find out how solid his testimony will be, assuming he’s put on the stand. So I’d say that your first priority should be to talk to the boy.” He looked at me. “What d’you think your chances are of interrogating him without parental objection?”
“I might have a shot at it,” I said. “I think he trusts me.”
“Is the boy with his mother now?” Stringfellow asked.
“Yes.”
“Good—” He nodded. “You want to make absolutely sure she’s present during the interrogation. Only her. Don’t let Guest get involved, for God’s sake. There’s no reason for that—no legal reason—whatever. Guest isn’t the child’s legal guardian. Which is to say that he has no control over the child’s life. None whatever.”
“That’s not the way he acts,” I answered ruefully.
“I understand that. I’m certain that it must be difficult, dealing with him. But I’m telling you your legal position.”
“Will it take a court order to interrogate the boy?” Friedman asked.
“Not to interrogate him, I shouldn’t think, provided his parent is present.” Stringfellow frowned, this time kneading his lower lip between thumb and forefinger as he considered the question. “I suppose,” he said, “that you could conceivably need a court order to enter the premises, if his parent or guardian objects to interrogation. But in a capital case, for a child who’s six years old—” He shook his head. “No, there shouldn’t be a problem, interrogating him. Provided, as I’ve said, that his mother is present during the interrogation.”
“Good.” Friedman nodded.
“And, obviously, we don’t want Kramer talking to the boy—Kramer, or his lawyer, if we can help it. At least, not until we’ve talked to the boy first. That’s essential. If we assume that Kramer has programmed the boy to tell a false story, we don’t want that falsity reinforced. Which, conceivably, Kramer’s lawyer could accomplish.”
“Right.” Friedman nodded again.
“Good. Well—” Stringfellow shuffled his papers together and pushed himself back from his big walnut desk. “Is there anything we haven’t covered?”
“Have you talked to Kramer?” Friedman asked.
Stringfellow nodded. “I talked to him yesterday evening.”
“And?”
“Well—” The lawyer once more began pulling at his earlobe. “I found his story remarkably consistent. However, at the moment, he’s the only suspect we’ve got. That’s to say, we’ve got a corpse at the scene of the crime, and we’ve got a boy, and we’ve got Kramer, and we’ve got Alexander Guest. And if we eliminate the boy, and we eliminate Kramer, then that leaves Alexander Guest. And I must say—” He permitted himself a small, prim smile. “I must say that I, for one, wouldn’t like to prosecute Alexander Guest for the murder of his own grandson’s bodyguard. Not on the evidence as it stands now, anyhow.”
“Are you saying that you want me to interrogate John Kramer before you decide to ask for an indictment?” I asked.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Stringfellow answered. “As far as I know, tomorrow we’re going before a special session of the grand jury, asking for an indictment. However, as soon as possible, I’d like to find out what John Kramer has to say—how solid he is. That’s what I’m saying. So keep in touch.” He positioned his papers neatly on his desk, smiled perfunctorily, shook hands with both of us, and wished us good day.
NINE
F RIEDMAN AND I GOT coffee from a machine and went down the corridor to his office. When he unlocked the door we saw a sheet of paper on the floor. Together, standing, we read the unevenly printed message:
CALL CHIEF DWYER AT HOME
Canelli’s initials were scrawled in the lower left hand corner, along with the day and time: Sunday, 10:20 A.M .
Friedman stepped over the paper and sighed as he sank down in his chair, unlocking his desk drawer. I knew he was looking for a cigar, his first of the day.
“I might have a shot at it,” I said. “I think he trusts me.”
“Is the boy with his mother now?” Stringfellow asked.
“Yes.”
“Good—” He nodded. “You want to make absolutely sure she’s present during the interrogation. Only her. Don’t let Guest get involved, for God’s sake. There’s no reason for that—no legal reason—whatever. Guest isn’t the child’s legal guardian. Which is to say that he has no control over the child’s life. None whatever.”
“That’s not the way he acts,” I answered ruefully.
“I understand that. I’m certain that it must be difficult, dealing with him. But I’m telling you your legal position.”
“Will it take a court order to interrogate the boy?” Friedman asked.
“Not to interrogate him, I shouldn’t think, provided his parent is present.” Stringfellow frowned, this time kneading his lower lip between thumb and forefinger as he considered the question. “I suppose,” he said, “that you could conceivably need a court order to enter the premises, if his parent or guardian objects to interrogation. But in a capital case, for a child who’s six years old—” He shook his head. “No, there shouldn’t be a problem, interrogating him. Provided, as I’ve said, that his mother is present during the interrogation.”
“Good.” Friedman nodded.
“And, obviously, we don’t want Kramer talking to the boy—Kramer, or his lawyer, if we can help it. At least, not until we’ve talked to the boy first. That’s essential. If we assume that Kramer has programmed the boy to tell a false story, we don’t want that falsity reinforced. Which, conceivably, Kramer’s lawyer could accomplish.”
“Right.” Friedman nodded again.
“Good. Well—” Stringfellow shuffled his papers together and pushed himself back from his big walnut desk. “Is there anything we haven’t covered?”
“Have you talked to Kramer?” Friedman asked.
Stringfellow nodded. “I talked to him yesterday evening.”
“And?”
“Well—” The lawyer once more began pulling at his earlobe. “I found his story remarkably consistent. However, at the moment, he’s the only suspect we’ve got. That’s to say, we’ve got a corpse at the scene of the crime, and we’ve got a boy, and we’ve got Kramer, and we’ve got Alexander Guest. And if we eliminate the boy, and we eliminate Kramer, then that leaves Alexander Guest. And I must say—” He permitted himself a small, prim smile. “I must say that I, for one, wouldn’t like to prosecute Alexander Guest for the murder of his own grandson’s bodyguard. Not on the evidence as it stands now, anyhow.”
“Are you saying that you want me to interrogate John Kramer before you decide to ask for an indictment?” I asked.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Stringfellow answered. “As far as I know, tomorrow we’re going before a special session of the grand jury, asking for an indictment. However, as soon as possible, I’d like to find out what John Kramer has to say—how solid he is. That’s what I’m saying. So keep in touch.” He positioned his papers neatly on his desk, smiled perfunctorily, shook hands with both of us, and wished us good day.
NINE
F RIEDMAN AND I GOT coffee from a machine and went down the corridor to his office. When he unlocked the door we saw a sheet of paper on the floor. Together, standing, we read the unevenly printed message:
CALL CHIEF DWYER AT HOME
Canelli’s initials were scrawled in the lower left hand corner, along with the day and time: Sunday, 10:20 A.M .
Friedman stepped over the paper and sighed as he sank down in his chair, unlocking his desk drawer. I knew he was looking for a cigar, his first of the day.
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