In Self-Defense Page 25

  Sharon’s smile froze in place. Well, what had she expected for a couple of packs of Pall Malls? Ralph from Neiman’s? “That’s nice, Midge,” Sharon said.

  Judge Griffin banged her gavel. “To continue the hearing. Call your first witness, Madame Prosecutor.” Sharon suspected that Griffin, political animal that she was, would get some serious coaching on application of her makeup before the trial itself began.

  Milton Breyer stood up and cleared his throat. “If the court please. I’ll be conducting the state’s case today.”

  If Breyer’s action miffed Fraterno, she wasn’t showing it. Her head was down as she intently studied her notes. That Breyer wanted to become lawyer for a day was hardly a shock. With all the national press and movie guys in attendance, Sharon wouldn’t have been surprised if a girl in spangled tights had appeared and set up a platform for Milt to stand on.

  Judge Griffin showed no emotion. “Very well. Call your first witness, sir.” Griffin, along with all the other judges in the county, had seen the media transform prosecutors into showboats thousands of times, and Sharon suspected that the judge was secretly suppressing a yawn.

  “The state calls,” Breyer said importantly, “Linda Haymon Rathermore.”

  Oh God, Sharon thought, to be a star. Midge sucked in air through her nose.

  There was a loud rustling accompanied by a turning of heads as Stan Green escorted Linda down the aisle as if he were giving her away in matrimony. Linda walked in snow white spike heels as though she’d been born in them, a confident showcase walk, back straight, head tilted regally. She wore a pale lavender suit with padded shoulders. Her blond hair was fluffed out just so, her nails done in matching lavender, diamonds on her fingers and earlobes like twinkling stars. Stan Green was dressed in a navy blue suit. As he opened the gate for Linda and stood aside, he glanced at Sharon, then looked quickly away. Sharon resisted the urge to sneer.

  Okay, folks, she thought, this is the act you’ve all come to see. She dug in her briefcase for pen and notepad as Linda Rathermore stepped up to the court reporter and raised her right hand.

  “So to repeat,” Milton Breyer said, “you were reclining on the bed reading a book. Near eleven, is that right?”

  “That’s about right,” Linda said, her perfect newscaster’s voice amplified by a microphone. Her legs were crossed, one shapely nylon-encased knee showing, her hands folded in her lap in attentive respect. “I know it was past ten-thirty because the newscast was over.”

  “The same newscast you yourself narrated prior to your marriage?”

  “Yes, sir.” A modest lowering of sky blue eyes.

  Christ, Sharon thought, if they bring up her TV career one more time, I’m going to barf right here on the table.

  “And your husband,” Breyer said, looking toward the newspeople, “where was he?”

  “Bill liked to exercise. I think he was doing sit-ups.”

  Sharon frowned. The photos she’d seen of William Rathermore didn’t depict a physical-fitness nut. The guy had had a pretty good-sized gut, in fact. Sharon made a note to check out Rathermore’s conditioning habits. Likely there was nothing there, but one never knew.

  “And that’s when the boys came charging in?” Breyer said.

  “Yes.” Linda’s shoulders moved in a shudder.

  “And you had no warning? No sound outside your bedroom?”

  “Well … the security panel.”

  Breyer rested his elbows on the prosecution table, made a pyramid with his hands, and placed his chin on his fingertips. Ah, yes, the security panel. “Will you please explain that?” he said.

  The question was nebulous and enough out of order to be absolutely ditzy. Sharon nearly objected on general principles, just to show Breyer what a jackass he was being, but held her tongue. Sandy Griffin would sustain an objection, but then Kathleen Fraterno would set her boss straight, and Breyer would merely reword the question.

  Linda said, “We heard a series of beeps. Someone using the panel to disarm the security system.”

  “Which requires a code?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A code known to who, Mrs. Rathermore?”

  Linda appeared deep in thought. “Me. Bill, of course. And Bill’s two daughters, for when they were home from school.”

  “From Hockaday? The boarding school?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one else knew the code.”

  “No, sir. We’d thought about giving it to the butler and maid, but for security reasons we changed our minds. When the people were on duty during the day we simply left the system off.”

  Breyer’s voice lowered an octave. “Was the defendant, Midge Rathermore, is she one of the daughters you mentioned?”

  Linda’s gaze flicked distastefully at Midge, then settled back on the prosecutor. “Yes, sir. Midge knew the code.”

  “I see. Mrs. Rathermore, how much time elapsed between your hearing the alarm turned off and these boys’ entrance into your bedroom?”

  Linda wrung her hands. “Only seconds. Not over half a minute.”

  Midge Rathermore shifted in her chair. Not only was the teenager well groomed for a change, there was a noticeable defiance in her posture which Sharon had never seen. If Linda’s morals were as down in the gutter as Deborah North had said, Midge must despise her stepmother. Sharon hoped against hope. If Midge was now ready to fight, her defense might not turn out to be hopeless after all.

  Breyer now assumed a tone of utmost sympathy. “Mrs. Rathermore, I’m now going to ask you to describe what happened next. Take your time, please. The court will understand if it’s difficult for you.”

  Linda’s hands twisted violently in her lap. “All right. Of course.” There was a tearful catch in her voice.

  Sharon couldn’t take her eyes off the witness’s hands. Over and over the twisting and squeezing, the white-knuckled gripping of the thumb. There was something familiar about the way Linda Rathermore’s hands remained at rest as she listened to the question, then writhed in her lap as she answered. Sharon would have to think on it. The answer would come to her.

  “Well, the door opened. Slammed open, there’s still a mark on the wall,” Linda said. Now a tear ran down her cheek, as if on cue.

  It is on cue, Sharon thought. Sure, body language, elementary method acting. The twisting together of the hands, the programmed catches in Linda’s voice. Sharon’s New York stage coach had taught her to slightly tighten the larynx muscles just before speaking, and the tears were even easier than the voice. Just close the nasal passages and breathe rapidly, and the old ducts would flow like open faucets. If properly controlled, the rapid breathing would come across as a series of tune-up sobs. You’re hamming it up in front of the wrong chick, old Linda, Sharon thought. During her off-Broadway days, the size of Sharon’s paychecks had made bawling on cue as easy as falling off a log.

  As Linda Rathermore haltingly and tearfully told how the boys had bludgeoned her husband to death before her very eyes, Sharon began to write like crazy. She had an idea.

  Sharon whispered to Anthony Gear, “You ready?”

  He winked and nodded. Today the detective wore a pale blue sports coat with navy slacks, not quite the Mike Hammer effect, but better than the garish plaid he’d had on the previous two days. Gear thumbed the clicker on his ballpoint and bent over his legal pad. Sharon rustled through her notes as she prepared to cross-examine Linda Rathermore.

  Sharon was suddenly overcome with stage fright. Christ, she couldn’t believe it. All those years on stage, all that time as a prosecutor, and here she was shaking like a leaf as she began her first cross-examination in private practice. She decided that her bout of nerves had something to do with the way Russell Black was looking at her, his thick brows furrowed like Zeus. She averted her gaze from Black, and the butterflies’ wings slowed a fraction.

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sp; Sharon drew a shallow breath. “Linda Haymon Rathermore. I assume Haymon is your maiden name?”

  “Yes.” Linda showed no emotion, her face impassive like a candidate for Honest Woman of the Year.

  Sharon intensified her tone of voice. “Was Haymon always your name? From birth?” She cut her eyes at the bench. A grain of mascara fell from Judge Griffin’s lash and lodged in thick eye shadow.

  Linda looked at the prosecution table as if searching for help. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Sharon glanced inside her file. Pretending to study notes while gathering one’s thoughts wasn’t an exclusive trick to Kathleen Fraterno. “Wasn’t your name originally Harmon?” Sharon said. The butterflies barely rustled their wings now as Sharon got into the thrill of the hunt.

  Linda brushed imaginary lint from her skirt. “That’s right.”

  “Very similar names. Could you tell us the reason for the change, Mrs. Rathermore?”

  Linda’s self-confidence was faltering. Both Breyer and Fraterno now exhibited concerned frowns, and Kathleen wrote something down. The prosecution wasn’t ready for this, Sharon knew, and no wonder. Anthony Gear had found the name change only yesterday during a routine check of courthouse records, and the expression on Linda’s face told Sharon that she might be hitting a small jackpot. “Could you, Mrs. Rathermore?” Sharon repeated.

  “I had—” Linda said rapidly, then cleared her throat and said, “An agent suggested it.”

  “Possibly because another newscaster was already named Linda Harmon?” Sharon knew an objection was coming, but asked the question anyway. Her nervousness had subsided; she was now cool as a cucumber. Was having a pretty good time, in fact.

  “Objection,” Fraterno said, half rising. “Your Honor, we don’t see the relevance of this.”

  Oh, yes, you do, cutes, Sharon thought. She considered reminding Judge Griffin that, in view of her ruling that the defense was confined to one lawyer at a time, then Fraterno shouldn’t be objecting to cross questions asked of Milt Breyer’s witness. Sharon didn’t bring up the issue, however. She didn’t want anything diverting Sandy Griffin’s attention away from Linda’s name change, and besides, if everyone had to wait for Milton Breyer to get the point, this frigging examining trial might never end. Sharon spoke slowly and carefully: “Your Honor, this is a preliminary procedure to trial. We’re entitled to broad discovery here.”

  The judge’s call was a toss-up, but Sharon was counting on Sandy Griffin’s curiosity. All of the reporters and spectators were dying for Linda to answer, all sitting expectantly forward, and Sharon figured Judge Griffin to be every bit as nosy as the next gal. The judge said, without hesitation, “Objection overruled. Repeat your question, Counsel.”

  “My question was,” Sharon said. “Did you change your name because someone in your chosen field was already using your maiden name?”

  Linda fidgeted. “I might have. I don’t recall.”

  “Well, then, was news broadcasting your chosen field?”

  Silence. Fraterno half rose from her seat, then sat back down.

  “Or possibly,” Sharon continued, “did you originally aspire to be an actress? That would better account for the change in names, and the fact that you’d be using an agent.” Talk about shooting from the hip, Sharon thought. If this blew up in her face, she wasn’t going to be able to face Russell Black, who was now just as much in the dark as were Fraterno and Breyer.

  “It seems … I think I may have wanted to act once.”

  Aha, Sharon thought. She practically sagged with relief. “Mrs. Rathermore, where are you from originally?” It had seemed strange that no one, including Deborah North, had been able to dig up any background on this woman, and now Sharon knew why. They’d all been checking under Linda’s assumed name.

  “Baltimore,” Linda said. “The … Baltimore area.” Her hands remained at rest.

  Sharon cocked an ear. Pen scratched on paper behind her as Gear took his notes. Get all of this, Mr. Private Eye, Sharon thought. “And where did you attend college?” Sharon said.

  “UM Maryland.”

  “Was journalism your major?”

  Linda brushed a golden lock with her fingertips. “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Well, did you graduate?”

  “No.” Practically a whisper.

  “Speak up, please.” Sharon looked at the court reporter, a jolly black woman who was now straining to hear.

  More forcefully Linda said, “No, I didn’t.”

  “In what year did you graduate from high school, Mrs. Rathermore?” Christ, no one even seemed to know this woman’s age.

  Linda gave the prosecution side a look which said, Get me the hell down from this witness stand. Fraterno seemed absorbed in her notes. Milt Breyer beamed at his witness, but made no move to object. Linda ran the tip of her tongue over even upper teeth before saying, “Nineteen sixty-nine.”

  Sharon rummaged through her file to hide her surprise. This chick had more miles on her than one would have imagined; Linda Rathermore could easily pass for early thirties. Compared to her, Sharon thought, I’m a mere infant.

  “Thank you,” she said. She glanced at Anthony Gear. The private detective showed a quick nod. Having given Gear plenty of food for investigative thought, Sharon now looked for a way to end it without exposing anything she had in store for Linda at trial. She thought of one more skeleton which might be rattling around in Linda’s closet. “Mrs. Rathermore, how did you first meet Mr. Rathermore?”

  “At a party. A friend introduced us.” Linda’s voice practically dripped relief. She’d be well prepared for the defense to grill her about her affair with William Rathermore. Sharon pictured Breyer and Fraterno telling Linda, “If they ask you this, you say such and such.”

  “Who was this friend?” Sharon said.

  “Arnold Millen, I think.”

  “Who is?”

  “He was the news director at the station. Is the news director.”

  “Did you know that Mr. Rathermore was married at the time?”

  “Since it was a mere introduction,” Linda said testily, “I had no reason to inquire.” As a scriptwriter, Sharon thought, Milt Breyer would make a pretty good shortstop. Since I’d just met him I didn’t see any reason to ask, would have been a much more natural-sounding answer.

  “When was it,” Sharon said, “that the relationship developed into something more?”

  “After more meetings,” Linda said, “when we were thrown together.”

  Sharon paused to think. Any answers Linda would give to this line of questions would be prosecution programmed. Judge Griffin was looking just a bit bored, and Sharon felt that if she dragged the cross-examination out much longer, the judge would begin to get mad. Besides, Anthony Gear should have little trouble digging up the details of Linda screwing around with a married man; the whole affair had been blown up big in the papers. Sharon decided to let well enough alone. “I have no further questions at this time,” she said with finality.

  Linda’s eyes widened, clearly in surprise, and Breyer and Fraterno exchanged exasperated glances. All that rehearsal for nothing, Sharon thought. The judge appeared surprised as well, and began drumming her fingers. As Linda rose to leave the witness box, Sharon said, “Oh. Just one more thing.”

  Linda sat down and waited expectantly.

  “Mrs. Rathermore,” Sharon said, “do you like the Soles method? Or do you find Reasor’s school of thought more effective?”

  As she spoke, she twisted her hands, wringing them in an exact duplicate of Linda’s earlier movements during direct examination. Both the judge and Russell Black looked at Sharon as though she’d just stripped stark naked, but Linda Rathermore wasn’t puzzled at all. Her gaze dropped nervously to her lap. Sharon considered a few crocodile tears, but it had been a long time. Once in New York she’d giggled onstage while trying to
work up a tragic cry, and the director had never let her live it down. Kathleen Fraterno’s jaw dropped as realization dawned.

  Sharon relaxed her hands and favored Linda Rathermore with a quick, saucy wink. “Your Honor, I’ll withdraw the question,” she said.

  As Sharon headed down the corridor toward the elevators, Russell Black said, “Who in God’s name is Soles?” He was moving alongside her in testy strides; they’d just sidestepped the movie producer’s second banana, Rayford Sly, as he stood impatiently outside the courtroom.

  “Who?” Sharon said.

  “Soles. And the other guy, Reasor. I thought you were onto something.” Black pressed the elevator’s Down button. From down the hall Andy Wade of the News shouted, “Mr. Black. Got a minute?” Black shook his head at the reporter.

  Sharon held her briefcase handle in both hands with the case itself touching her thighs. “They’re drama coaches. Both of them wrote books on body language. That was between me and Linda, Russ, she’s a trained actress. Five’ll get you ten that she somehow stumbled into a newsroom when she was between parts. It happens all the time since the TV folks quit using professional journalists and switched to the beautiful people.”

  The elevator doors parted, and Sharon and Black crowded onto the car with eight or ten spectators who’d been at the hearing. The spectators all watched the ceilings and walls and pretended not to eavesdrop. Sharon felt suddenly lighter as the car started down.

  “How’d you know that about her?” Black said.

  “I didn’t. Not ’til she started the hand-wringing act during direct examination. I don’t know how she felt about her husband’s death when it happened, but all that tear-jerking on the witness stand was strictly ham and eggs. She was using textbook body language.”

  Black rose on the balls of his feet, then sank down on his heels. “I guess we’ll be shooting our boy Gear up to Baltimore to find out more on that woman.”

  “I think the first order of business,” Sharon said, “is those teenagers who hung out at the Rathermores’. I’m making his Baltimore reservations for next week.”

  The elevator halted on the ground floor. Black exited after Sharon, and as they walked amid the crowd toward the exit he said, “Takin’ a lot on yourself, ain’tcha?”