Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

Fiske stiffened as he sat next to me in a dark blue suit.

The assistant district attorney launched into what turned out to be a histrionic opening statement; full of sound and fury, signifying no surprises. Apparently the witness ID, the license plate, and the fingerprints were all the Commonwealth had so far. Like they needed more.

“Ms. Morrone, are you representing Judge Hamilton?” asked Justice Sarah Millan. She was petite, with small features behind owlish glasses, and her short hair was clipped into salt-and-pepper waves. I’d never been before Justice Millan, but everyone called her a bitch. I figured we’d hit it off.

“I am, Your Honor,” I said, standing up.

“Make your opening statement, but keep it short and sweet.” Justice Millan looked sideways at the press clogging the perimeter of the courtroom. “I have a busy docket and I hate houseguests.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” I made my opening, keeping the table pounding to a minimum, but using the words distinguished and innocent a lot, and even throwing in a rush to judgment or two.

Justice Millan looked at the assistant district attorney. “Okay, Mrs. Ryerson, let’s see what you got.”

Assistant D.A. Maura Ryerson was a young, slim Villanova grad with bobbed reddish hair. She wore a coral-colored lipstick that matched both her hair color and her summer suit; it showed doggedness, if not taste. “Your Honor, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania has an eyewitness in this matter.”

“Good for you,” Justice Millan said. “Get him up there.”

“It’s a woman, Your Honor.”

“We take both. Call her.”

Everybody chuckled, except for a stony Fiske, who stared rigidly ahead. I read his fixed expression as pure mortification. He had downed serial Scotches last night when I told him I wasn’t going to let him testify. I had no choice. His alibi had sounded worse with each retelling, and since the defense didn’t have to prove anything, the safe bet was to stand pat.

“At this time,” Ryerson said, standing up stiff-kneed, “the Commonwealth would like to call Mrs. Allison Mateer to the stand.”

Justice Millan rolled her eyes. “So do it already.”

“Mrs. Mateer, please come up now,” Ryerson said, waving grandly, Bic in hand.

An older woman, Mrs. Mateer rose stiffly from the third row. She wore a white linen suit with a flowered scarf and smiled at me politely as she walked by. Funny, she hadn’t smiled yesterday when she closed the door in my face. I’d gotten the gist of her testimony from the affidavit the police had turned over at the last minute.

Mrs. Mateer was sworn in and Ryerson took her through her identification and address, but I was distracted by a noise from the back of the crowded courtroom. I looked back to see Tobin leaning against the door-jamb, eating Jujyfruits. Who invited him? I gave him a dirty look, but Paul, sitting in the front row with Kate, thought it was for him.

Men.

“Mrs. Mateer, will you please tell the court where you were on the afternoon of June 18 of this year?” Ryerson asked.

“I was at my home.”

“Where in your house were you, do you recall?”

“I was in the kitchen, at the back of the house.”

“Facing south?”

“Yes, that’s right. South. A wonderful exposure, plenty of sun, but you have to water constantly.”

“Water?”

“My garden. If you don’t, the flowers burn right up, and the lawn as well.”

I made a note on my legal pad and edged it toward Fiske. Are you sure Mateer doesn’t know Kate? Maybe from garden club? Fiske read it, frowned, and made a precise question mark with his fountain pen. I turned around to check with Kate. She was watching Mrs. Mateer but didn’t appear to recognize her.

“What were you doing at approximately 5:30 P.M.?” Ryerson asked.

“Preparing dinner. A salad. I eat lightly, generally.”

“Now, does your kitchen have a window in it, Mrs. Mateer?”

“Yes. Over the sink. It’s a rather large window, because it’s a double sink. I have a view of the backyard and the carriage house off to the right.”

“You rented the carriage house to Miss Sullivan, is that correct?”

“Yes. My late husband and I, for the past two years.”

“By the way,” Ryerson paused, “did you know Miss Sullivan?”

“We were friendly, I suppose, as one would be. She was a lovely girl. A lovely young woman.” Mrs. Mateer’s hooded eyes slid over to Fiske with a contempt the reporters picked up immediately. You could almost hear them scribbling away, and there was shuffling at the side of the room. I glanced back to see if it was the Philadelphia Inquirer duking out the New York Times. It was Stan Julicher, Patricia’s lawyer, elbowing for a better view, pissing off a reporter with a steno pad. He was managing to stay in the limelight even without a client.

“Patricia Sullivan was a lovely young woman, wasn’t she?” Ryerson asked.

Oh, please. “Your Honor, I’m willing to stipulate that the victim was lovely, and I sincerely hope the Commonwealth catches her murderer, because they don’t have him yet.”

The gallery laughed. Justice Millan caught my eye, amused, then said, “Overruled.”

Not amused enough.

“I’ll withdraw the question,” Ryerson continued. “Mrs. Mateer, what did you see from your kitchen window?”

“I looked out the window to check on the garden. It had been so hazy that afternoon, and then the storm blew up. I remember thinking, well, I won’t have to water tonight.”

“And what did you see? At the carriage house?”

“I saw a man getting into a car.”

Ryerson flashed me a set of head shots as quickly as legal ethics allowed, then approached the stand with them. “I move to have these photographs marked as Commonwealth Exhibits A through H.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Justice Millan said.

“Did the police show you these photographs, Mrs. Mateer?”

The witness glanced down at the pictures. “Yes.”

“And did you identify one of them as the man you saw running from Patricia Sullivan’s carriage house?”

“Objection,” I said, but Justice Millan waved me off like a fly.

“I picked out this one,” Mrs. Mateer said. She held up a picture of Fiske, taken from a newspaper the day he was arrested. “Judge Hamilton.”

Ouch. I tried to remain expressionless. Fiske tensed. The reporters scribbled and whispered.

“He was wearing a trenchcoat and hat when I saw him,” Mrs. Mateer added.

Fiske was wearing a tan trenchcoat that day, but so was I, so was everybody. It was raining like hell.

“What sort of hat was he wearing?” Ryerson asked.

“It was dark brown, a fedora. With a wide brim. It was over his nose.”

The hat still hadn’t been found, and I’d never known Fiske to have a hat like that. “Objection,” I said. “How could the witness identify this person if he had a hat covering his face?”

“She didn’t say it covered his face,” Ryerson said.

Mrs. Mateer sat forward on her chair. “I saw most of his face and chin, and I saw him when he drove by, too. I feel sure it was Judge Hamilton. I feel sure of that.”

Give me a break. “Your Honor, I have to object. The witness feels sure? Since when is that enough to support a murder charge? I also object to this witness being trumpeted as an eyewitness. If she didn’t see a murder being committed, she’s not an eyewitness.”

“Your Honor,” Ryerson said, “Mrs. Mateer has given a positive identification of Judge Hamilton and is an eyewitness to events subsequent to the murder. Of course, the Commonwealth has additional conclusive evidence to support its charge, such as an identification of the defendant’s car and license plate, and his fingerprints in the room where the victim was murdered.” The reporters began to whisper as the weight of the evidence made its impact.