“We’ll take the mid-afternoon break.”
Wentworth heard this with relief; he needed to pee badly. As the gallery cleared, Abigail huddled with her junior. Wentworth wanted to go over there and say, “Nice try. We’re way ahead of you.” He knew Haley, he’d gone out with her once, sort of, she’d invited him to a party. It didn’t go well, he spilled a glass of red wine on her yellow blouse and it turned orange.
Arthur blocked his escape. “How many more of these unobservant diners do we have?”
“The two women writers and the Whitsons. And the catering staff.”
“Did you speak to Loobie about Whitson?”
“He didn’t have much to add except he has reliable information that Whitson was pissed purple at Whynet-Moir over a deal that went south. He wouldn’t say who told him.”
“You need to consult with me, Arthur?” Cud said behind the counsel railing, looking unhappy he was out of the loop.
“In good time.”
Wentworth could tell he wasn’t satisfied with that, he wanted reassurance, an opinion on how it was going. Finally Cud led away Felicity, who was in a pout over him making out with Florenza. Worse was coming, Cud should have been up front with her.
Arthur muttered something Wentworth didn’t catch, something about an unregulated sex drive.
“That was great how you handled the obscene poem. Most lawyers would just have objected.”
“Signals the jury there’s something to hide. We’re going to stick with what we’ve got, and what we’ve got is a rammy, scatological anti-establishment poet. Let the jury see him in the raw. He’ll come off worse if we pretend he’s anything else.”
Wentworth noticed Haley smiling, mouthing a hello. She couldn’t have been that upset about the wine spill; in fact, now that he thought about it, she’d written her cell number on the dry-cleaning bill. Maybe he should buy her a drink or something…When their lips finally drew apart, she said hoarsely, “I was desperate to see you again.” He couldn’t take it any longer, he had to decant the Big Gulp.
As court resumed, juror Tom Altieri caught Wentworth’s eye and smiled broadly. He wondered if it was a message. Don’t worry, pal, I’m on your side, a union brother is in trouble.
Cud’s fan club occupied a back section of the gallery, bearded bohemians and braless girls in flouncy dresses. Wentworth had seen some of them talking to old farmer Vogel, who was back there with them, a kind of mascot.
Taking the stand was Shiny Shoe’s wife, a sour little apple of a woman. Abigail went through the litany about Whynet-Moir being the affable host and Cud juicing it up. The Whitsons said their goodbyes early “because Terrence had a headache.” Abigail took all of four minutes with her.
Arthur contemplated her a while as if figuring out his approach, then asked, “You drove right home?”
“Yes.”
“What brought on your husband’s headache? Was there a distressing event?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“Before you left, he had an exchange with Judge Whynet-Moir. Did you see that?”
“I’m not sure…” She reflected. “Yes, they did have a discussion. Terrence had brought some papers to show him.”
“Did you pick up any ill feeling between them?”
Kroop had been clearing his throat, a sign he was going to jump in. “Where is this going, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“With respect, milord, I do not ask questions idly.”
Kroop looked sternly at the prosecutors. “I don’t hear anyone objecting. Carry on.”
“Shall I repeat the question?”
“I remember Terrence wagging his finger at Judge Whynet-Moir, but he wasn’t angry.”
“Was Mr. Whitson complaining about him on the way home?”
“I don’t think he said anything.”
“Did you go directly to bed?”
“I did.”
“What about your husband?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“We sleep in separate rooms.”
“Again, I don’t see the prosecutor objecting as she ought to. This is a bit much, Mr. Beauchamp, prying into private lives.”
For the first time, Wentworth noticed flecks of impatience on Arthur’s face, red spots. “Thank you, Mrs. Whitson.” He sat.
“We’re grateful to you, madam. It’s a trying experience, but alas the law requires that all present at the scene of a crime must be heard.”
“Alleged crime, milord. It could have been suicide.”
“Please do not interrupt me, Mr. Beauchamp. Alleged crime.”
Wentworth decided Arthur was baiting Kroop to force him into error. He’d won a lot of appeals doing that. At least thirteen, if you counted three for the Cape Mudge triple killing.
Terrence Whitson carried himself well as he entered court. Dapper, silver-haired, robust, works out maybe, or plays handball at lunch. His marriage didn’t seem real blissful, maybe he had a mistress. An investment counsellor-why would he have let Whynet-Moir engineer a deal that went sour?
Abigail had him identify Cud, who returned his look with a scowl. As she took him through drinks and hors d’oeuvre and dinner, he responded crisply, recalling a couple of exchanges with Cud. “I made a joke about his peace medallion, and he said he had one tattooed on his rear. I assumed he was being droll.”
As to their table talk: “Well, there wasn’t much. I’d heard about his stint on a tree platform, one of those save-the-forest demonstrations, and I asked him about it, and he said, ‘You had to be there, pal.’ I assume he’d had a little too much by then.”
“Any dealings with him after that?”
“After dinner, I went out for some air and saw him urinating on the lawn. He was behind a car-my car, actually-and he looked at me and lowered his pants. When he took off his under shorts, I turned and walked back in.”
Wentworth was horrified at how bad this sounded, Cud came across like a pervert. No one was finding it funny.
“We thanked the hosts and left soon after.”
“Your witness.”
Arthur didn’t like this guy, Wentworth could tell from the way he rose, slow and controlled, adjusted his bifocals, snapped his suspenders. He’d seen that lots, Arthur going on the hunt. According to the police interview, Astrid Leich had heard “something slamming, maybe a door.” Like the door of a returning Lamborghini?
“You remember Mr. Brown rushing off from the table, don’t you? I think there was a reading by Ms. Tinkerson from her latest novel, and he went outside during the applause.”
“I can’t say…”
“You were seated across from him; surely you can say.”
He frowned. “Yes…Yes, I think I remember that.”
“Ever felt the need to relieve yourself in a hurry, Mr. Whitson?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Brown lives in a rural area. So do I. We pee outside. You’ve done that yourself, I’d imagine.”
“Not in the city.”
“He had his backpack with him, did you see that?”
“It may have been behind the car.”
“And what he was doing was changing his pants.”
“I didn’t see that part of it.”
“But later you saw he was wearing different pants. Jeans.”
“I’m not sure if I noticed.”
“You’ve had that happen too, haven’t you? Stained your clothes at the dinner table and been forced to change them. It’s embarrassing, but we’ve all done it, yes?”
“I…sure, it happens.”
“Mustard. Gravy. Tomato sauce. Mr. Sheriff, would you produce Exhibit 18, please.” The deputy unbagged and unfolded a pair of blue jeans. “It is an admitted fact that the accused had these on when arrested. It’s also admitted that his backpack was found in the guest suite above the garage. I’d like a couple of items from it, Mr. Sheriff, first a pair of black slacks, number forty.”
All circuits were go. The boss was breezing along like nobody’s business. Wentworth had worried that in working with him, riding saddle with him, his Tonto, he’d get let down, that Arthur wouldn’t have the old quick draw. Not so.
“Show him the black pants.” The deputy brought them to the witness stand. “Quite an extensive stain in the crotch area-do you observe that?”