Verdict Suspended Page 2

  “But that’s incredible!” Steve stepped around the edge of the screen and looked down at the bed. In sleep Jaime was childlike. His face was sensitive and innocent, his mouth relaxed and sensual. There was a trace of Sheilah in him—the bone structure, the narrow, high-cut nostrils. “Dr. Curry,” Steve reflected, “do you mean that if I put Jaime Dodson on the witness stand now he could testify—under oath—that he had not killed his sister?”

  “No, he couldn’t do that,” Curry answered. “He could testify to exactly what he could have testified to before I came here: that he quarreled with his sister, tossed the glass at her, and remembers nothing more.” Dr. Curry buried his hands in the pockets of his jacket and regarded Steve Quentin from under a pair of shaggy eyebrows. “And we have no transcript of the confession,” he added.

  “It wouldn’t matter if we had,” Steve said. “The state doesn’t admit evidence acquired through the injection of barbiturates.”

  “Then why …?”

  “Why did I have you conduct this experiment? For my own benefit as Jaime’s counsel. It never occurred to me that something like this would happen—that he would confess and then lose all remembrance of the confession.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Steve didn’t answer for several seconds. The draperies were still drawn, the room was in semi-darkness. He could feel Curry’s eyes watching and waiting for an answer. Finally Steve said:

  “Defend him.”

  “Knowing that he’s guilty?”

  “But I don’t know it! There were no fingerprints on the poker, Doctor. Just bloodstains. There was no eyewitness to the murder: just one person who saw Jaime drive away from the house minutes before Sheilah’s body was found. When I defend Jaime, I intend to leave behind everything that’s happened here today…. Does that shock you?”

  “I don’t shock easily,” Curry admitted, “but what about me? Where do I leave what’s happened here today?”

  “You won’t be called to the stand.”

  “But, Mr. Quentin, I can’t ignore murder!”

  Curry was an obstinate man, probably a dedicated one. Steve appraised him now as an adversary; but the law was on Steve’s side and the law was Steve’s forte.

  “Please, this is more than a legal case to me,” he insisted. “I’ve known Jaime Dodson since he was two years old. I knew his sister. She was a dominating woman and that caused friction—but Jaime isn’t a criminal!”

  “Now you do shock me,” Curry said. “Isn’t murder a crime?”

  “You heard the confession! It was a crime of passion and provoked anger. It was almost an accident!”

  Steve looked down at Jaime again, asleep and totally oblivious of the discussion going on over his bed. He would go into a courtroom as unaware of guilt as he was at this moment. He would hear testimony as puzzling to him as it would be to the jury. He would project an innocence no degree of questioning could embarrass.

  “No, Dr. Curry,” Steve concluded, “the confession is out. If the state won’t recognize the evidence, neither will I. Sheilah wouldn’t want Jaime’s life jeopardized. My conscience will be clear.”

  Steve spoke in a solemn tone, as if passing judgment on himself. Satisfied, he turned to leave the room, but Dr. Curry blocked his way. He wasn’t convinced.

  “That’s a very convenient solution for you, Mr. Quentin,” he said, “but I have one question. What about my conscience?”

  Chapter 2

  The Marina County Courthouse dated back to the era of General Frémont and the Republic of California. An imposing stucco portico, vine-covered, weathered with time and sea air, led into a thick-walled, brick-floored foyer. At the far end of the foyer heavy double doors opened into the courtroom where District Attorney Morales Ryan had requested an official hearing into the matter of the death of Sheilah Dodson. It was an ugly business. Ryan, whose family had inhabited the area since an early Ryan answered the call of lust and greed and joined the migration to the gold fields, had no brief for Sheilah Dodson. Deep within him coursed an instinctive distrust of a woman whose success was not based primarily on the function of wife and mother. But Sheilah’s talent and industry had brought honor and success to the community, and now her violent death was bringing publicity of a less flattering kind. Cypress Point was attracting a trade it didn’t want: the out-of-town press, wire service representatives, curiosity seekers. The vulgar occasion they had made of Sheilah’s simple burial service, held within hours of Jaime’s release from hospital, still rankled, ten days later. The sooner the sordid matter was disposed of, the better for all concerned.

  Accordingly, as soon as practical, Coroner Arthur Swenson convened a jury of local citizens empowered to hear evidence and, if possible, bring in an indictment of a suspect in what was so obviously homicidal death. It was a gathering of local elite in the small courtroom, and they told their stories in an air charged with carefully repressed emotions.

  On the day of her death Sheilah Dodson had arranged an impromptu dinner party. The guest list consisted of the five people most closely associated with her enterprises: Jaime Dodson, her brother and partner; Greta Muldoon, his fiancée; a husband-and-wife team, Cyrus and Tilde Shepherd, contractor and decorator respectively, who were involved in Sheilah’s latest project, the Cypress Point Cultural Center, and her attorney and long-time friend, Steve Quentin.

  Cyrus Shepherd answered to nothing more formal than “Cy” to anyone in Cypress Point. He was a broad-shouldered giant with close-cropped red hair, quick blue eyes, and the uncomfortable attitude of a man of action forced into the limelight of a macabre duty.

  “I was working at the downtown office—trying to get a few bugs out of the Cultural Center plans—when Sheilah called,” he stated. “It was about four-thirty in the afternoon. She said she wanted Tilde and me to come to dinner at her house at eight o’clock. Then she hung up. She used her commander-in-chief voice.”

  Swenson, bespectacled and self-conscious, was awed by his socialite witnesses. His conduct of the inquiry could completely miss the finer subtleties. Fortunately, California law provided that the district attorney could attend any inquest into a death where homicide was indicated, and Morales Ryan’s quick and ambitious mind missed nothing.

  “Commander in chief?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

  Shepherd smiled wryly. “Sheilah Dodson was a well-organized woman,” he explained. “She wasn’t difficult to get along with, but she was definite. If she told anyone to come to dinner at eight, she meant ‘be there,’ period.”

  Ryan was anxious to get back to the facts. “And so you arrived at the Dodson house at eight,” he suggested.

  “No, we didn’t,” Shepherd admitted. “Tilde, my wife, spent the afternoon looking at upholstery fabrics. When Tilde gets her nose in a sample book she loses all track of time. We reached the house at eight-ten exactly. I had my eye on the dashboard clock all the way.”

  “What did you find when you arrived?”

  “First of all, Greta—that’s Greta Muldoon, Jaime Dodson’s fiancée. She heard us drive in and came running to meet us.”

  “Running from the house, do you mean?”

  Shepherd reflected. “No,” he said. “She was outside, in the parking area. She was crying—almost hysterical. ‘Did you see Jaime?’ she asked. ‘Did you pass him on the road?’”

  Ryan’s eyes moved from the witness to where Greta Muldoon sat waiting her turn to testify. She was a stunning woman—slender, blonde, modestly attired in a fitted black suit and a small black hat. She glanced toward Jaime, who slouched darkly beside Steve Quentin, and her face wore a whisper of a smile. There was warmth in it, and loyalty.

  Cyrus Shepherd continued his story: “We hadn’t seen Jaime and told her so. Then she led us into the house. Sheilah was on the floor in front of the fireplace—dead. She’d been struck on the side of the head with a poker.”

  Ryan didn’t dwell on the murder. The coroner’s findings, certified by a qualified pathol
ogist, had already been read into the record. He steered Shepherd back to the time of arrival at Sheilah’s house.

  “Why did Miss Muldoon ask if you had seen Jaime Dodson?” he queried.

  “Because she had,” Shepherd answered. “Greta explained, after we quieted her down, that she arrived at the house a few minutes before eight. Jaime’s car was parked in the driveway—it’s a flashy sports job. No chance of making a mistake about that. Greta pulled her car into the parking area just off the driveway, but before she could finish parking Jaime rushed out of the house, leaped into his car, and drove off. He didn’t see her or hear her cry out.”

  “And it was after this incident that Miss Muldoon entered the house and found Sheilah Dodson’s body?”

  “Yes. That’s what she told us.”

  Ryan cocked his head at an imagined nuance. “What she told you?” he repeated. “Have you any reason to doubt her story?”

  “No,” Shepherd said firmly. “I used that manner of expressing myself because I didn’t actually see Jaime at the house at all. I didn’t see him until two hours later in the emergency ward of the receiving hospital.”

  Ryan had one more question. “Both Jaime Dodson and the deceased were your business associates, Mr. Shepherd. Do you know of any trouble between them?”

  The courtroom was quiet. The heat came late in October, and for some seconds the only sound was the hum of a defective air conditioner. Everyone in the chamber, with the exception of the non-local press, knew of some trouble, or some rumor of trouble, between Jaime Dodson and his sister. But Cy Shepherd didn’t answer until his eyes sought and found his wife among the witnesses waiting to be questioned. She was a small, slightly plump woman with dark hair and eyes and an ivory skin no amount of sun would ever tan. Her eyes met his gaze and held. He turned back to Ryan.

  “No, sir,” he said. “I do not!”

  Even bland Coroner Swenson was surprised at Shepherd’s answer. “There were no quarrels over the delay in completing the Cultural Center?” he demanded.

  “Oh, we all caught it over that!” Shepherd admitted. “It’s like that when a group of people are hot on a job. If there’s a hitch—say a delay in getting materials—everybody’s on edge. Nice people don’t construct buildings.”

  “And who,” Ryan queried, “was in charge of expediting materials on this particular job?”

  “Jaime Dodson,” Cy Shepherd admitted.

  Steve Quentin had come to the inquest in a dual role: witness and counselor. His knowledge of the night of the murder was limited. Like the other guests, he had received a late afternoon invitation to Sheilah’s dinner party. Yes, she was upset. Under police questioning, prior to the coroner’s hearing, he admitted that she had threatened to cut Jaime out of the business. But this was a regular threat with Sheilah. It happened at least once during every major contract. Business had delayed his arrival, and his own story of the occasion was merely an appendage to what the other witnesses would testify.

  But his second role was to defend Jaime from the indictment Ryan was trying to get. In this capacity, he rose to cross-examine Cy Shepherd.

  Almost as an afterthought, Steve asked, “Mr. Shepherd, did you like working with Sheilah Dodson?”

  Shepherd hesitated. “Yes and no,” he said.

  “Will you explain that answer, Mr. Shepherd?”

  “Certainly. Sheilah Dodson was a talented and strong-willed woman—and a hard worker. I liked that. But lately, well, I guess she’d read too many press notices.” Cy stopped to listen to his own words. He smiled shyly. “Not that I blame her. In her place, I’d have been worse, I suppose. But Sheliah was more concerned with an artistic triumph than getting the job done on schedule.”

  “And you didn’t like that.”

  “I’m a businessman. I have to show a profit.”

  “Mr. Shepherd,” Steve asked, “did you ever feel like punching Sheilah Dodson in the face?”

  The listening silence in the courtroom tightened. Cy looked up, surprised. “Well,” he admitted, “if she’d been a man—”

  “Did you ever feel like killing her?”

  Shepherd’s face drained of color. “Good Lord, no!” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because Sheilah Dodson was a great woman! She was opinionated and stubborn—but she wasn’t vicious! No one would—” Cy’s words stopped abruptly. He looked about strangely, as if aware for the first time that he was a witness in a courtroom where an attempt was being made to charge someone with the crime of murder. The familiar faces became cardboard faces with the features and expressions painted on, and none of them related to anything at all until he turned to face Steve Quentin again.

  “No one would what?” Steve prodded.

  In a puzzled voice, Cy answered, “No one would want to kill her.”

  Steve returned to Jaime’s side. He had now laid the ground for all that was to come later—his first victory. But his attention was drawn to the rear of the room. Sometime within the past few minutes the double doors had opened to admit the man who now stood against the rear wall searching the spectators’ section for a vacant seat. Dr. Curry’s eyes met Steve’s and the victory died. Without a nod of recognition, Curry found a place in the rear of the room.

  In the afternoon session Tilde Shepherd told her story. She wore a smart print dress with a neckline that dipped low; but there was nothing cheap about her. Even the bright blue costume jewelry at her throat took on an illusion of quality. She was soft-spoken with a trace of an accent. Carefully she verified her husband’s story in every detail. Sheilah’s dinner invitation had created no particular anxiety.

  “We thought it was about some change in the building,” she said. “There were so many lately.”

  “Wasn’t Miss Dodson sure of herself?” Ryan asked.

  Tilde hesitated, embarrassed. “I don’t think I understand your question.”

  “Was she emotionally disturbed? Is that why she made so many changes?”

  Tilde Shepherd’s small hands worked nervously on the clasp of a large black bag. “Really, I couldn’t say,” she answered. “We weren’t that close.”

  “In spite of having worked with her over a period of years?”

  “But you don’t understand. Work is one thing. Friendship is another.”

  “Then you disliked Sheilah Dodson.”

  “No!” Tilde was distressed. She looked hopefully toward Coroner Swenson, but he did nothing to discourage the line of questioning. “It wasn’t that I disliked Sheilah,” she protested. “It was—well, I am Belgian. I think differently than American women. I was, frankly, a little in awe of her.”

  “But you didn’t feel, as your husband does, that she was a great woman?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Did you resent her?”

  “No!”

  “Did she resent you?”

  Tilde Shepherd hesitated. There was a shade of uncertainty in her eyes. “Why should she resent me?” she asked.

  “Miss Dodson worked closely with your husband. There might have been friction.”

  “Over me? Oh no. Not over me!”

  “Who, then? Who was disturbing Sheilah Dodson so much she couldn’t perform her duties at her usual standard?” Ryan pounced on Tilde. When she hesitated, he took advantage of her obvious weakness. “This is an American legal procedure, Mrs. Shepherd,” he said. “No matter how much you might wish to protect someone else, we do have penalties for perjury and you’re under oath.”

  The room suddenly became awesome and strange to Tilde Shepherd. She glanced out across the spectators to locate Cy, but he was on the other side of an impenetrable barrier. Ryan waited.

  “Who, Mrs. Shepherd?”

  “All right,” Tilde said. “I will tell you what I know. Sheilah—Miss Dodson—was worried about her brother.”

  “Jaime Dodson?”

  “Yes, Jaime Dodson. He was serious about a girl, and Sheilah didn’t trust his judgment. She said Jaime was
too unstable. He needed a stronger woman.”

  “A stronger woman than whom, Mrs. Shepherd?”

  Tilde nodded across the room. “Than her—Greta Muldoon.”

  “The woman who discovered Sheilah Dodson’s body?”

  “Yes.” Tilde was thoroughly upset. Her eyes panicked. “But it was nothing, the trouble. There were other girls at other times. Sheilah always handled them without trouble.”

  “Handled?” Ryan echoed. “Do you mean that Miss Dodson always got rid of her brother’s girl friends?”

  Ryan’s interpretation of Tilde’s words came back to her with visible shock.

  “You make it sound terrible,” she protested. “She was only trying to protect her brother. He’s like a little boy—”

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” Ryan cut in sharply, “do you know the age of Jaime Dodson?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Then I’ll enlighten you. Jaime Dodson is twenty-nine years old. He has been examined by two state psychiatrists and found sane. We can therefore assume that he was responsible enough to make the choice of a life companion, if that was his intention.”

  When Steve Quentin approached the witness stand he found a greatly chastened Tilde Shepherd. Ryan had done a good job of playing on her European awe of authority. She had talked too much and knew it. She faced him guiltily. Steve smiled.

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” he said, “how long have you known the brother of the deceased?”

  “Five years,” Tilde said. “Since I married my husband.”

  “Would you say he’s a man of violent habits?”

  “Jaime?” Tilde’s expression of incredulity was exactly right. “Not violence,” she protested. “He’s moody and sometimes a little stormy—but he’s not violent.”

  “Can you explain what you mean by ‘stormy’?”

  Tilde Shepherd hesitated. Jaime faced her from across the room—a sober, troubled young man whose greatest problem at the moment seemed to be the need to know what to do with his hands. They were clasped before him on the table, long hands with fingers laced tightly together in the one outward manifestation of private agony. The accident itself had left no lasting scars. He watched her thoughtfully as if she might hold the key to missing time.