Sons of Fortune

“Yes, of course it does, I should have worked that out for myself,” said Fletcher. He paused. “And the figure crouched in the corridor, is that Mrs. Elliot?”

The detective took a second look, “Yes it is, she seemed calm at the time, so we decided not to disturb her.”

“How considerate,” said Fletcher. “So let me ask you finally, detective, you told the district attorney that you did not call for an ambulance until your investigation had been completed?”

“That is correct, paramedics sometimes turn up at the scene of a crime before the police have arrived, and they are notorious for disturbing evidence.”

“Are they?” asked Fletcher. “But that didn’t happen on this occasion, because you were the first person to arrive following Mrs. Elliot’s call to the chief.”

“Yes, I was.”

“Most commendable,” said Fletcher.” “Do you have any idea how long it took you to reach Mrs. Elliot’s home in West Hartford?”

“Five, maybe six minutes.”

“You must have had to break the speed limit to achieve that,” said Fletcher, with a smile.

“I put my siren on, but as it was two in the morning, there was very little traffic.”

“I’m grateful for that explanation,” said Fletcher. “No more questions, your honor.”

“What was all that about?” muttered Nat when Fletcher had returned to his place.

“Ah, I’m glad you didn’t work it out,” said Fletcher. “Now we must hope that the state’s attorney hasn’t either.”

48

“I call Rebecca Elliot to the stand.”

When Rebecca entered the courtroom, every head turned except Nat’s. He remained staring resolutely ahead. She walked slowly down the center aisle, making the sort of entrance that an actress looks for in every script. The court had been packed from the moment the doors were opened at eight o’clock that morning. The front three rows of the public benches had been cordoned off, and only the presence of uniformed police officers kept them from being colonized.

Fletcher had looked around when Don Culver, the chief of police, and Detective Petrowski had taken their seats in the front row, directly behind the state’s attorney’s table. At one minute to ten, only thirteen seats remained unoccupied.

Nat glanced across at Fletcher, who had a little stack of yellow legal pads in front of him. He could see that the top sheet was blank and prayed that the other three unopened p

ads had something written on them. A court officer stepped forward to show Mrs. Elliot into the well of the court and guide her to the witness stand. Nat looked up at Rebecca for the first time. She was wearing her widow’s weeds—fashionable black tailored suit, buttoned to the neck, and a skirt that fell several inches below the knee. Her only jewelry other than her wedding and engagement ring was a simple string of pearls. Fletcher glanced at her left wrist and made the first note on his pad. As she took the stand, Rebecca turned to face the judge, and gave him a shy smile. He nodded courteously. She then haltingly took the oath. She finally sat down and, turning to face the jury, gave them the same shy smile. Fletcher noticed that several of them returned the compliment. Rebecca touched the side of her hair, and Fletcher knew where she must have spent most of the previous afternoon. The state’s attorney hadn’t missed a trick, and if he could have called for the jury to deliver their verdict before a question had been asked, he suspected that they would have happily sentenced him, as well as his client, to the electric chair.

The judge nodded, and the state’s attorney rose from his place. Mr. Ebden had also joined in the charade. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, white shirt and a sober blue tie—the appropriate attire in which to question the Virgin Mother.

“Mrs. Elliot,” he said quietly, as he stepped on into the well of the court. “Everyone in this courtroom is aware of the ordeal you have been put through, and are now going to have to painfully relive. Let me reassure you that it is my intention to take you through any questions I might have as painlessly as possible, in the hope that you will not have to remain in the witness stand any longer than is necessary.”

“Especially as we have been able to rehearse every question again and again for the past five months,” murmured Fletcher. Nat tried not to smile.

“Let me begin by asking you, Mrs. Elliot, how long were you married to your late husband?”

“Tomorrow would have been our seventeenth wedding anniversary.”

“And how did you plan to celebrate that occasion?”

“We were going to stay at the Salisbury Inn, where we had spent the first night of our honeymoon, because I knew Ralph couldn’t spare more than a few hours off from his campaign.”

“Typical of Mr. Elliot’s commitment and conscientious approach to public service,” said the state’s attorney as he walked out into the well of the court and across to the jury. “I must, Mrs. Elliot, ask you to bear with me while I return to the night of your husband’s tragic and untimely death.” Rebecca bowed her head slightly. “You didn’t attend the debate that Mr. Elliot took part in earlier that evening: Was there any particular reason for that?”

“Yes,” said Rebecca, facing the jury, “Ralph liked me to stay at home and watch him whenever he was on television, where I could make detailed notes that we would discuss later. He felt that if I was part of the studio audience, I might be influenced by those sitting around me, especially once they realized that I was the candidate’s wife.”

“That makes a great deal of sense,” said Ebden. Fletcher penned a second note on the pad in front of him.

“Was there anything in particular you recall about that evening’s broadcast?”