Free Break and Enter by Colin Harrison

McGuane’s testimony. Morgan may have just missed the fact. After all, the man had other things to worry about, namely Robinson’s boastful, sick confession. But there was a gamble here. A good prosecutor didn’t ask questions to which he didn’t know the answers. And Peter didn’t intend to depart from that rule, except that he didn’t know if Mrs. McGuane would provide the answers. He was betting that the housekeeper had intimate knowledge of all the workings of the house, from the number of best-silver spoons to the schedule of when to turn the mattresses around, to this, the routines of the security system. She did not seem bright enough to spontaneouslyamend her testimony if Peter could jar her out of her rehearsed version of events. He had spent many hours flipping through the police reports, sorting and discarding facts, trying not to think of Janice’s departure, and even though he had mastered those facts, he knew now that he needed to feel his way toward the right order of testimony—set bits of information in the jury’s minds without tipping off the witness. He checked his notes and looked up. Morgan, seeing the direction of the questioning, and perhaps realizing that he might have made an oversight, was nervous now, eager to fend off Peter’s questions with objections. The defense attorney compulsively tapped a pencil against his pants leg while waiting for another chance to object. Peter looked at the witness. Mrs. McGuane smiled to the court, appearing helpful. “Now then,” he said, “I would like to turn the questions to what happened that night.”
    “Like I said,” she repeated without being asked, “I was in bed listening to the radio and the lights of the car went past the window, and then after he parked he came in the door and we spoke and then said good night. As simple as that. It was a regular night, you know what I mean? No big deal. Just a regular night.”
    “It had rained that evening, right?”
    “I think so.”
    “Yes, there was a summer storm. Now, let me ask, there are a number of cars on the estate?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do the boys—the Robinson sons—drive them all?”
    “Yes.”
    “So the sound or appearance of one car doesn’t signal a particular son?”
    “That’s right.”
    “And the cars are generally parked where?”
    “Around the side of the house.”
    “Where, exactly?”
    “The wider part of the driveway.”
    “Where is that?”
    “The driveway comes up toward the front of the house and then goes around the side by the kitchen and there’s a little lot.”
    “It’s a big house.”
    “Oh, there are bigger houses in the neighborhood.”
    “Is it an average-size house, would you say?”
    “Perhaps a little bit larger than usual.” She shrugged.
    “How many rooms?”
    “Maybe, uh, about thirty rooms.”
    “That’s a very large house—that’s a mansion.”
    “I’ve lived there so long it seems normal.”
    “Well, it’s certainly not normal in a city where some people live on top of one another like rats, right?”
    “No, I suppose—”
    Morgan shot his hands into the air as if he were receiving a long touchdown pass. He beseeched the judge: “Your Honor, what are we talking about here? The prosecution is going on and on about general crime patterns, how big or small the house is—all, I protest, absolutely meaningless issues, meritless in regard to the issue at hand.”
    “Mr. Scattergood,” the judge said, “please demonstrate, if you would, that your line of questioning has some apparent intent to it.”
    Peter turned back to the witness.
    “So Mr. Robinson had to walk a very far way from where he parked to the door where he came in, isn’t that right?”
    “No,” she protested, “it’s not far.”
    “How far?”
    “I’m not good with distances …”
    “The depth of this courtroom?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “So at least fifty feet.”
    “I guess so.” She shrugged. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”
    “Perhaps