William Bankier: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 110, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 673 & 674, September/October 1997

“Yes, but I had my glasses on when I drove up to the house,” Cabot blurted victoriously — far too pleased with himself.

“Well, sir, if that’s the case, then why did an officer bring them to you in the house later that evening?”

“What?”

It was in the police report.

“I don’t... Wait, I remember. I took them off to dial the cell phone in the car — to call the police. They’re distance glasses. I must’ve forgotten to put them back on.”

“I see. You must’ve forgotten. I see.”

Cabot was now as disoriented as a hooked pike. It was time for Lescroix to cut out his heart. He walked ten feet in front of the witness stand, stopped, and turned toward Cabot, who was trying to steady his hands as he took a drink. The jury seemed to be leaning forward, awaiting the crescendo.

“At what time did you leave the office on Saturday, June third?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you arrived home at about five, you claimed. It’s a ten-minute drive from your office. So you must have left about four-fifty?”

“I... I think I had some errands to run.”

“What errands? Where?”

“I don’t recall. How do you expect me to recall?”

“But you’d think it’d be easy to remember at least one or two places you stopped during the course of two hours.”

“Two hours?” Cabot gasped.

“You left the office at three P.M.”

The witness stared at his inquisitor.

“According to the video security tape in your building’s lobby.” Lescroix indulged himself with a glance at the prosecutor’s sweating face and enjoyed the sight of a man going down for the third time.

“I... well, maybe I did.”

Lescroix opened the private eye’s report and found photocopies of Cabot’s banking statements and canceled checks.

“Who,” the lawyer asked pointedly, “is Mary Henstroth?”

Cabot’s mouth hung wide. “How did you know...”

Facts, facts, facts, Lescroix might have explained. “Who is she?”

“A friend. She—”

“A friend. I see. How long have you known her?”

The harrowed man’s eyes swiveled back and forth. “I don’t know. A few years.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Gilroy.”

“Gilroy’s a fifteen-minute drive from Hamilton, is that right?”

“It depends,” he began defiantly then gave in. “Yes.”

“Now, on June third of this year, did you write a check to Ms. Henstroth in the amount of five hundred dollars?”

Cabot closed his eyes. He nodded.

“Answer for the court reporter, please.”

“Yes.”

“And did you deliver this check in person?”

“I don’t remember,” he said weakly.

“After you left work, you didn’t drive to Gilroy and, during the course of your... visit, give Ms. Henstroth a check for five hundred dollars?”

“I might have.”

“Louder, please, sir.”

“I might have.”

“Have you written her other checks over the past several years?”

“I... yes. But—”

“Just answer the questions, Mr. Cabot. Did you give these other checks to Ms. Henstroth in person?”

“Some of them. Most of them.”

“So it’s reasonable to assume that the check you wrote on June third was delivered in person too.”

“I said I might have,” he muttered.

“These checks that you wrote to your ‘friend’ over the past few years were on your company account, not your joint home account, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So is it safe to assume that your wife would not be receiving the statement from the bank showing that you’d written these checks? Is that correct too?”

“Yes.” The witness’s head went into his hands. The prosecutor threw his pencil down on the table in disgust. He whispered something to his sheepish assistant, who nodded even more sheepishly.

“What was this money for?”

“I... I don’t remember.”

“You gave money to somebody and you don’t remember why?”

“Mary needed it. That’s all I know. I didn’t ask specifically.”

“I see. Did you tell your wife you were going to see Ms. Henstroth that afternoon?”

“I... no, I didn’t.”

“I don’t suppose you would,” Lescroix muttered, eyes on the rapt jury; they loved his new theme.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor began feebly.

“Withdrawn,” Lescroix said. He lifted a wrinkled piece of paper from the file; it contained several handwritten paragraphs and looked like a letter, though it was in fact an early draft of a speech Lescroix had given to the American Association of Trial Lawyers last year. He read the first paragraph slowly, shaking his head. Even the prosecutors seemed to be straining forward, waiting. Then he replaced the letter and looked up. “Isn’t your relationship with Ms. Henstroth romantic in nature, sir?” he asked bluntly.

Cabot tried to look indignant. He sputtered, “I resent—”

“Oh, please, Mr. Cabot. You have the gall to accuse an innocent man of murder and you resent that I ask you a few questions about your mistress?”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn, your honor.”

Lescroix shook his head and glanced at the jury, asking, What kind of monster are we dealing with here? Lescroix paced as he flipped to the last page of the file. He read for a moment, shook his head, then threw the papers onto the defense table with a huge slap. He whirled to Cabot and shouted, “Isn’t it true you’ve been having an affair with Mary Henstroth for the past several years?”

“No!”

“Isn’t it true that you were afraid if you divorced your wife you’d lose control of the company she and her father owned fifty-one percent of?”

“That’s a lie!” Cabot shouted.

“Isn’t it true that on June third of this year you left work early, stopped by Mary Henstroth’s house in Gilroy, had sex with her, then proceeded to your house where you lay in wait for your wife with a hammer in your hand? That hammer there, People’s Exhibit A?”

“No, no, no!” The schoolboy raged like a nabbed shoplifter.

“And then you beat her to death. You returned to your car and waited until Jerry Pilsett showed up, just like you’d asked him to do, and then called the police to report him — an innocent man — as the murderer?”

“No, it’s not true!”

“Objection!”

“Isn’t it true?” Lescroix cried, “that you killed Patricia, your loving wife, in cold blood?”

“No!”

“Sustained! Mr. Lescroix, enough of this. I won’t have these theatrics in my courtroom.”

But the lawyer would not be deflected by a mule-county judge. His energy was unstoppable and his outraged voice soared to the far reaches of the courtroom, reciting, “Isn’t it true, isn’t it true, isn’t it true?”

While the audience in the jury box sat forward as if they wanted to leap from their chairs and give the conductor a standing ovation, and Charles Cabot’s horrified eyes, dots of metal no more, scanned the courtroom in panic. He was speechless, his voice choked off. As if his dead wife had materialized behind him and closed her arms around his quivering throat to squeeze out what little life remained in his guilty heart.

Three hours to acquit on all charges.

Not a record but good enough, Lescroix reflected as he sat in his hotel room that evening. He was angry he’d missed the last of the two daily flights out of Hamilton but he had some aged whisky in a glass at his side, music on his portable CD player, and his feet were resting on the windowsill, revealing Italian socks as sheer as a woman’s black stockings. He was passing the time replaying his victory and trying to decide if he should spend some of his fee on getting those jowl tucks done.