Kane and Abel/Sons of Fortune Read online

  “No, no,” said Rebecca, “from the way Nat was shouting at Ralph I was certain he’d fired the first shot.”

  “Then I will ask you again, why not call the police immediately?” Fletcher repeated, turning back to face her. “Why wait three or four minutes until you heard the second shot?”

  “It all happened so quickly, I just didn’t have time.”

  “What is your favorite work of fiction, Mrs. Elliot?” asked Fletcher quietly.

  “Objection, your honor. How can this possibly be relevant?”

  “Overruled. I have a feeling we’re about to find out, Mr. Ebden.”

  “You are indeed, your honor,” said Fletcher, his eyes never leaving the witness. “Mrs. Elliot, let me assure you that this is not a trick question, I simply want you to tell the court your favorite work of fiction.”

  “I’m not sure I have a particular one,” she replied, “but my favorite author is Hemingway.”

  “Mine too,” said Fletcher, taking the stopwatch out of his pocket. Turning to face the judge, he asked, “Your honor, may I have your permission to briefly leave the courtroom?”

  “For what purpose, Mr. Davenport?”

  “To prove that my client did not fire the first shot.”

  The judge nodded. “Briefly, Mr. Davenport.”

  Fletcher then pressed the starter button, placed the stopwatch in his pocket, walked down the aisle through the packed courtroom, and out of the door. “Your honor,” said Ebden, jumping up from his place, “I must object. Mr. Davenport is turning this trial into a circus.”

  “If that turns out to be the case, Mr. Ebden, I shall severely censure Mr. Davenport the moment he returns.”

  “But, your honor, is this kind of behavior fair to my client?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Ebden. As Mr. Davenport reminded the court, his client faces the death penalty solely on the evidence of your principal witness.”

  The chief prosecutor sat back down, and began to consult his team, while chattering broke out on the public benches behind him. The judge started tapping his fingers, occasionally glancing at the clock on the wall above the public entrance.

  Richard Ebden rose again, at which point the judge called for order. “You honor, I move that Mrs. Elliot be released from further questioning on the grounds that the defense counsel is no longer able to carry out his cross-examination as he has left the courtroom without explanation.”

  “I shall approve your request, Mr. Ebden,” the state’s attorney looked delighted, “should Mr. Davenport fail to return in under four minutes.” He smiled down at Mr. Ebden, assuming they had both worked out the significance of his judgment.

  “Your honor, I must …” continued the state’s attorney, but he was interrupted by the court doors being flung open and Fletcher marching back down the aisle and up to the witness stand. He handed a copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls to Mrs. Elliot, before turning to the judge.

  “Your honor, would the court judicially note the length of time I was absent?” he said, handing over the stopwatch to the judge.

  Judge Kravats pressed the stopper and, looking down at the stopwatch, said, “Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.”

  Fletcher turned his attention back to the defense witness. “Mrs. Elliot, I had enough time to leave the courthouse, walk to the public library on the other side of the street, locate the Hemingway shelf, check out a book with my library card, and still be back in the courtroom with eleven seconds to spare. But you didn’t have enough time to walk across your bedroom, dial 911 and ask for assistance when you believed your husband might have been in mortal danger. And the reason you didn’t is because you knew your husband had fired the first shot, and you were fearful of what he might have done.”

  “But even if I did think that,” said Rebecca, losing her composure, “it’s only the second bullet that matters, the one that killed Ralph. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that the first bullet ended up in the ceiling, or are you now suggesting that my husband killed himself?”

  “No, I am not,” said Fletcher, “so why don’t you now tell the court exactly what you did when you heard the second shot.”

  “I went to the top of the stairs and saw Mr. Cartwright running out of the house.”

  “But he didn’t see you?”

  “No, he only glanced back in my direction.”

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Elliot. I think you saw him very clearly when he calmly walked past you in the corridor.”

  “He couldn’t have walked past me in the corridor because I was at the top of the stairs.”

  “I agree that he couldn’t have seen you if you had been at the top of the stairs,” said Fletcher as he returned to the table and selected a photograph, before walking back across to the witness stand. He passed the photograph over to her. “As you will see from this picture, Mrs. Elliot, anyone who left your husband’s study, walked into the corridor and then out of the front door could not have been observed from the top of the stairs.” He paused so that the jury could take in the significance of his statement, before continuing, “No, the truth is, Mrs. Elliot, that you were not standing at the top of the stairs, but in the hallway when Mr. Cartwright came out of your husband’s study, and if you would like me to ask the judge to adjourn so that the jury can visit your home and check on the veracity of your statement, I would be quite happy to do so.”

  “Well, I might have been halfway down the stairs.”

  “You weren’t even on the stairs, Mrs. Elliot, you were in the hallway, and you were not, as you also claimed, in your robe, but in a blue dress that you had worn to a cocktail party earlier that evening, which is why you didn’t see the television debate!”

  “I was in a robe and there’s a picture of me to prove it.”

  “Indeed there is,” said Fletcher, once again returning to the table and extracting another photograph, “which I am happy to enter as evidence—item 122, your honor.”

  The judge, prosecution team and the jury began to rummage through their files as Fletcher handed over his copy to Mrs. Elliot.

  “There you are,” she said, “it’s just as I told you, I’m sitting in the hallway in my robe.”

  “You are indeed, Mrs. Elliot, and that photograph was taken by the police photographer, and we’ve since had it enlarged so we can consider all the details more clearly. Your honor, I would like to submit this enlarged photograph as evidence.”

  “Objection, your honor,” said Ebden, leaping up from his place. “We have not been given an opportunity to study this photograph.”

  “It’s state’s evidence, Mr. Ebden, and has been in your possession for weeks,” the judge reminded him. “Your objection is overruled.”

  “Please study the photograph carefully,” said Fletcher as he walked away from Mrs. Elliot and passed the state’s attorney a copy of the enlarged photo. A clerk handed one to each member of the jury. Fletcher then turned back to face Rebecca. “And do tell the court what you see.”

  “It’s a photograph of me sitting in the hallway in my robe.”

  “It is indeed, but what are you wearing on your left wrist and around your neck?” Fletcher asked, before turning to face the jury, all of whom were now studying the photograph intently.

  The blood drained from Rebecca’s face.

  “I do believe they’re your wristwatch and your pearl necklace,” said Fletcher answering his own question. “Do you remember?” He paused. “The ones you always locked away in your safe just before going to bed because there had been several burglaries in the area recently?” Fletcher turned to face Chief Culver and Detective Petrowski, who were seated in the front row. “It is, as Detective Petrowski reminded us, the little mistakes that always reveal the amateur.” Fletcher turned back and looked directly at Rebecca, before adding, “You may have forgotten to take off your watch and necklace, Mrs. Elliot, but I can tell you something you didn’t forget to take off, your dress.” Fletcher placed his hands on the jury box rail before saying slowly and withou