“Yes, Your Honor.”
The clerk then recalled Earl Thomson to the stand. “Mr. Thomson,” Brett began, “you’ve testified that you asked Miguel Santos to pick you up in Muhlenburg after your car was stolen. You called Mr. Santos because you thought your family chauffeur, Richard Gates, was in New Jersey. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”
“According to hotel records in Osmond, New Jersey, Richard Gates spent part of the night there and joined your father Saturday morning. Richard Gates checked into his room after midnight. At twelve thirty-five, to be exact.” Brett looked at her notes. “Were you aware that Richard Gates didn’t leave your home in Wahasset until after ten o’clock Friday night?”
Davic rose. “Objection, Your Honor. At this late date I’d hardly call that a substantive issue.” But it was obvious the attorney was unprepared for Brett’s line of inquiry. It was also apparent Earl Thomson had been caught by surprise. He was openly relieved by his attorney’s interruption.
“I’ll withhold a ruling for a moment,” Judge Flood said. “What is your point, Miss Brett?”
“Your Honor, Miguel Santos, for the first and only time in his many years with the Thomson family, was asked to serve as chauffeur — at about six o’clock on the night Mr. Thomson’s car was stolen. My point is this... why was Miguel Santos pressed into service when the family chauffeur, Mr. Richard Gates, was on duty and available?”
Judge Flood tapped his pencil impatiently against his water glass but said, “Well, ask the witness your question then, Miss Brett. Let’s get on with this.”
“Mr. Thomson,” Brett said, “were you mistaken when you testified that you called Miguel Santos because you thought
Richard was on his way to New Jersey?”
“Obviously I was, ma’am. Our home is rather large. The comings and goings of the staff aren’t announced” — he smiled calmly — “like planes arriving and taking off. Richard was on tap that whole weekend, spoken for, to pick up my father and drive him back from Osmond. I assumed he was gone when I called from Muhlenburg. But even if he was home, I wouldn’t have asked him to change his schedule to accommodate me.” Earl’s voice was confident; after the first uncertain glance at Davic, he had regained his composure. “It may be old-fashioned, Miss Brett, but at cur house my father’s plans rate top priority.”
“In fact, you didn’t know Richard Gates was in his quarters when you called Miguel Santos?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct.”
“And the only reason you called Miguel Santos was because you thought Richard Gates was enroute to New Jersey?”
“I object, Your Honor,” Davic said. “This line of inquiry is pointless. People’s counsel is trying to suggest something sinister in the normal, complex operation of any large, busy household.”
“Sustained. Miss Brett, you’ve established an inconsistency, but I see no relevance in it. The witness needn’t answer those last questions. Please get on to something else now.”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor. If the court considers the mistaken testimony of the defendant and a crucial defense witness, Miguel Santos, irrelevant, I won’t try Your Honor’s patience by contending otherwise.”
Brett returned to the table and picked up her notes. Shana looked up and gave her a barely perceptible headshake. They were expecting a call from her father or Sergeant Wilger. It would come to a pay phone in the lobby outside Superior Nine; Brett’s secretary was stationed there. She would give the written message to the bailiff, who had the authority to deliver information and documents to the prosecution and defense while court was in session.
Shana’s negative headshake added to Brett’s tension.
Her job was to stall as long as possible, as long as necessary, in fact, yet not a fraction beyond the point where Flood would have an excuse to dismiss the witness and instruct the jury that the People had failed to prove its case against Earl Thomson.
The defense, she was aware, was relieved by Earl’s controlled response to her questions so far. To gain time, Brett made a pretense of leafing through her casebook, as if searching for a particular item of information. Her small, precise handwriting, in fact, covered dozens of pages; she had spent hours last night checking her notes on the case, examining every deposition, and rereading the complete transcript of the testimony to date.
Ever since Wilger had told her of the bug planted in her office, she had been rethinking her arguments, studying the principals’ backgrounds, and later going through her encyclopedia for military and biographical sketches, using a magnifying glass to examine even the agate type in footnotes, seeking to find delaying facts or incidents that might meet Flood’s test of relevance.
Her lack of sleep was evident; her face was pale and her eyes were shadowed. Her dark suit and bright scarf only accentuated her fragile appearance. She had jogged two miles along the Brandywine at dawn, with one of Wilger’s squads trailing her, but even that exercise and a long, hot shower hadn’t helped. Her nerves felt frayed; they practically ached with tension.
Judge Flood cleared his throat. “Miss Brett?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Dropping her notebook casually, Brett returned to the witness. “Mr. Thomson, you testified, didn’t you, that the name Vinegar Hill meant nothing to you when Captain Slocum asked you about it?”
“Yes, I did.”
“You had never heard of such a place?”
“No.”
As Davic rose, Brett said, “Mr. Thomson, you attended a military college with an excellent reputation, I believe.”
The abrupt change of subject forestalled Davic’s objection. Settling back, he listened warily to the exchanges.
“Yes, ma’am,” Thomson replied. “Rockland’s senior staff is made up of professional soldiers. Most are field grade officers with combat experience.”
“Well versed in military strategy and history then?”
“That goes without saying. They’re scholars, and they know the problems in the field from personal experience.”
“The Taggart family’s military history dates back to our Revolutionary War, does it not?”
“Yes. There’ve been Taggarts in every war America’s fought, drummer boys at Valley Forge, foot soldiers at Shiloh, and officers in both World Wars, the Marne, the Ardennes, Heartbreak Hill and Old Baldy in Korea. The Taggarts are part of all that.”
Thomson’s response, his drum-beat roll call of place names, had been cool, dispassionate, and Davic seemed reassured, Brett noticed; he relaxed and crossed his arms.
“Mr. Thomson,” Brett said, “a famous battle was fought between Ireland and England in the year 1798. The Irish pike-men of Wexford were crushed and destroyed. The Viceroy of Ireland at that time was—”
Judge Flood tapped his gavel. “Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Brett, but can you assure us there is some material point lurking under this welter of detail?”
“I can indeed, Your Honor.”
“Then please get to it.”
“Thank you.” Brett paused and adjusted her blue silk scarf. “Mr. Thomson, the Viceroy of Ireland at the time of that decisive battle in Wexford was Lord Earl Charles Cornwallis who — earlier in his career — was a major general in command of British forces during the colonial Revolution. His army raided American troops in South Carolina and Virginia and was finally besieged and beaten decisively at Yorktown. With Cornwallis, of course, fell the British cause in America.