Chapter 4

The first week of November found Steven Fitzgerald in the drab little room that served as his office in the larger law firm. His place, as a junior associate, he owed in no small part to his wife. Susan had done nothing directly, but her connection to him and his father-in-law’s insurance business had made him more attractive than the plethora of other recent law school graduates. He had performed only adequately until the sunburst of the Hamilton murder trial.

In many ways, the Hamilton case had simply been a series of fortuitous accidents. It was that one in ten thousand right case for Steven Fitzgerald. Now his firm used his name, but, by some unvoiced agreement, they avoided giving the shy, very reticent attorney much actual client contact. Today, that changed.

“Come in, Steve. I have someone here anxious to meet you,” Mark Tolan said.

Mr. Tolan, as the managing senior partner of the firm was normally addressed, was a well-built Irishman. In his youth, he had had the jet-black hair and deep blue eyes that women find so attractive. At sixty, he still had the blue eyes, a bit lightened by age, and the black hair had only the required amount of gray, thanks to his hair stylist.

Steven put on his game face. The young lawyer recognized instantly that the tall, gray-haired gentleman (good-looking, and in his early fifties) on the other side of Tolan’s boardroom style conference table was another lawyer and not a client, per se.

Extending his hand, the other lawyer said, “Edward Jameson, very pleased to meet you, Steve.”

Jameson took in every aspect of Steven Fitzgerald. He made a very unimposing figure. Fitzgerald was not the man he would hire if he had any choice, but desperate clients in desperate circumstances do desperate things.

“Ed has a case he is hoping we can help him with,” Tolan said.

The “we” meant Steven, and his blood began to race because it must mean a trial.

“I’m the attorney for, and close friend of, Samantha Wheatmore,” Jameson began, pausing to let the name sink in.

Samantha Wheatmore’s husband, the billionaire Stewart Peabody Wheatmore, had been found in the stables of the couple’s Westchester estate, shot once in the temple. An A-1911 Colt automatic was found in his right hand, but, from almost the beginning of the investigation, the police had ruled out suicide and focused on proving his wife guilty of murder.

“I have known Samantha for many years, from when she was a very young girl. I do not believe she has done what she is accused of,” Jameson continued, as the cool, blue eyes of Steven Fitzgerald seemed to look through Jameson’s flesh to his soul.

A silence ensued into which Tolan began to speak, “Ed was wondering if we could have a look and express an—”

Fitzgerald’s firm hand on his arm silenced Tolan.

“Johnathan Cotell is the current attorney. He has splashed the case all over the newspapers. Now he wants the plea changed to not guilty because of some mental incapacity, with another round of publicity,” Steven said, his eyes holding Jameson’s. Jameson nodded.

“I don’t know where you heard that last part. He is demanding we change the defense strategy, but Sam refuses,” Jameson said, breaking eye contact and trying to hold his emotions in check.

Steven gave a soft sigh and stood, “Send me everything, immediately; I’ll have you an answer by the end of the week.”

“Is that enough time? There are mountains of material,” Jameson said.

Fitzgerald was already walking from the room, “It will be enough—but hurry. If we are to have any chance, we need to start.”

Samantha Wheatmore had set the intimate dinner table in one of the smaller rooms of her mansion. Her first impression of Steven Fitzgerald was that he was shorter than expected, like a screen actor you meet in person: exceptional looks, but unimposing physically. Her second impression was of those eyes that seemed to be able to read your soul, an impression that was reinforced when they got down to business.

He had insisted on the private meeting before accepting the case. Samantha had suggested that he come for dinner at the Wheatmore family’s mansion in Westchester, where she was currently under house arrest while awaiting trial. Foregoing the formal dining room, she arranged to serve dinner in what was termed the ladies’ parlor, a small, square room off the dining area.

She had her cook prepare the dinner, but she served it herself, assuring absolute privacy for what she assumed would be the mutual questioning between herself and her proposed new council. They had barely taken their seats when he quietly began speaking while unfolding his napkin.

“Why did you cover up your husband’s suicide?” Steven Fitzgerald asked.

As he finished arranging his napkin on his lap, his eyes locked on hers. Samantha was startled. He had begun as if he knew everything, but that was impossible. She began to formulate a denial, but he stopped her with his next words.

“You found your husband’s body. Your first response was to dial 911. Only then did you clearly take in the scene, and it was obvious. Unlike the police, you knew the why of it. The motive your husband had for taking his own life. You two had been very close. It was his secret, but you shared it. You had very little time, which is why the scene has a dubious appearance,” Steven said, never once losing his gaze into her eyes.

As he finished, she forced herself to look away, “You can’t know that for sure.”

He went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “I suppose you loved him deeply—after all, you were married to the man for twenty-seven years. His infidelity undoubtedly hurt, but it did not let you love him less.”

“Yes, I did love him, more than he knew.”

“Oh, I suspect you are wrong there, otherwise why would he have written his last words to you?”

“That’s impossible. You can’t know that.”

Steven sighed as if he were being asked to carry some great weight.

“You don’t have to tell me the whole truth, but, for your own sake, you must not lie to me,” he said and paused, waiting.

Samantha, still avoiding his eyes, nodded her head, “How did you know?”

“You told me,” he said.

Her head snapped around as she stared at him.

For the first time, he smiled, though the expression did not reach his eyes, “We train police to gather evidence, not to analyze it. They are mostly high school educated. The technicians are just people that have a technical expertise.”

His left hand twisted an empty wine glass as he contemplated his words.

“It was all there, in their reports. They just couldn’t to see it. Of course, in their defense, there is the one crucial fact they lacked. Shall we call it the Wheatmore family secret?”

“What do I do now?” she asked, her eyes pleading with his cool blue ones.

“The obvious answer is to expose the old lie. All the parties to it are dead, so who’s to be harmed?” he said.

“No, I can’t. I have children. They are grown, but still. And there is Stewart’s memory. As you say, we had twenty-seven years together. They were good years,” Samantha paused, took one deep breath.

“No, I must see this out. I owe him that,” she concluded.

“Well, you place me in an awkward situation. One that is most uncomfortable. After all, innocence is the greatest burden a defense can endure,” Steven said with his first true smile of the evening.

“Your Honor, this request is intolerable,” she said.

The “she” was Lynda Segal, otherwise known as “Mighty Mouse.” She never wore less than six-inch heels, which brought her four-foot seven-inch frame up to five foot one. She seemed to be all lungs and legs, topped off with a head just a bit too large for her body. She wore the skirt of her pinstripe suit a single centimeter longer than inappropriate. The suit itself was tight and hugged the curves of her brief, but enticing body. You could not describe her as beautiful, and yet she had that quality of cute and pretty that makes men act stupid.

She herself was anything but stupid, and she was on a mission to crush the fancy attorney for the defense.

“We have had nothing but delays in this case,” she continued.

She was, more or less, preaching to the choir. Judge Adam Grant was a black man in his mid-forties. He was the adopted son of the Westchester Grants, one of the more prominent families. As the black son of a rich white family, he had absorbed all the prejudices of his class, and a few that followed the color of his skin.

To Judge Grant, the cute little Jewish ADA with the overly short skirt was tolerable, but the clearly Irish defense lawyer with his perfect looks and hand-tailored suit was an abomination. A representative of those forces that prey on society. The very sound of his soft clear speech grated on the judge.

“Your point is well taken, Ms. Segal. I see no reason why the defendant’s last-minute change of attorneys should delay this trial. However, the clerk informs me that the court’s calendar is quite crowded in the trial part, and a date will not be available until next month. That gives you almost five weeks, Mr. Fitzgerald. I suggest you use it wisely,” the judge said.

Steven rose and said, “Thank you, Your Honor; that’s most gracious.”

The judge did not miss the sarcasm, but there was little he could do about it. There would be another time and place, he assured himself. For her part, Lynda was ecstatic. A thirty-day adjournment was the least that could be given in the circumstances. Foxy Fitzgerald had got barely more than he was entitled to.

Lynda had looked the new defense counsel up. He was a sharp one and a trickster. She would need to be careful. Her usual ploy was to get the jury on her side. She was such a small woman that it was easy. She let the big, tough defense attorneys ply their bilious trade while she went on relentlessly building her case. Point by point, she laid out her evidence, and this time she had it cold.

Nevertheless, she was taking nothing for granted. Foxy’s reputation had her on her guard. Moreover, he was so small that playing the underdog against him would not work unless he got aggressive. He was so pretty that all the women on the jury would fall in love with him. She had intended to pack the jury with women, considering the case she had against Samantha Wheatmore, but now she needed to reconsider.

“I’d wish you better luck next time, but I would be lying,” she said to Steven, not quite keeping a smug little smile in check.

“Oh, I have what I needed. See you next month,” he replied.

He seemed frustratingly confident, and Lynda resolved to win at all costs.

“Damn, damn, damn,” Lynda Segal muttered to herself, catching the words before she uttered them out loud. She was frustrated. Foxy Fitzgerald had defied her every expectation. He had played the case straight up. He matched each of her experts with two of his. He had used his five weeks wisely and made ample use of his client’s substantial wealth to buy only the best and most impressive witnesses.

The jurors, by now, could have passed a senior forensic examination but were surely as confused as she was. The argument was murder or suicide. The defendant had discovered the body in the family stable. Stewart Peabody Wheatmore had died from a .45 bullet to the brain. The bullet was fired from an A-1911 Colt automatic that had belonged to his father. The gun was kept in a cabinet that only he and the defendant had access to. There was no suicide note that the police could find, and no reason he would commit suicide.

Stewart, it was determined, had a young girlfriend. She was more than twenty-five years his junior. He had seen her the day of his death and given her an expensive ruby ring. Stewart had also taken two million from a family trust account in a cashier’s check. The Wheatmores had a prenuptial agreement that protected Stewart’s fortune from his wife in a divorce.

Lynda’s theory was that, after meeting with his paramour, Stewart called his wife and asked for a divorce. This theory was bolstered by the fact that after receiving a call from the victim, Samantha Wheatmore, the defendant, raced home, breaking the speed limit as she did so and receiving a citation on her way. Lynda argued that Samantha returned home, got the gun, and killed her husband when she found him in the estate’s horse barn. This probably took place after an argument where he offered her the check for two million. That check had disappeared.

Lynda had opened her case by stressing heavily to the jury that the check was missing, and the only possible answer was that the defendant, in a fit of rage, had destroyed it. That was the only thing that made sense to Lynda, and, she hoped, to the jury. She had carefully selected this jury while her adversary had looked on complacently.

There were only three women. A fortunate fact, since, by the end of the first day of trial, they were all crushing on Steven Fitzgerald. She could not blame them; he was beautiful and so charming. He had that shy, cute quality that melted a woman’s resistance. He was also so sexy the way he moved. She had to block her attraction from her mind and remind herself he was a deceitful, unprincipled defense attorney, the lowest form of human life.

She had taken four black men on the jury—not something she normally would do, because they tended to side with the accused, but with Adam Grant for the judge she felt this was an advantage. Judge Grant clearly disliked the defense counsel. Lynda felt that would weigh heavily with the black men on the jury. It did, but not in the way she thought. Grant was an incredible snob. Foxy saw this and played it up. He cast himself as the poor (make that very poor) underdog.

Lynda couldn’t believe it, even as it happened. Foxy transformed himself into the poor boy from the ghetto fighting the rich judge. Even the white men on the jury were rooting for him. Lynda lowered the height of the heels on her shoes. She always treated Foxy with deference. It was a new role for her. Usually, she played the spiffy underdog. She really didn’t know how to play the heavy and get away with it. In the end, she had no choice—she had to call the girlfriend. It was her last witness.

Elizabeth Martin, Beth to her friends, took the stand. She was a beautiful young woman, a nurse at the hospital where she had met Stewart when he received treatment for the shoulder he had dislocated playing polo. He was fifty-five. She was twenty-eight. But, as she testified, he was a handsome, vigorous man for his age. It was apparently love at first sight, at least on her part.