Barbara Holloway: Desperate Measures Part 16

"Yes, Your Honor. My next item is the matter of a trial. At this time defense asks for a speedy trial, not after a year or longer as Mr. Ralston mentioned earlier. And my client waives his right to a trial by jury and requests a bench trial."

Frank caught his breath. By G.o.d, she was right. A judge would bend over backward to keep his revulsion out of the case.

Ralston was a bit upset, he thought then, watching the young man struggle with this idea. "The state demands a jury trial, Your Honor," he said.

He didn't have a thing to back that up, Frank knew. The state prosecutors had tried to get an initiative pa.s.sed that would have required trial by jury if either side demanded it, but since the accused already had that right by const.i.tutional law, the initiative had really been for the benefit of the prosecution. He watched Forry, who also had been caught off guard by this request.

"Mr. Feldman, is that your wish? To have a bench trial?" he asked. His face went blank again when he turned his attention to Alex Feldman.

"Yes, sir."

He shrugged. "That's your right. So be it. Ms. Holloway, Mr. Ralston, if you will." He beckoned them to approach the bench. In a moment Barbara turned back to pick up her briefcase, then withdrew a folder and handed it to the judge. He nodded and both attorneys returned to their places. "The court will recess for ten minutes or so. Don't leave the courtroom. It will be a short intermission.

But ten minutes or so could be very long, Frank thought then, watching Barbara and her client sit down and put their heads close together as she no doubt told him what the judge had said at the bench. Alex nodded. Light reflected eerily off his head, and Frank had to stop watching.

Then he was considering the several moves that Barbara had made, and he had to admit she had played a bad hand extremely well. And she had not needed him for her cites. Pride and regret mingled then; he tried to banish both. It was anyone's guess how Forry would come down with his decision; usually the judge was like an echo of the prosecutor. If he said jail time, the judge rarely disagreed, but he could.

Ralston had gone to the rear of the courtroom, where he was speaking on a cell phone. Asking for advice, reporting? Frank hoped waiting was as hard for him as for Barbara and Alex Feldman, but he knew it wasn't. To him a job, to Alex a life, and by now Barbara's life and that of her client were commingled. That made the difference.

The minutes dragged, but finally, after fourteen minutes, the judge returned. He cleared his throat. "It is customary for the court to heed the advice of the district attorney regarding the restraint of the accused, as you all know. However, it is not mandatory that the court do so. In the present case, the court has decided that restraining Mr. Feldman while awaiting trial is unnecessary. Not for both of your reasons, Ms. Holloway, but for the first argument. The verdict in the state's case will be up to the trial judge to determine. I make no judgment concerning that. However, Mr. Feldman should not be endangered while he waits. Now, let us discuss bail."

"Hats off, Bobby," Frank said under his breath. He slipped out of the courtroom as the new discussion began. Outside, in the corridor, he dawdled at the bulletin board, and presently he spied a familiar face, a reporter for a television station, accompanied by a videographer and a still photographer. The D.A.'s call no longer was a mystery. Word was out that a monster was at large in the courthouse. Now the circus would start.

In his mind there was an image of Quasimodo, rocks flying through the air, villagers with pitchforks. He shook it away as the small group emerged from the courtroom; Alex was wearing his beret and sungla.s.ses, and he held a file folder in front of his face. Martin charged straight ahead, Moses parting the Red Sea, and Sh.e.l.ley dropped out of the parade and approached the reporter. Frank continued to watch; Sh.e.l.ley dimpled prettily at the reporter; the others headed down the stairs; the videographer and photographer followed them. Frank left for home.

That afternoon Barbara and Dr. Minick held a joint press conference, something she detested and tried to avoid whenever possible, but this time, she had explained to Alex and Dr. Minick, they had to air their side. On Monday she would learn who their judge would be and they would set a trial date, and it was likely that the trial judge would issue a gag order. Most judges hated it when cases were tried in the media, but there were always exceptions; some of them relished the recurring fifteen minutes of fame and welcomed every opportunity to preen for the cameras.

At the press conference, held in her office, she pa.s.sed out copies of some of the hate posters and tabloids depicting Alex as devil sp.a.w.n, a monster. Then very soberly she told a little about his congenital birth defects and about the beating he had sustained that had persuaded his parents to send him away from the big city, to live in peace in the countryside with his mentor, Dr. Minick.

Dr. Minick took it from there, and he was very good, very accomplished with the reporters, answering questions candidly when possible, dodging with finesse and grace when it wasn't. On the whole, Barbara thought when it was over, it had been a success. They had started the arduous task of establishing sympathy for Alex, humanizing him.

"His folks are flying in tomorrow," Dr. Minick said before he left. "I talked to Dolly, and she became hysterical thinking they might have him in a cell."

"Don't let them upset him if you can stop them," Barbara said. "He doesn't need that on top of everything else."

"If they're true to form, they will stay for two days, then leave again. They're like migratory birds, programmed when to stop, when to start, how long to rest. He can handle it." He stood up. "They'll want to meet you. Will you come out to the house on Sunday afternoon for a short visit? A drink, or coffee, something, around four?"

She nodded. She might need his parents later; no point in alienating them now. Besides, she would like to see him with his mother and father.

"Now, I'd best get home," Dr. Minick said. "He'll be on the computer for a while, we'll eat something, and call it a day. What a day!"

Barbara was carrying her stack of books when Frank opened the door to admit her. He eyed the books. Some of them were his. She dropped them on the table in the foyer. "I'll put them away in a few minutes," she said.

Frank touched the top book. "Good job today," he said.

"Thanks. I always told you I could cite if I had to."

"True. Well proven. Were you really going to read from each one?" He counted the books. Eleven.

"Nope. The top five. All I could find to back me up. But it looked better with more than five books."

He stared at her, awed. "Forry would have had your head if you'd gone beyond your five."

"Well, I didn't have to, did I?"

"Barbara-"

She held up her hand, laughing. "Don't you dare. You tape everything in court and always have done it, and you know very well what various judges would do to you if they found out."

"That's different."

"Right. I want-no, strike that-I need a gla.s.s of wine. Like now." On her way to the kitchen, she suddenly stopped, sniffing suspiciously. "Where's Herbert?" She realized that his disgusting truck had not been in the driveway when she pulled in.

"Gone," Frank said. "Finished painting and took off."

"You sent him packing?"

"Let's leave it at that, he's gone."

"You shot him and buried him under the roses!"

"Might have wanted to from time to time, but my better nature prevailed. About that wine, and then dinner. You up for grilled sausage and new little potatoes? Walla Wallas are ready. No sauce."

She grinned, but she also felt an uneasy flutter stir in her chest.

Whoever had attacked Frank was still out there. Mr. Wonderful was still out there. She had planned to call Isaac Wrigley as soon as she could claim a legitimate reason, but it had become late, the press conference had to be done, and she had put off the call until Monday.

Now she headed for the kitchen phone. She dug out her notebook, looked up his home number, and placed the call. An answering machine came on and she said, "Dr. Wrigley, my name is Barbara Holloway. I'm an attorney in town. I would like very much to have a talk with you concerning Hilde Franz at your earliest convenience." She left her office number and said she would be there the coming week, and then she gave Frank's number. "I'll be at this number most of the weekend, and all this evening." She turned to see Frank regarding her with a hard-eyed look.

"He should know sooner rather than later that you're not alone," she said.

After a moment he nodded. "Well, you took care of that. I'm going out to dig some potatoes."

Wrigley called back at eight-thirty. She picked up as soon as he said his name. "Isaac Wrigley, returning Ms. Holloway's call." ''I'm Barbara Holloway. Thanks for calling back."

"I don't know what I can tell you," he said. His voice was deep and pleasant, with the slight drawl of someone who had lived in the South at one time. "Hilde Franz served on a committee I was also on. That's the extent of my relationship with her."

"Perhaps we can talk about it," Barbara said. "It seems that your fingerprints were found in her house."

There was a pause, then he said, "I'll be at my clinic all afternoon tomorrow. I could see you at three."

"That's fine," she said. "I know where the clinic is. I'll see you then." She hung up.

"Why didn't you tell him the rest, that you suspect him of murder?" Frank said caustically.

"I had to let him know that we've been looking into him," she said. "And it worked. Tomorrow at three." Insurance, she thought. She had just bought a little insurance. Insurance was like that; you hoped you would never need it, but if you did, it was good to have some tucked away.

22.

Over the years much of Willamette Street had turned into a strip mall: fast food, shoes, electronics, big-box superstores, the inevitable Chinese restaurant, and a medical complex. It was a two-story, chic U-shaped building with a courtyard fountain splashing on smooth river rocks, a variety of ferns, broad shallow stairs, and colorful awnings over the walkways. Barbara stopped at the directory. Orthodontists, allergists, neurologists, and on the upper level the Brighter Future Research Group. She bypa.s.sed the elevator and started up the stairs, and hated them instantly. A ramp would have been better, or regularly s.p.a.ced risers; as it was, the steps were too shallow, yet too deep to take two steps at a time, pretty but awkward. She felt as if she had to shuffle her way up.

It was very quiet in the complex, doors closed on all sides, the floor covered with a purple deep-pile carpet. She walked past the door to the Brighter Future Group, on to the end of the corridor where she had spotted an EXIT sign. As she suspected, the door at that end led to a regular staircase down to the back parking lot. She went back. The logo at the Brighter Future Group was of sunrise over a skyline of mountains and forests. The door was locked. She pushed the buzzer and waited.

The man who opened the door was younger looking than she had expected, more like a graduate student than the Ph.D. in charge. He was dressed in chinos, a T-shirt, and sandals. His hair was thick and dark, almost black, straight; his eyes dark blue. Slightly built, his face angular with prominent cheekbones and a long nose, he made her think of someone, something.... It slipped away.

"Ms. Holloway? Isaac Wrigley. Come on in."

"Thanks for seeing me," she said, entering the reception room.

It was decorated in mauve, violet, and shades of blue, with comfortable-looking plush chairs. Expensive looking. There was a closed blind at the window of the reception desk.

"Well, as I said, I'm stuck here working all day, but weekdays are worse. So... This way to my office."

They pa.s.sed two closed doors; he opened the next one and stood aside for her to enter. Almost spartan after the luxurious reception area, this room had only a desk and four chairs. There was a second closed door. The desk was covered with papers and held a framed picture. He indicated one of the chairs and went behind the desk to take his seat. Exactly what she did when she wanted to signal to a client who was boss.

"Now, you said you wanted to talk about Hilde," he said.

She shook her head. "Actually, I'd like for you to talk about her."

"I have to admit that I'm puzzled," he said. "Why? And why me?"

"She was near the scene at the time of Gus Marchand's murder, and it's quite possible she saw or heard something that pertains to that. I represent Alex Feldman, who has been charged with the murder. So, I am interviewing her... friends."

"I see. But the fact is that I was not one of her friends. An acquaintance, no more than that. As I told you, we were on the same committee, and on several occasions I gave her a ride to and from the meetings. She lived a few blocks from here, and it was convenient for me to pick her up and take her home several different times."

"You were in her house on those occasions?"

"Yes. Several times. She was interested in some of the work we had done with kids-ADHD kids-attention disorders, autistic, hyper, the whole gamut. I loaned her some books on the subject and carried them in for her, and a couple of months later I went in and picked them up. Maybe another time or two, I can't remember."

"Did she talk about Gus Marchand, the problems she had had with him?"

"I never even heard of him until I read about his murder. I knew she was a school princ.i.p.al and no more than that about her."

"Did she ever mention Alex Feldman?"

"I told you," he said, speaking very clearly, even leaning forward as if to emphasize his words, the way he might speak to a rather slow student, "she didn't talk about her personal life. We talked about the studies here, and about committee matters. That's all."

"Was she a partic.i.p.ant in your diabetes-medicine study?"

"No. Her diabetes was under control; there was no reason for her to risk anything by starting a new regimen."

For a moment Barbara regarded him, and he stiffened and ran his hand through his hair. "She mentioned that she was a diabetic," he said, "when I talked about the study at one of the committee meetings." He pushed his chair back. "I really don't know why you're here. I don't know anything about Gus Marchand or his murder. Hilde didn't confide in me in any way about anything. Now, I have a lot of work to get to."

"It's interesting that you took time out from your work to talk to me," she said, rising. "I wasn't even certain that you were back home yet when I called."

"I honestly don't know why I told you to come," he said. He stood up and walked around his desk.

"Would you mind telling me where you were on the evening of June ninth?" she said.

"How the h.e.l.l do I know? Oh! That's the day Marchand was killed?" She nodded. "Jesus! You think I had anything to do with that?" He looked incredulous. "Forget it. I was here explaining to a group of thirty people what we were proposing for a new study of hypertension. I explained what a double-blind experiment is, what a placebo means, possible side effects and possible benefits. The meeting lasted from six until eight."

"Thank you," she said. She took a step or two toward the door, then asked, "In your opinion, even as simply an acquaintance of Hilde Franz, do you believe she was capable of murder?"

"What are you talking about? Why?"

"Because Marchand threatened to reveal a secret that she couldn't risk having made public."

"I don't believe for a second that she had such a secret, in the first place. And I don't believe she could have killed anyone. She was an older woman, probably menopausal, possibly hysterical at times in a clinical sense, but a killer? No. For heaven's sake, leave her alone. Let her rest in peace."

Barbara nodded and took another step, paused again. "It's curious that your fingerprints were found in every room of her house, Dr. Wrigley."

He was at her side, but he swung round and dashed back to his desk, where he picked up the framed picture and held it up. "Look at her," he said. "Rhondi, my wife. My two kids. We're expecting a child in August. What you keep hinting at is insane! Do I look like a man who'd even be interested in an old, menopausal woman? Do I look desperate? s.e.x-starved?"

Then she had it, whom he had reminded her of. The young, very young and hungry, Frank Sinatra, whose face always seemed hauntingly starved, whose eyes looked out from photographs pleading for something.

"Your wife is very beautiful," she said. She was. Blond, with short hair, fine bones and eyes, with the beauty of youth. She looked from the photograph to him and said, "I understand that she's in California at the present time."

His mouth tightened to a hard pale line, and the prominent bones of his face looked even sharper as the skin tightened over them. "Don't go near her, Ms. Holloway. I'm warning you, don't go near her. She's having a difficult pregnancy, and I won't have her disturbed by your filthy insinuations."

Barbara nodded. "I can let myself out."

But he walked with her, slightly ahead of her through the hallway, through the reception room, and opened the door without a word.

"I think I'll use the back exit over there," she said, nodding down the corridor. "It's unlocked, isn't it? Isn't that a fire law, that it be kept unlocked from the inside?"

He closed the door hard and she walked to the end of the corridor, opened the EXIT door, and stepped out into the bright sunshine.

"I don't know, Dad," she said on his porch later. She was drinking a gin and tonic, just right for a hot afternoon. Summer had come with the start of July. "His office has a back door, easy enough to park in the rear, slip out, and go visiting anytime. He works strange hours and is there alone some of the time anyway. I don't imagine he keeps much staff late at night. He ducked the question of how his prints got in every room of Hilde's house. That's when indignation set in. I think he wanted to try to find out how much digging we've done."

Frank was watching the cats stalk a b.u.t.terfly, trying to surround it. He made a grunting noise. "He has a wife, two kids, a third one on the way," he said. "I don't buy it."

"I know," she said. "You were around when Frank Sinatra was starting. Do you remember how he looked? I've just seen film clips and photographs, and in them he looks half starved, but not just for food. Something else. Affection, approval, love maybe. Wrigley has that same look, hungry for something. Yearning."

"Let's tell Bailey to dig deeper," he said. "And wait for the toxicology reports. We don't have a blessed thing to go on yet."

"Right. Well, tomorrow I'm off to meet Dolly and Arnold Feldman. Then I think I'll hike up in the forest behind Dr. Minick's house. I want to see it for myself."

The cats abandoned the b.u.t.terfly and began to stalk an ant or something, maybe a shadow. Frank felt as if that was what Bailey was doing in his search for Mr. Wonderful: stalking shadows.

Dolly was exactly what Barbara had been led to expect: tall, elegant, sleek in a designer pantsuit of something black and shiny. And Arnold was very much the chairman of the board, of many boards. Thoughtful, sober, also elegant in a silk summer-weight suit. She wondered if they went to the same manicure salon.

She apologized for the way she was dressed after they were all seated in the living room; she was in jeans, T-shirt, and hiking boots. "I thought it a good opportunity to hike up into the woods, see the back of the Marchand property while I'm out this way," she said.