POISONOUS FRUIT

 

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

 

  

ONE

 

Tuesday afternoon

 

Charlie knew from the sound of the ring his wife was calling; that puzzled him for she rarely interrupted his work, or hers. Briefly he wondered why court was in recess. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he reached for the receiver. “Charles Moon,” he said instead of her name, knowing how much she was unnerved by his sense of her.

“How much time will I get if I strangle a cop?” Morgan asked without any preamble, her voice tight.

“You tell me: you’re the judge,” he answered, hearing the anger and frustration in her voice and knowing she was depending on him to help her get beyond them.

“I’ll plead justifiable homicide,” she said to him, her words coming faster than usual.

So she felt guilty as well as angry. He did not let his worry for her color his answer. “Sounds serious. What did the poor blighter do to deserve this?” Charlie asked, taking a pencil from a mug filled with them. He started to doodle as he listened.

“Damned hotdog cop! He reinterpreted a search warrant,” said Morgan, sounding very tired along with the rest. “I have to exclude the evidence, and all the rest of the material he got from it.”

“At this stage?” Charlie said, surprised at the development.

“That’s the worst of it. We’re in front of a jury. The whole thing is blown. The defense has been insisting all along that the evidence was not covered in the search warrant, and now it turns out that he was right. But you know how Towne likes to grandstand. He uses every delaying trick in the book. He files 1538.5s on almost all the evidence, all the time. Everyone thought this was more of the same.” She sounded as if she wanted to bite something. “We didn’t know—why should we?—that the police report was false.”

“They lied,” said Charlie.

“They certainly fibbed,” Morgan countered, trying to make light of it.

“So Towne did file a motion to suppress? In spite of what the police report said?” Charlie inquired.

“Sure did. With all the usual bells and whistles, saying that the search was not legal. He said the cops prevaricated. Nice choice of words. But the D.A.’s office said it was correct. Grainger ruled on it the week before his heart attack.” She gave a quick, impatient sigh. “I like to think that if I’d had the case from the beginning this might never have happened. I tell myself I would have asked the cops about their report, just in case.”

“And if they lied to you? If they filed a false report knowing it was false, they probably wouldn’t admit it because you ask them to. You’re not the conscience of the whole world, Morgan.”

“I am a judge, and there are obligations that go with being a judge,” she said, stubbornness apparent in her voice.

“You’re a stickler for due process,” said Charlie. “Is the evidence likely to make that much of a difference?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said with weary scorn. “It’s crucial. The D.A.’s been itching to get something on Scooter Ferrand, and all the cops know it; Ed Massie’s just a little more zealous than most of them. He’s got a young yahoo partner, too. They’re on a vendetta against Ferrand. Let me tell you, they got material! That’s the worst of it. Properly obtained and Ferrand would go away for a long long time. But the cops did it wrong. And that wrecks the D.A.’s case. Lovejoy’s got all his eggs in one basket again.” She hesitated, and he had enough understanding not to interrupt. “We can’t touch Ferrand now, no matter what he did. This is a bad man, Charlie, a very bad man. You should see the videotapes they found.” Her voice dropped. “Or maybe you shouldn’t; they made me feel sick.”

“Does it really wreck the case?” Charlie asked.

“Right down the line.” She drew a long, pinched breath. “The search warrant said residence. Residence, not property. The cops added a detached greenhouse—detached! way at the back of the lot—so long as they were there. They had no reason to assume that they could extend the terms of the search warrant. There was no suggestion of imminent danger or the possibility of flight. So it’s useless. And Lovejoy’s playing the wounded innocent, saying he had no idea the cops had acted improperly.”

“Give him a break,” Charlie recommended, turning one of his doodles into a frolicking dolphin. “He probably didn’t know. The cops don’t always tell the D. A. everything, and he might not have asked, if the evidence found was that good. I can’t see Lovejoy looking a gift horse in the mouth. He doesn’t want to have his case thrown out of court on that kind of technicality, not if the evidence is the convicting kind. It looks bad.”

A bit more tension was gone from her voice. “You should have been here: good old Victor Lovejoy storming around my chambers like a wounded hog.”

“What an image,” said Charlie, and could not keep from chuckling.

Morgan faltered. “Well, maybe not a hog, maybe a prize bull.” There was the first hint of amusement in her voice now.

“I think I like hog better,” said Charlie, as if giving the matter due consideration. “More his style.”

“Yeah,” said Morgan, now sounding almost like herself. “Not that I blame him this time—if he’s telling the truth, that is, and he really didn’t know that his case was compromised.” She was not ready to laugh, but her next words caught once, as if she were making her best attempt. “I don’t know who I wanted to brain more—Lovejoy or that cop Ed Massie, who made the mistake, or that despicable—” Her voice was rising again and Charlie interrupted her.

“Well, you’d be up for assault no matter who you hit, so it’s probably just as well you didn’t.” He waited for her to speak again, and when she remained silent, he said, “What about going somewhere decadent for dinner tonight? You got other plans?”

“I’d love it,” she said without enthusiasm. “I would, really. But I don’t think I’ll be out of here until seven-thirty. That’s pretty late.”

“It’s very fashionable,” Charlie corrected her, though he was used to having dinner before seven. “I’ll make reservations for eight, if you think that’ll give you time enough. What about Modesto Lanzone’s at Opera Plaza?”

This time there was a tiny-but-real laugh. “Not in the middle of the pre-symphony rush. Somewhere away from City Hall. Less . . . I ought to suggest something sensible like Japanese or salads, but . . . what the hell. Anything you choose is fine. Curry or Hunan or Russian or Greek or Italian or Scandinavian or Peruvian—or any of the rest.” She took a deep breath. “Thanks, Charlie. I wish I knew how you do it.”

“How I do what?” he wondered aloud.

“Get me out of . . . everything.”

“I thought that’s why we got married,” he said, doing his best to keep the serious note out of his voice.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. For Morgan this was a major concession.

“I’ll make the reservations. And I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.” At that time of evening it would take him roughly fifteen minutes to reach her, but he allowed a little extra. “I’ll think of a good place.”

“You always do,” she said, her manner nearly normal. Her voice was softer. “I look forward to it. Really.”

“See you then.” He heard her hang up, and put the receiver back in the cradle. Then he sat for more than five minutes staring at the window, his face supremely blank. What had happened? and what could he do about it?

His reverie was ended when there was a sharp knock on the door and Nathaniel Wong came in without further announcement. “I have to talk to you about this Hoopermier case. You got a minute?” Nathaniel had a way of pretending to make requests when he was actually giving orders.

“Sure,” said Charlie, knowing it was the only acceptable answer to give any of his three partners. “You start the trial next week?”

“One week. Tuesday morning sharp.” Nathaniel was almost a decade younger than Charlie, but his grave demeanor made him appear nearly the same age. He wore large tortoise-shell glasses, though his vision was perfect; he wanted to give an impression of thoughtfulness, and glasses were one of the best props at an attorney’s command.

“Who’s the judge again?”

“Mawson,” Nathaniel said flatly.

“Fearless Freddie? I’d forgot.” Charlie leaned back. “Well, be careful how you use shrinks as expert witnesses. Mawson’s mother must have been frightened by a volume of Freud, the way he reacts to psychological testimony.”

“I know that,” said Nathaniel mildly. “I think I’ve got Mawson covered on that score. What worries me is that we’ve got a prosecutor I don’t know much about, that new guy. I’ve been trying to get a line on him, but so far, nothing much.”

Charlie tapped his desk with the eraser end of his pencil. “I’ll make a couple of calls,” he promised, deciding to tend to it that afternoon: his next appointment was over an hour away. “Anything you want to know other than general information?”

“I’d like to talk to someone who’s been against him. If you can find someone, I’d appreciate it.” He had the good fortune to possess a beautiful speaking voice, and he wielded it expertly. He also used throat lozenges the way some people used cigarettes. He took out a small case of them and selected one. The sharp scent of eucalyptus filled the room.

“I’ll do what I can. It might take a day or so.” Charlie knew Nathaniel well enough to accept his reticence to make the sort of calls he was asking Charlie to place for him.

“Fine. Whatever you can get. Thanks,” said Nathaniel, adding belatedly, “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?”

“Nothing that can’t wait a few minutes,” said Charlie.

Nathaniel looked chagrined, aware that he had intruded. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

Charlie dismissed the apology with a small shake of his head.

 

Dinner was superb, California-Mediterranean, experimental enough to be interesting but not unfamiliar. Through appetizers and entrees, Morgan discussed everything from repapering the guest room to taking time on the weekend to get into the country with their two malamutes to one of the parks, perhaps Point Reyes. She commented on the next opera season, the trouble her secretary was having with the computer, suggested which vegetables they might want to plant in the back, gave her reasons for thinking that sports were given an exaggerated importance on network television, remarked on the Miami-pink-and-blue the neighbors across the street had painted their house, guessed how much more she would have to pay in taxes come the middle of the next month. Over a dessert of raspberry tarts topped with bittersweet chocolate, Morgan finally settled down and dis­cussed the case.

“I know it isn’t quite proper to do this, but . . . Well, the case is being dismissed. Without those tapes, there isn’t sufficient evidence. I had a call from George Wycliff about it already.”

“I’ll bet you did,” said Charlie, who thought the recently elected District Attorney was too much of a politician and not enough of a prosecutor. “Probably wanted a damage assessment for his public image.”

She raised her brows, indicating how accurate his supposition was. “I told him if he thought the case was as important as he kept saying it was, he should have tried it himself instead of leaving it to Victor Lovejoy.” There was heightened color in her face now, and it was not from the two glasses of wine that accompanied dinner.

“He won’t do that. Pornography is too hot an issue, all tangled up in First Amendment questions and community pressure. He won’t go near it,” said Charlie with certainty. “You know how difficult pornography trials are.”

“But this isn’t any old pornography, it’s child pornography! I don’t think we have any right to stop people looking at dirty pictures or reading whatever they want to read, but to do things like that to kids, that’s clear sexual abuse of the worst kind and you’d think that—” She made a gesture dismissing her own protestations. “Don’t tell me. Wycliff won’t take it on. He’ll give it to his strongest person on staff, but he won’t touch it himself.”

“That’s right; and if the case succeeds, he’ll take credit for it, and if it fails, he can wash his hands of it. He’s done it before.” Charlie sipped at the strong tea he preferred to coffee. “Lovejoy’s lucky to have such a good track record with his cases. He’s the one Wycliff has to blame. He might get his ears pinned back, but he won’t get fired.”

“Wycliff wouldn’t dare fire Victor Lovejoy,” said Charlie. “There’s all sorts of reasons, including his family connections.”

“Elizabeth,” said Morgan with great satisfaction.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt she’s his aunt,” said Charlie, thinking fondly and with exasperation of his favorite client.

“I was also thinking of Horatio Cronin,” said Morgan; Cronin had been the District Attorney in San Francisco for twenty-eight years, and though he was retired now, he still swung tremendous legal and political weight. “Lovejoy’s some kind of cousin.”

“Good connections,” said Charlie with a single-shoulder shrug. “And Victor’s a strong prosecutor—a little too rigid, but prose­cutors can get that way.”

“It’s the tunnel vision that bothers me,” said Morgan, taking a small, lingering sip of espresso. “If he just hadn’t depended so much on those tapes.” She put her demitasse down.

“Tell me,” said Charlie.

For a moment Morgan’s temper flared. “Don’t talk to me like a client, Charlie. I don’t deserve that.”

Charlie held up his hands in mock surrender. “I was just curious, that’s all.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “I have a vested interest in you, Morgan Studevant. Part of that ‘till death do us part’ contract, remember?”

She relented. “There are times I don’t know how you stand me.”

“Well,” he said, smiling a little. “One of us has to, and since you’re angry with yourself, I figure I’ll put in a good word for you.”

It took her a little while to respond to him. She looked away from him, then directly into his flint-dark eyes. “I’m sorry I’m such a difficult woman,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he said at once. “Not that I think you’re difficult: you’re complex, I’ll grant you that.”

“Charlie,” she said ruefully. “You’re not entering a plea.”

“No.” He released her hand. “Finish your coffee and let’s go home.” He reached for his wallet and picked up the check that had appeared at his elbow as if by sleight-of-hand.

As Charlie held her coat for her, Morgan said, “They’ll have to find one of those kids, or more than one. Then they’ll have to be willing to testify, and they’ll have to do it well enough to convince the jury.” She looked over her shoulder at Charlie. “Even then, who’s to say a jury would believe kids over Scooter Ferrand?”

“That’s up to the prosecutor,” said Charlie in a neutral tone as he opened the door for her.

“Is it? Kids are tricky witnesses, and where sexual abuse is concerned, juries are skittish as deer.” She huddled down into her coat. A fog that was more than mist and less than rain hung over the city, clammy and clinging.

“Fine night,” said Charlie sarcastically. The eight-year-old bullet scar on his shoulder ached as it always did in this weather, but he gave no sign of it. Later he would rub it with herbs and soak in a hot bath to ease it.

“What about Caesar and Pompei?” asked Morgan, referring to their dogs.

“They can come in tonight,” said Charlie, but could not resist adding as he did so often when a question of their pets came up, “How can you be so tough a judge and then such a sucker for those dogs? They’re malamutes, they’re used to hard weather, they’re bred for it. San Francisco is mild for them.”

“And those big blue eyes don’t get to you at all,” said Morgan, knowing that Charlie was as susceptible to the dogs’ blandish­ments as she was. “You treated Rufus better than most of us treat our families,” she said, very gently, for Charlie still missed his old dog who had been killed in traffic five years ago.

“It’s different for me: I’m Ojibwa,” said Charlie, as if that answered all questions.

Morgan shook her head, finally laughing outright. “And I’m Dutch and Danish and French and Russian, and what of it?”

He put his arm around her. “You’re Morgan, that’s what counts. The rest is frosting on the cake.”

They chuckled as they walked down California toward their Camry.

 

 

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