Barbara Levenson - Mary Magruder Katz 03 - Outrageous October (14 page)

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CHAPTER

FORTY-THREE

My brain was on speed as I drove home. Carolyn Brousseau’s housekeeper was mixed up in Sherry’s kidnapping. Francie worked for the victim of an unsolved murder. This news made me totally fearful of ever recovering Sherry.

I made a pot of coffee and sat by the fire. Pauly was the person who lured Sherry away. These kidnappers couldn’t turn Sherry over to her mother knowing that she could identify Paul Conrad and perhaps lead the police to Francie and whoever else was a partner in this outrageous crime.

I called Ken, but got his voicemail, so I left a message that I would give him more information in the morning. I am a person who is used to acting, not reacting and this waiting game of taking no action left me feeling like an insect trapped between a fly swatter and an exterminator. Was I killing time until the bad guys killed Lillian’s beautiful naïve daughter?

I fell asleep fully clothed on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Hours later, I awoke shivering. The fire was out and cold hung over the house like a dark hand, gripping all the feeling out of my body,

I soaked in a hot bath and snuggled under two down quilts, but sleep evaded me. Sam curled over my feet and gently snored until I got up and began going through the morning rituals by rote.

At eight o’clock, I pulled up in front of Ken Upham’s house. I was probably too early, but it seemed like noontime to me after the sleepless night. Sam had protested mightily when I urged him back into his crate after his breakfast and morning walk. Guilt was seeping into my petting of the poor dog who would undoubtedly be ecstatic to return to Miami and our familiar house where he could roam into any room he pleased.

Ken’s house was a large chalet style with decks on two levels. I walked down the hill from the road admiring the beds of mums and asters surrounding the front door. Before I could ring the doorbell, an attractive woman opened the door. She was wearing a long terrycloth robe. Her white hair tumbled to her shoulders, and even with no makeup, she looked interesting Her skin had a natural healthy look with bronze high cheek bones. The white hair against her suntanned skin gave her an ageless look.. She must have been a beauty when she was younger.

‘“You must be Mary. Please, come in. Ken is getting dressed and he’ll be right down. I’ve heard so much about you the past few days.”

“Sorry I’m here so early.”

“No need to be sorry. Come on back to the breakfast room. I’ve got fresh coffee and some coffee cake ready.” She pointed to a chair at a round maple table. Sun was beginning to come through a large bay window behind the table. Somehow, Ken’s wife and this room with the smell of coffee and cinnamon reminded me of my mother and mornings growing up. I sat down and felt more at ease than I had in the last twenty-four hours.

“Mary, good morning, I see you’ve met Rita and she’s got you all set with some breakfast.” Ken strode into the room smelling of after shave, his hair damp, what was left of it.

“Mary, I have to thank you” Rita said. I know Ken is helping you with some police type problem. Of course, he can’t tell me about it. I’m used to that, but I haven’t seen him so engaged and animated since he retired. Somehow, gardening and golf just don’t turn him on like robberies and murders did.” Rita laughed as she looked fondly at Ken.

As soon as I had wolfed down two slices of the delicious coffee cake and gulped a huge mug of coffee, I turned to Fred. “Let’s go out and take a look at your land. I don’t mean to hurry you, but we don’t want to miss your hearing.”

We shrugged into our jackets, and Ken led the way down a winding stairway into his back yard. As we walked, I touched Ken’s elbow to gain his attention.

“Ken, I got a lot of information from Dash last night. Paul Conrad’s father killed his mother when he was a teenager. The father went to prison and Paul became the foster ward of the Wallace family. Francie Wallace was the housekeeper for the Brousseau family. Carolyn Brousseau was the victim of a murder in her own home at night. That murder has never been solved.”

“So you’re fitting these facts into a pattern?” Ken asked.

I could see that Ken was assuming his cagey police detective persona.

“Can’t you see the connection? Francie was the name of the woman who left the package for Lillian at the market and Paul is her foster son.”

“My Secret Service contact should have information for us as soon as we leave court in Barre. Let’s see what that adds to the picture.”

We were walking on the perimeter of Ken and Rita’s land, separated by a low picket fence from Roland Behr’s property. Ken’s newly planted beds, low trees and a trellis with climbing clematis vines were a stark contrast to Roland’s yard. It was filled with what looked like trash. There were cardboards nailed to trees and tin cans scattered about. The ground was more weeds than grass.

“What a mess. What is all this stuff?” I asked. You should be reporting him to some zoning board for this eye-sore.”

“As best as I can tell, these seem to be some kind of targets.. He and his buddies take target practice out here. We often hear shooting at night. He has concocted some kind of lights that shine on the trees and on that old table over there.” Ken pointed out the various areas.

“Isn’t this dangerous? What if a bullet ricocheted into your yard?”

“Rita has been worried about that. Let’s walk back up to the road. I want you to walk around to the front of Roland’s house so you have a complete picture.”

Roland’s house was well hidden behind a large stand of trees and underbrush. The driveway was unpaved gravel, leading to a detached garage. We took a few steps down the drive. The house was dark brown and melted into the trees. No house number was visible. The place looked deserted. Unless you were looking for it, it would easily be missed altogether.

“When Roland said he valued his privacy, he wasn’t exaggerating, was he?” I asked.

“He meant it all right. We better get started.” Ken walked swiftly through another neighbor’s yard and led me back to the road where my car was parked.

“I’ll drive,” I said, as I popped the lock on my key fob.

Ken laughed. “No one locks their cars around here. You can leave your purse lying right on the seat and it’ll be there when you return.”

“Sure, no one steals your purse. They just kidnap innocent young coeds.” I said. .

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CHAPTER

FORTY-FOUR

The drive took us north past neat villages and farms and into the Green Mountains. More leaves showed their fall hues the further north we drove. Soon we were surrounded by tall walls of granite on both sides of the road. We passed trucks loaded with logs.

As we drove, Ken and I discussed the case that Roland had filed against him.

“I can’t believe that this case won’t be put out of its misery today, especially after seeing Roland’s place. You’re the one who should be complaining.” I said.

“I’ve learned not to take anything for granted. Vermont is home to a variety of people. There are true Vermonters who really care about their environment. Then there are the newcomers; the tree-huggers, the ‘I care about being green except for my gas guzzling Porsche’. They’re the trust fund babies newly arrived from New York.”

“Does Roland fit into any of those categories?”

“No, he’s a category all to himself. He seems to be just plain ornery.”

We had left the highway at the exit marked “Barre, Montpelier.”

“The two towns border each other,” Ken explained, “but they are nothing alike.”

“Isn’t Montpelier the state capital?”

“Yes it is, and it’s a very charming town with state buildings and well preserved old homes. You’ll have to see it while you’re visiting. Barre is basically a stone mining town.”

Ken directed me through an intersection of roads and we began an ascent up a hilly road of twists and turns. In a few minutes we came upon what appeared to be a main street. The buildings were a jumble of cafes, auto shops, and houses turned into banks or offices.

“We need to make a turn in a minute into the courthouse parking lot, and you’re going way too fast. Speed limits are for real here My Google map shows the turn right now”

I suppressed a laugh. Somehow Google and this old brick street didn’t seem compatible. I turned sharply into the lot as Ken directed.

“Where’s the courthouse?” I asked looking around.

“Right there, that beige building.” Ken pointed to the building just ahead of the lot.

We got out of the car. I pulled my file from the back seat and we started up a long walk. I had expected an old courthouse with a feeling of history. Instead I was viewing what was a miniature version of any one of our modern courthouses in Miami.

We walked into a plain vanilla entryway that could have been in any city. The big difference was that no one actually checked our bags or phones. And no one was standing in line to gain entrance. It was just us. A friendly woman at the front desk directed us to a courtroom on the second floor.

The judge was holding a file and conferring with an elderly man seated next to him on the bench. There were the usual courtroom personnel; a young woman court reporter, a bailiff, and a few people seated in the rows of chairs behind the well of the court. A woman attorney was standing as we walked in and identified herself as counsel for a juvenile defendant charged with aggravated battery.

The first thing that I noticed was that both the attorney and the court reporter wore rather long skirts. I glanced down at my pants suit and realized that I must be violating some dress code.

The next thing that I noticed was that the attorney was discussing her juvenile client with the judge but the client was not present. No one else seemed to be present in the case either. The discussion dragged on for what seemed an endless time period. I wondered how the judge could devote so much time to this one case and whispered this to Ken.

“The volume of cases is light here. There’s no incentive to make a decision,” he whispered back.

I walked over to the bailiff to check in and let him know that Ken and I were here and ready, hoping maybe that would speed things up. The bailiff’s name tag said Harry Sinclair.

“Good morning. Mary Magruder Katz representing Kenneth Upham in Behr versus Upham,” I said, smiling at the bailiff.

“I’ll let you know when the judge is ready,” he answered and didn’t return my smile.

“Will we have to wait through the arraignment calendar?” I asked.

“It’s not an arraignment week. That’s next Monday.”

Before I could grasp that arraignments don’t happen every day in this system, the judge stopped what he was doing and glared in my direction.

“Anything wrong over there, Harry?”

“No, Judge McCreary, just answering a few questions of this here lawyer,” the bailiff said. He pointed at me with his chin and grimaced as if he had just tasted something bitter.

The judge went back to conferring with the older man seated with him on the bench.

“Can I just ask you a couple of other questions?” I asked, realizing I was pushing my luck, but curiosity overwhelmed my better instincts. “I’m new here.”

“So I’ve noticed. Go ahead. It beats listening to that gibberish from the lawyer in that juvenile case.”

“Why isn’t the juvenile defendant in court? Doesn’t he have a right to be present at all his hearings?”

“Oh, he’s got the right, but he don’t want that right,” Harry said.

“Why not? Is he scared or sick?”

“I don’t know about that, but all the juveniles are kept at a facility that’s at the other end of the state. If they want to come to court, it means over an hour ride by van and another hour back. Sometimes the hearing may take only a few minutes, so these kids don’t want to go through all that.”

“Why are they so far away?”

“Listen, Miss, we can’t build a facility for every two or three kids. I don’t know where you’re from. Did I hear Miami? Well, we’ve only got 650, 000 people in the whole state. How many have you got?”

“In Miami, about two and a half million. Oh, of course, I see what you’re saying.”

“You got any more questions or can I get back to my Sudoku puzzle?” Harry waved his folded newspaper.

“Just one, is the plaintiff here with his counsel for my hearing?”

“The lawyer checked in, but his client isn’t coming. Christian Berger, that’s his name, he went outside for a smoke.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll quit pestering you.”

“No problem, it’s all part of my job, but you sure got a lot of questions.”

Harry went back to his paper, and I started back to my seat when I realized I hadn’t asked the most important question. I tapped Harry on the shoulder.

“What now?”

“Who’s the other man with the judge?”

“That’s Calvin Crumb, the side judge. Everyone knows him. He’s been reelected seven times. You really are new here.”

I retreated to my seat. “Ken, that guy up there with the judge, that’s one of those side judges and he seems to be an institution. Do you know him? His name is Calvin Crumb.”

“I don’t know him, but I’ve heard of him. He’s a real curmudgeon. He was named after Calvin Coolidge who was a native of this part of Vermont.”

“Dash told me these side judges aren’t even lawyers. Did you have anything like that in New Haven?”

“No, the last of the justices of the peace were phased out about forty years ago.”

I looked up and saw that the juvenile matter must have been concluded. The attorney was packing her briefcase.

“I’ll give this matter some more thought and issue an order sometime next week,” Judge McCreary said, as he left his chair and headed out a side door.

“All rise. Ten minute recess,” Harry, the bailiff, bellowed as he followed the judge out of the courtroom.

“I can’t believe he’s taking a break. This whole hearing shouldn’t take ten minutes. I thought we’d be back in High Pines well before noon. I’ll go introduce myself to opposing counsel. That must be him,” I said, as I watched an older stoop-shouldered man enter the back of the room. He was stashing a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, and since no other logical candidates were present, I decided he must be the guy.

I watched him approach the plaintiff’s table. He didn’t appear to have a file or papers with him.

“Hi, Mr. Berger, I’m Mary Magruder Katz. I’m representing Ken Upham. It looks like we have a few minutes to talk before the judge calls our case.”

“Yeah, I’m Berger, but there isn’t anything to talk about in this case. My client’s privacy has been invaded. Your client removed living trees. That’s downright sinful. We’ll let a jury settle this case, or I may be filing for summary judgment.” Berger turned his back to me ending any and all future communications.

“Well?” Ken asked.

“Well, Mr. Berger has decided to play hardball. Do you know who he is? The filing notice says he’s from Rutland, but he sounds like he’s from Germany or Sweden or someplace European.”

“I don’t know him, but I’ve only been here less than a year except for ski vacations. I haven’t been hanging around the courthouses.”

The bailiff caught our attention with another bellowing “all rise.” The judge and the side judge returned and took their seats

“The next case is
Behr vs. Upham.
All parties step forward and identify yourselves,” Harry motioned us to step in front of the bench.

I placed my card on the court reporter’s desk. I saw the side judge eyeing me, looking at my pants suit.

“Your Honor, good morning, Mary Katz. Thank you for allowing me to appear
pro hoc vice
through the office of local counsel, Dash Mellman. I am representing Major Kenneth Upham, recently retired from the New Haven, Connecticut Police Department and now a resident of High Pines, Vermont. He is the defendant in this case. I requested this hearing on my Motion to Dismiss this case.” I gestured toward Ken who was standing at our defense table.

“My file indicates that you’re from Florida. And we have the defendant from Connecticut. Mr. Berger, where are you from?” The judge frowned as he glanced at the file.

“I’m from Rutland, Your Honor. At least, that’s in Vermont.” Berger feigned a small laugh. “My client is unavailable this morning and I am waiving his appearance. He has brought this case against Mr. Upham due to Upham’s brazen mutilation of the landscape. This has violated my client’s right to the peaceful enjoyment of his private property. Mr. Upham has also violated a law against tree removal without government permission which could result in criminal charges. I am requesting a jury trial.”

“Well, Judge, I had no idea that Vermont had a criminal code for tree murder,” I said.

“Sarcasm will not get you very far in this court, Ms. Katz. Do you wish to present some evidence in defense of your motion?”

“Yes, your honor if I may have just a moment to see if our witness has arrived.”

“Witness? She’s calling a witness?” The side judge rose half out of his chair.

“Go ahead and check, counsel. Calvin, she’s entitled to call a witness,” Judge McCreary said.

I hurried over to Ken who nodded his head. “Arthur Woodhouse is here. I just saw him stick his head in the door”

I hurried into the hallway and saw a man who had an outdoorsy look. He was wearing jeans and a corduroy jacket. His face was bronzed and lined from years in the sun. He was carrying some rolled up papers.

After less than two minutes of briefing Mr. Woodhouse, whose name couldn’t have been more appropriate, and a quick glance at the survey and pictures of Ken’s property, we headed into the courtroom. “Sorry to put you on the stand with so little preparation,” I said.

“It’s okay. I’ve been doing work with trees and gardens for thirty years. I guess I can answer a few questions,” Arthur said.

The clerk stood as we entered the courtroom. She swore Woodhouse in and pointed to the witness chair.

“Morning, Judge. Morning Calvin,” Arthur said.

“Good to see you, Arthur,” Judge McCreary said.

I relaxed a little. They all knew each other. That ought to help.

“State your name and occupation for the record please,” I began.

“I’m Arthur Woodhouse. I’m an arborist. My company, Woodhouse Landscapes, advises homes and businesses on beautifying their properties. I design gardens and other outdoor amenities. I also care for trees seeing that they are preserved where possible or removed if necessary.”

“Now do you know Ken Upham?”

“Sure do. He’s sitting right over there at that table.”

“When did you meet him?”

“It was this past spring. He called me to come over and give him an estimate on fixing up his place.”

“What did you see when you went over to Mr. Upham’s property?”

“Well, it was a good looking new house, and the setting was nice with the hills and all, but the front had no plantings and the back was a real mess.”

“Can you describe what you mean when you say it was a mess?”

“There were some scrub trees, mostly white pines. They’re like weeds. They just grow wherever over the years. There were no flower beds which the Mrs. wanted. There wasn’t any grass, just a lot of underbrush, and the builder had left a pile of building scraps.”

“Sounds pretty ugly.”

“Objection, Judge.” Berger was on his feet. “We’re not interested in Ms. Katz’s opinions. She’s not the witness.”

“He’s right, Ms. Katz., sustained. Ask a question. Don’t give your opinion.”

“I don’t need to. Your honor can see for himself. Mr. Woodhouse, have you brought some pictures with you today?”

“Sure have. Ken said you asked me to, right?” Arthur began to unroll his sheaf of papers.

“Did you take these photos?’

“Yup, first time I went out to the house. It helps me work on a landscape plan.”

“Will the clerk please mark these as defendant’s exhibits?’

The clerk hunted for her ink pad and labels. “Can I mark them later, Judge? I didn’t know we were having witnesses and exhibits and all.”

“Okay, Lucinda. Let me have a look. We’ll just call them defense one through four.” Judge McCreary handed the photos back to me.

I walked over to Berger and spread the photos out on his table.

“Any objection, Mr. Berger?” I asked.

“No, I’m glad the pictures are here. They show what a nice cover there was for my client’s privacy,” Berger said.

“Mr. Woodhouse, will you explain to the court when and where you took each of these pictures.”

“Sure. This first one shows the condition of the backyard such as it was when I first saw it last spring. You can see the jungle of weeds and underbrush covering a good quarter of the yard. Over here, in this photo, you see this stand of white pines. As you can see one of them is partially dead, and the others are choking this pretty maple tree. This is what happens when trees are allowed to grow without any plan. In order to keep the good trees healthy, it’s necessary to take out the weeds and worthless trees. That’s just healthy foresting.”