The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Page 15

  After the bailiff called everyone to order, the judge wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “Alright, we’re here on number 98-12856, Gladstone et al. versus United States Golf Association. Counsel, please note your appearances.”

  For the first time, I turned my attention to the other side, in time to see the Gladstones’ lawyer rise to address the court.

  “May it please the Court, Your Honor, Walter F. Sanders, representing the plaintiffs. We are here today to prevent the infliction of a most serious injury to the children of the late Harold Gladstone, and …”

  Before he got any further, the judge cut him off at the knees. “I just wanted appearances noted for the record, Mr. Sanders, not opening statements.” Her tone was curt. “In fact, after reading the pretrial briefs, I don’t believe we need any opening statements at all.”

  Taking a pencil from a cup in front of her, Judge Bustafani used the eraser end to scratch her head. It was an odd gesture for a woman, I thought. Most women as well groomed as she was wouldn’t want eraser shavings messing their coiffure.

  I didn’t have long to think about that, because Judge Bustafani then turned and nodded toward Wolbrette. “May I assume you represent the defendant?”

  Wolbrette stood up. “That’s correct, Your Honor. Steve Wolbrette for the USGA.”

  “Alright. Gentlemen, we’ve only allotted one day for this hearing, so we need to make the best use of our time. We can do that if you follow a few simple rules. First, I allow objections, not speeches. There is no jury here, so there is no need to posture. When you have an objection, stand and tell me in a word or two what your ground is. If it’s irrelevant or hearsay, say so. Give me credit for knowing something about the rules of evidence.”

  She paused. “Oh, and one last thing: Don’t object that something is ‘prejudicial.’ You both should know better than that. Everything the other side does is intended to prejudice your case; that’s why they do it. But it’s allowed unless some rule of evidence prohibits it. So telling me something is ‘prejudicial’ doesn’t help me at all, and I won’t sustain any objection made on that basis.”

  She turned to Sanders. “Counsel, call your first witness.”

  It was obvious that this hearing was going to proceed at a fast clip. Sanders turned to the man sitting next to him and said, “We call Michael Gladstone to the stand.”

  A tall, serious looking man rose from his chair and walked toward the witness stand to the right of the bench. His expensive suit, silver hair, and tanned complexion marked him as a patrician. After being sworn, he climbed the three steps to the platform, sat in the chair, and waited confidently for Sanders to begin his questions.

  “State your name, please.”

  “My name is Michael Gladstone.”

  “And where do you live, Mr. Gladstone?”

  “I live in Baltimore.”

  “Are you the son of the late Harold Gladstone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your mother was Sylvia Gladstone?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did your mother and father pass away?”

  “My mother died in 1930 when I was very young. My father passed away in 1964.”

  “What was your mother’s cause of death?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “By whom?”

  Wolbrette was on his feet. “Objection. No foundation.”

  Judge Bustafani nodded. “That is the heart of the question, isn’t it? Mr. Sanders, lay a foundation to show personal knowledge.”

  “Your Honor, …” Bustafani cut Sanders off. “Mr. Sanders, I’ve ruled. Either lay a foundation that this witness has sufficient personal knowledge to answer your question or move on.”

  Sanders was apparently a veteran in the courtroom; he regained his composure quickly and turned back to his witness. “Mr. Gladstone, was anyone ever accused of the murder?”

  Wolbrette rose again. “Objection. Hearsay.”

  The judge frowned slightly. “Mr. Wolbrette, you’re technically correct. But is there any question here that a man named …,” she shuffled through some papers that were in front of her, “Stedman, wasn’t it, was accused of killing Mrs. Gladstone? From what I read in the briefs, that is not in dispute. Let’s save our objections for contested issues.”

  The judge had quickly let both lawyers feel her steel by ruling against each side on successive objections. I wondered if she would continuing going back and forth in this manner, bashing each lawyer with alternating blows. I remembered my evidence professor, Mitchell Johnson, derisively calling judges who did that as “possession arrow judges.”

  The trace of a smile appeared on Gladstone’s face. “A man named Stedman was accused of the murder, but he took off and was never seen again.”

  “You are aware that the USGA plans an exhibition concerning Mr. Stedman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that part of that exhibition claims that Mr. Stedman was falsely accused of that crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that your father actually committed the crime?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that true?”

  Wolbrette was on his feet again. “Objection. No foundation.”

  Bustafani had been digging in her hair with the eraser again, which for some reason I found annoying. Her itchy scalp notwithstanding, she stopped in midstroke and frowned at the interruption. It was clear that, once a hearing got started, she didn’t like any delays—even for well-founded objections. She turned to the witness. “If you know, Mr. Gladstone.”

  “It is not true.”

  Sanders wheeled around triumphantly toward us and said, “Your witness,” and briskly walked over to his chair and sat down.

  Steve Wolbrette stood up and buttoned his coat. Walking toward the witness, he said, “Mr. Gladstone, did you witness the murder?”

  Gladstone sniffed. “Hardly. I was three years old at the time.”

  “So you don’t know who did it.”

  “I know that my father didn’t.” His tone bordered on arrogant.

  Wolbrette said evenly, “How do you know that?”

  “Because he would never have done such a thing.”

  This time Wolbrette’s voice sounded insistent. “But you didn’t see who did it, did you?”

  Gladstone wasn’t giving an inch. “I’ve already said that.”

  Wolbrette allowed himself a smile and said, “And since you didn’t see the crime, you certainly can’t say that Mr. Stedman killed your mother, can you?”

  Gladstone shot back, “Why’d he run?”

  Wolbrette ignored the question and walked back toward his table. Picking up several pages of paper, he again approached Gladstone, who was almost glowering at him through half-closed eyes. Handing the witness the documents Wolbrette asked in a monotone, “Do you recognize this?”

  Gladstone barely looked at the papers before shaking his head. “No.”

  Wolbrette raised his voice just slightly. “You don’t recognize that to be your father’s handwritten confession to killing your mother?”

  Gladstone barely arched an eyebrow before repeating, “No.”

  “You don’t recognize your own father’s handwriting?” Wolbrette now sounded incredulous.

  Gladstone gave a slightly theatrical sigh. “My father’s health deteriorated badly in the last months of his life. I’m afraid his handwriting became illegible.”

  “That’s not my question,” Wolbrette snapped, unable to conceal his impatience with Gladstone’s evasiveness. “Do you or do you not recognize this handwriting as being that of your father?”

  Gladstone pretended to look at the documents carefully again. “I can’t confirm that is my father’s handwriting.”

  “Do you think your sister could confirm whether or not it’s your father’s handwriting?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”

  Wolbrette looked around the courtroom. “Could you point her out for us?�
��

  “She doesn’t seem to be here.”

  Wolbrette was now glaring at the witness. “She’s listed as a plaintiff in this lawsuit. Where is she?”

  “I’m not sure. She apparently didn’t feel up to it today.”

  Walking toward me and pointing, Wolbrette then asked, “Are you aware that she gave this document to the young man responsible for the story about Mr. Stedman?”

  Gladstone continued to play dumb. “I don’t know anything about that.”

  Wolbrette was struggling to hide his disappointment. On such short notice, and without the benefit of depositions, he was having to improvise on his feet, and it was obvious that he was floundering. Cross-examination is all about controlling the witness through prior statements and extraneous evidence. He had neither.

  There was nothing to do but surrender. In a voice that showed a trace of his frustration at this turn of events, he said, “No further questions.”

  Sanders did not bother to redirect. After excusing the witness, he announced in a voice that boomed with confidence that his second witness would be Benjamin Gladstone.

  28

  IT WAS CLEAR WHEN he came forward that Benjamin Gladstone, although a year older, lacked his brother’s starch. You could see it in his walk, which was less certain. His eyes gave him away, too. They darted around the room as if looking for something familiar that would relieve his unease.

  Sanders walked his second witness through the same well-rehearsed direct examination. He gave an almost verbatim encore of his brother’s performance, but it was delivered with less hubris.

  Wolbrette knew that Benjamin Gladstone had seen and heard his cross-examination of his brother and no doubt would attempt to mimic his answers if asked the same questions. He also picked up on Benjamin’s less confident demeanor. So he changed things up a bit.

  “Mr. Gladstone, where is your sister today?”

  The witness looked over at his lawyer, as if seeking assistance in answering the question. However, Wolbrette was having none of that. He stepped into the witness’s line of vision to Sanders and asked in an almost grating voice, “Why are you looking at Mr. Sanders, Mr. Gladstone? Do you think he knows where his other client is?”

  Sanders rose to the bait. “Objection! That’s uncalled for.”

  Bustafani couldn’t resist a smile. She had seen lawyers gambol with one another in this manner many, many times. “I can’t find ‘uncalled for’ in my evidence book, counselor.”

  Well, then, it’s a compound question, Judge.” Sanders was too experienced not to recover quickly.

  She pointed her eraser tip at Sanders. “That one I recognize. Sustained.”

  Wolbrette got back on track. “Where is your sister, Mr. Gladstone?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, a little uncertainly.

  Wolbrette must have sensed his weakness and leaned in to press for details. The surest way to expose a lie was to make the witness elaborate. They usually tripped themselves up one way or the other. “When did you last speak with her?”

  The eldest of the Gladstone siblings shifted uneasily in his chair. “It’s been awhile.”

  How long ago?” Wolbrette was asking his questions quickly, trying to impose a cadence on his interrogation that would leave the witness little time to think before answering.

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  It was a subtle thing, but the USGA lawyer sensed that the witness was about to give up the lie, so he quickly asked,

  “Well, you filed this lawsuit less than two weeks ago. Does that help pinpoint a time?”

  Benjamin Gladstone was growing noticeably more uncomfortable. “I, uh, I really don’t know.”

  Wolbrette pressed him again. “Well, what did you talk about when you last spoke with her?”

  Sanders couldn’t stand it any more. His witness was in trouble, and he knew it. He was quickly on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for disclosure of privileged communications.”

  Bustafani wrinkled her nose. Tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the evidence code that rested next to her water pitcher, she asked sardonically, “Are you claiming some kind of a brother-sister privilege here, counselor?”

  “No, Your Honor. Attorney-client if those conversations occurred in my presence.”

  “I think we understand that Mr. Wolbrette was not asking about that. Overruled.”

  Sanders’s objection had served its purpose, however. The break in the action had allowed Benjamin Gladstone to regain his composure, if ever so slightly.

  He sat up straight and looked at Wolbrette. “What was your question again?”

  “What did you talk about the last time you spoke with your sister Katharine?”

  “I really don’t remember. Small talk, mostly.”

  “Where was she at the time?”

  Gladstone tried to appear thoughtful. “I believe we talked on the telephone. She was probably at her home.”

  Wolbrette then looked around the courtroom and threw up his arms in a mocking way. “And you don’t know where she is today?”

  “Objection. Asked and answered.”

  “Sustained.”

  Wolbrette’s tone grew more sarcastic. “And you don’t know what could have been so important as to keep her from this hearing?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  Wolbrette dropped his pencil on the table in front of him in disgust. “No further questions.”

  We took a short recess. I approached Wolbrette in the hall. “Why didn’t you ask Benjamin Gladstone about his father’s handwriting?” It seemed to be an obvious question to me.

  Wolbrette shook his head. “He would only have repeated what his brother said. You don’t win by proving the other side’s case. Let the judge wonder why Katharine isn’t here.”

  “Well, how are we going to prove that the confession was written by Harold Gladstone?”

  Wolbrette smiled. “That’s where you come in.”

  When court reconvened, Sanders declined Bustafani’s invitation to call his next witness by declaring, “We rest, Your Honor.”

  Wolbrette seemed surprised. The Gladstones had the burden of proof. This meant that they had to produce enough evidence to persuade the judge that their claims were more likely than not true.

  Wolbrette stood up and moved for a directed verdict, claiming that the plaintiffs had not made a sufficient showing to move forward with the case.

  Bustafani began shaking her head in disagreement before Wolbrette finished speaking. Tapping her desk with the ever-present pencil, she said, “They deny the confession was made by their father. There’s no evidence it was. Motion denied. Call your first witness.”

  “Charles Hunter.”

  I didn’t know I was going on first. The next thing I knew, I was seated on the witness stand, a lot closer to Judge Bustafani and her bad hair day than I wanted to be. In fact, the whole thing happened so quickly that I don’t even remember being sworn.

  I do recall seeing Wolbrette walking toward me holding the confession in his hand. He presented it to me and said, “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you first see it?”

  “Mrs. Leigh gave it to me last summer.”

  “Did she tell you what it was?”

  Sanders rose quickly from his chair. “Objection. Hearsay.”

  The judge barely gave it a thought before ruling. “Sustained.”

  Wolbrette spun around in surprise. “Judge, Mrs. Leigh is a party. It’s an admission against interest, which is not hearsay.”

  Bustafani wouldn’t budge. “I said sustained.” She pulled out her eraser again and pointed it at him. “Now, ask your next question, Mr. Wolbrette.”

  He turned back to me. I could tell he was upset. “Do you know who wrote this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who wrote it?”

  Sanders was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor. He’s just goin
g through the back door. The answer has to be based on hearsay.”

  Bustafani looked at Wolbrette. “Lay a foundation for personal knowledge.”

  “Judge, the witness was given this document by Katharine Leigh. Anything she said about it is admissible. Like I said before, it’s an admission.”

  Judge Bustafani clearly didn’t like being questioned about her decisions. “Mr. Wolbrette, I’ve ruled. If you can’t lay a foundation to show that this witness has personal knowledge concerning who wrote this document, he can’t testify any further about it.”

  Wolbrette shook his head. “Judge, the one person who can supply that information isn’t here.”

  She responded by asking pointedly, “Do you have information that Mrs. Leigh has been hidden away by Mr. Sanders or the other plaintiffs?”

  Wolbrette shook his head. “No.”

  “Did you try to subpoena her?”

  Wolbrette tried to look surprised at her question. “No, we didn’t think it would be necessary.”

  Bustafani was insistent. “Do you know for a fact that Mrs. Leigh can identify the author of that document?”

  Wolbrette seemed helpless at the moment. “No, Your Honor, but …”

  She leaned back in her chair and tapped her cheek with the pencil. “Mr. Wolbrette, we’re wasting time here. Call your next witness.”

  The USGA lawyer looked beat. “May we have a brief recess to decide who our remaining witnesses will be?”

  Bustafani was clearly irritated by the request even though it was necessitated by her unexpected evidentiary rulings. “We’ll never get done if we take a break every five minutes. I expected you to be prepared for this hearing, Mr. Wolbrette. You’ve got three minutes. Get your ducks in a row or I’ll consider you to have rested your case, and I’ll rule from the bench.”

  We huddled in the back of the courtroom. I knew from my evidence class that what Katharine Leigh told me was admissible. I should have been allowed to testify that she had told me the note was in her father’s handwriting. According to what I had learned during the just-completed semester, the judge was dead wrong to exclude it.