In Self-Defense Page 7

Fraterno smoothed one of her ruffled sleeves. “Detective, isn’t there an alarm system in that house?”

  “Yes, ma’am, there is.”

  “And on the night in question, was the system activated?”

  Green nodded. “It was.”

  “Detective,” Fraterno said, “how is the alarm system in the Rathermore home turned on and off?”

  Sharon continued to doodle. The Rathermore alarm system had been in the newspapers over and over; cartoon drawings of the huge home and the various panels used to turn the system on and off were as familiar to Dallasites as Jimmy Johnson, Jerry Jones, and the weekly game plan of the Dallas Cowboys.

  “There are ten-digit security panels in the upstairs bedrooms, kitchen, and game room, plus a panel inside the front door. There is one code for activating the system and another for disarming it.”

  “And Mrs. Rathermore was certain that the system was turned on?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  On Sharon’s left, Midge Rathermore raised her hands to pat her fat cheeks, then yawned. Sharon’s jacket had slipped off one of Midge’s shoulders. The teenager’s BO permeated the air like the stench of dead animals.

  “So, then,” Fraterno said, “it would be safe to say that no one could have entered the premises undetected without knowing the code to deactivate the alarm, wouldn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” Green said. “Unless someone had been hiding in the house when the system was turned on.”

  “And, without warning, these two young men burst in on the couple and killed Mr. Rathermore. Was Mrs. Rathermore harmed?”

  “No, ma’am. She locked herself in the bathroom.”

  “While the two continued to assault and bludgeon—”

  “Objection.” Sharon was on her feet, acting totally by reflex, and it took an instant for her to realize that the objection had come from her own lips. She softly cleared her throat and let one hand rest on the nape of Midge’s neck. “Your Honor,” Sharon said, “the photograph is already in evidence. This is a certification hearing, not an argument for capital punishment.”

  Tucker glanced at Sharon, then at Fraterno, and back again. “Sustained.” It seemed that the family court master wanted to spare himself the gruesome details. The regular judge would have likely overruled. Sharon sat down, feeling Russ Black’s gaze on her.

  Fraterno showed a little smile. She lowered long lashes, then said to the witness, “You were assigned to this case as chief investigating officer, were you not?”

  “That I was,” Detective Green said.

  “You said a moment ago that the weapon used was a lug wrench. Does that mean that you recovered the weapon?”

  “The officers found it in some shrubbery.”

  “A common lug wrench?”

  “Yes, ma’am, with a ninety-degree bend and a sharpened point, for removing hubcaps.”

  “And were there fingerprints on the weapon?”

  “No, ma’am. According to Mrs. Rathermore, the attackers wore gloves.”

  “For the purpose of covering their hands, so they’d leave no prints?”

  Now it was Russell Black who stood and offered the token objection; the killers’ reason for wearing the gloves was nothing that anyone had told Green, so the question called for speculation on his part. Before Tucker could sustain, Fraterno said quickly, “I’ll withdraw the question,” having gotten her point across without having the witness answer. The trick was as old as the law itself, and just as effective. Fraterno pretended to study her notes while making no effort to hide her mischievous grin. Milt Breyer hooked an elbow over his chair back. He was really enjoying himself.

  “So, Detective,” Fraterno said, “is it safe to say that the night of Mr. Rathermore’s death, there were no suspects?”

  “Not then. No, ma’am.”

  “And what about motive? Were there things missing from the house? Valuables?”

  “No money,” Green said. “There were three hundred-dollar bills in plain sight on the dresser, and no one had touched them.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “No, ma’am. Mrs. Rathermore did a complete inventory at our request, and every piece was present and accounted for. There was a large jewelry box on her vanity, untouched.”

  Sharon now made her first notes of the hearing. Her husband just beaten to death before her eyes, the lady sits down and coolly inventories her diamonds. Strange. Equally peculiar was the scenario in which, during the beating, the lady had had the presence of mind to hide in the bathroom, and unless the Rathermore john had a steel door and a magnesium bolt, it was also weird that the killers hadn’t merely knocked down the door and had a go at her. Sharon wrote LINDA HAYMON RATHERMORE in bold letters on her pad, underlined the name three times, and followed the note with a large question mark.

  “Could Mrs. Rathermore identify either or both of the assailants?” Fraterno said.

  “No. She said she’d never seen them before.”

  “So they just came in, killed Mr. Rathermore, and left?”

  “Evidently that’s what happened,” Green said.

  “And as of day one in your investigation, Detective, did you have any leads or suspects whatsoever?”

  “No, ma’am. Not a one.”

  Fraterno flipped over a page in her file. “Did that situation later change?”

  “Two days later it did. Yes.”

  “And how was that?”

  “Well, we …” Green stroked his chin. “We had an informant. A call.”

  “Was the call anonymous?”

  “No, ma’am,” Green said. “The call came from a girl named Leslie Schlee.”

  “And who is Leslie Schlee?”

  “She’s a student at Hockaday School. In the same class as Miss Rathermore.” Green nodded toward Midge, his handsome face now cop impassive. Midge played with a lapel of the jacket around her shoulders, and softly hummed a tuneless tune. Sharon cleared a small lump from her throat. The only knowledge regarding Midge’s guilt which Sharon had at the moment had come from Midge herself, the fat, pitiful teenager’s own words to the effect that she was guilty, and anything that Midge said could be truth, fantasy, or something in between. Whatever, the certifying of this child as an adult was a grisly joke. The informant’s identity had been withheld from the newspapers. Sharon jotted down the name and underlined it.

  “And on receiving this call, did you interview Miss Schlee?” Fraterno said.

  “Yes. She came to central headquarters. Her father was with her.”

  “And if you would, Detective, please relate Miss Leslie Schlee’s story to the court.”

  The form of the question was out of line, even in this hearing. Witnesses under direct examination were only supposed to answer questions and not elaborate. One way or the other, though, Tucker would admit Green’s hearsay testimony into evidence, so any objection now would only waste time. Sharon glanced sideways at Russ Black. Apparently he had taken sufficient lumps when he’d objected before, and now merely gazed at the witness, the older lawyer’s face impassive.

  Green folded his arms in the witness chair. “Miss Schlee told us that two boys named Chris Leonard and Troy Burdette had been the assailants in the Rathermore home.”

  “And how did Miss Schlee know this?” Fraterno said.

  “The boys are St. Mark’s students.”

  “St. Mark’s being another North Dallas private school?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Leonard is Miss Schlee’s boyfriend. Miss Schlee said that he told her about the killing one night while the two of them were at the movies. She didn’t believe that he was really going to do it, and thought he was only bragging. The day after the murder she confronted him, and he said that he and Mr. Burdette had gone to the Rathermore home and done the crime.”

  “Detective,” Fraterno said, her voice n
ow an octave lower, clearly about to drop a bombshell. “Did you discuss a possible motive with Miss Schlee?”

  Green now looked toward Midge. His intense expression was rehearsed, of course, just as the surprise answers had been. The theatrics were fooling no one, Sharon thought, except Kenneth Tucker, whose opinion was the only one which mattered. “Yes, ma’am,” Green said.

  “And what would that be?”

  Green’s gaze remained riveted on Midge and never wavered. He said, “Miss Schlee told us that Midge Rathermore employed the two boys to kill her father.”

  “Employed them how? For money?” The question seemed unnecessary, but murder for hire was one of three crimes in Texas which subjected an adult offender to the death penalty. Midge wasn’t eligible for capital punishment because of her age, but the prosecutor was getting the point across. Midge was old enough to know the value of a cash offer.

  “She paid them nothing at the time. Once the father’s estate was probated, she was going to give them twenty-five thousand dollars apiece.”

  There was a pause as Fraterno riffled through her file, letting the cop’s statement sink in. Kenneth Tucker now favored Midge with an openly hostile glare of his own.

  “Detective Green,” Fraterno finally said, “did you subsequently place Chris Leonard and Troy Burdette under arrest?”

  “We did.”

  “And question them?”

  “After we gave them Miranda warnings. Yes, ma’am.” Green’s eyes were wide with honesty. Us Dallas Po-lice would never do nothin’ to violate anybody’s constitutional rights, no sirree.

  “And were the boys cooperative?” Another improper question: the two young killers’ attitudes were a matter of the detective’s opinion. Sharon thought it over, then decided not to object. Black apparently made the same choice and sat still as a stone. The quicker this hearing was over, the better for the defense lawyers and for Midge Rathermore.

  “Not until after they made their deal.”

  “Deal?” Fraterno feigned surprise. Come on, Sharon thought, that one’s not even going to fake Kenneth Tucker out.

  “In conjunction with their lawyers and approved by the Dallas County district attorney. They had plea-bargain agreements worked out in exchange for their cooperation.”

  “I see. And once these arrangements were made, what did they tell you?”

  “Basically, they supported what Miss Schlee had already said. That Midge Rathermore arranged for the murder and was to pay them once she’d gotten her inheritance.”

  Sharon quickly scribbled two sentences on her legal pad. As a minor, Midge wouldn’t be entitled to inherit anything immediately. The funds would go in trust until she was eighteen. Of course, neither Midge nor the two hired killers would have to have known that. But any port in a storm, Sharon thought, any tidbit which might shoot tiny holes in Stan Green’s testimony.

  “And so,” Fraterno said, “did you then arrest Midge Rathermore?”

  “Yes. A couple of days later, at the school.”

  “And did you question Midge?”

  “No, ma’am. That wouldn’t be proper as long as we’re dealing with her as a minor.”

  Sharon nearly laughed out loud. The Dallas cops never arrested anyone without grilling the bejesus out of the suspect, always making sure to have plenty of witnesses ready for denial purposes if the defense raised a stink at trial. She pictured Green, flanked by Fraterno and Milt Breyer, firing questions at Midge while the obese girl blew spit bubbles and asked for chocolate.

  There was silence, punctuated by the flipping of pages while Fraterno examined her file. She let the pages fall from her fingers and closed her jacket folder with a final soft thump. “No further questions,” she said.

  Green sat calmly on the stand, his chin resting on a clenched fist. Kenneth Tucker nodded to the witness, then looked toward the defense table. “Does the defense wish to cross-examine?”

  Cross at this time wouldn’t be worth the effort required to ask the questions, Sharon knew. Stan Green was a trained witness and a wonder at dodging issues. As second banana on the defense team, Sharon kept her seat and waited for Russell Black to waive.

  Black climbed slowly to his feet. “Just a couple of things, Judge.”

  Sharon blinked.

  “You know me, Detective Green,” Black said, smiling at the cop, “so I won’t introduce myself. These witnesses you got, the two boys and the girlfriend. You take statements from these people?” The court reporter, a thin Hispanic woman in her forties, stopped with her fingers poised over the keyboard. Sharon decided that the court reporter didn’t know whether to put Black’s dialogue down verbatim, or perhaps to edit the words into proper King’s English. The shorthand machine resumed its muted clatter.

  “Yes, we did,” Green said.

  “Notarized and signed statements?” Black said.

  “Yes.”

  “And will the Dallas Police Department permit the defense, bein’ me and Miss Hays there”—pointing at Sharon as Green averted his gaze from her—“to examine and copy them?”

  Green frowned and cleared his throat. “I couldn’t answer that, not until I talked it over. It wouldn’t be my decision.”

  Fraterno—whose decision the revealing of the statements would be, with a little coaching from Milt Breyer—stood and objected, just seconds late. Green had already let the cat out of the bag.

  “I’m withdrawin’ the question,” Black said, grinning. “But you did say that the statements exist, and that you have ’em?”

  Green hesitated, obviously flustered. Finally he said, “Yes.”

  “Thanks, Detective,” Black said. “Pass the witness.”

  Sharon’s lips curved into a smile of admiration. After they’d certified Midge and indicted her, any witness statements would be automatically available to the defense under discovery. Until their client was actually charged, though, Black and Sharon weren’t entitled to see diddly squat. But Black, playing the bull in a china closet role, now had it on record that the statements existed. The state had a big advantage in this hearing in that their witnesses didn’t have to appear in person. So, when the witnesses finally testified at trial, they weren’t restricted to Green’s memory and could say what they damn well pleased. Now, however, if the trial testimony differed in any way from what Green supposedly recalled the witnesses to say, since the detective had admitted to having the signed statements, the defense could dig the detective’s testimony at this hearing up for attack on appeal. Jolly good show, old boss, Sharon thought.

  Kenneth Tucker scratched his round bald head. “Redirect?”

  Stan Green hunched forward, hands on knees, ready to stand and leave the witness box.

  “Just one more thing,” Fraterno said.

  Green relaxed, sat back and folded his arms.

  “Detective Green, when you went to the Hockaday School to arrest Midge Rathermore, did you have occasion to interview the headmistress at the school?”

  Green half smiled. “Why, yes. That would be Miss Etta Taylor. Miss Rathermore was in class, and I had to take the headmistress along while I made the arrest.”

  “Uh-huh. And during your discussion with Miss Taylor, did she tell you that it had been she who delivered the news of Mr. William Rathermore’s death to his daughter Midge?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she did.”

  “And according to the headmistress, what was Midge Rathermore’s reaction upon learning that her father had been murdered?” Fraterno folded her hands and waited.

  Stan Green looked steadily at Midge. She picked just that moment to grin at the cop. My God, child, Sharon thought.

  “The headmistress told me,” Green said, “that Miss Rathermore laughed and clapped her hands.”

  “Her IQ registered exceptionally high, and her emotional responses were normal.” Gregory Mathewson, stomach hangi
ng out over his lap like the girth on Baal. Mathewson was the Grand Poohbah of all psychologists employed by the county on a regular basis, his testimony damaging to the defense in direct proportion to the size of his expert-witness fee.

  “And in any of these tests,” Fraterno said, sitting back, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, “did Miss Rathermore exhibit less than the maturity one would expect to find in the normal sixteen-year-old?”

  “Absolutely not.” Mathewson wore dark-framed, I’m-brilliant glasses. He had bulging cheeks and sparse snow white hair, the hair disheveled just so, the studious man too involved in his work to bother with combs and brushes. “In fact, I’d say Miss Rathermore is quite mature for her age.” He beamed at Midge, who was now drawing doggies and puppies on a sheet of legal paper which she’d torn from Sharon’s pad.

  “Doctor,” Fraterno said, “in your opinion, would Midge Rathermore understand that it was wrong to murder someone, or to have someone else murder someone?”

  “No doubt about it. The subject has a complete understanding of right and wrong.”

  Fraterno paused, flipping pages in her file for emphasis. Finally she said, “No further questions.”

  As Tucker offered the defense a chance to cross-examine, Black glanced at Sharon and shrugged. Technically, as the new lawyers in the case, the defense was entitled to suspend the hearing until they could hire their own shrink to examine Midge, but what was the use? Tucker would merely decide that Mathewson’s hired testimony was more credible than the defense’s hired testimony and recommend certification anyhow. There would be plenty of time to have a different doctor examine Midge between her certification as an adult and the trial itself; not only that, what the defense psychologist was going to say would remain a mystery to the prosecution. Still, however, Sharon couldn’t resist the opportunity to take a few shots. She sat up straighter in her chair. “I have a couple of things, Your Honor.” Russ Black drew a breath of surprise.

  Mathewson folded his hands over his enormous stomach and waited. The toughest lawyers in the state had fired volleys at the psychologist in the past, and barbs rolled off Mathewson like water off a duck’s back.