Stuart Woods - Dead In The Water

"In court, yes; but not now. I'm deliberately throwing curves at you, because I want you to be ready for anything. Don't worry about structure right now, or even if I'm Sir Winston or me; just answer each question truthfully."

"All right, all right," she said irritably.

"If you think this is hard, wait until the trial starts. I'll tell you again, rely on the truth, because it really can set you free. If you start striking poses the jury will know it immediately. Try to think of these people as your friends, friends you wouldn't lie to, friends on whom you're, depending to do right by you, friends you trust."

"Who are these people likely to be?"

"They could be this island's aristocrats, or they could be cab-drivers and shopkeepers; we won't know until they're there, facing you. Don't look at me or Sir Winston all the time when you're being questioned; look at the jury, not as a group, but as individuals. Share your answers with them, one at a time; suck them into your story, each man of them."

She nodded. "All right."

"Mrs.Manning, what is the net worth of your husband's estate?"

"I believe it will be around fifteen million dollars, but I won't know for sure until all the debts are paid."

"Good! Mrs.Manning, why would your husband have twelve million dollars in life insurance?"

"Paul had never saved much money, although he earned a lot from the sale of his books. He knew he was a candidate for a heart attack, because his doctor had told him so, and he wanted me to be secure if he should die suddenly. Buying so much insurance was sort of a way of saving, of forcing himself to save, so there would be support for me if he died."

"Good! Answer that way-fully and completely always."

"Of course," Allison replied with assurance.

"Mrs.Manning, have you ever fired a scuba diver's spear gun?"

She reacted as if struck. "Ah, I…no."

"That's a lie. If I can spot it, so can the jury. Answer the question."

She took a deep breath and exhaled it. "Yes, of course. Paul and I went diving whenever we were near a good reef."

"Have you ever struck anything with a harpoon fired from a gun?"

She smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid not. Paul was a good shot, but I would always miss."

"Good, get a laugh out of them. How far were you standing from Paul when you fired the spear gun at him?"

Her face collapsed into disbelief. "What?"

"Where did the spear strike him?"

"Are you crazy?"

"In the chest? In the neck? Did he fall overboard immediately, or did you have to help him?"

"Stone, goddammit!"

"Did he bleed a lot? Did sharks come when they smelled the blood?"

"Stop this!"

"Answer the questions!!!"

"I never fired a spear gun at my husband, never!" she cried, furious now. "I would never have done anything to harm him!"

"Now that's better," Stone said. "That's a good time to get angry, when he does that to you." "You said not to get angry."

"I misled you."

"You son of a bitch."

"No, I'm the sweetest guy in the world; Sir Winston Sutherland is the son of a bitch, and he'll do anything he possibly can to get you to come apart on the stand. He already knows about the spear gun."

"How do you know that?"

"Because the police searched the yacht, remember? You think they wouldn't notice a lethal weapon hanging on a bulkhead in plain sight?"

"Oh," she said.

"What about the other weapons?"

"What other weapons?"

"What did they take from the, boat A pistol? A shotgun?"

"We didn't have any weapons on board; Paul was very antigun."

"What about the spear gun? That was a weapon."

"It was a tool; it was used for fishing," she said calmly.

"What didn't they find? A nine-millimeter automatic? A riot gun? What?"

"There were no weapons aboard!" she cried.

"How many knives were aboard the yacht?"

"I don't know how many…"

"Think! Count them in your head!"

She thought for a moment. "Maybe eight or ten, maybe a dozen."

"Enumerate them."

"Let's see, in the galley, there was a chef's knife, a bread knife, a boning knife, and two paring knives."

"How long was the chef's knife?"

"About eight inches. I could never handle the big ones."

"Is that what you used on your husband? An eight-inch chef's knife? That would do the job."

"I never harmed my husband," she said quietly.

"What other knives were aboard?"

"There were a couple of rigging knives; we kept one by the main hatch and one strapped to the mast, for deck work. Paul wore another one in a scabbard, along with a marlin spike."

"Did you take the knife from his belt and stab him with it?"

"No! I never harmed him."

"So you just gave him a shove when he was pissing overboard, huh?"

"I did not!"

"Was he wearing the scabbard with the knife and marlin spike when you rolled his body overboard?"

"No, I removed the belt first."

"So, you did roll him overboard!"

"Yes, I did; some hours after his death."

"Did you search his pockets, Mrs.Manning, for money or spare change? Was there anything you wouldn't take from him?"

She locked her eyes onto Stone's, and when she spoke she was begging him to believe her. "Please, I never, ever harmed Paul. He was dead when I buried his body at sea." Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Stone went and took her in his arms. "All right," he said. "That's my girl; that's my star witness; that's my innocent victim of perverted justice."

She looked up at him and laughed. "Gotcha, didn't I?"

Stone buried his face in his hands.

Stone strode across the lawn toward the Shipwright's Arms, thinking hard about Arrington. He thought of writing to her, maybe even calling her; then he remembered that she was at Vance Calder's Palm Springs house. He didn't have any of Calder's addresses or numbers, so there was no way to get in touch with her until she got in touch with him.

He was almost to the bar when he stopped in his tracks. A man in a seersucker suit was sitting at the bar, drinking something and talking to Thomas. He was big, over six feet, and better than two hundred fifty pounds; that was obvious even when he was seated. Stone had seen only one photograph of Paul Manning, but the man seemed to look very like him, except for the absence of a beard, and he had no idea what Manning would look like without the beard. Stone suddenly had the strange feeling that the whole business was some sort of dreadful error, that Paul Manning had simply fallen overboard near the Canaries and had swum ashore, and now he had shown up in St.Marks to save Allison's life. He approached the bar with some trepidation and sat down. "Thomas, could I have a beer?"

Thomas set a Heineken on the bar, and the big man turned and looked at him. "You must be Stone Barrington," he said.

"That's right," Stone replied.

The man stuck out a hand. "I'm Frank Stendahl."

Stone shook the hand. "How do you do?"

"Very well, thanks. Been seeing a lot about you on television the past week."

"I expect so. Where have you come from, Mr.Stendahl?"

"I'm a New Englander," he said. "The Boston area."

"And what brings you to St.Marks?"

"Vacation," the man said. "I seem to be about the only tourist around here."

"Well, first there was the blizzard in the Northeast, then we were pretty choked up with press, and then, I guess, the bad press made St.Marks an unpopular destination."

"Funny, the publicity somehow made it more attractive to me. I understand you've got a trial starting soon."

"That's right."

"I wonder if I could attend? Could you arrange it for me?"

"I'm afraid not; I'm out of my own bailiwick here, you see."

Thomas chimed in. "It's open to the public," he said. "I expect if you were there an hour before the trial you'd get a seat."