Read Online Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller by Clifford Irving - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Clifford Irving
Tags: Fiction, General, LEGAL, Thrillers, Crime, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense
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"That happened. I held up Number Five. I didn't know what it meant."
"I thought you said you'd watched a lot of TV."
Quintana glared at him again.
"What happens in a lineup," Warren explained, giving his client the benefit of the doubt, "is that there are people on the other side of the mirror. They can see you but you can't see them. In this instance, there was an Indian woman named Siva Singh on the other side of the glass, and she picked you out. She said, 'That's him.'"
Him
meant the man whom Siva Singh had seen running away from the shopping complex on Wesleyan. Singh had been in the back of the Wesleyan Terrace Laundry & Dry Cleaners, slipping suits and dresses into plastic sheaths. She had heard what she later realized was a gunshot. Coming up to the front of the store a minute or two later, she had noticed a man standing by a station wagon parked in the lot. And the next minute: "My goodness, he was running away very fast."
She rarely went outside in the summer heat unless it was necessary. She went about her business and a few minutes later a customer came in to drop off some dry cleaning. The police offense report noted the customer's name as Rona Morrison, forty-five, a white divorced female, mother of two, who worked as a clerk at Better Buy Motors on Bissonet.
On her way back to her car, Morrison glanced in the window of the station wagon.
Siva Singh heard a scream. She hurried outside and found Morrison on her knees in the parking lot, gagging. Singh then peered inside the station wagon and saw the dead man. She brought Morrison into the store, settled her on a chair, and telephoned 911.
When the HPD squad car arrived, Singh was interviewed by homicide sergeants Hollis Thiel and Craig Douglas. That was when she described the man she had seen running away as "about five feet nine or five feet ten inches tall, with long black hair, and he wore just a pair of trousers with a shirt. He wore no jacket. He looked, if I may say so, to be poor and homeless. He was white, not colored. I thought he might have been Hispanic." She had never seen him before in her life.
Downtown at Harris County Jail the next morning she picked Hector Quintana out of a lineup of six men. "It is most certainly number five."
Warren related most of this to Quintana, whose hair was black and could be described as long.
"What were you wearing that night, Hector, when you held up the Circle K?"
"A shirt and pants."
"No jacket?"
"Was a hot night. My jacket was in my shopping cart."
"Where was the shopping cart?"
"I left it under a stairway near where I found the gun. I was going to return there and get it."
"This is not good." Warren shook his head gloomily. "The Indian woman says it was you she saw running away. Can you explain to me how that's possible? And please think a minute before you answer."
"I doan have to think a minute," Quintana grumbled. "She saw someone else.
Yo no."
"That's your story? That you were never near that station wagon, that dry cleaners? That you never ran away from the shopping center? Understand, I'm not asking if you shot and killed this man — I'm just asking if you ran away from there or any other place. No crime in running away."
The glare intensified. "If you doan believe me—"
"I know, I know. I'm betting on a lame cock." Warren grinned to establish some camaraderie, then let the expression wither. The tough part came now. The dialogue between lawyer and accused client was a process of discovery, a voyage through jagged shoals in stormy weather, often a voyage from obscurity to painful light. The fact of Quintana's denial of guilt was beside the point. Men had been known to deny guilt until the very moment they stepped into the courtroom and saw the grim faces of the jury. Texas juries killed. That was part of their heritage.
"Hector, I hear everything you're telling me. I believe you. But I'm a lawyer, not your mother. I have to look at the evidence, because that's what a jury is going to
"I thought you said you'd watched a lot of TV."
Quintana glared at him again.
"What happens in a lineup," Warren explained, giving his client the benefit of the doubt, "is that there are people on the other side of the mirror. They can see you but you can't see them. In this instance, there was an Indian woman named Siva Singh on the other side of the glass, and she picked you out. She said, 'That's him.'"
Him
meant the man whom Siva Singh had seen running away from the shopping complex on Wesleyan. Singh had been in the back of the Wesleyan Terrace Laundry & Dry Cleaners, slipping suits and dresses into plastic sheaths. She had heard what she later realized was a gunshot. Coming up to the front of the store a minute or two later, she had noticed a man standing by a station wagon parked in the lot. And the next minute: "My goodness, he was running away very fast."
She rarely went outside in the summer heat unless it was necessary. She went about her business and a few minutes later a customer came in to drop off some dry cleaning. The police offense report noted the customer's name as Rona Morrison, forty-five, a white divorced female, mother of two, who worked as a clerk at Better Buy Motors on Bissonet.
On her way back to her car, Morrison glanced in the window of the station wagon.
Siva Singh heard a scream. She hurried outside and found Morrison on her knees in the parking lot, gagging. Singh then peered inside the station wagon and saw the dead man. She brought Morrison into the store, settled her on a chair, and telephoned 911.
When the HPD squad car arrived, Singh was interviewed by homicide sergeants Hollis Thiel and Craig Douglas. That was when she described the man she had seen running away as "about five feet nine or five feet ten inches tall, with long black hair, and he wore just a pair of trousers with a shirt. He wore no jacket. He looked, if I may say so, to be poor and homeless. He was white, not colored. I thought he might have been Hispanic." She had never seen him before in her life.
Downtown at Harris County Jail the next morning she picked Hector Quintana out of a lineup of six men. "It is most certainly number five."
Warren related most of this to Quintana, whose hair was black and could be described as long.
"What were you wearing that night, Hector, when you held up the Circle K?"
"A shirt and pants."
"No jacket?"
"Was a hot night. My jacket was in my shopping cart."
"Where was the shopping cart?"
"I left it under a stairway near where I found the gun. I was going to return there and get it."
"This is not good." Warren shook his head gloomily. "The Indian woman says it was you she saw running away. Can you explain to me how that's possible? And please think a minute before you answer."
"I doan have to think a minute," Quintana grumbled. "She saw someone else.
Yo no."
"That's your story? That you were never near that station wagon, that dry cleaners? That you never ran away from the shopping center? Understand, I'm not asking if you shot and killed this man — I'm just asking if you ran away from there or any other place. No crime in running away."
The glare intensified. "If you doan believe me—"
"I know, I know. I'm betting on a lame cock." Warren grinned to establish some camaraderie, then let the expression wither. The tough part came now. The dialogue between lawyer and accused client was a process of discovery, a voyage through jagged shoals in stormy weather, often a voyage from obscurity to painful light. The fact of Quintana's denial of guilt was beside the point. Men had been known to deny guilt until the very moment they stepped into the courtroom and saw the grim faces of the jury. Texas juries killed. That was part of their heritage.
"Hector, I hear everything you're telling me. I believe you. But I'm a lawyer, not your mother. I have to look at the evidence, because that's what a jury is going to
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