What about your other son, Alex? Is he associated with Mr. Gallead?”
This time the life flared to a flame.
“No!” she screamed.
“Alex doesn’t know anything! He has nothing to do ” “Yes, Mrs. Dodgson? He has nothing to do with what?”
“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Barbara regarded her coolly for a moment, then re turned to the defense table.
“No more questions,” she said.
Fierst stood up as if undecided, then said he had no questions. He would try to undo some of it at summation Barbara knew, but he understood it was over as well as she did.
getting our of the courthouse to the car was hellish;
there were more reporters today than onlookers and demonstrators, more flashbulbs, more TV cameras, more shouted questions, more pushing, yelling…. At the house it was marginally better. As Frank propelled her to the door, it swung open and Bailey stepped aside for them to enter, slammed the door and locked it.
“They had to put a cop in the backyard,” Bailey said cheerfully.
“They were coming over the fence taking pictures of the tomatoes.”
“Christ on a mountain,” Frank muttered, and headed for the back door. A man emerged from the living room.
“Oh, Carter. Right back.” Frank went out through the kitchen.
“Ms. Holloway, I’m Carter Heilbronner.” He extended his hand. He was a slender, dark-haired man, fifty or fifty-five, very well dressed in a dark suit, maroon tie.
She shook hands with him; he looked exactly the way an FBI agent should look—discreet, well-mannered, pleasant.
“Please,” she said, “make yourself comfortable.
I’ll just be a minute. Bailey, why don’t you give Mr. Heilbronner a drink?” She went upstairs to change her clothes, wash her face, rid herself of the briefcase and purse, and just to sit and not do anything for a few seconds. Finally, in jeans and T-shirt, she went back down.
Heilbronner and Bailey were in the kitchen, where Frank was sorting tomatoes and peppers, cursing.
“Damn fools, look what they did!” He held up a smashed pepper.
“Goddamn idiots!”
Bailey asked her if she wanted wine and she said no, she wanted what he had. Heilbronner was not drinking Then, with bourbon and water in her hand, she sat at the kitchen table.
“As good a place as any,” she said, motioning Heilbronner to a chair. Frank’s curses be came almost inaudible.
“Your father asked us to put certain people under surveillance,” Heilbronner said.
“And of course we can’t do that without cause. Ms. Holloway, will you tell me why you made such a request?”
She sipped her drink.
“I think right now the Dodgson group is considering the murder of Royce Gallead, and possibly his stooge, Terry Bossert. And I think those two are trying to figure out how they can get to the Dodgsons without being caught. And meanwhile, I think Kay Dodgson expects to get the hell beaten out of her, if not tonight, then tomorrow.” She took another drink, bigger this time.
“If that scenario isn’t quite right, then some, or maybe all of them, are likely wondering if they can get to me overnight, or else they might be checking airlines for parts unknown. And they really should not be allowed to skip, not just yet.”
Heilbronner’s expression did not change even a fraction.
She sighed.
“I asked Judge Paltz to advise Kay Dodgson that she could have protection if she felt the need.”
“Ms. Holloway, you know very well that isn’t enough. We need real data or our hands are tied, as you also know.”
“If I told you enough to make you call out the dogs, what would you do? Arrest people? Search and seize?
Bring them in for questioning? All of the above? I can’t do that because I haven’t concluded my defense of Paula Kennel-man yet, and my primary commitment must be to my client. As soon as the jury starts its de liberation, I’ll tell you everything I know, everything I suspect, give you everything I have, but I really would like to know that all those people will be alive and healthy then.” She picked up her glass and added moodily “And it would be really fine if they didn’t get together and discuss things overnight.”
Heilbronner regarded her for another minute, then shook his head. His face revealed nothing. Did the FBI have lessons in that? she wondered irritably. Neutral Expression 101 ?
“You know, don’t you,” Bailey drawled, “that the news hounds out there are national as well as local. We got their attention.”
“For Christ’s sake, get off your high horse,” Frank snapped from across the kitchen.
“What’s it going to cost you? If you lose, you lose big. Cover your ass!”
Heilbronner continued to watch Barbara. She finished her drink and waved Bailey away when he reached for her glass. She was so tired another drink might make her fold.
“You understand,” Heilbronner said, “that the FBI doesn’t involve itself in local crimes, not even murder.”
“Of course, I understand that,” she said.
“Look, I’m really beat. Tomorrow, as soon as the jury is charged, I’m asking Judge Paltz to convene a meeting in his chambers. The D.A. will be there. Come if you want” She stood up.
“If some of the people we discuss turn up dead or missing, well, I tried.”
When he remained deadpan, she shrugged and turned deliberately to Bailey.
“Anything new on Les Simmers or the watchman?”
“Les was in surgery for eight hours; he’s critical but stable. They say that’s a good sign. The watchman will make it.”
Heilbronner got up then.
“I’ll be on my way,” he said. Bailey went with him to lock the door again.
“What do you think?” Barbara asked Frank.
“You kidding? They’ll be watched. Didn’t do your case any harm at all, bringing up Les and the watchman.”
He was still scowling at his ruined vegetables.
Barbara went to the stairs and stepped up, down, up, down.
“What are you doing?” Bailey asked.
“Exercising.” Up, down, up.
“That can’t be good for her,” Bailey said to Prank in the kitchen.
“You staying for supper? If so, go on out there and pick some beans.”
Barbara stepped up, down, up…. Rich Dodgson was what people meant when they said a fine-looking man, Barbara thought the next morning, studying him. He was fifty-nine, a few pounds overweight, not enough to be unattractive. His eyes were light blue, his hair dark, almost black, with gray at the temples.
He was dressed in charcoal-colored slacks. With a lighter gray sports coat, shirt open at the neck, no visible jewelry, not even a wedding ring.
She asked him to fill in his background for the jury, and he did so concisely. When he was done, she shook her head.
“You are too modest, Mr. Dodgson. You say you were a salesman, but weren’t you, in fact, at the time of your retirement, the sales supervisor of the entire western district for the Doud Pharmaceutical Company?”
“Yes.”
“How long were you with the pharmaceutical company?”
“Twenty years.” His voice was level, almost bored.
He looked at her infrequently, as if he found her tire some. He was very much at ease. He smiled and nodded to someone in the room behind her.
Today she had her own little cheering section again: her neighbors. Bill Spassero, Lucille and her husband. She had seen Kay Dodgson and Craig in the audience, and a lot of his people. They were being very quiet.
“If you had remained five more years, you could have retired with a full pension and medical insurance, couldn’t you?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Probably.” .
“But you chose to leave in order to start your own business, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Were you and your family dependent on your salary, Mr. Dodgson?”
Pierst objected. She didn’t dispute him.
“Mr. Dodgson, when you came to Oregon you bought land from Mrs. Canby, and a year later built your house, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And you bought the printing plant, the building housing it, added new equipment, computers. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Seven years ago you bought your yacht. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How much does your newspaper cost, Mr. Dodgson?”
For the first time he hesitated, but only for a second.
“Fifty cents an issue. A subscription is fifteen dollars a year.”
“And how many copies do you print?”
He shrugged again.
“About a thousand.”
“How long have you published on a weekly basis?”
He glanced at her and away.
“About two years. Before that we were a monthly.”
“So the newspaper has never been your primary source of income from the company. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, a sharpness entering his voice, as if he had lost patience with her and her questions.
“We always printed whatever jobs came along.
We are a printing company. And we have advertisers.”
“Your Honor, I object to this line of questioning,” Fierst said, rising to his feet.
“Mr. Dodgson’s company, his occupation, have nothing to do with the matter before this court. Counsel is simply fishing.”
Judge Paltz sustained the objection, and then said, “Ms. Holloway, I suggest you get to another topic.”
Barbara nodded. When she looked at Dodgson again, she caught a hint of a gleam in his pale eyes, before he registered indifference once more.
“Your masthead lists you as the publisher and editor of the paper, Mr. Dodgson. Do you have reporters?”
“No.”
“You write all the material yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What are your news sources, Mr. Dodgson, if you have no reporters?”
“People tell me things. I write them,” he said. He raised his arm and looked at his watch.
“You are solely and completely responsible for the content of your newspaper?”
“That’s what I said. That’s what I meant. Should I say it again?”
“You wrote this?” She picked up the top newspaper from a stack on the defense table and read: “The so-called feminists are screeching at the gates, folks. Pay attention. What they want now are classes for our boys to teach them what they call nurturing. What that means, folks, is they want to teach our boys how to cook and sew and babysit while they go out and steal away men’s jobs. What can you do? Scream back at them, for openers….” She looked at him.
“You wrote that?”
“Objection!” Fierst yelled.
“Mr. Dodgson’s private philosophy is not on trial. We have and honor freedom of speech in this country. He can write what he wants.”
“Your Honor,” Barbara said, “I agree absolutely with Mr. Fierst. However, it is possible that the witness mis spoke when he said he writes all his own material.
This editorial, for instance, appeared in three different local papers in the state. I think Mr. Dodgson deserves the opportunity to clarify his statement, if he spoke hastily.”
Judge Paltz overruled Fierst.
“The question, Mr. Dodgson, was, did you write that?”
“Yes. They might have copied it, if anyone actually published that same article.”
“Oh, someone did,” she said, lifting another paper.
“This is the Belham County Bugle, a monthly, I believe.
The editorial in it is from February, nineteen ninety-one. Your article is dated May, nineteen ninety-one.
How do you suppose they copied it before you published it, Mr. Dodgson?”
“Objection!” Fierst cried.
“Counsel knows that’s an improper question.”
“Sustained.”
“I suppose it was,” Barbara murmured.
“Mr. Dodgson, here is another copy of your editorial, dated January of the same year, and a fourth one, dated June. Mr.
Dodgson, I ask you, did you write the editorial?”
“Yes. I said I wrote it.”
“And you can’t account for the exact editorial appearing in these other papers?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Very well,” she said, handing the papers to the clerk to be admitted.
“Let’s take this one.” She lifted another newspaper, and watched his gaze leave her, fasten on the stack of papers on her table. Well, she thought, she had his attention. He no longer looked bored.
She read another editorial, this one attacking birth-control pills, with three duplicates. He said he wrote it.
Another one, about JUDs, with two duplicates. He said he wrote it. A third one about the mo ming-after pill, one duplicate. He said he wrote it. He had become steely-eyed, his jaw set; he was grating the words now.
Barbara could well understand why Kay was terrified of him.
“Mr. Dodgson, the last three editorials all deal with birth control of various sorts. Is it a fair assumption to understand that you are opposed to all birth control?”
“Those aren’t birth-control methods. They’re murder methods,” he said with cold precision.
“I am morally opposed to any and every kind of murder of innocent children.”
“I see,” she said, and picked up another paper. This one bewailed the use of spermicidal gels.
“Mr. Dodg son,” she asked after she read it, “do you claim that the use of a spermicidal gel is also murder?”
“If the girls don’t want to get pregnant, they should stay out of the bedroom.”
“Do you claim that the use of spermicidal gel is murder?” she repeated.
“It can be considered murder.”
“Mr. Dodgson, will you explain to the jury what a spermicide is?”
“It is an agent that kills male sperm.” He was staring at her with an almost hypnotic intensity. His eyes looked inhuman with a metallic sheen.
“You mean it kills the sperm before it reaches the ovum?”
“Yes. I mean that.”
“So the ovum cannot be fertilized? Pregnancy cannot take place?”
“You know that’s what I mean.”
“Yes, I know that. And you state in this editorial that it’s another form of murder.” She put the paper down, grateful that no one had challenged it; there was no duplicate of that editorial. She picked up the next paper.