“I can see the beauty of all that,” Della Street said. “It’s a wonderful respite for five or six hours. But what happens when we arrive in Butte County?”
“That,” Mason said, “is a question I wish I could answer.”
“Are you going to answer questions as to just what we did in that house in Paradise?”
“Heaven forbid.”
“How are you going to avoid answering them?”
“I wish I knew,” Mason told her. “Come on, Della, get started. I have to take a few minutes to look up some law, and then we’ll be on our way. Get us plane reservations while I do some quick research.”
Chapter 6
The plane they had chartered at Sacramento passed the Marysville buttes on the left and the peculiar, distinctive mountain formation back of Oroville began to show plainly. Table mountains rose nearly a thousand feet above the surrounding country, level as a floor on top. There some huge prehistoric lava flow had covered the whole country, then gradually, as small crevices had offered drainage, the process of interminable erosion had chiseled small cracks into valleys. Now the level of the whole surrounding country had been eroded hundreds of feet, leaving those places where the lava cap had protected the undersoil as veritable table mountains.
Della Street looked at her wrist watch. “We’ll make it right on the nose,” she said.
Mason nodded.
“And we haven’t been very badly hurried at that.”
“And,” Mason pointed out, “we haven’t been interrogated. So far no one has found out just where we are.”
“Will the Los Angeles press intimate that you have run away to avoid questioning?” she asked.
“No. They’ll find out we’re headed for Oroville. They’ll ask the local reporters to cover the story and give it to the wire services. They’ll state that we are presently unavailable but be forced to explain we are co-operating with the officials up north.”
The plane dipped forward and started losing altitude.
“Pretty quick,” Della said, “you’re going to have to devise a way of avoiding answers.”
Mason nodded.
“How are you going to do it?”
“I can’t tell until I hear the questions.”
“Well,” she said, “you got a little sleep on the plane anyway.”
“How did you do, Della?”
“Pretty fair, but I’m too worried to sleep much.”
Mason said, “Let them interrogate me first. If they should try to interrogate you separately, tell them that because you’re my secretary you feel that all questions should first be answered by me, that you will answer questions covering subjects on which I have answered questions, but that you don’t want to be placed in the position of answering questions on subjects that I may have chosen to consider as privileged. And inasmuch as you’re not an attorney and therefore don’t understand the legal distinctions you prefer to have me make the decisions.”
“How much of what we did, how much of what we know, what we said and what was told us is privileged?” she asked.
Mason made a little gesture with his shoulders, took a notebook from his pocket. “That, of course, is a question.
“The authorities aren’t uniform on the subject. In the case of Gallagher versus Williamson, 23 Cal. 331, it was held generally that statements made by a client in the presence of other persons are not privileged and the attorney is bound to disclose them. Later on, in the case of People versus Rittenhouse, 56 C.A. 541, it was held that a third person who was not within the classification of a confidential relation and who overheard communications between an attorney and a client could disclose what he had heard. Then again, in People versus White, 102 C.A. 647, it was held that communications between an attorney and his clients in the presence of third persons were not privileged communications. However, there was a question in that case as to whether the communications were intended to be of a confidential nature. The court held generally that an attorney could be made to testify as to conversations which he had with the defendants in the presence of third persons.
“A much later case was that of People versus Hall 55 C.A. 2d, 343, wherein it was held that communications between an attorney and client in the presence of a third person were not privileged. I’ve been kicking myself for letting Sara Ansel sit in on that conversation.”
“But, Chief, you couldn’t have been expected to anticipate any development such as this.”
“Why not?” Mason asked. “An attorney is supposed to anticipate not only the things that may happen but the things that can happen. It’s not at all unreasonable that two women are going to have a falling-out, and when there’s no real reason for a third person to be present an attorney shouldn’t—”
“But, good Lord, Chief, she had to do all the talking. Myrna Davenport never would have told you the story.”
Mason said, “She could speak English. She didn’t need an interpreter. Of course, Sara Ansel stepped into the dominant role.”
The plane skimmed over the city of Oroville, flying low so that it was possible to see the big, roomy houses occupying strategic positions under towering shade trees.
“What beautiful trees,” Della Street said. “You can see how large they are, flying over them like this.”
“It gets hot here in the summer,” Mason said. “Nature compensates for it by making it a paradise for shade trees. Fig trees grow to enormous heights and give dense shade. Well, here we are, Della. Brace yourself for a barrage.”
The plane banked sharply, circled into a landing, and taxied up to the airport.
A group of men came hurrying toward the plane. In the vanguard were newspaper photographers with cameras and flashlights held in readiness. Behind them, moving at a more dignified pace but nevertheless hurrying, was a group of purposeful men.
Alighting from the plane, Mason and Della Street were most considerate in their posing so as to give the photographers plenty of coverage.
Newspaper reporters produced folded newsprint and pencils, ready to report the interview.
One of the reporters hustled forward. “May I have your name please?” he asked.
“Perry Mason,” Mason said, smiling.
“Your full name?”
“Perry Mason.”
“And you?” he asked, turning to Della Street.
“Miss Della Street.”
“You’re Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” the reporter said, and shook hands with Mason.
“Quite all right,” Mason said, and then suddenly the smile froze momentarily on his face as he realized that the reporter had slipped a piece of folded paper into his hand. Mason hastily shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and smiled at the youngish, rather fleshy individual who pushed his way forward.
“Mr. Halder?” Mason asked.
“That’s right. I ‘m the district attorney, and this is the sheriff of the county. I also have one of my deputies present. I ‘d like to drive at once to my office if you don’t mind, Mr.Mason.”
“I’m glad to do anything I can to accommodate,” Mason said.
“We have a county car here and we’ll get you to the office and terminate the interview just as rapidly as possible.”
Mason said, “It’s all right. My pilot is authorized to do instrument flying so he tells me we can go back any time tonight.”
“I’m sorry that it was necessary for you to go to the expense of chartering a plane, Mr. Mason, but—well, there wasn’t much I could do about it. We try to keep the expenses of administering the office down to a minimum.”