Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

“How?”

“I was stupid. When I got to the building there were no cop cars, nothing. I couldn’t understand it. I mean, this was a murder site. I thought maybe I got the address wrong. I went to a pay phone on the corner and called information, asked them if they had a David C. Bradshaw at that address. They did. I went back to the building. I went up the steps. And I tried to get in.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you do?”

“I rang the bell.”

“Good.”

“What do you mean, good.”

“Dirkson is going to try to prove you were trying to break into that apartment. If the cops have to testify you were ringing the doorbell, it weakens their case.”

“What case?” Tracy cried. “Look. Please. I can’t take it anymore. Just tell me what is going on.”

He did. He told her all of it. From finding Bradshaw’s body to his interview with Marilyn Harding to his dinner with Mark Taylor. The only thing he left out was the part about typing the note on Bradshaw’s typewriter and throwing it out the window. He wasn’t about to make her an accessory to concealing evidence.

She listened, fascinated, till he was finished. “So that’s why Mark Taylor didn’t mention the letters.”

“Yeah. He wasn’t happy about it, but he did it.”

“Why are the letters so important?”

“They’re the key to the whole thing. I’m withholding evidence from the police. So are you. We’re doing it by relying on the law of privileged communications. Well, you can’t have a privileged communication without a client. Those letters show I haven’t got a client.”

Tracy frowned. “Right. We’re right back where we started. Who the hell’s the client?”

Steve shrugged. “You got me. I was all but convinced it was Marilyn Harding. I went out there and started questioning her. She could have told me to go to hell, but she didn’t. She answered all my questions, and some of them were pretty damn impertinent. The way I saw it, the only way that made sense was if she sent me the letters.

“So I sprung the Bradshaw murder on her. That hit her hard. But she tried to pull an innocent act. Then I told her about Miltner’s detectives. I figured that would break her. I was all set for her to reach down the front of her dress and pull out the torn half of a dollar bill. Instead, she went to the phone and called her lawyer, who advised her to throw me out of the house. You could have knocked me down with a feather.”

“Is it true what you said? That as your secretary, I don’t have to testify?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s fine line. They can’t make you testify as to confidential communications. Going to Bradshaw’s apartment is something else. You are an active participant. You did something, and they can question you about it.”

“Then eventually I’ll have to talk?”

He shook his head. “No. That’s why it’s a fine line. I’ll argue that the reason you went to Bradshaw’s apartment was because of something you learned from a confidential communication from a client, and therefore asking you why you went there is the same thing as asking you to reveal that confidential communication.”

“But there’s no client.”

“Right.”

“So what’s going to happen now?”

Steve took a sip of coffee. “Now we wait.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if Dirkson drags me in front of the grand jury and tries to get me indicted as an accessory.”

“How could he do that?”

“He’s going to claim I took some evidence out of Bradshaw’s apartment and managed to ditch it somewhere in the building. He’ll claim I sent you to get it.”

Tracy’s face fell. “Shit. It’s all my fault.”

To a certain extent it was. And Steve had uncharitably been thinking that very thing. But faced with Tracy’s distress, he wasn’t about to say so. And she had clammed up on Dirkson.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “That’s what he’s going to try to do. He can’t prove it, and I think he knows it.”

“Oh.”

Steve pushed back his coffee cup. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Tracy looked at him. “Where?”

Steve looked at his watch. “I’m putting you in a cab. It’s nearly two, and I need you to open up the office tomorrow morning.” He smiled. “After all, I still have twelve days left of your services.”

Mark Taylor, showing the ill effects of a sleepless night, slouched in Steve Winslow’s clients’ chair and folded open his notebook.

“O.K., Steve, here’s the pitch. The police are still holding Marilyn Harding. She won’t talk, but her lawyer’s talking plenty. He’s filing a writ of habeas corpus, and demanding they either charge her or release her. So far they haven’t done either, but talk is they’ll charge her by this afternoon. Rumor has it the only reason Dirkson’s hanging back is he can’t decide which case he’d rather try her on first.”

“It’ll be the Bradshaw case,” Steve said.

“How do you know that?”

“Because that way he can drag in the Harding murder to prove motive. If he tried her on the Harding murder first, he’d have a devil of a time trying to tie the Bradshaw murder in with it. The minute he mentioned Bradshaw, Fitzpatrick would start screaming prejudicial misconduct, and Dirkson would find himself in a nasty predicament. Fitzpatrick might even get a mistrial out of it. But by trying her for the Bradshaw murder, Dirkson can prejudice the jury by dragging in the Harding business. And to top it off, he doesn’t even have to get a second-degree murder verdict. If he can convict her of anything at all, even manslaughter or criminally negligent homicide, he’s home free. ’Cause then he’ll turn around and try her for the murder of her father, and when he does, he can impeach her testimony by showing she’s been convicted of a felony. After that she won’t stand a chance. The jury will decide she’s a habitual killer, and they’ll return a guilty verdict without even thinking. Dirkson’s smart enough to realize that, so that’s what he’ll do.”

Taylor shrugged. “Well, either way the case sure looks black for her. The money they found on Bradshaw’s body turned out to be hers.”

“You sure?”

“Got it from the horse’s mouth.”

“Shit. That doesn’t look too good, does it?”

“You don’t know the half of it. Miltner’s men have spilled everything. I don’t know what they said, and I don’t know what time Marilyn called on Bradshaw last night, but from the way the cops are acting, you can bet it was right around 5:30.”

Steve frowned. “Did the autopsy surgeon fix the time of death?”

“Sure. Between 5:15 and 5:45.”

Steve whistled. “That’s sticking his neck out.”

“Sure is. Fitzpatrick should have a field day getting him to admit that he’s basing his testimony on non-medical factors.”

“Sure,” Steve said. “That’ll make Fitzpatrick look good, but in the long run all it will serve to do is to point up to the jury how conclusive those non-medical factors are.”

Mark shrugged. “Well, that’s your department.”

“Wrong. That’s Mr. Fitzpatrick’s department. I have nothing to do with the case.”

“I wish you’d told me that before I stayed up all night getting you this information.”

“It’s good practice for you, Mark. Keeps you on your toes. So what else? What about the murder weapon?”

“Apparently it was Bradshaw’s. It’s a large carving knife from a set of six. The other five are in a drawer in Bradshaw’s kitchen. Dirkson isn’t too happy about that.”

“Why not?”

“The way I get it, he figures it’ll be hard to prove premeditation if Marilyn killed him with his own knife.”