Parnell Hall - The Anonymous Client

Marilyn glared at him. “Damn it, what’s his story?”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Well, first of all, you have to remind yourself none of this is getting out. I’ve said it before, but it’s worth saying again, because I don’t want to have to scrape you off the ceiling. None of this is getting out. This is just what the young man has admitted to me, his lawyer, in a confidential communication. All right?”

“Yes, yes,” Marilyn said, impatiently. “What is it?”

“Well, he admits the affair. Blames no one, has no regrets. You two were victims of fate, etc., etc. Says Bradshaw made a blackmail approach to you, you paid him off, he found out, was horrified, and bought the bills back for twelve grand. Only Bradshaw switched bills on him, which is why the bills found on the body turned out to be yours.” Winslow shrugged. “No big deal. You knew all that. The cops don’t, but they can make a lot of inferences. Fortunately, inferences don’t stand up in court.

“Now, here’s the bad part. Day of the murder. You called Kemper at work, hysterical, ’cause Bradshaw made another blackmail demand. He’s to meet you at the coffee shop at four o’clock. He doesn’t show. You leave without him.

“Now, what he claims, and I stress the word claims, is he got to the coffee shop just after five and missed you, so he beat it down to Bradshaw’s, double parked, ran in, and found Bradshaw dead on the floor.”

Marilyn looked at him. She was a poker player, betraying nothing. “That’s it?”

“No, it’s worse. He came out the front door, got in his car, started to pull out, and just as he was turning the corner he saw you come down the street and enter the building. He beat it around the block to catch up with you, but got caught in traffic and got back just in time to see you leave the building, hop in a car and pull out. At which point he would have stopped you, had he not noticed you were being followed by detectives.”

Marilyn said nothing. She sat looking at him. Her face was white.

“You see why I can’t let him tell that story,” Steve said. “In the first place, no one on God’s green earth is going to believe it. It’s a lie, and a clumsy lie at that. He’s trying to protect you by proving that when you got to Bradshaw’s apartment, Bradshaw was already dead. Nice try, but it won’t work. It may be inadmissible in court, but the fact is, in the eyes of the jury, you and Douglas Kemper were lovers. That means any alibi he tries to give you isn’t worth a damn. He claims he got to Bradshaw’s first. Out of twelve jurors, we’d be damn lucky if half of them believed that. Of the few that did, none of them are going to believe that Bradshaw was already dead. Not with the next door neighbor testifying to an altercation. One doesn’t have an altercation with a dead man. Anyone who believes Kemper got there first is gonna believe he had a fight with Bradshaw and killed him. Which doesn’t help you in the least. Because of the theory that you and Douglas Kemper were lovers, you’re a coconspirator, which makes you equally guilty.”

Marilyn bit her lip.

“That’s the story, and I’m not going to let him tell it, and I guess you can see why.”

Marilyn said nothing.

“Now,” Steve said, “no one’s gonna let you tell your story either, Fitzpatrick or I, but we need to hear it.”

She still said nothing.

“Look,” Steve said. “There’s no reason for you not to talk now. The cat’s out of the bag. At least as far as we’re concerned. You can’t hurt Douglas, and you can’t hurt yourself. There’s no reason to sit on your hands. There are some things we gotta know. I happen to know Douglas Kemper’s story is bullshit. Now let’s talk about what really happened. You got there first, didn’t you?”

Marilyn set her jaw.

“Didn’t you?” Steve persisted.

“I’m not going to talk about it,” Marilyn said.

“All right, then I will,” Steve said. “If you got there first, there are only two possibilities: Bradshaw was already dead, or you killed him. I know that for a fact. How do I know that for a fact? I know that because Douglas Kemper arrived right after you, not before you like he said, but after. And he went in there and he found Bradshaw dead. And that’s why he’s in such a panic, and that’s why he’s telling this bullshit story. It’s a story no second grader would believe, but he has to say something, and you’ll forgive me but he’s not that bright.

“No, the way I see it, you got there first and Bradshaw was already dead. And the ironic thing is you. You buy Kemper’s story. You’re probably the only person in the world who’d buy it, but you do. The reason is, you got there and found Bradshaw dead, and you immediately figured Kemper killed him. That’s what you thought, and that’s what you still think, and that’s why you’re refusing to talk. You buy Kemper’s story that he got there first. You don’t buy the part that he found him dead. If you did there’d be no reason for you not to talk. You figure Kemper got there first and killed him. You’re taking the rap to protect him, just like he’s taking the rap to protect you. Very noble, very romantic, and very stupid. Kemper didn’t get there first. Unless you killed Bradshaw, there’s no reason for you to keep quiet.”

Marilyn still said nothing.

Steve sighed. Yeah. He’d really got her to open up, hadn’t he? “All right,” he said. “Here’s the situation. I’m joining the defense team. The only way for me to get Kemper out is to get the two of you out. So I’m hoppin’ on board. Fitzpatrick isn’t too happy about it, but he realizes he has little choice.

“You don’t have much choice either, but it’s still your decision. You have any objections to me working on your behalf?”

Marilyn looked at him a few moments. “No,” she said.

Steve nodded and stood up. “Fine,” he said. “See you in court.”

Judge Graves was attempting to maintain his air of judicial impartiality. Even so, he couldn’t help betraying his skepticism as he peered down from his bench at the defense table.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he said. “Would you mind repeating that again?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Fitzpatrick said. “I merely wanted to inform the court that Miss Harding has secured additional representation. Mr. Winslow here has joined the defense as associate counsel.”

Judge Graves frowned. He looked again at the defense table, where Steve Winslow, in a white shirt, blue tie, corduroy jacket and jeans, made such an incongruous picture standing next to Fitzpatrick in his three-piece suit. “That is Mr. Steve Winslow?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“The same Steve Winslow who came forward yesterday as counsel for Douglas Kemper?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“The same Steve Winslow who has been referred to in these court proceedings as the gentleman discovered by the police in the apartment of the deceased?”

“That’s right.”

Judge Graves picked up a document from his bench. “The same Steve Winslow who filed a motion with me this morning, charging Harry Dirkson with prosecutorial misconduct, to wit, violating the rights of one Douglas Kemper by calling him as a prosecution witness, and tricking him into waiving his constitutional rights by forcing him to testify against himself, when in point of fact Dirkson had every intention of proceeding against him as a codefendant?”

Dirkson was on his feet. “With regard to that, Your Honor, I-”

“Mr. Dirkson, sit down,” Judge Graves snapped. “You’ll get your chance.” Graves turned back to Fitzpatrick. “Is that right?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”