“What were you doing at approximately 5:30 P.M.?” Ryerson asked.
“Preparing dinner. A salad. I eat lightly, generally.”
“Now, does your kitchen have a window in it, Mrs. Mateer?”
“Yes. Over the sink. It’s a rather large window, because it’s a double sink. I have a view of the backyard and the carriage house off to the right.”
“You rented the carriage house to Miss Sullivan, is that correct?”
“Yes. My late husband and I, for the past two years.”
“By the way,” Ryerson paused, “did you know Miss Sullivan?”
“We were friendly, I suppose, as one would be. She was a lovely girl. A lovely young woman.” Mrs. Mateer’s hooded eyes slid over to Fiske with a contempt the reporters picked up immediately. You could almost hear them scribbling away, and there was shuffling at the side of the room. I glanced back to see if it was the Philadelphia Inquirer duking out the New York Times. It was Stan Julicher, Patricia’s lawyer, elbowing for a better view, pissing off a reporter with a steno pad. He was managing to stay in the limelight even without a client.
“Patricia Sullivan was a lovely young woman, wasn’t she?” Ryerson asked.
Oh, please. “Your Honor, I’m willing to stipulate that the victim was lovely, and I sincerely hope the Commonwealth catches her murderer, because they don’t have him yet.”
The gallery laughed. Justice Millan caught my eye, amused, then said, “Overruled.”
Not amused enough.
“I’ll withdraw the question,” Ryerson continued. “Mrs. Mateer, what did you see from your kitchen window?”
“I looked out the window to check on the garden. It had been so hazy that afternoon, and then the storm blew up. I remember thinking, well, I won’t have to water tonight.”
“And what did you see? At the carriage house?”
“I saw a man getting into a car.”
Ryerson flashed me a set of head shots as quickly as legal ethics allowed, then approached the stand with them. “I move to have these photographs marked as Commonwealth Exhibits A through H.”
“Fine, fine, fine,” Justice Millan said.
“Did the police show you these photographs, Mrs. Mateer?”
The witness glanced down at the pictures. “Yes.”
“And did you identify one of them as the man you saw running from Patricia Sullivan’s carriage house?”
“Objection,” I said, but Justice Millan waved me off like a fly.
“I picked out this one,” Mrs. Mateer said. She held up a picture of Fiske, taken from a newspaper the day he was arrested. “Judge Hamilton.”
Ouch. I tried to remain expressionless. Fiske tensed. The reporters scribbled and whispered.
“He was wearing a trenchcoat and hat when I saw him,” Mrs. Mateer added.
Fiske was wearing a tan trenchcoat that day, but so was I, so was everybody. It was raining like hell.
“What sort of hat was he wearing?” Ryerson asked.
“It was dark brown, a fedora. With a wide brim. It was over his nose.”
The hat still hadn’t been found, and I’d never known Fiske to have a hat like that. “Objection,” I said. “How could the witness identify this person if he had a hat covering his face?”
“She didn’t say it covered his face,” Ryerson said.
Mrs. Mateer sat forward on her chair. “I saw most of his face and chin, and I saw him when he drove by, too. I feel sure it was Judge Hamilton. I feel sure of that.”
Give me a break. “Your Honor, I have to object. The witness feels sure? Since when is that enough to support a murder charge? I also object to this witness being trumpeted as an eyewitness. If she didn’t see a murder being committed, she’s not an eyewitness.”
“Your Honor,” Ryerson said, “Mrs. Mateer has given a positive identification of Judge Hamilton and is an eyewitness to events subsequent to the murder. Of course, the Commonwealth has additional conclusive evidence to support its charge, such as an identification of the defendant’s car and license plate, and his fingerprints in the room where the victim was murdered.” The reporters began to whisper as the weight of the evidence made its impact.
“Is the district attorney testifying now?” I said, but I was wondering how Kate would take the news about the fingerprints. We had prepared her for it by saying Fiske had been to Patricia’s to drop work off.
“Overruled,” Justice Millan ordered, banging the gavel loudly. “Quiet in the back, or I’ll clear the courtroom. Ms. Morrone, save your objections for cross-examination. Let the witness tell me what she saw, ladies.”
Ryerson looked at me sideways, like a driver edging a slowpoke out of the fast lane. “Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Mrs. Mateer, you are positive it was Judge Hamilton you saw?”
“Absolutely. Also he was quite tall, about six feet, and of muscular build, like Judge Hamilton. It was him.”
“What did you see the defendant do next?” Ryerson asked.
“I saw him leave the carriage house and get into his car.”
“Was he running?”
“No, not running, but kind of hustling, with his head down, as if he didn’t want to be seen.”
I made a note and heard Fiske shift in his chair.
“What did the defendant do then?”
“He got into his car and backed out of the driveway. It’s rather long and curving, so you have to reverse quite a ways to get to the street.”
“So you got a good look at the car?”
“Objection,” I said.
Justice Millan smiled. “Relax, Ms. Morrone. She’s young, she can lead a little.”
Ryerson wasn’t sure whether she’d been insulted. “Mrs. Mateer, do you know what kind of car it was?”
“I do. It was a black Jaguar, a newer model.”
“How do you know it was a Jaguar?”
“I should know a Jaguar when I see one.”
There was mild laughter from the gallery, and Mrs. Mateer drew her scarf closer to her throat.
“I see,” Ryerson said. “Now, did you testify that the back end of the car was facing you as you looked out the window?”
“Yes. It had to reverse.”
“Did you see the license plate on the car?”
“I did. I saw the license plate the whole time. It said GARDEN-2, so I remembered it.”
“And you saw that very clearly?”
Come on. “Objection, Your Honor,” I said.
Justice Millan nodded. “Sustained. Mrs. Ryerson, don’t push your luck.”
“Mrs. Mateer, did you see the defendant do anything else unusual?”
I leaned forward. “Objection, Your Honor. The question assumes the actions described were unusual.”
Ryerson leapt to her pumps. “There certainly is something unusual about a man scurrying out of a private home, jumping into a car, and driving quickly in reverse.”
Justice Millan smiled tightly. “Oh, really? I had an ex-husband who did just that.”
The gallery laughed, but I didn’t. I was thinking of something. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something was wrong, bothering me. I sat upright, listening.
“Then what did you do, Mrs. Mateer?” Ryerson asked.
“I waited a little, I wasn’t sure what to do. It all seemed so odd to me. Then I decided to call the police. They came and found Patricia, dead. Murdered.”
“Thank you. I have no further questions,” Ryerson said, and sat down.
Justice Millan eased back in her chair. “Ms. Morrone, your turn.”
I stood up to cross. “Mrs. Mateer, let me begin with just a few general questions, if I may. Do you know that the distance from your kitchen window to the carriage house is about a hundred yards?”
“I suppose.”
“And there are trees in front of the carriage house, aren’t there?”