Hardy had whispered to Fowler at the defense table. ‘Please tell me you really never knew Owen Nash.’
Fowler said he hadn’t, and Hardy, hoping at last he wasn’t being lied to, stood up.
‘Mr Shields,’ he said, ‘how long has Mr Fowler been a member of the Olympic Club?’
‘I’d say forever. Certainly longer than myself. He’s second generation.’
‘And Mr Nash?’
‘We’d been recruiting him for years. Quietly, of course, but… in any event, he joined about a year ago.’
‘So he was in the club for how long?’
‘A few months.’
‘A few months. He died in June and he joined in, when, November or December?’
‘Yes, I believe so. Around there.’
‘And did he come into the club every day?’
‘Well, we have two locations, you know, downtown and the golf course, so I couldn’t speak for both. But as to downtown, I’d say no, perhaps once a month.’
‘Six times?’
Shields lifted his shoulders. ‘Let’s say between five and ten. I didn’t count.’ He smiled affably. ‘It’s not like we keep tabs on members.’
Hardy turned friendly. ‘Of course not. The times Mr Nash came in downtown, did he come in for lunch or dinner, or to work out, or what?’
‘Mostly I’d say lunch, although that’s just an impression.’
‘All right. Well, let me ask you this. Did you ever see Mr Nash having lunch with Mr Fowler?’
‘No.’
‘Do you recall ever seeing Mr Nash and Mr Fowler in the club having lunch at the same time?’
‘No, not specifically.’
‘Not specifically? Do you mean you might have and you don’t remember? You just have an impression?’
‘No… I mean I didn’t see them together or at the same time.’ He glanced at the jury, showing signs of nerves. ‘It was just a figure of speech.’
‘Of course. How about sports? Squash, golf? To your knowledge, did Mr Nash play either of these with Mr Fowler?’
‘Not to my knowledge, no.’
‘Well, isn’t it a fact, Mr Shields, that the prosecution here asked you to check your reservations cards for both the golf course out by the ocean and the courts at the downtown location – tennis and squash – to see if Mr Nash and Mr Fowler had reserved time together?’
Shields frowned. Apparently this smacked of keeping tabs on the members. Even if one of them was on trial for murder, members were presumed to be gentlemen and were not to be checked up on. ‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘And did you do that?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I did that.’
‘And did you find any record that Mr Nash had ever played any of these sports with Mr Fowler? Or even in an approximate time span?’
‘No…’
‘In fact, Mr Shields, isn’t it true that you have no indication whatever that Mr Nash and Mr Fowler knew each other or spent time in each other’s company in any way at all?’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s true.’
Hardy said he had no further questions.
Of course, it still didn’t prove Fowler had not lied to Shields about when he had known Owen Nash. Or if he had known Owen Nash at all. In fact, Hardy thought, here he had danced around with this man for the better part of a half hour and hadn’t really challenged his essential testimony in a substantive way. What was there to challenge? Like the other afternoon’s witnesses, Shields was a good man who no doubt was telling the truth. Fowler was a man charged with murder who was known to have lied in the past. Hardy could throw up smoke, but he doubted he could obscure that fact from the jury.
54
Glitsky came up through the gallery, pushed open the swinging door and strode into the courtroom proper. He was a well-known and respected police officer and his entrance, in itself, was not unusual. That he came to the defense table was, though not unprecedented, very much out of the ordinary.
Pullios was standing in what had become counsel’s spot in front of the bench. She was beginning to question Gary Smythe, Andy Fowler’s golf partner, fellow Olympic Club member and stockbroker. They certainly had done their homework – witnesses were coming out of the woodwork.
Glitsky leaned over, putting a hand on Hardy’s arm. Looking up at him, he thought he’d never seen the sergeant so drawn. There was a pallor underneath the pigment of his skin. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing, and Hardy was reminded of cases of shell-shock he had witnessed in Vietnam. ‘Get a recess,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve got to talk, now.’
Abe Glitsky wasn’t given to histrionics. If he said ‘now’ he had good reason. Hardy nodded. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, interrupting Pullios, who had been in the middle of a question. She turned to face him, her expression unpleasant.
‘Yes, Mr Hardy?’ Chomorro said.
‘Your Honor, an emergency has come up. I wonder if the court would grant a short recess.’
‘Your Honor,’ Pullios fumed, ‘I’ve just begun with this witness.’
‘Ten minutes, Your Honor.’
Pullios gave Glitsky a questioning look.
Chomorro checked the wall clock. ‘If I give you ten minutes now we won’t have time on direct here.’ He took in the jury and gave them a weary smile. ‘How about if we call it a day today and pick up with Mr Smythe tomorrow?’
‘No,’ Glitsky said sotto voce to Hardy. ‘Don’t let them do that.’
Hardy stood. ‘That won’t be necessary, Your Honor. A couple of minutes will do.’
Which annoyed Chomorro. ‘Well, which is it, Mr Hardy? Do you want a recess or not?’ He directed himself to Glitsky. ‘What’s this about, Sergeant? Care to share it with the court?’
Glitsky was clearly torn. It was ingrained that cops didn’t work with the defense, even if there was a personal connection, such as he and Hardy. It got to be too much. He shrugged at Hardy, as much to say he tried. Then, to Chomorro and Pullios, ‘With counsel?’
The judge motioned them all forward and they clustered in front of the raised bench. Glitsky still looked pale. ‘This is unofficial, Your Honor, and I apologize for interrupting, but I’ve just come down from homicide.’
‘Yes?’
Glitsky took a breath. ‘It seems May Shinn is dead.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ from Hardy. Pullios hung as if poleaxed. ‘What?’
‘And we got two neighbors – independently – who read the papers, watched some TV.’ Glitsky turned to Hardy. ‘Both of them say they saw your man there this morning.’
‘Fowler?’ Pullios nearly yelled.
Glitsky turned back to her and nodded. The same.‘
At that moment Peter Struler pushed open the outer doors and started up the aisle, almost running. ‘I think this might make it official,’ Glitsky said.
NASH MISTRESS FOUND DEAD
Homicide Not Ruled Out
In Apparent Suicide
by Jeffrey Elliot
Chronicle Staff Writer
May Shinn, who for a short time last summer was the prime suspect in the murder of Owen Nash, was found dead in her apartment this afternoon, apparently a suicide victim. The body was discovered by Special Investigator Sergeant Peter Struler, who had had an earlier appointment with Ms Shinn following a statement she had given yesterday in the murder trial of former Superior Court Judge Andrew Fowler.
In spite of the appearance of suicide, spokespersons for both the police department and the district attorney’s office refuse to rule out homicide as the cause of death. Following the discovery that Mr Fowler had visited Ms Shinn in her apartment this morning, jurors in his trial have been sequestered and Mr Fowler himself has been placed into custody. Mr Fowler had been late to court this morning and had initially told the court he’d had car trouble.
As this paper goes to press the exact time of Ms Shinn’s death has not been determined. Her body was discovered slumped over a makeshift altar in her apartment, dressed in the ceremonial white robes of the Japanese ritual suicide known as seppuku, or more commonly, hara-kiri. Most other essential forms of that ritual were carried out as well, according to police sources (see box on back page). The altar had been strewn with papers from litigation Ms Shinn had been involved in related to charges brought against her by the grand jury and the district attorney’s office last summer.