widowed wives and even bewildered children. He’d just have to feel his way along, like a musician sensing the audience’s reaction and adjusting his playing carefully. He could—
Lescroix realized suddenly that Cabot was staring at him. The man’s eyes were like cold ball bearings. Lescroix actually shivered —
“Oyez, oyez, oyez, criminal court for the county of Hamilton, First District, is now in session. The right honorable Jennings P. Martell presiding, all ye with business before this court come forward and be heard.”
Pilsett, wearing a goofy brown suit, was led cautiously out of the lockup. He sat down next to his lawyer. The defendant grinned stupidly until Lescroix told him to stop. He flicked his earlobe several times with an unshackled finger.
When Lescroix looked back to Cabot the metallic eyes had shifted from the lawyer and were drilling into the back of the man who’d killed his wife with a $4.99 Sears Craftsman claw hammer.
The prosecutor presented the forensic evidence first and Lescroix spent a half hour chipping away at the testimony of the lab technicians and the cops — though the crime-scene work had been surprisingly well handled for such a small police department. A minor victory for the prosecution, Lescroix conceded to himself.
Then the state called Charles Cabot.
The widower straightened his tie, hugged the woman beside him and walked to the stand.
Guided by the prosecutor’s pedestrian questions, the man gave an unemotional account of what he’d seen on June third. Monosyllables of grief. A few tears, Lescroix rated the performance uncompelling, though the man’s broken words certainly held the jury’s attention. But he’d expected this; we love tragedies as much as romance and nearly as much as sex.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said and glanced dismissively at Lescroix.
The lawyer rose slowly, unbuttoned his jacket, ran his hand through his hair, mussing it ever so slightly. He paced slowly in front of the witness. When he spoke he spoke to the jury. “I’m so very sorry for your misfortune, Mr. Cabot.”
The witness nodded, though his eyes were wary.
Lescroix continued, “The death of a young woman is a terrible thing. Just terrible.
“Yes, well. Thank you.”
The jury’s collective eyes scanned Lescroix’s troubled face. He glanced at the witness stand. Cabot didn’t know what to say. He’d been expecting an attack. He was uneasy. The eyes were no longer steely hard. They were cautious. Good. People detest wary truth-tellers far more than self-assured liars.
Lescroix turned back to the twelve men and women in his audience.
He smiled. No one smiled back.
That was all right. This was just the overture.
He walked to the table and picked up a folder. Strode back to the jury box. “Mr. Cabot, what do you do for a living?”
The question caught him off guard. He looked around the courtroom. “Well, I own a company. It manufactures housings for computers and related equipment.”
“Do you make a lot of money at it?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled. But you’ll bring this back to earth sometime soon, Mr. Lescroix?”
“You bet I will, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Cabot, please answer.”
“We had sales of eight million last year.”
“Your salary was what?”
“I took home about two hundred thousand.”
“And your wife, was she employed by the company too?”
“Part-time. As a director on the board. And she did some consulting work.”
“I see. And how much did she make?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Toss an estimate our way, Mr. Cabot.”
“Well, in the neighborhood of a hundred thousand.”
“Really? Interesting.”
Flipping slowly through the folder, while the jury wondered what could be interesting about this piece of news.
Lescroix looked up. “How was your company originally financed?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” the gray-faced prosecutor said. His young assistant nodded vigorously, as if every bob of his head was a legal citation supporting his boss.
The judge asked, “Going anywhere real, Mr. Lescroix, or’re we being treated to one of your famous fishing trips?”
Perfect. Lescroix turned to the jury, eyes upraised slightly; the judge didn’t notice. See what I’ve got to deal with? he asked tacitly. He was rewarded with a single conspiratorial smile from a juror.
And then, God bless me, another.
“I’m going someplace very real, Your Honor. Even if there are people present who won’t be very happy where that might be.”
The judge grunted. “We’ll see. Overruled. Go ahead, Mr. Cabot.”
“If I recall, the financing was very complicated.”
“Then let’s make it easy. Your wife’s father is a wealthy businessman, right?”
“I don’t know what you mean by wealthy.” Cabot swallowed.
“Net worth of twelve million’d fall
“I suppose, somewhere.”
Several jurors joined Lescroix in chuckling.
“Didn’t your father-in-law stake you to your company?”
“I paid back every penny—”
“Mr. Cabot,” Lescroix asked patiently, “did your father-in-law stake you to your company or did he not?”
A pause. Then a sullen “Yes.”
“How much of the company did your wife own?”
“If I remember, there were some complicated formulas—”
“More complexity?” Lescroix sighed. “Let’s make it simple, why don’t we. Just tell us what
Another hesitation. “Forty-nine.”
“And you?”
“Forty-nine.”
“And who owns the other two percent?”
“That would be her father.”
“And on her death, who gets her shares?”
A moment’s hesitation. “If we’d had any children—”
“
“No.”
“I see. Then let’s hear what will in
“I guess I’ll receive them. I hadn’t thought about it.”
Play ’em right. Just like an orchestra conductor. Light hand on the baton. Don’t add, “So you’re the one who’s profited from your wife’s death.” Or: “So then you’d be in control of the company.” They’re dim, but even the dimmest are beginning to see where we’re headed.
Cabot took a sip of water, spilled some on his jacket and brushed the drops away.
“Mr. Cabot, let’s think back to June, all right? You hired Jerry Pilsett to do some work for you on the second,
