“That will be all for now, Mr. Pherson,” Owen said. “Thank you.”
Donnelly rose and went to the lectern for the cross-examination. “Mr. Pherson, you said your wife sounded cheerful when she called you. Did this surprise you?”
“I was happy about it.”
“Yes, but were you surprised?”
“I thought it would take longer for her to snap out of her depression and begin to enjoy life again. So my answer is, I was pleasantly surprised.”
“Did she ever talk of suicide?”
“No, never.”
“I believe you stated that Mrs. Pherson counseled the terminally ill and their families, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t the subject of suicide come up naturally in the course of these conversations?”
“When I said she never mentioned suicide, I meant in regard to herself. Such a thing would never have occurred to her.”
“Even though she was, according to your testimony, in a state of depression after her mother’s death?”
Pherson sat in silence, motionless except for his eyes, which moved slowly up and down the two row of jurors, establishing eye contact with each person.
“My wife did not kill herself. She was murdered.”
The words were spoken not in the loud, abrasive tone of his previous accusations but with quiet dignity and utter conviction.
Donnelly’s objection was routine. Pherson’s words would be stricken from the record, but they would remain in the memories of the jurors, no matter how solemnly the judge would later instruct them to lay aside their emotions and base their decision solely on facts. They wouldn’t do it; juries seldom, if ever, did. Facts had a way of being pushed out of shape or out of sight.
And the fact was that Madeline Pherson had gone into that bar not to raise funds for charity, not to translate books into braille, not to counsel the terminally ill. She had gone into that bar to drink double martinis and pick up a stranger.
The judge said, “Do you have any further questions to ask this witness, Mr. Donnelly?”
“Not at this time, Your Honor.”
“You are excused for now, Mr. Pherson. Counsel will notify you if you are needed again. Meanwhile, the same rule applies to you as to all the other witnesses in this case. None of you is allowed inside this courtroom until the conclusion of the trial. And you are reminded not to discuss your testimony with any other witness.”
“Pardon me, Your Honor,” the district attorney said. “My next witness hasn’t arrived yet from San Diego. It’s a four- to five-hour drive or longer, and I don’t expect him until about one o’clock. The situation is my fault. I anticipated that Mr. Pherson would be on the stand for a longer period.”
“All right. Instead of the usual morning recess, we will take the lunch break now and reconvene at two o’clock.”
Cully was sitting on the edge of his chair, hands on the table in front of him with the fingers knotted together like oiled ropes. Donnelly sat down beside him and began to repack his briefcase. “Well? Anything wrong?”
“Did she really do all those good things?”
“Yes. Gunther checked it out.”
“But that wasn’t like the woman who started talking to me in the bar. She wasn’t trying to save my soul, I can tell you that. She was coming on to me.”
“So you say.”
“She came on strong to me. I swear she did. Maybe the police made a mistake and the body they found wasn’t hers but somebody else’s.”
“She was positively identified by her husband and the housekeeper.”
“I saw a movie once about a lady with a split personality who—”
“Forget it. Mrs. Pherson was a nice, wholesome, healthy woman.”
“Then why did she come on to me like that?”
“Maybe you’re irresistible.”
The courtroom was empty by this time except for the two men and the bailiff standing at the door, waiting for the deputy to come and take Cully back to jail.
“About those scratches on your cheek, was she in such a fury of passion she scratched you with her fingernails?”
“No. No, it didn’t happen that way. What happened was she grabbed me and one of her earrings scratched my cheek.”
“Which earring?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, there was a whole lot going on and we were both drunk, and who can remember a little thing like which earring?”
“The jury likes to know little things like that. They may swallow the big stuff whole like the whale swallowed Jonah, but they can get pretty picky about small details that don’t add up or can’t be remembered.”
“Okay, let’s say it was the left earring.”
“Let’s not say anything until we reconstruct the scene.”
“Like how?”
“Walk toward me and grab me the way Mrs. Pherson grabbed you.”
“That would look funny. People might think—”
“The jury’s out of the room, and they’re the only ones whose thinking should concern you. Go ahead. Grab. Do it.”
“No.”
“Come on. Just pretend you find me irresistible, so in a fit of passion—”
“No. It would make me look funny, feel funny.”
“Why? Pretend we’re enacting a scene from a play.”
“I’m not a playactor.”
“Grab me, you son of a bitch.”
The bailiff turned at the sound of a raised voice. “Anything the matter over there?”
“No,” Donnelly said. “We were just discussing how irresistible Cully is to women.” When the bailiff’s attention had returned to the hall, Donnelly added, “Not only to Mrs. Pherson but to our own little Eva. The way she looks at you with those hot little eyes of hers is enough to roast a turkey. Don’t you feel the heat, turkey?”
“No.”
“This sudden attack of modesty doesn’t suit your style, Cully.” Donnelly had finished putting all his papers back into the briefcase. Now he snapped it shut but made no move to leave. “By the way, I have a letter for you. It was addressed to me, but the enclosure is for you.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Your wife.” Donnelly put the letter on the table, but Cully didn’t pick it up or even glance at it. “Don’t you want to read it?”
“No.”
“I think you’d better. It’s often helpful to get somebody else’s slant on things.”
“Louise has only one slant.”
The letter was neatly typed and punctuated and contained only two misspellings.
“Louise didn’t type this,” Cully said. “She can’t type. Her brother did it for her. He probably urged her to send it, too. The son of a bitch hates me.”
“Ah, yes, your brother-in-law, the one you’d like to murder.”
Cully blinked in surprise. “Who told you that?”
“Miss Foster. She thought I ought to warn you not to make such remarks because people might get the wrong impression. Or the right one, whatever.”
“I wouldn’t have told her if I thought she was going to blab it all over.”
“She didn’t blab it all over. By telling me, she was trying to protect you. Oh, yes, she’s quite the tigress, Little Eva is. And you, amigo, are her cub.”
“I’m not. I won’t be. I refuse.”
“Cubs don’t have a choice,” Donnelly said. “Read your letter.”
There were two sheets of paper inside the envelope. One was a request to Mr. Donnelly, Esquire, to pass the enclosed to Cully King.
Dear Cully:
I hope you’re doing okay because I certainly am not. I need money. You can’t expect me to live on nothing while you’re going around murdering people. Thanksgiving is coming pretty soon and what have I got to be thankfull for, with a husband in the cooler and me with nothing to wear? Whether you are innosent or guilty the least you can do is to send me the money Mr. Belasco paid you. It won’t do you any good where you are, getting free room and board and maybe even color TV.