The Devil's Advocate (21 page)

"I had to hire a nurse to stay with her," he told them. "Lucky for me, the nurse Richard Jaffee had was available, Mrs. Longchamp, so if you see her around, you'll know why. If there's no improvement soon," he told everyone, "I'll have to put her in the sanitarium."

"You'll do what's best for her, Paul," Mr. Milton told him and then took him aside to talk with him. Norma and Jean brought out some hot buttered popcorn they had prepared in Mr. Milton's kitchen, and everyone's attention returned to the game.

The following week at the firm was very busy. Paul's case came to trial, and Dave and Ted picked up new clients. Dave was defending a doctor's son who had been allegedly pilfering drugs from his father and peddling them at college. Ted was handling a routine breaking and entering; the burglar was someone he had defended once before and gotten acquitted. He said his best hope was to get a deal, and sure enough, before the week was out, he had negotiated a settlement providing for less than a quarter of what the client would have been sentenced to had the case gone to trial.

Paul's case went according to plan, too. The district attorney's decision to prove that Philip Galan was guilty of murdering his little brother proved to be a mistake in strategy. Despite Philip's lack of remorse, Paul was able to get expert psychiatrists to testify that Philip had a history of impulsive behavior and was an emotionally disturbed youngster. Just as Paul intended, he was able to show how the parents were more guilty in many ways. The trial resulted in Philip being remanded to psychiatric care.

On Thursday, Kevin had his meeting with Beverly Morgan, Maxine Rothberg's nurse. She had left the hotel after Maxine's death and was living with a sister in Middletown, New York, a small city approximately an hour and a half from Manhattan.

Kevin made arrangements for Charon to drive him upstate.

Beverly Morgan's sister owned a small, Cape Cod-style house on a side street. It was a low-income neighborhood; the street was narrow, the houses old and run-down, their small porch fronts sagging, their sidewalks chipped and cracked and pitted. It had snowed much more frequently and more heavily in the upstate New York area, so the narrow street was cramped by the slush and the residue of the last storm. Kevin found it a depressing area, everything dull, faded, worn.

Beverly Morgan was home alone. The stocky fifty-eight-year-old black woman had a head of dull black hair with snowy white strands streaked through the center. Her hair had been cut unevenly, probably by her sister, Kevin thought, or some nonprofessional.

She gazed out at him with large black eyes, the whites bright, her look fearful, distrusting. She wore a kelly green sweater over a light green one-piece dress that looked like a nurse's uniform that had been dyed. Before she greeted him, she glanced quickly at the limo. Charon stood by the driver's side looking back at her.

"You're the lawyer?" she asked, still looking Charon's way.

"Yes, ma'am. Kevin Taylor."

She nodded and stepped back to let him enter, pausing to look once more at Charon before closing the door. The small entryway was covered with a narrow throw rug, stained and faded. There was a dark pine coat- and hatrack on the right and a square two-foot mirror in a matching pine frame on the wall beside it.

"You can put your coat there," Beverly said and nodded at the rack.

"Thank you." Kevin slipped out of his suede and wool topcoat and hung it quickly.

There was a delicious aroma throughout the house, the scent of chicken being fried. It made his mouth water. "Something smells good."

"Um," she said and turned to lead him into the living room, a small room overly heated by a coal stove. Kevin loosened his tie and looked about. The furniture was of discount department store quality, the cushions on the couch showing their wear. The one attractive piece was a vintage dark pine grandfather clock, its face reporting accurate time.

"Beautiful clock," he remarked.

"Was my father's. Held on to it no matter how bad times got. Sit down. You want some tea?"

"No, no thanks."

"Well, let's get to it. I had some experience with lawyers before," she said, dropping herself into a light brown easy chair across from the couch. It seemed to close itself snugly around her. She crossed her legs and smirked.

"Well, this is quite an important case."

"Rich people's cases always are."

Kevin tried to smile. He saw a bottle of bourbon on the bottom bookshelf with a tumbler beside it. The glass had some whiskey in it. He opened his briefcase and took out a long notepad. Then he sat back.

"What can you tell me about the way Mrs. Rothberg died?"

"Same as I told the district attorney," she began with mechanical swiftness. "I came into the room and found her sprawled out on the bed. I thought she had had a heart attack at first. I called the doctor right away, tried CPR, and called the hotel to have Mr. Rothberg paged."

"When was the last time you had seen her conscious?"

"Right after dinner. I sat with her for a while, and then she said she was tired, but she wanted me to leave the television set on. So I went to my own room to watch television. When I came back, she was dead."

"And you had given her the usual dosage of insulin that day?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now are you confident that you gave her the correct amount?"

"Yes, I am," she said firmly.

"I see." Kevin pretended to write some notes. He did write "Appears defensive," but he realized anyone in her position had a right to be.

"Let me get right to it, Beverly. Is it all right if I call you Beverly?"

"It's my name."

•

"Yes. Let me get to the heart of the thing so I don't waste any of your time." She nodded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Do you know anything that would incriminate Mr. Rothberg? Did you see him go into his wife's bedroom after you had left, for instance?"

"No. I went right to my room. I told you."

"Uh-huh. You know about the supply of insulin that was found in Mr. Rothberg's room. Do you have any explanation for why it was there?"

She shook her head.

"Beverly, you must know that Mr. Rothberg was seeing someone on the side."

"Sure do."

"Did Mrs. Rothberg know it, too?"

"Uh-huh."

"She ever talk to you about it?"

"No. She was a lady, right to the end."

"Then how did you know she knew?" he asked quickly, falling into his cross-examination tone of voice and demeanor.

"She had to know. Other people came to see her."

"Then you overheard someone tell her, talk to her about it?"

She hesitated.

"Not that you were spying, but I'm sure while you were working nearby . . ."

"Yeah, I heard some talk sometimes."

"I see. Did you happen, by accident, of course, to ever overhear an exchange between Mr. and Mrs. Rothberg concerning this matter?"

"You mean, did they have an argument about it? Not that I heard, no, but I came into her room many a time just after he had left and found her looking upset."

"Uh-huh." Kevin sat for a moment staring at her. "Mrs. Rothberg was quite depressed then, you would say?"

"Well she didn't have a helluva lot to be happy about. She was an invalid and her husband was screwin' around. But even though she had a rough time of it, she managed to be in good spirits most of the time. She was quite a woman. I thought she was a real lady, understand?" she repeated with emphasis.

"Yes, I do." He sat back, taking a relaxed posture. "You've had a pretty rough time of it yourself, haven't you, Beverly?" he asked in his most sympathetic tone of voice.

"Rough time?"

"With your own life, your own family."

"Yes, I have."

Kevin shifted his eyes obviously and clearly toward the bottle of bourbon. "You do some drinking, Beverly?" She straightened up quickly. "Even at the hotel?"

"I have a drink once in a while. Helps me get through the day."

"More than once in a while, perhaps? People know about that, too, Beverly," he said quickly, sitting forward.

"I never got so I couldn't do my job, Mr. Taylor."

"As a nurse, you know that people who drink often don't face up to how much they drink or how it affects them."

"I'm no alcoholic. It ain't goin' to do you any good to try to say I am and that I accidentally killed Mrs. Rothberg."

"I read Mr. and Mrs. Rothberg's doctor's reports. He had some critical things to say about you, Beverly."

"He never liked me. He was Mr. Rothberg's doctor," she added. "He wasn't the doctor Mrs. Rothberg's mother had."

"You were in charge of giving Mrs. Rothberg her insulin, you drank, the doctor knew it and wasn't pleased," Kevin said, ignoring her implications.

"I didn't accidentally kill Mrs. Rothberg."

"I see. Mr. Rothberg tells me he and his wife did have an argument about his affair and that she threatened to commit suicide and make it look as if he had killed her. He thinks that's why the insulin was placed in his closet. There is a strong suggestion that the fatal dosage came from that supply. Do you think you can search your memory for any possible recollection of how that insulin got into Mr. Rothberg's closet?"

She stared at him.

"Did you put it there?"

"No."

"Your fingerprints were found on it."

"So? My fingerprints are on everything in Mrs. Rothberg's room. Look, why the hell would I put it in there?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

"Maybe Mrs. Rothberg asked you to do so."

"She didn't and I didn't."

"Did you see her wheel herself into Mr. Rothberg's room?"

"When?"

"Ever?"

"Maybe . . . yes, I guess."

"With the box of insulin in her lap, perhaps?"

"No, never. And if she did, why ain't her fingerprints on the box?"

"She could have worn plastic gloves."

"Oh, what a load a garbage. Mr. Rothberg coulda worn plastic gloves, too!"

He smiled to himself. She wasn't dumb. She imbibed and might have been less efficient than the doctor would have liked, he thought, but she wasn't stupid. He decided to try another tact.

"You liked Mrs. Rothberg, didn't you, Beverly?"

"Of course. She was a real lady, I told you."

"And you didn't like what Mr. Rothberg was doing, seeing another woman while his devoted wife was so sick, right?"

"He is a selfish person. He didn't even visit her all that much. She was always asking me to call him or get him."

"So maybe you would understand why she would want to blame him for her death."

"She wouldn't kill herself. I just can't believe that."

"You always felt sorry for her . .. you had a drink or two beforehand, she asked you to put the insulin in his room . .."

"No. Look here, I don't like what you're trying to say, Mr. Taylor, and I don't think I should talk to you anymore." She folded her arms over her bosom and glared at him.

"All right, I'll save my other questions for the trial when you have to answer under oath," he said. He was sorry he was taking such a hard stance with her, but he wanted to shake her loose. What if there was nothing to shake loose? he asked himself. But he let the question pass quickly. He put his notepad back into the briefcase.

"If you did do it and it comes out in court, you'll be considered an accessory to a crime, a serious crime."

"I didn't do it."

"And then, of course," he said, standing, "if you did it not knowing what her intentions were, no one can blame you for anything."

"I didn't put any insulin in Mr. Rothberg's room," she repeated.

Kevin nodded. "Okay. There are other people to see, other facts to check." He started out of the room. Beverly got up and followed him to the entryway and watched him put on his coat. He looked back at her.

Here she was, a black woman who was reaching the autumn of her life. She had little to look back on with happiness. She had become a professional and tried to bring up her sons without a husband. Much of it had resulted in disaster. She drank but held on to her job. And now it was over, and over in a terrible way.

Surely she must look at the world with jaundiced eyes and see less sunlight with each and every passing day. It was as if she had been born on a bright day and gradually the world had closed in on her until she was looking through a tunnel.

Kevin regretted the harsh tone he had taken. Rothberg certainly wasn't worth it.

"Must say, what you're cooking smells wonderful." Beverly's face didn't soften.

She looked at him fearfully, her eyes filled with distrust. He couldn't blame her.

Lately, everything he said and did was contrived, planned for a purpose. Why should she think he was sincere? Yet his stomach did churn with covetousness.

"So long and thank you," he said, opening the door. She came to it and stood there looking out as he walked down the small walkway to the limo. Charon opened the door for him and then turned around and gazed at her. Kevin watched her face change from anger and distrust to downright terror and fear. She closed the door quickly, and moments later he was on his way back.

As soon as Kevin was within mobile phone range of the city, he called the office to see if he had any messages. He realized all the secretaries would be going home before he could arrive.

"You have an appointment with Tracey Casewell, Mr. Rothberg's 'friend,'

tomorrow at two," Wendy told him. "Other than that, things have been quiet."

"Okay, I'll be going straight home, then."

"Oh, Mr. Taylor, Mr. Milton wants to speak to you. Just one moment."

Kevin had hoped he could put off speaking with John Milton until tomorrow. He was depressed about the interview with Beverly Morgan and couldn't help feeling he had let Mr. Milton down. It wasn't a rational reaction. There was no reason for him to blame himself, but there was just something about working for Mr. Milton that made him want to succeed.

"Kevin?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did it go?"

"It didn't go well," he said. Even though he knew Charon couldn't hear the conversation, he saw the man look up in his rearview mirror at those words.