Grif Stockley - Religious Conviction

At ten the phone rings again, and I fear it is Jessie backing out. Instead, when I answer. Pearl Norman’s boozy voice says, “Mr. Page, neither my daughter nor my husband killed my son-in-law…. I’d like to talk to you.”

Where is she calling from? I wonder. Surely Shane wouldn’t be putting her up to this. I hear the sound of water running and realize she could have a portable phone in her bathroom.

“I can’t talk to you, Mrs. Norman,” I say.

“As a witness in the case you’ve been instructed not to discuss it with anyone. Don’t you remember the judge telling you that this morning?” I re mind her. Grider will have me disbarred if he thinks I have tried to influence a witness.

She mutters something incomprehensible and hangs up, and I kick myself for never having tried to follow up with her. Does she have some information, or was this the drunken call of a pathetic alcoholic who is sure to lose something tomorrow? Either her daughter is going to jail or her husband’s reputation will be irrevocably harmed, or’ both. It occurs to me that I never checked out her alibi, but the truth is that I haven’t ever been able to make myself take her seriously. What did Leigh say? She has been out of the loop ever since she was born. Still, tomorrow when she testifies, she may say more than she intends to, and that may be what this phone call was all about.

Sarah’s light is off when I lock up the house at mid night. I hope she will be there when I get up the next morning. In bed, I have trouble getting to sleep. My daughter is right. I use people. I used Jessie and even Dan tonight. Maybe when this case is over I need to think about the direction my life is taking. Yet, with a little luck, I can win this case tomorrow. I know I can.

Jill begins her case with the two octogenarians Leigh originally claimed she spoke with at the church between nine and eleven-thirty and follows with Nancy Lyons, who also contradicts the story Leigh gave to the police.

All we can do right now is pretend we are not being hurt by her lies. During the middle of their testimony I send Dan across the street to the Excelsior with his briefcase to pick up what I hope are some pictures of the inside of Tyndall’s house. Ten minutes later he comes back and nods, and it is all I can do to resist tearing into the envelope he lays beside me on the defense table. For the last hour I have imagined I could hear sirens, but my strange friend Jessie St. Vrain must have carried out her crime undetected. Hurray for the West Coast, I think, as Dan whispers, “She got a few halfway decent shots of some equipment and the interior of his house.”

Watching the jury as Jill zips through her witnesses, I think about Tyndall’s possible answers. If he doesn’t authenticate the pictures, they will be useless. Leigh, beside me in a beige suit that sets off her magnificent black hair, has a quizzical expression on her face, but I shrug as if Dan merely went out to get some routine documents. Since Chet’s death, I have not been able to read her. If she has been participating in some kind of cover-up involving her father, Chet’s suicide is not a part of it. If anything, she is more perplexed than I am by his decision to end his life. Understandably, she is so nervous today she can’t keep still and stirs impatiently at almost every question.

“Try to remain motionless,” I remind her.

“If you move around too much, some of the jurors will take it as a sign of guilt.”

She nods solemnly and clasps her hands in her lap.

Her testimony will be the key, but all she can do now is wait.

Jill puts on the cops who took Leigh’s statement, follows with the pathologist who fixes the time of death at between ten and eleven-thirty, and then calls Mrs. Sims, who found Art’s body. As I listen to this poor old lady babble about the crime scene and how she burst into tears, I find it unlikely that Leigh would have picked a weepy, frail old woman in her seventies to discover Art’s body. Yet, that unlikelihood could have been part of a desperate attempt to cover up his murder. I waive my chance to cross-examine the witness lest I reinforce the impression she is making. Between sobs, she has volunteered that Leigh, like herself, became hysterical.

Beside me, Leigh tears up, possibly from guilt at what she put the old lady through. I don’t discourage her, and during this emotional moment, I take a peek at the pictures. They could help, but everything depends upon Tyndall’s answers. As I quickly flip through them, I see that Jessie has done about as well with the Polaroid as I could have hoped for. Though the quality isn’t terrific, she has managed to get various pieces of equipment, including a tiny microphone similar to the one she wears, next to a photograph of Tyndall and a young woman, who may well be Mary Patricia.

Ann and Bobby Wheeler prove to be more nervous witnesses than I would have expected, given their wealth and sophistication. Holding herself stiffly erect in a spruce-green cotton knit dress which is overlaid with expensive jewelry, Ann, so warm and sympathetic before when I interviewed her, answers in a tense, clipped voice. She is more forthcoming than her husband and establishes that there was, indeed, an argument between Leigh and Art the night before he died.

“Did you check out their alibis?” Dan asks, during Jill’s examination of Bobby.

“Hell, no,” I mutter. Moments before, Bobby Wheeler barely acknowledged that there had been a little unpleasantness in the neighborhood that day. Still, Dan is right. We should at least have made a phone call or two. Ann, her gold bracelet clanking against the arm of the witness chair, tells Jill she was playing tennis at the “club” all morning. If I had been able to establish that they, too, had actually been at home at the time of Art’s death, Leigh’s odds might have improved. But as fastidious and career-driven as Bobby appears to be, I can’t form a mental picture of him taking off a morning to murder anyone or even to screw his wife. These people are simply embarrassed to be here.

Hector Tyndall strides briskly to the witness stand as if he is anxious to begin a marathon. Jaunty in gray slacks and a blue blazer complete with red handkerchief, he doesn’t act as if his goddaughter’s sister has been charged with murder. But then, in my presence, he never has. The day I interviewed him, he didn’t volunteer a word about his closeness to Shane and his family.

Why not? But, if he had murdered Art, wouldn’t he have pretended remorse or at least concern?

After Jill briskly takes him through his story about seeing Leigh on her way home the morning of her husband’s murder, I begin by asking him why he didn’t tell me the day I interviewed him that he was a godfather to Leigh’s sister.

“My goodness!” he exclaims, his voice strong and clear of an old man’s foggy rasp.

“You claimed to be Leigh’s lawyer. I figured you knew that already.”

Behind the railing that separates the trial participants from the spectators, laughter rolls toward me like a faint peal of thunder. What kind of fool does Leigh have for a lawyer? Yet Tyndall’s attitude doesn’t wash. That day he seemed too removed, too self-centered. Granted, it was months after the incident had occurred. But a family friend would have showed more emotion. However, people are weird, especially this guy. He may be no more capable of showing his feelings in front of another person than a robot.

“Mr. Tyndall, you’re a member of Christian Life?”

Tyndall smiles benignly.

“I told you that day that they even let old men go.”

Behind me I hear more titters. The spectators love the guy. From the grin on his face, Tyndall loves it, too. He is getting to go one on one and winning as usual.