Bohemian Heart Page 6

  I flashed the press pass that Zane had given me to the deputy at the head of a line of five hundred people, many of whom had lined up outside the building before midnight. The deputy informed me there could be neither photos taken of the jury, nor any at all after the proceedings started. I nodded my consent and entered.

  Zane had staked out two seats in the front row behind the prosecution and eighteen feet from the defense table on our right. I squeezed past several other reporters and spectators and shimmied my butt onto the bench between Zane and a frumpy-looking female journalist yawning and wearing a badge that said FRESNO BADGER.

  No sooner had I hit the pine than Calvin Sherenian swept in from stage left, followed by a pasty white boy in a pinstripe suit with his arms full of legal documents. The latter might have worn a sign that said BIG YAWN, NO BALLS but it would have been redundant. Zane whispered "Bruce Bearden, USC Law Review. Arrogant little prick, completely anal-retentive. Calvin's research whiz and go-fer."

  No sooner had Zane finished putting the hatchet to Calvin's boy Bearden than the two of them stopped in front of us. Zane and I put on our big howdy-how-ya-doin' smiles.

  "Zane," said Calvin with a nod and the most sincere smile he could muster, "I figured you for a front row seat. You know my associate, Bruce Bearden?"

  "Yes, we've met," said Zane, who faked a smile of his own and nodded at Bearden, who faked his best one back.

  Then Calvin's gaze fell on me. "Mr. Fagen. Bruce, have you ever met the man they call Peekaboo Frankie Fagen?" Bruce shook his head almost indiscernibly, then shifted the stack of papers and stuck his hand out. It was soft, damp, like a fried-clam sandwich. "And what brings you here, Mr. Fagen?" asked Sherenian.

  Before I had to fake an answer, the side door of the courtroom opened and an unarmed sheriff's deputy entered. The audience of professional and amateur peep freaks lunged to attention in anticipation of the prime exhibit, Colleen Farragut.

  After a few moments she appeared, and the cameras started clicking. Colleen was obviously prepared for it; she walked with her head high, dignity overcoming fear, at least on the outside.

  She looked right at me, then looked away without an inkling of recognition. Lawrence Ferlinghetti's poem came to me: Women who needed despair to look beautiful/looked beautiful indeed/for there was despair/to spare.

  She took her seat as Calvin graciously slid her chair back for her. I wondered how she maintained her composure.

  After everyone was seated, the bailiff called the jury. One by one they filed in. While they seated themselves, DA Jeffries shuffled papers, looking just a bit harried. In contrast Calvin, seated next to Colleen, looked relaxed, dignified, politely acknowledging the jury with a Mona Lisa smile of welcome. All but a few of the jurors acknowledged the presence of Calvin, the existence of the DA; when their eyes fell on the mesmerizing Mrs. Farragut they lingered for as many seconds as politeness and judicial decorum would allow. Only one of them actually stared, an old Mexican man who looked like a retired bank president. He'd have a hell of a story to tell when this one was over.

  The bailiff called for everyone to stand as Judge Marilyn Walters entered. I knew Walters well, she'd been one of the fairest and smartest of all the judges I'd ever observed. Neither the defense nor the prosecution would find much favor, though if anything, she might temper some of Calvin's more dramatic efforts.

  After the reading of the charges the prosecutor, Ian Jeffries, puffed himself up a touch and approached the jury. I could tell before he opened his mouth that he was going to try to out-Calvin Calvin.

  "Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You are facing one of the most difficult tasks that a society can ask of twelve good citizens, to decide whether or not another human being should be deprived of her life or her freedom. In this case, with the charge murder in the first degree with special circumstances, a guilty verdict means death or life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. There is only one thing that can make this task a little easier, a little less troubling for you, and that is the overwhelming nature of the evidence that you will see and hear."

  "The facts in this case will convince you that on a September evening nineteen months ago, Colleen Farragut murdered her husband. She fired two shots from a .38 caliber pistol into his chest and left him lying in agony, bleeding to death in the den of his own home."

  "And why did she commit this barbaric act? Because she was distraught over a pending divorce and a prenuptial agreement that would have taken away her mansion, her Mercedes, her platinum credit cards. She was distraught because a clause in that agreement stipulated that, if she were caught having sexual intercourse with another man, she would receive nothing from her husband. And she was caught. She murdered William Farragut out of pure and simple greed."

  "The defense, led by the vaunted and very crafty Mr. Calvin Sherenian, will cry circumstantial evidence. 'No eyewitness', they'll say, 'no photographs, no tape recordings, no videotapes'. How surprising. A woman who holds both a bachelor's and master's degree from the University of California at Berkeley, who graduated in the top two percent of her class, an ambitious woman with a near genius IQ had the foresight not to murder her husband in front of a room full of people and to make certain no photographer was present. And for this, Mr. Sherenian will tell you, we should find her innocent. We should send her home with a sorry-we-bothered-you and hand her the millions of dollars she wishes to obtain over her husband's dead body."

  "The high-priced Mr. Sherenian will tell you it's all a terrible coincidence: the maid's night off, the fact that the murder victim had informed her of his intention to divorce her a week prior to the shooting. He will put forth Mrs. Farragut's ridiculous claim that someone else shot her husband and ransacked the den while she was catching up on her beauty sleep."

  "And who was this 'someone else' she claims was the actual murderer? A phantom burglar. Colleen Farragut will tell you a burglar did it, a burglar that Nineteen months of intensive police work has yet to find a single trace of, a burglar who left no fingerprints, no clues, no physical evidence of any kind. A burglar that does not and never did exist."

  "The prosecution will show you enough physical evidence to prove that Mrs. Farragut committed this crime. Then we'll put Mrs. Farragut's lover on the stand, and he will testify that months before she actually killed her husband, she offered him a large sum of money to do it for her. She was going to have her husband killed and pay for it with his own money. When her lover refused, she just did the job herself. We'll show you enough to make you quite ill."

  "You'll hear some of the worst excuses, the weakest alibis ever concocted, all delivered with such convincing eloquence by the defense that you'll want to believe Mr. Sherenian when he tells you that day is night and bad is good. Don't do it. I implore, I beseech you, listen to the facts, listen to the truth, don't be fooled by any fast-talking charlatan in this courtroom." Ian bowed almost imperceptibly in the direction of the jury, hand on the buttons of his double-breasted suit, and returned to his chair.

  It was a marvelous performance, Calvin-esque in eloquence and inference. Jeffries had painted both Calvin and Colleen as rich, pompous asses ready to toy with the jury, used the standard ploy of shooting down the other guy's arguments before he got to present them.

  Calvin was livid in his chair.

  When Judge Walters called Calvin, he slid his chair back slowly and stood, staring sideways at Ian Jeffries with a steel-melting gaze. Then Calvin turned and looked down at the tabletop, regarded the knuckles of his left hand, raised his head to the heavens very briefly, sighed, looked at the judge and jury. After another brief glare at Ian Jeffries, he turned his attention back to the jury. He walked slowly toward them, every eye and thought belonging to him alone.

  "I had an opening statement prepared; passionate, concise. But I'll acquiesce to my able opponent. I'll concede to him—and to you the jury—one point. I have the greatest faith that you will indeed judge this case strictly on the facts."
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  "But in his dramatic plea for a verdict based on fact, Mr. Jeffries argued for the exact opposite. He referred to me as the 'high-priced' defense attorney, a 'charlatan', and warned you against any chicanery or deception. He, in effect, painted both the defendant and me as rich, arrogant, above the law. He will insinuate, no, he will state emphatically throughout this trial—that if a woman, even one as beautiful, intelligent, and compassionate as Colleen Farragut is, happens to marry a man from a higher social station than hers, or shows any 'ambition', as he puts it, that she must be a whore and a murderer. If that's trying a case on evidence, I've been a dentist these past thirty years."

  "My client is a party to a terrible crime, that is a fact. An unwilling party to a terrible crime and that is this mockery of a trial."

  "Since Mr. Jeffries has decided to make his attacks personal and superficial, to use character assassination and insults to try this case, let me break a long-standing rule, lower myself briefly to his level, and tell you folks what is really happening here in this courtroom."

  "You see, ladies and gentlemen, a district attorney almost never tries a case himself. He's an administrator; he has deputies who try big cases for him. But Mr. Jeffries has a reputation for being excessively harsh on poor and minority defendants, for using the law to bash blacks, Hispanics, and poor whites."

  Jeffries leapt to his feet screaming, "This is an outrage! I demand Mr. Sherenian withdraw and apologize . . . ." He could barely be heard over the tumult in the court.

  Judge Walters banged the gavel. "Mr. Sherenian," she said, having to shout it several times over the din. I counted three blacks, two Hispanics, two Asians on the jury: seven out of twelve. Calvin counterattacked before Walters or Jeffries could say another word.

  "Your Honor, my client is on trial for her life, and Mr. Jeffries has made it very clear that not only her character but mine as well will become an issue in this trial. Justice demands that I be allowed to present an accurate picture to the jury . . ."

  "I'll give you some leeway, Mr. Sherenian, but you will withdraw your previous statement and you won't turn this trial into a circus."

  "I'm only trying to prevent Mr. Jeffries from doing the same, Your Honor," he said, and then withdrew his statement.

  Walters eased back uneasily.

  Calvin started again. "Mr. Jeffries, as many of you know, is a candidate for state attorney general and he is haunted by accusations of unfairness. So, he thinks if he shucks and jives through this case screaming 'Hang this tramp who married a rich man!' somehow, this equal injustice, this injustice for all, will make him seem like the honorable, professional prosecutor he has never been."

  "He has no case, he has no witnesses, he has no argument but to attack Colleen Farragut with the most vile and cowardly personal insults he can muster. I begged him time and again not to put an innocent woman through this ordeal. But the publicity was too great a temptation, so here we are, prisoners of a megalomaniac, a political hack, a political prostitute of the foulest odor."

  With that, Calvin mocked the tiny bow of his predecessor, right hand over double-breasted, then returned to his seat.

  The courtroom exploded as Walters banged the gavel and alternatively shouted "Mr. Sherenian!" and "Order!" When it got quiet, all Walters could do was sit and glare at Calvin.

  Walters had already lost a big point. The circus had come to town, to her courtroom, and Calvin owned the elephants.

  The score was one to nothing, favor of Colleen.

  Chapter 6

  Walters took both attorneys into her chambers following Calvin's withering assault on Jeffries, where I'm sure she chewed them out vigorously for the entire hour they were gone. When they returned, she ordered the lunch break. Two jurors actually looked over at Calvin and smiled.

  Zane and I poisoned ourselves in the courthouse cafeteria, declaring Calvin's opening a landmark in the annals of jurisprudence, then hurried back to our seats in advance of the stampede. As we waited for the resumption of the festivities, a little clock inside my head kept ticking thirty days . . . thirty days . . . .

  Ian Jeffries called his first witness, Inspector John Naftulin. He was in his late forties, with a chain mail canopy of graying hair, one uninterrupted eyebrow resembling a furry windshield wiper, and a nervous habit of constantly cracking his knuckles. I'd known John from my days as the new kid in homicide. He was a tough, honest, hardworking cop with a sack full of opinions and a quick tongue that often got him in trouble.

  "You were the first police officer called to the scene at fifty-six fifty-six Park Drive, isn't that correct, Inspector Naftulin?"

  "Yes. I was on Clement Street eating breakfast when the call came over my walkie-talkie."

  "And you wrote the crime scene report and became the chief investigating officer in the case?"

  "That's correct?"

  "And what did you find when you arrived?"

  "I found the victim, William Farragut, lying on his back in the den of his home. He'd been dead for several hours; his body was stiff."

  "In fact the coroner's report later indicated he'd been dead for over eight hours, isn't that correct?"

  "Yes."

  "And the cause of death, was it apparent to you at the time?"

  "Yes. Mr. Farragut had been shot twice in the chest, once through the heart, once through the right lung."

  "And you noticed this gun on the floor approximately twenty feet from the body?"

  Ian Jeffries showed the gun to Inspector Naftulin, who identified it. Jeffries had it tagged and marked as People's Exhibit One.

  "What was the condition of Mrs. Farragut? Was she hysterical, crying?"

  "She was agitated."

  "Can you describe her for us?"

  "She was breathing hard, her hands were trembling. She seemed uncomfortable."

  I figured it was time for Calvin to jump up and bark "Objection!" on the grounds that Jeffries was asking for conclusions and not facts. But Calvin sat stifling a yawn and a smile as Zane frantically scribbled notes next to me.

  Several more times Jeffries did it, drawing out Inspector Naftulin's opinion that he was skeptical of Colleen's story right from the start. One by one the jury began to stare at Calvin. They'd all seen enough "Perry Mason" and "L.A. Law" to know that Jeffries was leading the witness, and still Calvin did nothing.

  Then Jeffries got to the part I came to hear, the one opinion I was most interested in: Jeffries placed enlarged photographs of Farragut's den on a large bulletin board and asked Naftulin to use his "twenty-five years of police expertise" to tell the jury what he saw in the room.

  "A fake burglary," was all he said. Jeffries asked him to elaborate.

  "I've seen enough fake burglaries in my time," Naftulin said. When Jeffries asked how many burglary reports he had written in twenty-five years with the SFPD, Jeffries stated "close to a thousand, perhaps more."

  I had seen hundreds of burglaries myself in nine years with the department. I'd seen a few dozen people try to fake burglaries to collect the insurance.

  As Naftulin explained and every photograph showed, the contents of drawers were flung across the room, plants were dumped upside down, coffee tables flipped over. In reality, burglars go through drawers throwing out things they don't want. If you dump them, you then have to bend over, and burglars are inveterate non-benders. Plants are rarely turned upside down, they're knocked over, usually landing on their sides and spilling dirt out like a cone. Tables are usually knocked at an angle, not overturned. Burglars, even the amateurs, are always afraid of making noise and are not prone to sending coffee tables crashing or scattering drawers about. The smart ones, the experienced ones, rarely knock over or break anything. Naftulin confirmed everything I'd thought when I saw the Farragut den and the exhibit photos in the evidence files.

  It looked like someone had faked it.

  And it didn't matter who had done it: whether if it was some radical nut cases who shot Farragut and tried to make it look like a burglar
y or a vengeful killer trying to throw everyone off his tracks, the jury would think it was Colleen.

  Chapter 7

  After court recessed, Zane drove me back to Telegraph Hill. We agreed it had been a rough day for Colleen Farragut.

  Late in the afternoon session, Calvin had launched his counterattack on Inspector John Naftulin, attempting to hang him with his own rope. He honed in on Naftulin's opinion of the house, the Farragut wealth, the fact that Colleen had married into money. Calvin even got a flustered and belligerent Naftulin to admit that the charges he filed with the DA's office two days after the murder were based more on his dislike and mistrust of Colleen than on the evidence. I'd seen some ugly cases in my life, but this one was already bucking for the blue ribbon.

  Unfortunately, what made the biggest impression on me, and I feared on the jury as well, were the photographs of a chump-change burglary. Despite Calvin's brilliant opening statement and cleverness in cross-examination, Colleen looked an inch closer to the noose when the day ended.

  Arnie Nuckles was waiting at the office when Zane dropped me off. I've seen more encouraging faces at the morgue.

  Arnie had spent the day checking William Farragut's banking activities, all two dozen accounts, starting the day of his murder and working his way backward. It was a job that would take a platoon of accountants weeks to do properly.

  Arnie found nothing that appeared suspicious. No regular withdrawals of huge sums of cash, no series of deposits that snaked their way from an overseas account through a series of "front" accounts. Arnie learned that Farragut owned seventeen safe-deposit boxes at six different banks, plus three private safes. I was sure that several of them held his diaries, others the cash he used for bribes and kickbacks. Nothing, however, indicated that he'd been the victim of blackmail or extortion.