“Class was a good employee,” she volunteers.
“I didn’t think he would do such a thing. Willie liked him because he was a real hard worker. And Class had said to me that Willie was a good boss.
That’s why I was surprised.” “In fact, I believe you said Mr. Ting
always treated you very well as an employee.”
If Darla is becoming wary, I can’t tell it.
Immediately, she responds, “I think I told you I was sick almost all one winter, but he told me not to worry about it.”
“And right up to his death,” I say, casually, “you enjoyed a good working relationship with him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did,” Darla says.
“If he thought you worked hard, he’d help out if you needed it. And I appreciated that.”
“In fact, Mrs. Tate,” I say, in as low-key a manner as possible, “over the last couple of months you’ve suggested that I investigate two or three other individuals for the murder of Willie Ting, including an individual whom you were pretty sure was stealing money from the plant.” “He was,” Darla says, firmly.
“I showed you.”
“Yes, you did,” I say and smile. I pause and pretend I’m looking through my notes.
“Now, let’s go back to the day of the murder,” I murmur.
“If the person who murdered Mr. Ting was a worker in the plant, he or she would have known that Tuesday was your day to volunteer in the
schools?”
“It wasn’t a secret,” Darla acknowledges.
“I had been doing it for six months. Willie didn’t even dock my salary.”
“And once you left in the afternoon,” I say, “you were gone for the day, isn’t that correct?”
“I stay until Mr. Edwards the principal leaves,” Darla says, “and that’s never before four.”
If I am onto something, it is probably much too late to prove it.
“And, of course, the day of the murder you followed your normal routine and were at the school the entire time, and whoever murdered Mr. Ting, assuming they were aware you volunteered at the school, could have counted on that, isn’t that so?”
“I think so,” Darla says. “like I say, I didn’t hide it.”
I ask if some of the workers’ voices at the plant sound alike.
“Class and I started the same day five years ago,” she says, “and I’ve talked to him at least once a week. So I’m positive it was him.”
I sit down, saying that I would like to recall Darla so she won’t be released as a witness. While Dick cross-examines Darla, I turn my head and try to get a glimpse of Connie and Tommy to see if either of them heard anything Darla said they didn’t like. Though it is difficult to
see her, for an instant I catch sight of Connie, and think I see a puzzled look on her face.
Now that the prosecution’s case is at an end, the court recesses, and we go back into Johnson’s chambers to go through the routine of asking that the charges against our clients be dismissed.
I make my motion for the record, knowing there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of getting this case dismissed. Then I listen to Dick eloquently argue that Butterfield has put on no evidence against Paul.
Oddly enough, this is only the second time I have been back in the judge’s chambers, which are mostly bare, since his main office is in Helena. Johnson is quieter and much more passive than I thought he would be, which is the kind of judge lawyers like since he lets you try your case and doesn’t take over the questioning.
No Judge Ito, he has been so unobtrusive that at times I have hardly noticed him.
While Butterfield makes his response to our motions for dismissal, I muse about Darla Tate.
I’d at least like to talk with Connie and Tommy to see what they think of her.
When Butterfield is finished, Johnson leans back in his chair and looks straight at him.
“I’m very tempted to grant Mr. Dickerson’s motion for a directed verdict
and dismiss the charges against his client,” he says in a witheringly cold voice.
“I find barely sufficient evidence that would allow a jury in good faith to find he had anything to do with the murder of Willieting. All the prosecutor has really shown in this case is that the defendant had an ambiguous conversation with the victim in which he mentioned the fact that he would die someday.”
Melvin Butterfield looks as if he has been slapped in the face. I was certain that Johnson was in Butterfield’s hip pocket. As usual, my assumptions about Bear Creek have been totally false.
We go back out into the courtroom, and Johnson, glancing at the clock on the wall, announces that since it’s nearly five o’clock, the court will be in recess for the rest of the day. As soon as his gavel comes down, he leaves the bench and the courtroom quickly empties. I tell Class that I will be out later to go over his testimony. His only hope now is his credibility. For all I have accomplished, he should have defended himself and saved seven thousand dollars. As the deputy leads Class away, he hangs his head. I haven’t given him any reason to do much else.
From my room at the Bear Creek Inn, I call the Ting residence, and as I hoped, I get Connie and ask, “What has your mother ever said about Darla Tate? Could she have been stealing from the plant?”
Without any hesitation, Connie says, “Mother’s said that from time to time workers stole meat. She’s never never said anything about Darla, but I’ll ask her again.”
I tell Connie that I am guessing Darla knew that sooner or later Eddie was going to uncover some major shortages and Darla was trying to blame everything on Muddy Jessup, who, as it turned out, was running too small a scam to account for the losses.
“I know this is a long shot,” I plead, “but would you ask Eddie to go back to the plant tonight and check the books to see if he can tell whether Darla was cooking the books before your father died? If she was, I think there is a good chance she killed him because he was about to find out she was stealing from him.
My guess is that the plant was making so much money he didn’t know how much he was losing.”
There is a long pause, and I rack my brain trying to think of something to say that will make her help me. It is obvious that I am grasping at straws, but I have been so blinded in this case by my own prejudices that I have begun to use my head only in the last twenty-four hours.
Before I can say more, she replies, “Can’t she prove she was at the school all that time?”
I think of Mary Kiley, the wiry, nervous woman I talked with outside the school door. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had stuck two cigarettes in her mouth at once.
“Maybe, but if it’s like any office I’ve been around, by the middle of the afternoon people get up and do a lot of visiting. Maybe her alibi wasn’t there with her the whole time.”
“I know what you’re going to do, Gideon,” Connie says, her voice cold.
“You want to get just enough evidence to have the jury doubt your client is guilty. He’ll go free and nobody will be charged.”
I stare at the ugly green wall across from me.
For once, I don’t lie.
“That’s possible,” I admit, “but at least you won’t have convicted an innocent man.”
For a moment Connie does not say anything.
Then she says harshly into my ear, “Have you got any other theories?”
One. My assumptions have been wrong so far but I better ask it.
“Is there a possibility Darla was in love with your father and got rejected by him?”
Connie laughs sarcastically.
“I’ll ask my mother that, too.”
I hang up and retrieve the now dog-eared file Butterfield gave me and thumb through the statements taken by Bonner until I find the name of Mary Kiley. I read it twice and then decide to go out to her house instead of calling her. In five minutes I pull up at a small frame house on Casey Street only two blocks from the housing project where my