A rhythmic series of knocks breaks the silence and then Wanda peeks in. “You folks ready?” she asks. “The judge wants to wrap it up.”
“Two minutes,” I tell her. She nods and leaves, the wooden door clicking shut behind her, and I turn back to Louisa with Taylor Peterson’s theory running through my head. “Shift gears with me for a minute,” I tell her.
She nods.
“Who did your husband normally take out on the boat with him?”
She laughs. “It’d be easier to tell you who he didn’t take. Herb would have taken the mailman if the mailman would have gone. Herb loved that damned boat, loved showing her off as much as anything.”
“Did you go with him?”
“On occasion,” she says. “It’s not my cup of tea, tossing about on the waves. But I’d go with him once in a while to keep him company.”
“What about Glen Powers?” I ask. “You mentioned he and Herb had boating in common.”
She shakes her head. “They weren’t that chummy,” she says. “Herb and Glen would talk about boats occasionally. But they never went out on one together.”
“Steven Collier?” I try next.
“Sometimes,” she says. “They’d take the Carolina Girl out on a weekend afternoon every now and then. But Steven has his own boat, so it wasn’t that often. They spent more time together talking about gear than they did on the water.”
I’m not getting much here, but I may as well finish my short list. “Anastasia?” I ask. “Lance Phillips?”
She laughs again. “Herb had Anastasia around boats all the time when she was a child, hoping to get her hooked. But alas, the dear girl grew up to loathe the great outdoors. And Lance gets sea-sick in the shower.”
Well, this discussion has got me nowhere.
“We’d better head across the hall,” I tell her. “I think we’ve used up our two minutes.”
I take the inventory sheet from her and hand it back to the Kydd. He restacks his documents and then leads the way out of the jury room. Louisa follows. Mother Swan and I bring up the rear.
“Louisa,” I say as we cross the hallway, “when we go back inside, it’s probably best if you let me do the talking.”
She glances over her shoulder as we enter the courtroom, her perfect eyebrows arched. “All of it?” She’s incredulous.
“Yes,” I tell her. “All of it.”
She looks disappointed, as if I’ve just taken all the fun out of this for her. She settles into the chair the Kydd offers and then turns to face me. “I went to law school too, you know.”
“I’m aware of that,” I remind her. “So did Clarence.”
She glances over at young Clarence and nods, conceding my point, and her expression grows more somber. The bailiff tells us to rise as Judge Long emerges from chambers, but Louisa leans closer to me before she complies. “Who would do such a thing to Herb?” she asks. Genuine sadness fills her dark brown eyes.
I shake my head as we stand, but say nothing. My question is more basic than that. It makes perfect sense that Louisa’s prints are all over the Commonwealth’s exhibit. But where the hell are Herb’s?
CHAPTER 20
Judge Long isn’t a particularly tall man, but he reaches the bench with just five energetic strides. He nods a greeting into the gallery as he climbs the few steps and takes his seat. A handful of newcomers has arrived in the courtroom, and a flurry of activity is now audible behind us.
Among the new arrivals is Woody Timmons from the Cape Cod Times. He’s the reporter regularly assigned to the Barnstable County Complex and it’s no surprise that he’s here. He seems to be hardwired into these buildings. Rarely does any case of import escape his radar.
Woody has scores of cronies among the staff of the county complex—intake officers, victim advocates, and docket clerks—many of whom get the earliest glimpses of each new matter as it arrives. Along with most other county staffers, they congregate after work every Friday at the local watering hole, the Jailhouse. They spot one another drinks, shoot darts, and exchange well-informed opinions on the county’s latest crises. Woody takes good care of his courthouse contacts; he almost never misses the Friday festivities. Any number of his cohorts would have telephoned his office this afternoon to deliver this week’s hottest scoop.
But Woody’s not the only late-afternoon arrival. Three still photographers pace the length of the bar, their shutters clicking steadily. Judge Long is one of the only judges in the county who allows flash photographs in his courtroom. “It’s all part of the process,” he always says. “The citizens deserve accurate information from their courtrooms, and photographs provide part of it.” The press, of course, agrees.
The photographers’ partners—guys with notebooks open and pens poised—crowd into the front bench with Woody, prompting Woody to move back a few rows. Their press badges identify them as representatives from the Providence Journal, the New Bedford Telegraph, and The Boston Globe. Word is out, it seems. And it’s already over the bridge.
I’m taken aback by their appearance here so soon, but I realize, after a moment, that I shouldn’t be. Any woman charged with the murder of her husband ignites a media fire. She’s hot news. But adding wealth to the story is like pouring gasoline on the flames. If the accused is a socialite, she’s more than news. She’s a front-page photograph, a screaming, large-print headline.
Louisa appears oblivious to it all. She seems not to hear her name whispered repeatedly from the other side of the bar, not even to notice the flashbulbs that explode each time she turns her profile to the gallery. She’s leaning sideways, toward the Kydd, scanning the Commonwealth’s lengthy documents along with him, pointing to a particular entry now and then to ask him for an explanation. I’m glad she’s willing to participate; I want her to be proactive in her own defense. I just hope the Kydd remembers how to comprehend the written word while she’s breathing over his shoulder.
Judge Long repositions his half-glasses and signals for the rest of us to sit. With the solitary exception of Geraldine Schilling, we do. Few directives apply to our District Attorney. She wouldn’t take a seat at this stage of the proceedings unless a lit cigarette and a dry martini were waiting on the table in front of it.
“Attorney Nickerson,” the judge says, “I trust you and your client have had sufficient time to examine the Commonwealth’s evidence?”
“We have, Your Honor.” I stand and approach the bench. Geraldine follows, as if the judge and I need a chaperone, and I spin to fire a silent warning in her direction. I imagine Pedro Martinez might get a comparable feeling when he hurls an inside pitch and edges Derek Jeter away from the plate. She stops a few feet behind me and folds her arms, a reluctant concession to the fact that I’m up.
“At this time, Your Honor, we believe the Commonwealth’s exhibit is a plumbing fixture Mr. and Mrs. Rawlings purchased when they were renovating their home. It proved to be defective and the retailer replaced it. It was stored in the basement so eventually it could be shipped back to the vendor.”
Geraldine moves closer to the bench and turns to face me, her thin eyebrows arched. Her question couldn’t be any plainer if she flashed it on a neon billboard. So what? she telegraphs. Geraldine is a master of dramatic presentation; no attorney in the county spends more time painting each painful detail than she does. The rest of us, though, should just get on with it. Every word we utter is a waste of the court’s time.
“The point is, Your Honor, it’s no surprise that Mrs. Rawlings’s prints are on the fixture. Just as it would be no surprise to find my prints on the fixtures in my home, your prints on the fixtures in yours.”