Sons of Fortune

44

It was not the first time in American history that a dead candidate’s name was listed on the ballot paper, and it was certainly not the first time an arrested candidate had stood for election, but search as they might, the political historians were unable to find both on the same day.

Nat’s one call that the chief permitted was to Tom, who was still wide awake despite it being three in the morning. ‘I’ll get Jimmy Gates out of bed and join you at the police station as soon as I can.’

They had only just finished taking his fingerprints when Tom arrived, accompanied by his lawyer. ‘You remember Jimmy,’ said Tom, ‘he advised us during the Fairchild’s takeover.’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Nat as he continued to dry his hands after removing the traces of black ink from his fingers.

‘I’ve talked to the chief,’ said Jimmy, ‘and he’s quite happy for you to go home, but you’ll have to appear in court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to be formally charged. I shall apply for bail on your behalf, and there is no reason to believe it won’t be granted.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nat, his voice flat. ‘Jimmy, you’ll recall that before we began the takeover bid for Fairchild’s, I asked you to find me the best corporate lawyer available to represent us?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Jimmy, ‘and you’ve always said that Logan Fitzgerald did a first-class job.’

‘He certainly did,’ said Nat quietly, ‘but now I need you to find me the Logan Fitzgerald of criminal law.’

‘I’ll have two or three names for you to consider by the time we meet up tomorrow. There’s a guy in Chicago who’s exceptional, but I don’t know what his diary’s like,’ he said as the chief of police walked over to join them.

‘Mr Cartwright, can one of my boys drive you home?’

‘No, that’s good of you, chief,’ said Tom, ‘but I’ll take the candidate home.’

‘You say candidate automatically now,’ said Nat, ‘almost as if it was my Christian name.’

On the journey home, Nat told Tom everything that had taken place while he was at Elliot’s house. ‘So in the end it will come down to your word against hers,’ commented Tom as he pulled up outside Nat’s front door.

‘Yes, and I’m afraid my story won’t be as convincing as hers, even though it’s the truth.’

‘We can talk about that in the morning,’ said Tom. ‘But now you need to try and get some sleep.’

‘It is the morning,’ said Nat as he watched the first rays of sunlight creeping across the lawn.

Su Ling was standing by the open door. ‘Did they for a moment believe...?’

Nat told her everything that had happened while he was at the police station, and when he finished, all Su Ling said was, ‘Such a pity.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nat.

‘That you didn’t kill him.’

Nat climbed the stairs and walked through the bedroom straight on into the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and threw them in a bag. He would dispose of the bag later so that he would never have to be reminded of this terrible day. He stepped into the shower and allowed the cold jets of water to beat down on him. After putting on a new set of clothes he rejoined his wife in the kitchen. On the sideboard was his election-day schedule; no mention of a court appearance on arraignment for murder.

Tom turned up at nine. He reported that the voting was going briskly, as if nothing else was happening in Nat’s life. ‘They took a poll immediately following the television interview,’ he told Nat, ‘and it gave you a lead of sixty-three to thirty-seven.’

‘But that was before I was arrested for killing the other candidate,’ said Nat.

‘I guess that might push it up to seventy-thirty,’ replied Tom. No one laughed.

Tom did his best to focus on the campaign and try to keep their minds off Luke. It didn’t work. He looked up at the kitchen clock. ‘Time for us to go,’ he said to Nat, who turned and took Su Ling in his arms.

‘No, I’m coming with you,’ she said. ‘Nat may not have murdered him, but I would have, given half a chance.’

‘Me too,’ said Tom gently, ‘but let me warn you that when we get to the courthouse it’s bound to be a media circus. Look innocent and say nothing, because anything you say will end up on every front page.’

As they left the house, they were greeted by a dozen journalists and three camera crews just to watch them climb into a car. Nat clung on to Su Ling’s hand as they were driven through the streets and didn’t notice how many people waved the moment they spotted him. When they arrived at the steps of the courthouse fifteen minutes later, Nat faced the largest crowd he’d encountered during the entire election campaign.

The chief had anticipated the problem and detailed twenty uniformed officers to hold back the crowd, and make a gangway so that Nat and his party could enter the building without being hassled. It didn’t work, because twenty officers weren’t enough to control the scrum of photographers and journalists who shouted and jostled Nat and Su Ling as they tried to make their way up the courtroom steps. Microphones were thrust in Nat’s face, and questions came at them from every angle.

‘Did you murder Ralph Elliot?’ demanded one reporter.

‘Will you be withdrawing as candidate?’ followed next, as a microphone was thrust forward.

‘Was your mother a prostitute, Mrs Cartwright?’

‘Do you think you can still win, Nat?’

‘Was Rebecca Elliot your mistress?’

‘What were Ralph Elliot’s last words, Mr Cartwright?’

When they pushed through the swing doors, they found Jimmy Gates standing on the far side, waiting for them. He led Nat to a bench outside the courtroom and briefed his client on the procedure he was about to face.

‘Your appearance should only last for about five minutes,’ Jimmy explained. ‘You will state your name, and having done so, you will be charged, and then asked to enter a plea. Once you’ve pleaded not guilty, I shall make an application for bail. The state is suggesting fifty thousand dollars at your own recognizance, which I’ve agreed to. The moment you’ve signed the necessary papers, you will be released and you won’t have to appear again until a trial date has been fixed.’

‘When do we anticipate that might be?’

‘It would normally take about six months, but I’ve asked for the whole process to be speeded up on account of the up-coming election.’ Nat admired his counsel’s professional approach, remembering that Jimmy was also Fletcher Davenport’s closest friend. However, like any good lawyer, Nat thought, Jimmy would understand the meaning of Chinese walls.

Jimmy glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to go in, the last thing we need is to keep the judge waiting.’

Nat entered a packed courtroom and walked slowly down the aisle with Tom. He was surprised by how many people thrust out their hands and even wished him luck, making it feel more like a party meeting than a criminal arraignment. When they reached the front, Jimmy held open the little wooden gate dividing the court officials from the simply curious. He then guided Nat to a table on the left, and ushered him into the seat next to his. As they waited for the judge to make his entrance, Nat glanced across at the state’s attorney, Richard Ebden, a man he’d always admired. He knew that Ebden would be a formidable adversary, and wondered who Jimmy was going to recommend to oppose him.

‘All rise, Mr Justice Deakins presiding.’

The procedure Jimmy had described took place exactly as he predicted, and they were back out on the street five minutes later, facing the same journalists repeating the same questions and still failing to get any answers.

As they pushed their way through the scrum to their waiting car, Nat was once again surprised by how many people still wanted to shake him by the hand. Tom slowed them down, aware that this would be the footage seen by the voters on the midday news. Nat spoke to every well-wisher, but wasn’t quite sure how to reply to an onlooker who said, ‘I’m glad you killed the bastard.’

‘Do you want to head straight home?’ asked Tom as his car slowly nosed its way through the melee.

‘No,’ said Nat, ‘let’s go across to the bank and talk things through in the boardroom.’

The only stop they made on the way was to pick up the first edition of the Courant after hearing a newsboy’s cry of ‘Cartwright charged with murder’. All Tom seemed to be interested in was a poll on the second page showing that Nat now led Elliot by over twenty points. ‘And,’ said Tom, ‘in a separate poll, seventy-two per cent say you shouldn’t withdraw from the race.’ Tom read on, suddenly looked up but said nothing.

‘What is it?’ asked Su Ling.

‘Seven per cent say they would happily have killed Elliot, if only you’d asked them.’

When they reached the bank, there was another hustle of journalists and cameramen awaiting them; again they were met with the same stony silence. Tom’s secretary joined them in the corridor and reported that early polling was at a record high as Republicans obviously wished to make their views known.

Once they were settled in the boardroom, Nat opened the discussion by saying, ‘The party will expect me to withdraw, whatever the result, and I feel that might still be my best course of action given the circumstances.’

‘Why not let the voters decide?’ said Su Ling quietly, ‘and if they give you overwhelming support, stay in there fighting, because that will also help convince a jury that you’re innocent.’

‘I agree,’ said Tom. ‘And what’s the alternative — Barbara Hunter? Let’s at least spare the electorate that.’

‘And how do you feel, Jimmy? After all you’re my legal advisor.’

‘On this subject I can’t offer an impartial view,’ Jimmy admitted. ‘As you well know, the Democratic candidate is my closest friend, but were I advising him in the same circumstances, and I knew he was innocent, I would say stick in there and fight the bastards.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s just possible that the public will elect a dead man; then heaven knows what will happen.’

‘His name will remain on the ballot paper,’ said Tom, ‘and if he goes on to win the election, the party can invite anyone they choose to represent him.’

‘Are you serious?’ said Nat.

‘Couldn’t be more serious. Quite often they select the candidate’s wife, and my bet is that Rebecca Elliot would happily take his place.’

‘And if you’re convicted,’ said Jimmy, ‘she could sure count on the sympathy vote just before an election.’

‘More important,’ said Nat, ‘have you come up with a defence counsel to represent me?’

‘Four,’ responded Jimmy, removing a thick file from his briefcase. He turned the cover. ‘Two from New York, both recommended by Logan Fitzgerald, one from Chicago who worked on Watergate, and the fourth from Dallas. He’s only lost one case in the last ten years, and that was when his client had committed the murder on video. I intend to call all four later today to find out if any of them is free. This is going to be such a high profile case, my bet is that they will all make themselves available.’

‘Isn’t there anyone from Connecticut worthy of the shortlist?’ asked Tom. ‘It would send out a far better message to the jury.’

‘I agree,’ said Jimmy, ‘but the only man who is of the same calibre as those four simply isn’t available.’

‘And who’s that?’ asked Nat.

‘The Democratic candidate for governor.’

Nat smiled for the first time. ‘Then he’s my first choice.’

‘But he’s in the middle of an election campaign.’

‘Just in case you haven’t noticed, so is the accused,’ said Nat, ‘and let’s face it, the election isn’t for another nine months. If I turn out to be his opponent, at least he’ll know where I am the whole time.’

‘But...’ repeated Jimmy.

‘You tell Mr Fletcher Davenport that if I become the Republican candidate, he’s my first choice, and don’t approach anyone else until he’s turned me down, because if everything I’ve heard about that man is true, I feel confident he’ll want to represent me.’

‘If those are your instructions, Mr Cartwright.’

‘Those are my instructions, counsellor.’

By the time the polls had closed at eight p.m. Nat had fallen asleep in the car as Tom drove him home. His chief of staff made no attempt to disturb him. The next thing Nat remembered was waking to find Su Ling lying on the bed beside him, and his first thoughts were of Luke. Su Ling stared at him and gripped his hand. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘What do you mean, no?’ asked Nat.

‘I can see it in your eyes, my darling, you wonder if I would prefer you to withdraw, so that we can mourn Luke properly, and the answer is no.’

‘But we’ll have the funeral, and then the preparations for the trial, not to mention the trial itself.’

‘Not to mention the endless hours in between, when you’ll be brooding and unbearable to five with, so the answer is still no.’

‘But it’s going to be almost impossible to expect a jury not to accept the word of a grieving widow who also claims to have been an eye witness to her husband’s murder.’

‘Of course she was an eye witness,’ said Su Ling. ‘She did it.’

The phone on Su Ling’s bedside table began to ring. She picked it up and listened attentively before writing two figures down on the pad by the phone. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll let him know.’

‘Let him know what?’ enquired Nat.

Su Ling tore the piece of paper off the pad and passed it across to her husband. ‘It was Tom. He wanted you to know the election result.’ Su Ling handed over the piece of paper. All she had written on it were the figures, ‘69/31’.

‘Yes, but who got sixty-nine?’ asked Nat.

‘The next governor of Connecticut,’ she replied.

Luke’s funeral was, at the principal’s request, held in Taft School’s chapel. He explained that so many pupils had wanted to be present. It was only after his death that Nat and Su Ling became aware just how popular their son had been. The service was simple, and the choir of which he was so proud to be a member, sang William Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ and Fats Waller’s ‘Ain’t Misbehavin”. Kathy read one of the lessons, and dear old Thomo another, while the principal delivered the address.

Mr Henderson spoke of a shy, unassuming youth, liked and admired by all. He reminded those present of Luke’s remarkable performance as Romeo, and how he had learned only that morning that Luke had been offered a place at Princeton.

The coffin was borne out of the chapel by boys and girls from the ninth grade who had performed with him in the school play. Nat learned so much about Luke that day that he felt guilty he hadn’t known what an impact his son had made on his contemporaries.

At the end of the service, Nat and Su Ling attended the tea party given in the principal’s house for Luke’s closest friends. It was packed to overflowing, but then as Mr Henderson explained to Su Ling, everyone thought they were a close friend of Luke’s. ‘What a gift,’ he remarked simply.

The headboy presented Su Ling with a book of photographs and short essays composed by his fellow pupils. Later, whenever Nat felt low, he would turn a page, read an entry and glance at a photograph, but there was one he kept returning to again and again: Luke was the only boy ever to speak to me who never once mentioned my turban or my colour. He simply didn’t see them. I had looked forward to him being a friend for the rest of my life. Malik Singh (16).

As they left the principal’s house, Nat spotted Kathy sitting alone in the garden, her head bowed. Su Ling walked across and sat down beside her. She put an arm around Kathy and tried to comfort her. ‘He loved you very much,’ Su Ling said.

Kathy raised her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I never told him I loved him.’

45

‘I can’t do it,’ said Fletcher.

‘Why not?’ asked Annie.

‘I can think of a hundred reasons.’

‘Or are they a hundred excuses?’

‘Defend the man I’m trying to defeat,’ said Fletcher, ignoring her comment.

‘Without fear or favour,’ quoted Annie.

‘Then how would you expect me to conduct the election?’

‘That will be the easy part.’ She paused. ‘Either way.’

‘Either way?’ repeated Fletcher.

‘Yes. Because if he’s guilty, he won’t even be the Republican candidate.’

‘And if he’s innocent?’

‘Then you’ll rightly be praised for setting him free.’

‘That’s neither practical nor sensible.’

‘Two more excuses.’

‘Why are you on his side?’ asked Fletcher.

‘I’m not,’ insisted Annie. ‘I am, to quote Professor Abrahams, on the side of justice.’

Fletcher was silent for some time. ‘I wonder what he would have done faced with the same dilemma?’

‘You know very well what he would have done... but some people will forget those standards within moments of leaving this university.’

‘... I can only hope that at least one person in every generation,’ said Fletcher, completing the professor’s oft-repeated dictum.

‘Why don’t you meet him,’ said Annie, ‘and then perhaps that will persuade you...’

Despite abundant caution from Jimmy and vociferous protests from the local Democrats — in fact from everyone except Annie — it was agreed that the two men should meet the following Sunday.

The chosen venue was Fairchild Russell, as it was felt few citizens would be strolling down Main Street early on a Sunday morning.

Nat and Tom arrived just before ten, and it was the chairman of the bank who unlocked the front door and turned off the alarm for the first time in years. They only had to wait a few minutes before Fletcher and Jimmy appeared on the top step. Tom ushered them quickly through to the boardroom,

When Jimmy introduced his closest friend to his most important client, both men stared at each other, not sure which one of them should make the first move.

‘It’s good of you...’

‘I hadn’t expected...’

Both men laughed and then shook each other warmly by the hand.

Tom suggested that Fletcher and Jimmy sit on one side of the conference table, while he and Nat sat opposite them. Fletcher nodded his agreement, and once seated, he opened his briefcase and removed a yellow notepad, placing it on the table in front of him, along with a fountain pen taken from an inside pocket.

‘May I begin by saying how much I appreciate you agreeing to see me,’ said Nat. ‘I can only imagine the opposition you must have faced from every quarter and am well aware that you did not settle for the easy option.’ Jimmy lowered his head.

Fletcher raised a hand. ‘It’s my wife you have to thank.’ He paused. ‘Not me. But it’s me that you have to convince.’

‘Then please pass on my grateful thanks to Mrs Davenport, and let me assure you that I will answer any questions you put to me.’

‘I only have one question,’ said Fletcher, as he stared down at the blank sheet of paper, ‘and it’s the question a lawyer never asks because it can only compromise his or her ethical position. But on this occasion I will not consider discussing this case until that question has been answered.’

Nat nodded, but didn’t respond. Fletcher raised his head and stared across the table at his would-be rival. Nat held his gaze.

‘Did you murder Ralph Elliot?’

‘No, I did not,’ replied Nat, without hesitation.

Fletcher looked back down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, and flicked over the top page to reveal a second page covered in row upon row of neatly prepared questions.

‘Then let me next ask you...’ said Fletcher looking back up at his client.

The trial was set for the second week in July. Nat was surprised by how little time he needed to spend with his newly appointed counsel once he had gone over his story again and again, and that stopped only when Fletcher was confident he had mastered every detail. Although both recognized the importance of Nat’s evidence, Fletcher spent just as much time reading and re-reading the two statements that Rebecca Elliot had made to the police, Don Culver’s own report on what had taken place that night, and the notes of Detective Petrowski, who was in charge of the case. He warned Nat, ‘Rebecca will have been coached by the state’s attorney, and every question you can think of she will have had time to consider and reconsider. By the time she steps onto the witness stand, she’ll be as well rehearsed as any actress on opening night. But,’ Fletcher paused, ‘she still has a problem.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Nat.

‘If Mrs Elliot murdered her husband, she must have lied to the police, so there are bound to be loose ends that they are unaware of. First we have to find them, and then we have to tie them up.’

Interest in the gubernatorial race stretched far beyond the boundaries of Connecticut. Articles on the two men appeared in journals as diverse as the New Yorker and the National Enquirer, so that by the time the trial opened, there wasn’t a hotel room available within twenty miles of Hartford.

With three months still to go before election day, the opinion polls showed Fletcher had a twelve-point lead, but he knew that if he was able to prove Nat’s innocence, that could be reversed overnight.

The trial was due to open on 11 July, but the major networks already had their cameras on top of the buildings opposite the courthouse and along the sidewalks, as well as many more hand-helds in the streets. They were there to interview anyone remotely connected with the trial, despite the fact it was days before Nat would hear the words ‘All rise’.

Fletcher and Nat tried to conduct their election campaigns as if it was business as usual, although no one pretended it was. They quickly discovered that there wasn’t a hall they couldn’t fill, a rally they couldn’t pack, a clambake they couldn’t sell twice over, however remote the district. In fact, when they both attended a charity fund-raiser in support of an orthopaedic wing to be added to the Gates Memorial Hospital in Hartford, tickets were changing hands at five hundred dollars each. This was one of those rare elections when campaign contributions kept pouring in. For several weeks they were a bigger draw than Frank Sinatra.

Neither man slept the night before the trial was due to open, and the chief of police didn’t even bother to go to bed. Don Culver had detailed a hundred officers to be on duty outside the courthouse, ruefully remarking how many of Hartford’s petty criminals were taking advantage of his overstretched force.

Fletcher was the first member of the defence team to appear on the courthouse steps, and he made it clear to the waiting press that he would not be making a statement or answering any questions until the verdict had been delivered. Nat arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by Tom and Su ling, and if it hadn’t been for police assistance, they might never have got into the building.

Once inside the courthouse, Nat walked straight along the marble corridor that led to court number seven, acknowledging onlookers’ kind remarks, but only nodding politely in response as instructed by his counsellor. Once he’d entered the courtroom, Nat felt a thousand eyes boring into him as he continued on down the centre aisle, before taking his place on the left of Fletcher at the defence table.

‘Good morning, counsellor,’ said Nat.

‘Good morning, Nat,’ replied Fletcher, looking up from a pile of papers, ‘I hope you’re prepared for a week of boredom while we select a jury.’

‘Have you settled on a profile for the ideal juror?’ Nat asked.

‘It’s not quite that easy,’ said Fletcher, ‘because I can’t make up my mind if I should select people who support you or me.’

‘Are there twelve people in Hartford who support you?’ asked Nat.

Fletcher smiled. ‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour, but once the jury’s sworn in, I want you looking serious and concerned. A man to whom a great injustice has been done.’

Fletcher turned out to be right, because it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that the full complement of twelve jurors and two alternatives were finally seated in their places, following argument, counter argument and several objections being raised by both sides. They finally settled on seven men and five women. Two of the women and one of the men were black, five from a professional background, two working mothers, three blue-collar workers, one secretary and one unemployed.

‘How about their political persuasions?’ asked Nat.

‘My bet is, four Republicans, four Democrats, and four I can’t be sure of.’

‘So what’s our next problem, counsellor?’

‘How to get you off, and still grab the votes of the four I’m not sure of,’ said Fletcher as they parted on the bottom step of the courthouse.

Nat found that, whenever he went home in the evening, he would quickly forget the trial, as his mind continually returned to Luke. However much he tried to discuss other things with Su Ling, there was so often only one thought on her mind. ‘If only I’d shared my secret with Luke,’ she said again and again, ‘perhaps he would still be alive.’

46

On the following Monday, the jury had been sworn in and Judge Kravats invited the state’s attorney to make his opening statement.

Richard Ebden rose slowly from his place. He was a tall, elegant, grey-haired man, who had a reputation for beguiling juries. His dark blue suit was the one he always wore on the opening day of a trial. His white shirt and blue tie instilled a feeling of trust.

The state’s attorney was proud of his prosecution record, which was somewhat ironic because he was a mild-mannered, church-going family man, who even sang bass in the local choir. Ebden rose from his place, pushed back his chair, and walked slowly out into the open well of the court, before turning to face the jury.

‘Members of the jury,’ he began, ‘in all my years as an advocate, I have rarely come across a more open-and-shut case of homicide.’

Fletcher leant across to Nat and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, it’s his usual opening — but despite this, comes next.’

‘But despite this, I must still take you through the events of the late evening and early morning of May 12th and 13th.’

‘Mr Cartwright,’ he said, turning slowly to face the accused, ‘had appeared on a television programme with Ralph Elliot — a popular and much respected figure in our community and, perhaps more importantly, favourite to win the Republican nomination, which might well have taken him on to be governor of the state we all love so much. Here was a man at the pinnacle of his career, about to receive the accolades of a grateful electorate for years of unselfish service to the community, and what was to be his reward? He ended up being murdered by his closest rival.

‘And how did this unnecessary tragedy come about? Mr Cartwright is asked a question as to whether his wife was an illegal immigrant — such is the stuff of robust politics — a question I might add that he was unwilling to answer, and why? Because he knew it to be the truth, and he had remained silent on the subject for over twenty years. And having refused to answer that question, what does Mr Cartwright do next? He tries to shift the blame on to Ralph Elliot. The moment the programme is over, he starts to shout obscenities at him, calls him a bastard, accuses him of setting up the question, and the most damning of all, says, “I will still kill you.” ’ Ebden stared at the jury, repeating the five words slowly, ‘I will still kill you.’

‘Don’t rely on my words to convict Mr Cartwright, for you are about to discover that this is not rumour, hearsay or my imagination, because the entire conversation between the two rivals was recorded on television for posterity. I realize this is unusual, your honour, but under the circumstances, I’d like to show this tape to the jury at this juncture.’ Ebden nodded towards his table and an assistant pressed a button.

For the next twelve minutes, Nat stared at a screen that had been set up opposite the jury, and was painfully reminded just how angry he had been. Once the tape had been switched off, Ebden continued with his opening statement.

‘However, it is still the responsibility of the state to show what actually took place after this angry and vindictive man had charged out of the studio.’ Ebden lowered his voice. ‘He returns home to discover that his son — his only child — has committed suicide. Now all of us can well understand the effect that such a tragedy might have on a father. And as it turned out, members of the jury, this tragic death triggered a chain of events that was to end in the cold-blooded murder of Ralph Elliot. Cartwright tells his wife that after he has been to the hospital, he will return home immediately, but he has no intention of doing so, because he has already planned a detour that will take him to Mr and Mrs Elliot’s house. And what could possibly have been the reason for this nocturnal visit at two a.m.? There can only have been one purpose, to remove Ralph Elliot from the gubernatorial race. Sadly for his family and our state, Mr Cartwright succeeded in his mission.

‘He drives over uninvited to the Elliots’ family home at two a.m. The door is answered by Mr Elliot, who has been in his study working on an acceptance speech. Mr Cartwright barges in, punching Mr Elliot so hard on the nose that he staggers back into the corridor, only to see his adversary come charging in after him. Mr Elliot recovers in time to run into his study and retrieve a gun that he kept in a drawer in his desk. He turns just as Cartwright leaps on him, kicking the gun out of his hand, thus ensuring that Mr Elliot has no chance of defending himself. Cartwright then grabs the pistol, stands over his victim and without a moment’s hesitation, shoots him through the heart. He then aims a second shot into the ceiling to leave the impression that a struggle had taken place. Cartwright then drops the gun, runs out of the open door and, jumping into his car, drives quickly back to his home. Unbeknown to him, he left behind a witness to the entire episode — the victim’s wife, Mrs Rebecca Elliot. When she heard the first shot, Mrs Elliot ran from her bedroom to the top of the stairs and moments after hearing the second shot, she watched in horror as Cartwright bolted out of the front door. And just as the television camera had recorded every detail earlier in the evening, Mrs Elliot will describe to you with the same accuracy, exactly what took place later that night.’

The state’s attorney turned his attention away from the jury for a moment and looked directly at Fletcher. ‘In a few moments’ time, defence counsel will rise from his place and with all his famed charm and oratory will attempt to bring tears to your eyes as he tries to explain away what really happened. But what he can’t explain away is the body of an innocent man murdered in cold blood by his political rival. What he can’t explain away is his television message, “I will still kill you”. What he can’t explain away is a witness to the murder — Mr Elliot’s widow, Rebecca.’

The prosecutor transferred his gaze on to Nat. ‘I can well understand you feeling some sympathy for this man, but after you have heard all the evidence, I believe you will be left in no doubt of Mr Cartwright’s guilt, and with no choice but to carry out your duty to the state and deliver a verdict of guilty.’

There was an eerie silence in the courtroom when Richard Ebden resumed his place. Several heads nodded, even one or two on the jury. Judge Kravats made a note on the pad in front of him, and then looked down towards defence counsel’s table.

‘Do you wish to respond, counsellor?’ asked the judge, making no attempt to hide the irony in his voice.

Fletcher rose from his place and, looking directly at the judge, said, ‘No thank you, your honour, it is not my intention to make an opening statement.’

Fletcher and Nat sat in silence looking directly in front of them amidst the pandemonium that broke out in the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel several times, trying to bring the proceedings back to order. Fletcher glanced across at the state attorney s table, to see Richard Ebden, head bowed, in a huddle with his prosecution team. The judge tried to hide a smile once he realized what a shrewd tactical move defence counsel had made; it had thrown the state’s team into disarray. He turned his attention back to the prosecution.

‘Mr Ebden, that being the case, perhaps you’d like to call your first witness?’ he said matter-of-factly.

Ebden rose, not quite as confidently now that he’d worked out what Fletcher was up to. ‘Your honour, I would in these unusual circumstances seek an adjournment.’

‘Objection, your honour,’ cried Fletcher, rising quickly from his place. ‘The state has had several months to prepare their case; are we now to understand they cannot even produce a single witness?’

‘Is that the case, Mr Ebden?’ asked the judge. ‘Are you unable to call your first witness?’

‘That is correct, your honour. Our first witness would have been Mr Don Culver, the chief of police, and we did not want to take him away from his important duties until it was entirely necessary.’

Fletcher was on his feet again. ‘But it is entirely necessary, your honour. He is the chief of police, and this is a murder trial, and I therefore ask that this case be dismissed on the grounds there is no police evidence available to place before the court.’

‘Nice try, Mr Davenport,’ said the judge, ‘but I won’t fall for it. Mr Ebden, I shall grant your request for an adjournment. I shall reconvene this court immediately after the lunch break, and if the chief of police is unable to be with us by then, I shall rule his evidence inadmissible.’ Ebden nodded, unable to hide his embarrassment.

‘All rise,’ said the clerk, as Judge Kravats glanced at the clock before leaving the courtroom.

‘First round to us, I think,’ remarked Tom, as the state’s team hurriedly left the courtroom.

‘Possibly,’ said Fletcher, ‘but we’ll need more than Pyrrhic victories to win the final battle.’

Nat hated the hanging around, and was back in his seat long before the lunch break was up. He looked across at the state’s table, to see Richard Ebden also in his place, knowing he wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time. But had he yet worked out why Fletcher had risked such a bold move? Fletcher had explained to Nat during the adjournment that he believed his only hope of winning the case was to undermine Rebecca Elliot’s evidence, and therefore he couldn’t afford to let her relax even for a moment. Following the judge’s warning, Ebden would now have to keep her waiting in the corridor, perhaps for days on end, before she was finally called.

Fletcher took his seat next to Nat only moments before the judge was due to reconvene. ‘The chief’s out there in the corridor storming up and down fuming, while Mrs Elliot is sitting alone in a corner biting her nails. I intend to keep that lady hanging around for several days,’ he added as the clerk called, ‘All rise, Judge Kravats presiding.’

‘Good afternoon,’ said the judge, and turning to the chief prosecutor added, ‘Do you have a witness for us, Mr Ebden?’

‘Yes, I do, your honour. The state calls Police Chief Don Culver.’

Nat watched as Don Culver took his place on the stand and repeated the oath. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t work out what it was. Then he saw the second and third fingers of Culver’s right hand twitching, and realized it was the first time he’d seen him without his trade-mark cigar.

‘Mr Culver, would you tell the jury your present rank?’

‘I’m the chief of police for the city of Hartford.’

‘And how long have you held that position?’

‘Just over fourteen years.’

‘And how long have you been a law enforcement officer?’

‘For the past thirty-six years.’

‘So it would be safe to say that you have a great deal of experience when it comes to homicide?’

‘I guess that’s right,’ the chief said.

‘And have you ever come into contact with the defendant?’

‘Yes, I have, on several occasions.’

‘He’s stealing some of my questions,’ Fletcher whispered to Nat, ‘but I haven’t yet worked out why.’

‘And had you formed an opinion of the man?’

‘Yes I had, he’s a decent law-abiding citizen, who, until he murdered...’

‘Objection, your honour,’ said Fletcher, rising from his place, ‘it is up to the jury to decide who murdered Mr Elliot, not the chief of police. We don’t live in a police state yet.’

‘Sustained,’ said the judge.

‘Well, all I can say,’ said the chief, ‘is that until all this happened, I would have voted for him.’ Laughter broke out in the court.

‘And after I’ve finished with the chief,’ whispered Fletcher, ‘he sure won’t be voting for me.’

‘Then you must have had some doubt in your mind that such an upstanding citizen was capable of murder?’

‘Not at all, Mr Ebden,’ said the chief. ‘Murderers aren’t run-of-the-mill criminals.’

‘Would you care to explain what you mean by that, chief?’

‘Sure will,’ said Culver. ‘The average murder is a domestic affair, usually within the family, and is often carried out by someone who not only has never committed a crime before, but probably never will again. Once they’re in custody, they are often easier to handle than a petty burglar.’

‘Do you feel Mr Cartwright falls into this category?’

‘Objection,’ said Fletcher from a seated position, ‘how can the chief possibly know the answer to that question?’

‘Because I’ve been dealing with murderers for the past thirty-six years,’ Don Culver responded.

‘Strike that from the record,’ said the judge. ‘Experience is all very well, but the jury must in the end deal only with the facts in this particular case.’

‘Then let’s move on to a question that does deal with fact in this particular case,’ said the state’s attorney. ‘How did you become involved in this case, Chief Culver?’

‘I took a call at my home from Mrs Elliot in the early hours of May 12th.’

‘She called you at home? Is she a personal acquaintance?’

‘No, but all candidates for public office are able to get in touch with me directly. They are often the subject of threats, real or imagined, and it was no secret that Mr Elliot had received several death threats since he’d declared for governor.’

‘When Mrs Elliot called you, did you record her exact words?’

‘You bet I did,’ said the chief. ‘She sounded hysterical, and was shouting. I remember I had to hold the phone away from my ear, in fact she woke my wife.’ A little laughter broke out in the court for a second time, and Culver waited until it had died down before he added, ‘I wrote down her exact words on a pad I keep next to the phone.’ He opened a notebook.

Fletcher was on his feet. ‘Is this admissible?’ he asked.

‘It was on the agreed list of prosecutions documents, your honour,’ Ebden intervened, ‘as I feel sure Mr Davenport is aware. He’s had weeks to consider its relevance, not to mention importance.’

The judge nodded to the chief. ‘Carry on,’ he said as Fletcher resumed his seat.

‘ “My husband has been shot in his study, please come as quickly as possible”,’ said the chief, reading from his notebook.

‘What did you say?’

‘I told her not to touch anything, and I’d be with her just as soon as I could get there.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Two twenty-six,’ the chief replied after rechecking his notebook.

‘And when did you arrive at the Elliots’ home?’

‘Not until three nineteen. First I had to call the station and tell them to send the most senior detective available to the Elliots’ residence. I then got dressed, so that when I eventually made it, I found two of my patrolmen had already arrived — but then they didn’t have to get dressed.’ Once again laughter broke out around the courtroom.

‘Please describe to the jury exactly what you saw when you first arrived.’

‘The front door was open, and Mrs Elliot was sitting on the floor in the hallway, her knees hunched up under her chin. I let her know I was there, and then joined Detective Petrowski in Mr Elliot’s study. Mr Petrowski,’ the chief added, ‘is one of the most respected detectives on my force, with a great deal of experience of homicide, and as he seemed to have the investigation well under way I left him to get on with his job, while I returned to Mrs Elliot.’

‘Did you then question her?’

‘Yes, I did,’ replied the chief.

‘But wouldn’t Detective Petrowski already have done that?’

‘Yes, but it’s often useful to get two statements so that one can compare them later and see if they differ on any essential points.’

‘Your honour, these statements are hearsay,’ Fletcher interjected.

‘And did they?’ Ebden hurriedly asked.

‘No, they did not.’

‘Objection,’ Fletcher emphasized.

‘Overruled Mr Davenport. As has already been pointed out, you have had access to these documents for several weeks.’

‘Thank you, your honour,’ said Ebden. ‘I would like you to tell the court what you did next, chief.’

‘I suggested that we go and sit in the front room, so that Mrs Elliot would be more comfortable. I then asked her to take me slowly through what had happened that evening. I didn’t hurry her, as witnesses are quite often resentful of being asked exactly the same questions a second or third time. After she’d finished her cup of coffee, Mrs Elliot eventually told me that she had been asleep in bed when she heard the first shot. She switched on the light, put on her robe and went to the top of the stairs and that was when she heard the second shot. She then watched as Mr Cartwright ran out of the study towards the open door. He turned to look back, but couldn’t have seen her in the darkness at the top of the stairs, although she recognized him immediately. She then ran downstairs and into the study where she found her husband lying on the floor in a pool of blood. She immediately called me at home.’

‘Did you continue to question her?’

‘No, I left a female officer with Mrs Elliot while I checked over her original statement. After a further consultation with Detective Petrowski, I drove to Mr Cartwright’s home accompanied by two other officers, arrested the defendant and charged him with the murder of Ralph Elliot.’

‘Had he gone to bed?’

‘No, he was still in the clothes he had been wearing on the television programme that night.’

‘No more questions, your honour.’

‘Your witness, Mr Davenport.’

Fletcher walked across to the witness stand with a smile on his face. ‘Good afternoon, chief. I won’t detain you for long, as I’m only too aware how busy you are, but I do nevertheless have three or four questions that need answering.’ The chief didn’t return Fletcher’s smile. ‘To begin with, I would like to know what period of time passed between your receiving the phone call at your home from Mrs Elliot, and when you placed Mr Cartwright under arrest.’

The chief’s fingers twitched again while he considered the question. ‘Two hours, two and a half at the most,’ he eventually said.

‘And when you arrived at Mr Cartwright’s house, how was he dressed?’

‘I’ve already told the court that — in exactly the same clothes as he was wearing on television that night.’

‘So he didn’t open the door in his pyjamas and dressing gown looking as if he had just got out of bed?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ said the chief, puzzled.

‘Don’t you think that a man who had just committed a murder might want to get undressed and into bed at two o’clock in the morning, so that should the police suddenly turn up on his doorstep, he could at least give an impression of having been asleep?’

The chief frowned. ‘He was comforting his wife.’

‘I see,’ said Fletcher. ‘The murderer was comforting his wife, so let me ask you, chief, when you arrested Mr Cartwright, did he make a statement?’

‘No,’ the chief replied, ‘he said he wanted to speak to his lawyer first.’

‘But did he say anything at all that you might have recorded in your trusty notebook?’

‘Yes,’ said the chief, and flipped back some pages of the notebook before carefully studying an entry. ‘Yes,’ he repeated with a smile, ‘Cartwright said, “but he was still alive when I left him”.’

‘But he was still alive when I left him,’ repeated Fletcher. ‘Hardly the words of a man who is trying to hide the fact that he had been there at all. He doesn’t get undressed, he doesn’t go to bed, and he openly admits he was at Elliot’s house earlier that evening.’ The chief remained silent. ‘When he accompanied you to the police station, did you take his fingerprints?’

‘Yes of course.’

‘Did you carry out any other tests?’ asked Fletcher.

‘What did you have in mind?’ asked the chief.

‘Don’t play games with me,’ said Fletcher, his voice revealing a slight edge. ‘Did you carry out any other tests?’

‘Yes,’ said the chief. ‘We checked under his fingernails to see if there was any sign that he had fired a gun.’

‘And was there any indication that Mr Cartwright had fired a gun?’ asked Fletcher returning to his more conciliatory tone.

The chief hesitated. ‘We could find no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails.’

‘There was no powder residue on his hands or under his fingernails,’ said Fletcher, facing the jury.

‘Yes, but he’d had a couple of hours to wash his hands and scrub his nails.’

‘He certainly did, chief, and he also had a couple of hours to get undressed, go to bed, turn off all the lights in the house, and come up with a far more convincing line than, “but he was still alive when I left him”.’ Fletcher’s eyes never left the jury. Once again, the chief remained silent.

‘My final question, Mr Culver, is something that’s been nagging at me ever since I took on this case, especially when I think about your thirty-six years of experience, fourteen of them as chief of police.’ He turned back to face Culver. ‘Did it ever cross your mind that someone else might have committed this crime?’

‘There was no sign of anyone else having entered the house other than Mr Cartwright.’

‘But there was already someone else in the house.’

‘And there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to suggest that Mrs Elliot could possibly have been involved.’

‘No evidence of any kind?’ repeated Fletcher. ‘I do hope, chief, that you will find time in your busy schedule to drop in and hear my cross-examination of Mrs Elliot, when the jury will be able to decide if there was absolutely no evidence of any kind to show she might have been involved in this crime.’ Uproar broke out in the courtroom as everyone began talking at once.

The state’s attorney leapt to his feet, ‘Objection, your honour,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s not Mrs Elliot who is on trial.’ But he could not be heard above the noise of the judge banging his gavel as Fletcher walked slowly back to his place.

When the judge had managed to bring some semblance of order back to proceedings, all Fletcher said was, ‘No more questions, your honour.’

‘Do you have any evidence?’ Nat whispered as his counsel sat down.

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Fletcher, ‘but one thing I feel confident about is that if Mrs Elliot did kill her husband, she won’t be getting a lot of sleep between now and when she enters that witness stand. And as for Ebden, he’ll be spending the next few days wondering what we’ve come up with that he doesn’t yet know about.’ Fletcher smiled at the chief as he stepped down from the witness stand, but received a cold, blank stare in response.

The judge looked down from the bench at both attorneys. ‘I think that’s enough for today, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We will convene again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when Mr Ebden may call his next witness.’

‘All rise.’

47

When the Judge made his entrance the following morning, only a change of tie gave any clue that he had ever left the building. Nat wondered how long it would be before the ties also began to make a second and even a third appearance.

‘Good morning,’ said Judge Kravats as he took his place on the bench and beamed down at the assembled throng as though he were a benevolent preacher about to address his congregation. ‘Mr Ebden,’ he said, ‘you may call your next witness.’

‘Thank you, your honour. I call Detective Petrowski.’

Fletcher studied the senior detective carefully as he made his way to the witness stand. He raised his right hand and began to recite the oath. Petrowski could barely have passed the minimum height the force required of its recruits. His tight-fitting suit implied a wrestler’s build, rather than someone who was over-weight. His jaw was square, his eyes narrow and his lips curled slightly down at the edges, leaving an impression that he didn’t smile that often. One of Fletcher’s researchers had found out that Petrowski was tipped to be the next chief when Don Culver retired. He had a reputation for sticking by the book, but hating paperwork, much preferring to be visiting the scene of the crime than sitting behind a desk back at headquarters.

‘Good morning, captain,’ said the state’s attorney once the witness had sat down. Petrowski nodded, but still didn’t smile. ‘For the record, would you please state your name and rank.’

‘Frank Petrowski, chief of detectives, City of Hartford Police Department.’

‘And how long have you been a detective?’

‘Fourteen years.’

‘And when were you appointed chief of detectives?’

‘Three years ago.’

‘Having established your record, let us move on to the night of the murder. The police log shows that you were the first officer on the scene of the crime.’

‘Yes, I was,’ said Petrowski, ‘I was the senior officer on duty that night, having taken over from the chief at eight o’clock.’

‘And where were you at two thirty that morning when the chief called in?’

‘I was in a patrol car, on the way to investigate a break-in at a warehouse on Marsham Street, when the desk sergeant phoned to say the chief wanted me to go immediately to the home of Ralph Elliot in West Hartford, and investigate a possible homicide. As I was only minutes away, I took on the assignment and detailed another patrol car to cover Marsham Street.’

‘And you drove straight to the Elliots’ home?’

‘Yes, but on the way I radioed in to headquarters to let them know that I would be needing the assistance of forensics and the best photographer they could get out of bed at that time in the morning.’

‘And what did you find when you arrived at the Elliots’ house?’

‘I was surprised to discover that the front door was open and Mrs Elliot was crouched on the floor in the hallway. She told me that she had found her husband’s body in the study, and pointed to the other end of the corridor. She added that the chief had told her not to touch anything, which was why the front door had been left open. I went straight to the study, and once I had confirmed that Mr Elliot was dead, I returned to the hallway and took a statement from his wife, copies of which are in the court’s possession.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘In her statement, Mrs Elliot said that she had been asleep when she heard two shots coming from downstairs, so I and three other officers returned to the study to search for the bullets.’

‘And did you find them?’

‘Yes. The first was easy to locate because after it had passed through Mr Elliot’s heart it ended up embedded in the wooden panel behind his desk. The second took a little longer to find, but we eventually spotted it lodged in the ceiling above Mr Elliot’s bureau.’

‘Could these two bullets have been fired by the same person?’

‘It’s possible,’ said Petrowski, ‘if the murderer had wanted to leave the impression of a struggle, or that the victim had turned the gun on himself.’

‘Is that common in a homicide case?’

‘It’s not unknown for a criminal to try and leave conflicting evidence.’

‘But can you prove that both bullets came from the same gun?’

‘That was confirmed by ballistics the following day.’

‘And were any fingerprints found on the firearm?’

‘Yes,’ said Petrowski, ‘a palm mark on the handle of the gun, plus an index finger on the trigger.’

‘And were you later able to match up these samples?’

‘Yes,’ he paused. ‘They both matched Mr Cartwright’s prints.’

A babble of chatter erupted from the public benches behind Fletcher. He tried not to blink as he observed the jury’s reaction to this piece of information. A moment later he scribbled a note on his yellow pad. The judge banged his gavel several times as he called for order, before Ebden was able to resume.

‘From the entry of the bullet into the body, and the burn marks on the chest, were you able to ascertain what distance the murderer was from his victim?’

‘Yes,’ said Petrowski. ‘Forensics estimated that the assailant must have been standing four to five feet in front of his victim, and from the angle which the bullet entered the body, they were able to show that both men were standing at the time.’

‘Objection, your honour,’ said Fletcher, rising from his place. ‘We have yet to prove that it was a man who fired either shot.’

‘Sustained.’

‘And when you had gathered all your evidence,’ continued Ebden as if he had not been interrupted, ‘was it you who made the decision to arrest Mr Cartwright?’

‘No, by then the chief had turned up, and although it was my case, I asked if he would also take a statement from Mrs Elliot, to make sure her story hadn’t changed in any way.’

‘And had it?’

‘No, on all the essential points, it remained consistent.’

Fletcher underlined the word essential as both Petrowski and the chief had used it. Well rehearsed or a coincidence, he wondered.

‘Was that when you decided to arrest the accused?’

‘Yes, it was on my recommendation, but ultimately the chief’s decision.’

‘Weren’t you taking a tremendous risk, arresting a gubernatorial candidate during an election campaign?’

‘Yes, we were, and I discussed that problem with the chief. We often find to our cost that the first twenty-four hours are the most important in any investigation, and we had a body, two bullets and a witness to the crime. I considered it would have been an abrogation of my duty not to make an arrest simply because the assailant had powerful friends.’

‘Objection, your honour, that was prejudicial,’ said Fletcher.

‘Sustained,’ said the judge, ‘and strike it from the record.’ He turned to Petrowski and added, ‘Please stick to facts detective, I’m not interested in your opinions.’

Petrowski nodded.

Fletcher turned to Nat. ‘That last statement sounded to me as if it had been written in the DA’s office.’ He paused, looked down at his yellow pad and commented that ‘abrogation’, ‘essential points’, and ‘assailant’ were delivered as if they had been learnt by heart. ‘Petrowski won’t have the opportunity to deliver rehearsed answers when I cross-examine him.’

‘Thank you, captain,’ said Ebden, ‘I have no more questions for Detective Petrowski, your honour.’

‘Do you wish to question this witness?’ asked the judge, preparing himself for another tactical manoeuvre.

‘Yes, I most certainly do, your honour.’ 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 honour,’ said Ebden rising from his place, ‘how can Detective Petrowski be expected to answer that question?’

‘Your honour, 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 question.’

‘Overruled, counsellor. 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 stand 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 round 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 on to the surface. 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 about.’

‘I’m grateful for that explanation,’ said Fletcher. ‘No more questions, your honour.’

‘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.’

48

‘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 centre 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 police 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 jewellery 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 to face the jury, gave them the same shy smile. Fletcher noticed 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 out 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 on 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?’

‘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 underhand 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?’

‘No, Ralph always found it difficult to sleep after appearing on television.’ She turned to face the jury again. ‘He told me that the adrenalin would go on pumping for several hours, and in any case, he wanted to put some finishing touches to his acceptance speech, so I went to bed while he settled down to work in his study.’ Fletcher added a further note to his script.

‘And what time was that?’

‘Just before midnight.’

‘And after you had fallen asleep, what was the next thing you remember?’

‘Being woken by a shot, and not being certain if it was real or just part of a dream. I turned on the fight and checked the time by the clock on my bedside table. It was just after two o’clock, and I remember being surprised that Ralph still hadn’t come to bed. Then I thought I heard voices, so I walked over to the door and opened it slightly. That was when I first heard someone shouting at Ralph. I was horrified when I realized it was Nat Cartwright. He was screaming at the top of his voice, and once again threatening to kill my husband. I crept out of the bedroom to the top of the stairs and that was when I heard the second shot. A moment later Mr Cartwright came running out of the study, continued on down the corridor, opened the front door and disappeared into the night.’

‘Did you chase after him?’

‘No, I was terrified.’

Fletcher scribbled yet another note as Rebecca continued. ‘I ran downstairs, and straight into Ralph’s study, fearing the worst. The first thing I saw was my husband on the far side of the room slumped in the corner, blood trickling from his mouth, so I immediately picked up the phone on his desk and called Chief Culver at home.’

Fletcher turned yet another page and continued writing furiously. ‘I’m afraid I woke him, but the chief said he would come over as quickly as possible and that I was to touch nothing.’

‘What did you do next?’

‘I suddenly felt cold and sick in my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor. The next thing I remember was a police siren in the distance and a few moments later someone came running through the front door. The policeman knelt down by my side and introduced himself as Detective Petrowski. One of his officers made me a cup of coffee and then he asked me to describe what had happened. I told him all I could remember, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very coherent. I recall pointing to Ralph’s study.’

‘Can you remember what happened next?’

‘Yes, a few minutes later I heard another siren, and then the chief walked in. Mr Culver spent a long time with Detective Petrowski in my husband’s study, and then returned and asked me to go over my story once again. He didn’t stay for very long after that, but I did see him in deep conversation with the detective before he left. It wasn’t until the following morning that I discovered that Mr Cartwright had been arrested and charged with the murder of my husband.’ Rebecca burst into tears.

‘Bang on cue,’ said Fletcher as the chief prosecutor removed a handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it over to Mrs Elliot. ‘I wonder how long they took rehearsing that?’ he added as he turned his attention to the jury and noticed that a woman in the second row was also quietly crying.

‘I’m sorry to have put you through such an ordeal, Mrs Elliot.’ Ebden paused. ‘Perhaps you would like me to ask the court for an adjournment so you have a little time to compose yourself?’

Fletcher would have objected, but he already knew what her answer would be, because they were so obviously sticking to a well-worn script.

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ said Rebecca, ‘and in any case I’d rather get it over with.’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Elliot,’ Ebden looked up towards the judge, ‘I have no more questions for this witness, your honour.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ebden,’ said the judge. ‘Your witness, Mr Davenport.’

‘Thank you, your honour.’ Fletcher removed a stopwatch from his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He then slowly rose from his place. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the courtroom boring into the back of his head. How could he even consider questioning this helpless, saintly woman? He walked over to the stand and didn’t speak for some time. ‘I will try not to detain you for longer than is necessary, Mrs Elliot, remembering the ordeal you have already been put through.’ Fletcher spoke softly. ‘But I must ask you one or two questions, as it is my client who is facing the death penalty, based almost solely on your testimony.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Rebecca replied, trying to sound brave as she wiped away the last tear.

‘You told the court, Mrs Elliot, that you had a very fulfilling relationship with your husband.’

‘Yes, we were devoted to each other.’

‘Were you?’ Fletcher paused again. ‘And the only reason you did not attend the television debate that evening was because Mr Elliot had asked you to remain at home and make some notes on his performance, so that you could discuss them later that evening?’

‘Yes, that is correct,’ she said.

‘I can appreciate that,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I’m puzzled as to why you did not accompany your husband to a single public function during the previous month?’ He paused. ‘Night or day.’

‘I did, I feel sure I did,’ she said. ‘But in any case you must remember that my main task was to run the home, and make life as easy as possible for Ralph, after the long hours he spent on the road campaigning.’

‘Did you keep those notes?’

She hesitated, ‘No, once I’d gone over them with him, I gave them to Ralph.’

‘And on this particular occasion you told the court that you felt very strongly about certain issues?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘May I ask which issues in particular, Mrs Elliot?’

Rebecca hesitated again. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’ She paused. ‘It was several months ago.’

‘But it was the only public function you took an interest in during his entire campaign, Mrs Elliot, so one would have thought you might just have remembered one or two of the issues you felt so strongly about. After all, your husband was running for governor and you, so to speak, for first lady.’

‘Yes, no, yes — health care, I think.’

‘Then you’ll have to think again, Mrs Elliot,’ said Fletcher as he returned to the table and picked up one of his yellow notepads. ‘I also watched that debate with more than a passing interest, and was somewhat surprised that the subject of health care was not raised. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your last answer, as I did keep detailed notes on every issue that was debated that night.’

‘Objection, your honour. Defence counsel is not here to act as a witness.’

‘Sustained. Keep to your brief, counsellor.’

‘But there was one thing you felt strongly about, wasn’t there, Mrs Elliot?’ continued Fletcher. ‘The vicious attack on your husband when Mr Cartwright said on television, “I will still kill you”.’

‘Yes, that was a terrible thing to say with the whole world watching.’

‘But the whole world wasn’t watching, Mrs Elliot, otherwise I would have seen it. It wasn’t said until after the programme had ended.’

‘Then my husband must have told me about it over supper.’

‘I don’t think so, Mrs Elliot. I suspect that you didn’t even see that programme, just as you never attended any of his meetings.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Then perhaps you can tell the jury the location of any meeting you attended during your husband’s lengthy campaign, Mrs Elliot?’

‘How could I be expected to remember every one of them, when Ralph’s campaign started over a year ago?’

‘I’ll settle for just one,’ said Fletcher, turning to face the jury.

Rebecca started crying again, but on this occasion the timing was not quite as effective, and there was no one on hand to offer her a handkerchief.

‘Now let us consider those words, “I will still kill you”, spoken off-air the evening before an election.’ Fletcher remained facing the jury. ‘Mr Cartwright didn’t say “I will kill you”, which would have indeed been damning, what he actually said was “I will still kill you”, and everyone present assumed he was referring to the election that was taking place the following day.’

‘He killed my husband,’ shouted Mrs Elliot, her voice rising for the first time.

‘There are still a few more questions that need to be answered before I come to who killed your husband, Mrs Elliot. But first allow me to return to the events of that evening. Having watched a television programme you can’t remember, and had supper with your husband to discuss in detail issues that you don’t recall, you went to bed while your husband returned to his study to work on his acceptance speech.’

‘Yes, that is exactly what happened,’ said Rebecca, staring defiantly at Fletcher.

‘But as he was significantly behind in the opinion polls, why waste time working on an acceptance speech he could never hope to deliver?’

‘He was still convinced he would win, especially following Mr Cartwright’s outburst and...’

‘And?’ repeated Fletcher, but Rebecca remained silent. ‘Then perhaps you both knew something the rest of us didn’t,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I’ll come to that in a moment. You say you went to bed around midnight?’

‘Yes, I did,’ said Rebecca, sounding even more defiant.

‘And when you were woken by a gunshot, you checked the time by looking at the clock on your side of the bed?’

‘Yes, it was just after two o’clock.’

‘So you don’t wear a wristwatch in bed?’

‘No, I lock away all my jewellery in a little safe Ralph had installed in the bedroom. There have been so many burglaries in the area recently.’

‘How wise of him. And you still think it was the first shot that woke you?’

‘Yes, I’m sure it was.’

‘How long was it between the first and second shot, Mrs Elliot?’ Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. ‘Do take your time, Mrs Elliot, because I wouldn’t want you to make a mistake that, like so much of your evidence, needs correcting later.’

‘Objection, your honour, my client is not...’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Ebden, sustained. That last comment will be struck from the record,’ and turning to Fletcher, the judge repeated, ‘stick to your brief, Mr Davenport.’

‘I will try to, your honour,’ said Fletcher, but his eyes never left the jury to make sure it wasn’t struck from their minds. ‘Have you had enough time to consider your reply, Mrs Elliot?’ He waited once again before repeating, ‘How long was it between the first and second shots?’

‘Three, possibly four minutes,’ she said.

Fletcher smiled at the chief prosecutor, walked back to his table and picked up the stopwatch, which he placed in his pocket. ‘When you heard the first shot, Mrs Elliot, why didn’t you phone the police immediately, why wait for three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?’

‘Because to begin with I wasn’t absolutely sure that I had heard it. Don’t forget, I’d been asleep for some time.’

‘But you opened your bedroom door and were horrified to hear Mr Cartwright shouting at your husband and threatening to kill him, so you must have believed that Ralph was in some considerable danger, so why not lock your door, and immediately phone the police from the bedroom?’ Rebecca looked across at Richard Ebden. ‘No, Mrs Elliot, Mr Ebden can’t help you this time, because he didn’t anticipate the question, which, to be fair,’ said Fletcher, ‘wasn’t entirely his fault, because you’ve only told him half the story.’

‘Objection’ said Ebden, jumping to his feet.

‘Sustained,’ said the judge. ‘Mr Davenport, stick to questioning Mrs Elliot, not giving opinions. This is a court of law, not the Senate Chamber.’

‘I apologize, your honour, but on this occasion I do know the answer. You see the reason Mrs Elliot didn’t call the police was because she feared that it was her husband who had fired the first shot.’

‘Objection,’ shouted Ebden, leaping to his feet as several members of the public began talking at once. It was some time before the judge could gavel the court back to order.

‘No, no,’ said Rebecca, ‘from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d fired the first shot.’

‘Then I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?’ Fletcher repeated, turning back to face her. ‘Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?’

‘It all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.’

‘What is your favourite work of fiction, Mrs Elliot?’ asked Fletcher quietly.

‘Objection, your honour. How can this possibly be relevant?’

‘Overruled. I have a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr Ebden.’

‘You are indeed, your honour,’ said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness. ‘Mrs Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply want you to tell the court your favourite work of fiction.’

‘I’m not sure I have a particular one,’ she replied, ‘but my favourite author is Hemingway.’

‘Mine too,’ said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face the judge, he asked, ‘Your honour, may I have your permission to briefly leave the courtroom?’

‘For what purpose, Mr Davenport?’

‘To prove that my client did not fire the first shot.’

The judge nodded. ‘Briefly, Mr Davenport.’

Fletcher then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door. ‘Your honour,’ said Ebden jumping up from his place, ‘I must object. Mr Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.’

‘If that turns out to be the case, Mr Ebden, I shall severely censure Mr Davenport the moment he returns.’

‘But, your honour, is this kind of behaviour fair to my client?’

‘I believe so, Mr Ebden. As Mr Davenport reminded the court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your principal witness.’

The chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public entrance.

Richard Ebden rose again, at which point the judge called for order. ‘You honour, I move that Mrs Elliot be released from further questioning on the grounds that the defence counsel is no longer able to carry out his cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.’

‘I shall approve your request, Mr Ebden,’ the state’s attorney looked delighted, ‘should Mr Davenport fail to return in under four minutes.’ The judge smiled down at Mr Ebden, assuming they had both worked out the significance of his judgment,

‘Your honour, I must...’ continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs Elliot, before turning to the judge.

‘Your honour, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?’ he said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.

Judge Kravats pressed the stopper and, looking down at the stopwatch, said, ‘Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.’

Fletcher turned his attention back to the defence witness. ‘Mrs Elliot, I had enough time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card, and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you were fearful of what he might have done.’

‘But even if I did think that,’ said Rebecca, losing her composure, ‘it’s only the second bullet that matters, the one that killed Ralph. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the first bullet ended up in the ceiling, or are you now suggesting that my husband killed himself?’

‘No I am not,’ said Fletcher, ‘so why don’t you now tell the court exactly what you did when you heard the second shot.’

‘I went to the top of the stairs and saw Mr Cartwright running out of the house.’

‘But he didn’t see you?’

‘No, he only glanced back in my direction.’

‘I don’t think so, Mrs Elliot. I think you saw him very clearly when he calmly walked past you in the corridor.’

‘He couldn’t have walked passed me in the corridor because I was at the top of the stairs.’

‘I agree that he couldn’t have seen you if you had been at the top of the stairs,’ said Fletcher as he returned to the table and selected a photograph, before walking back across to the witness stand. He passed the photograph over to her. ‘As you will see from this picture, Mrs Elliot, anyone who left your husband’s study, walked into the corridor and then out of the front door could not have been observed from the top of the stairs.’ He paused so that the jury could take in the significance of his statement, before continuing, ‘No, the truth is, Mrs Elliot, that you were not standing at the top of the stairs, but in the hallway when Mr Cartwright came out of your husband’s study, and if you would like me to ask the judge to adjourn so that the jury can visit your home and check on the veracity of your statement, I would be quite happy to do so.’

‘Well, I might have been half-way down the stairs.’

‘You weren’t even on the stairs Mrs Elliot, you were in the hallway, and you were not, as you also claimed, in your robe, but in a blue dress that you had worn to a cocktail party earlier that evening, which is why you didn’t see the television debate!’

‘I was in a robe and there’s a picture of me to prove it.’

‘Indeed there is,’ said Fletcher, once again returning to the table and extracting another photograph, ‘which I am happy to enter as evidence — item 122, your honour.’

The judge, prosecution team and the jury began to rummage through their files as Fletcher handed over his copy to Mrs Elliot.

‘There you are,’ she said, ‘it’s just as I told you, I’m sitting in the hallway in my robe.’

‘You are indeed, Mrs Elliot, and that photograph was taken by the police photographer, and we’ve since had it enlarged so we can consider all the details more clearly. Your honour, I would like to submit this enlarged photograph as evidence.’

‘Objection, your honour,’ said Ebden leaping up from his place. ‘We have not been given an opportunity to study this photograph.’

‘It’s state’s evidence, Mr Ebden, and has been in your possession for weeks,’ the judge reminded him. ‘Your objection is overruled.’

‘Please study the photograph carefully,’ said Fletcher as he walked away from Mrs Elliot and passed the state’s attorney a copy of the enlarged photo. A clerk handed one to each member of the jury. Fletcher then turned back to face Rebecca. ‘And do tell the court what you see.’

‘It’s a photograph of me sitting in the hallway in my robe.’

‘It is indeed, but what are your wearing on your left wrist and round your neck?’ Fletcher asked, before turning to face the jury, all of whom were now studying the photograph intently.

The blood drained from Rebecca’s face.

‘I do believe they’re your wristwatch and your pearl necklace,’ said Fletcher answering his own question. ‘Do you remember?’ He paused. ‘The ones you always locked away in your safe just before going to bed because there had been several burglaries in the area recently?’ Fletcher turned to face Chief Culver and Detective Petrowski, who were seated in the front row. ‘It is, as Detective Petrowski reminded us, the little mistakes that always reveal the amateur.’ Fletcher turned back, and looked directly at Rebecca, before adding, ‘You may have forgotten to take off your watch and necklace, Mrs Elliot, but I can tell you something you didn’t forget to take off, your dress.’ Fletcher placed his hands on the jury box rail before saying slowly and without expression. ‘Because you didn’t do that until after you’d killed your husband.’

Several people rose at once, and the judge carried on banging his gavel before it was quiet enough for the state’s attorney to say in a loud voice, ‘Objection. How can wearing a wristwatch prove that Mrs Elliot murdered her husband?’

‘I agree with you, Mr Ebden,’ said the judge and turning to Fletcher suggested, ‘That’s quite a quantum leap, counsellor.’

‘Then I will be happy to take the state’s attorney through it step by step, your honour.’ The judge nodded. ‘When Mr Cartwright arrived at the house, he overheard an argument going on between Mr and Mrs Elliot, and after he’d knocked on the door, it was Mr Elliot who answered it, while Mrs Elliot was nowhere to be seen. I’m willing to accept that she did run up to the top of the stairs so that she could overhear what was going on while not being observed, but the moment the first shot was fired, she came back down into the corridor and listened to the quarrel taking place between her husband and my client. Three or four minutes later, Mr Cartwright walked calmly out of the study and passed Mrs Elliot in the corridor, before opening the front door. He looked back at Mrs Elliot, which is why he was able to tell the police questioning him later that night that she was wearing a low-cut blue dress and a string of pearls. If the jury study the photograph of Mrs Elliot, if I’m not mistaken, she is wearing the same string of pearls as the ones she has on today.’ Rebecca touched her necklace as Fletcher continued. ‘But don’t let’s rely on my client’s word, but on your own statement, Mrs Elliot.’ He turned another page of the state’s evidence, before he began reading. ‘I ran into the study, saw my husband’s body slumped on the floor and then called the police.’

‘That’s right, I did ring Chief Culver at home, he’s already confirmed that,’ interjected Rebecca.

‘But why did you call the chief of police first?’

‘Because my husband had been murdered.’

‘But in your evidence, Mrs Elliot, given to Detective Petrowski only moments after your husband’s death, you stated that you saw Ralph slumped in the corner of his study, blood coming from his mouth, and immediately called the chief of police.’

‘Yes, that’s exactly what I did,’ shouted Rebecca.

Fletcher paused before turning to face the jury. ‘If I saw my wife slumped in a corner with blood coming from her mouth, the first thing I would do is to check to see if she was still alive and, if she was, I wouldn’t call for the police, I’d call for an ambulance. And at no time did you call for an ambulance, Mrs Elliot. Why? Because you already knew that your husband was dead.’

Once again there was uproar in the body of the court, and the reporters who weren’t old-fashioned enough to take shorthand struggled to get down every word.

‘Mrs Elliot,’ continued Fletcher, once the judge had stopped banging his gavel, ‘allow me to repeat the words you said only a few moments ago when questioned by the state’s attorney.’ Fletcher picked up one of the yellow pads from his desk and began reading. ‘ “I suddenly felt cold and sick in the stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor.” ’ Fletcher threw the notepad down on his desk, stared at Mrs Elliot and said, ‘You still haven’t even bothered to check if your husband is alive, but you didn’t need to, did you, because you knew he was dead; after all, it was you who had killed him.’

‘Then why didn’t they find any traces of gunpowder residue on my robe?’ Rebecca shouted above the banging of the judge’s gavel.

‘Because when you shot your husband, you weren’t in your robe, Mrs Elliot, but still in the blue dress you’d been wearing that evening. It was only after you had killed Ralph that you ran upstairs to change into your nightgown and robe. But unfortunately Detective Petrowski switched on his car siren, broke the speed limit, and managed to be with you six minutes later, which is why you had to rush back downstairs, forgetting to take off your watch or pearls. And even more damning, not leaving yourself enough time to close the front door. If, as you have claimed, Mr Cartwright had killed your husband, and then run out of the door, the first thing you would have done would be to make sure that it was closed so he couldn’t get back in to harm you. But Detective Petrowski, conscientious man that he is, arrived a little too quickly for you, and even remarked how surprised he was to find the front door open. Amateurs often panic, and that’s when they make simple mistakes,’ he repeated almost in a whisper. ‘Because the truth is that once Mr Cartwright had walked past you in the hallway, you then ran into the study, picked up the gun and realized this was a perfect opportunity to be rid of a husband you’d despised for years. The shot Mr Cartwright heard as he was driving away from the house was indeed the bullet that killed your husband, but it wasn’t Mr Cartwright who pulled the trigger, it was you. What Mr Cartwright did do was give you the perfect alibi, and a solution to all your problems.’ He paused and, turning away from the jury, added, ‘If only you had remembered to remove your wristwatch and pearls before you came downstairs, closed the front door and then phoned for an ambulance, rather than the chief of police, you would have committed the perfect murder, and my client would be facing the death penalty.’

‘I didn’t kill him.’

‘Then who did? Because it can’t have been Mr Cartwright, as he left some time before the second shot was fired. I feel sure you recall his words when confronted by the chief — “he was still alive when I left him”, and by the way, Mr Cartwright didn’t find it necessary to change out of the suit he’d been wearing earlier that evening.’ Once again Fletcher turned to face the jury, but they were now all staring at Mrs Elliot.

She buried her head in her hands and whispered, ‘Ralph’s the one who should be on trial. He was responsible for his own death.’

However firmly Judge Kravats called the court to order, it was still some time before he was able to restore calm. Fletcher waited until he had complete silence, before he delivered his next sentence.

‘But how is that possible, Mrs Elliot?’ he asked. ‘After all, it was Detective Petrowski who pointed out that it’s quite difficult to shoot yourself from four feet away.’

‘He made me do it.’

Ebden leapt to his feet as the public began repeating the sentence to each other.

‘Objection, your honour, the witness is being...’

‘Overruled,’ said Judge Kravats firmly. ‘Sit down, Mr Ebden, and remain seated.’ The judge turned his attention back to the witness. ‘What did you mean, Mrs Elliot, by “he made me do it”?’

Rebecca turned to the judge, who looked down at her with concern. ‘You honour, Ralph was desperate to win the election at any cost, and after Nat told him that Luke had committed suicide, he knew he no longer had any hope of becoming governor. He kept pacing around the room repeating the words, “I will still kill you”, then he snapped his fingers and said, “I’ve got the solution, you’re going to have to do it”.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ asked the judge.

‘To begin with I didn’t understand myself, your honour, then he started shouting at me. He said, “There’s no time to argue, otherwise he’ll get away, and then we’ll never be able to pin it on him, so I’ll tell you exactly what you’re going to do. First, you’ll shoot me in the shoulder, and then you’ll call the chief at home and tell him that you were in the bedroom when you heard the first shot. You came rushing downstairs when you heard the second shot, and that’s when you saw Cartwright running out of the front door.”’

‘But why did you agree to go along with this outrageous suggestion?’ asked the judge.

‘I didn’t,’ said Rebecca. ‘I told him if there was any shooting to be done, he could do it himself, because I wasn’t going to get involved.’

‘And what did he say to that?’ asked the judge.

‘That he couldn’t shoot himself because the police would be able to work that out, but if I did it, they would never know.’

‘But that still doesn’t explain why you agreed to go through with it?’

‘I didn’t,’ repeated Rebecca quietly. ‘I told him I would have nothing to do with it, Nat had never done me any harm. But then Ralph grabbed the gun and said, “If you’re not willing to go through with it, then there’s only one alternative, I’ll have to shoot you.” I was terrified, but all he said was, “I’ll tell everyone that it was Nat Cartwright who killed my wife when she tried to come to my rescue, then they’ll be even more sympathetic when I play the part of the grieving widower.” He laughed, and added, “Don’t think I wouldn’t do it.” He then took a handkerchief out of his pocket and said, “Wrap this around your hand, so your fingerprints won’t be on the gun.” ’ Rebecca was silent for some time before she whispered, ‘I remember picking up the gun and pointing it at Ralph’s shoulder, but I closed my eyes just as I pulled the trigger. When I opened them, Ralph was slumped in the corner. I didn’t need to check to know that he was dead. I panicked, dropped the gun, ran upstairs and called the chief at home just as Ralph had told me to. Then I started to undress. I’d just put on my robe when I heard the siren. I looked through the curtains and saw a police car turning into the driveway. I ran back downstairs as the car was pulling up outside the house, which didn’t leave me enough time to close the front door. I slumped down in the hallway just before Detective Petrowski came rushing in.’ She bowed her head and this time the weeping was genuine and unrehearsed. Whispering turned to chattering as everyone in the courtroom began to discuss Rebecca’s testimony.

Fletcher turned to face the state’s attorney, who was in a huddle, consulting his team. He made no attempt to hurry them, and returned to take his seat next to Nat. It was some time before Ebden eventually rose from his place. ‘Your honour.’

‘Yes, Mr Ebden?’ said the judge.

‘The state withdraws all charges against the defendant.’ He paused for some time. ‘On a personal note,’ he added as he turned to face Nat and Fletcher, ‘having watched you as a team, I can’t wait to see what will happen when you’re up against each other.’

Spontaneous applause broke out from the public benches, and the noise was such that they did not hear the judge release the prisoner, dismiss the jury, and declare the case closed.

Nat leant across and almost had to shout, ‘Thank you,’ before adding, ‘two inadequate words as I’ll spend the rest of my fife in your debt without ever being able to properly repay you. But nevertheless, thank you.’

Fletcher smiled. ‘Clients,’ he said, ‘fall into two categories; those you hope never to see again, and just occasionally those who you know will be friends for the rest...’

Su Ling suddenly appeared by her husband’s side and threw her arms around him.

‘Thank God,’ she said.

‘Governor will do,’ said Fletcher, as Nat and Su Ling laughed for the first time in weeks. Before Nat could respond, Lucy came bursting through the barrier and greeted her father with the words, ‘Well done, Dad, I’m very proud of you.’

‘Praise indeed,’ said Fletcher. ‘Nat, this is my daughter Lucy, who fortunately isn’t yet old enough to vote for you, but if she were...’ Fletcher looked around, ‘so where’s the woman who caused all this trouble in the first place?’

‘Mom’s at home,’ replied Lucy. ‘After all, you did tell her it would be at least another week before Mr Cartwright would be on the stand.’

‘True,’ said Fletcher.

‘And please pass on my thanks to your wife,’ said Su Ling. ‘We will always remember that it was Annie who persuaded you to represent my husband. Perhaps we can all get together in the near future, and...’

‘Not until after the election,’ said Fletcher firmly, ‘as I’m still hoping that at least one member of my family will be voting for me.’ He paused, and turning to Nat said, ‘Do you know the real reason I worked so hard on this case?’

‘You couldn’t face the thought of having to spend the next few weeks with Barbara Hunter,’ said Nat.

‘Something like that,’ he said, with a smile.

Fletcher was about to go across and shake hands with the state’s team, but stopped in his tracks when he saw Rebecca Elliot still sitting in the witness stand waiting for the court to clear. Her head was bowed, and she looked forlorn and lonely.

‘I know it’s hard to believe,’ said Fletcher, ‘but I actually feel sorry for her.’

‘You should,’ said Nat, ‘because one thing’s for certain, Ralph Elliot would have murdered his wife if he had thought it would win him the election.’