“…I can only hope that at least one person in every generation,” said Fletcher, completing the professor’s oft-repeated dictum.
“Why don’t you meet him,” said Annie, “and then perhaps that will persuade you…”
Despite abundant caution from Jimmy and vociferous protests from the local Democrats—in fact from everyone except Annie—it was agreed that the two men should meet the following Sunday.
The chosen venue was Fairchild and Russell, as it was felt few citizens would be strolling down Main Street early on a Sunday morning.
Nat and Tom arrived just before ten, and it was the chairman of the bank who unlocked the front door and turned off the alarm for the first time in years. They only had to wait a few minutes before Fletcher and Jimmy appeared on the top step. Tom ushered them quickly through to the boardroom.
When Jimmy introduced his closest friend to his most important client, both men stared at each other, not sure which one of them should make the first move.
“It’s good of you…”
“I hadn’t expected…”
Both men laughed and then shook each other warmly by the hand.
Tom suggested that Fletcher and Jimmy sit on one side of the conference table, while he and Nat sat opposite them. Fletcher nodded his agreement, and once seated, he opened his briefcase and removed a yellow notepad, placing it on the table in front of him, along with a fountain pen taken from an inside pocket.
“May I begin by saying how much I appreciate you agreeing to see me,” said Nat. “I can only imagine the opposition you must have faced from every quarter and am well aware that you did not settle for the easy option.” Jimmy lowered his head.
Fletcher raised a hand. “It’s my wife you have to thank.” He paused. “Not me. But it’s me that you have to convince.”
“Then please pass on my grateful thanks to Mrs. Davenport, and let me assure you that I will answer any questions you put to me.”
“I only have one question,” said Fletcher, as he stared down at the blank sheet of paper, “and it’s the question a lawyer never asks because it can only compromise his or her ethical position. But on this occasion I will not consider discussing this case until that question has been answered.”
Nat nodded, but didn’t respond. Fletcher raised his head and stared across the table at his would-be rival. Nat held his gaze.
“Did you murder Ralph Elliot?”
“No, I did not,” replied Nat, without hesitation.
Fletcher looked back down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, and flicked over the top page to reveal a second page covered in row upon row of neatly prepared questions.
“Then let me next ask you…” said Fletcher, looking back up at his client.
The trial was set for the second week in July. Nat was surprised by how little time he needed to spend with his newly appointed counsel once he had gone over his story again and again, and that stopped only when Fletcher was confident he had mastered every detail. Although both recognized the importance of Nat’s evidence, Fletcher spent just as much time reading and rereading the two statements that Rebecca Elliot had made to the police, Don Culver’s own report on what had taken place that night, and the notes of Detective Petrowski, who was in charge of the case. He warned Nat. “Rebecca will have been coached by the state’s attorney, and every question you can think of she will have had time to consider and reconsider. By the time she steps onto the witness stand, she’ll be as well rehearsed as any actress on opening night. But,” Fletcher paused, “she still has a problem.”
“And what’s that?” asked Nat.
“If Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband, she must have lied to the police, so there are bound to be loose ends that they are unaware of. First we have to find them, and then we have to tie them up.”
Interest in the gubernatorial race stretched far beyond the boundaries of Connecticut. Articles on the two men appeared in journals as diverse as the New Yorker and the National Inquirer, so that by the time the trial opened, there wasn’t a hotel room available within twenty miles of Hartford.
With three months still to go before election day, the opinion polls showed Fletcher had a twelve-point lead, but he knew that if he was able to prove Nat’s innocence, that could be reversed overnight.
The trial was due to open on July 11, but the major networks already had their cameras on top of the buildings opposite the courthouse and along the sidewalks, as well as many more handhelds in the streets. They were there to interview anyone remotely connected with the trial, despite the fact it was days before Nat would hear the words “All rise.”
Fletcher and Nat tried to conduct their election campaigns as if it was business as usual, although no one pretended it was. They quickly discovered that there wasn’t a hall they couldn’t fill, a rally they couldn’t pack, a clambake they couldn’t sell twice over, however remote the district. In fact, when they both attended a charity fund-raiser in support of an orthopedic wing to be added to the Gates Memorial Hospital in Hartford, tickets were changing hands at five hundred dollars each. This was one of those rare elections when campaign contributions kept pouring in. For several weeks they were a bigger draw than Frank Sinatra.
Neither man slept the night before the trial was due to open, and the chief of police didn’t even bother to go to bed. Don Culver had detailed a hundred officers to be on duty outside the courthouse, ruefully remarking how many of Hartford’s petty criminals were taking advantage of his overstretched force.
Fletcher was the first member of the defense team to appear on the courthouse steps, and he made it clear to the waiting press that he would not be making a statement or answering any questions until the verdict had been delivered. Nat arrived a few minutes later, accompanied by Tom and Su Ling, and if it hadn’t been for police assistance, they might never have got into the building.
Once inside the courthouse, Nat walked straight along the marble corridor that led to court number seven, acknowledging onlookers’ kind remarks, but only nodding politely in response as instructed by his counselor. Once he’d entered the courtroom, Nat felt a thousand eyes boring into him as he continued on down the center aisle, before taking his place on the left of Fletcher at the defense table.