by Parnell Hall
“So the only thing he’s apt to be wrong about is the time of the hand?”
“That’s how I see it.”
“Okay,” Richard said. “Let’s move on. Who’s next?”
“Marvin Wainwright.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a vice-president from Gladrags, Foster and Vale, a textile manufacturing company. He’s another fat cat, chubby, well fed. At least in my humble opinion, that’s how he’ll come across to the jury. He was there from eight-thirty till two, says Anson was there the whole time, never left. The only discrepancy in his story is he said everyone stayed till the end. According to everyone else, Tim Hendricks left at midnight.”
“You didn’t point that out to him?”
“No, he was the first person I questioned.”
“Uh-huh. And what about the big hand?”
“He was in it. He remembers it particularly because he had a flush and was hoping to get the whole pot.”
“How could he do that?”
“If Anson had a low straight and went both ways, the flush would beat his straight, Anson would lose the whole pot, and the hand that beat him would take it all.”
“I see,” Richard said. “So he’d have reason to remember it particularly. And what time of night did he think the hand took place?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Why not?”
“Like I said, he was the first person I talked to. At the time, I had no idea there would be any dispute about when the hand took place.”
“Even so, it would seem a natural question.”
“Yes, it would,” I said. “You want me to go back and ask him?”
“No. Let’s move on. Who’s next.”
“Ollie Pruett. The Birdman of Central Park South.”
“Huh?”
I filled Richard in on the state of Ollie Pruett’s apartment.
“Great,” he said. “A kook. Aside from that, what’s he like?”
“Fidgety little man. Nervous, uncomfortable. Not going to make a good impression on the jury.”
“Will they think he’s lying?”
I frowned. “No, but they’re going to think he’s apt to be wrong.”
“Just because he’s nervous?”
“Well, he also has a tendency to misspeak himself.”
“How so?”
“Well, referring to the hand again, everyone thought Anson was going low but he went high. Ollie Pruett said it the other way around. He told me Anson looked like he was going high, but he went low.”
“And when you pointed it out?”
“He fell all over himself correcting himself. He did not make a good impression.”
“And the hand itself?”
“He had two pair, stayed in till the end. Which, considering the hand, doesn’t say much for his prowess. He was beat all over the board.”
“Did he know when the hand took place.”
“No, he didn’t, and I asked him. But he’s the type of guy you wouldn’t expect to remember.”
“Great. Who else?”
“Also on the debit side, Phil Janson. He’s an actor. Odd man out. How he got involved with this bunch is hard to say. He’s the only one of the group doesn’t have any money. He’s like Ollie Pruett, only more so. So nervous it’s hard to imagine him playing cards at all. And as a witness, he’s the pits. This Ollie Pruett makes a slip like which way Anson’s going in the hand. Phil Janson makes a slip like naming a player who wasn’t even there.”
“Oh?”
“Right. He names a regular who was at the last game, but wasn’t at this one. Then has to sort that out for himself. If he’s like that in front of the jury, it will be very bad news. You say you don’t wanna talk to these guys, but here’s one guy you might want to pin down.”
“What’s the rest of the story?”
“Nothing good, nothing bad. Basically, he’s a yes man, agrees with everybody else. Anson Carbinder was there the whole night, never left. No one else left, except Tim Hendricks, who went home at twelve o’clock.”
“And the high/low hand?”
“He doesn’t remember.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. He remembers there was one, but he doesn’t remember the specifics.”
“Or when it took place?”
“He hasn’t a clue.”
“Great.”
“Yeah. He’s easily your worst witness.” I turned a page. “Then there’s Barry Brown. Ad-agency executive. Obnoxious, aggressive personality, puts people off.”
“You’re not exactly inspiring me with confidence,” Richard said. “Do I have any witnesses you like.”
“Not really. But he’s the only one I’d call antagonistic. He and I did not hit it off. Just a personality conflict, I’m sure. The only real bone of contention—and the only interesting part of his story—is the fact that he got a phone call from Sam Kestin telling him I was asking questions and attempting to coordinate what he said.”
Richard frowned. “That’s not good.”
“Yeah, well, it probably doesn’t matter. The guy has nothing significant to add. Anson Carbinder was there the whole evening, left at two o’clock, never went out. Anson won a big hand of high/low with a full house. Barry Brown was in till the end with a queen-high straight.”
“Uh-huh. And what time does he think it was.”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“Nice work.”
“Look. You gotta understand. I spoke to Tim Hendricks last. Because he left early and was the least important. It was when I talked to him and he claimed to be in the hand that I knew we had a problem. If it weren’t for that, it wouldn’t be an issue and you wouldn’t be giving me grief.”
“Giving you grief?”
“Withdrawn. Anyway, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
“You happen to ask Tim Hendricks when the hand took place?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh, now it’s of course.”
“Of course. Because of the discrepancy.”
“I’m surprised you even noticed it.”
“Why? Isn’t it obvious?”
“Yes, of course.”
I gave Richard a look.
He put up his hands. “Sorry. Let’s not get sidetracked. When does Tim Hendricks say the hand took place?”
“Somewhere around eleven o’clock.”
“He’s not sure?”
“No. But he thought it was about an hour before he went home. Now, that’s just an estimate, but it’s the type you’d expect to be right.”
Richard frowned. “While that sounds reasonable, with that type of estimate the hand could have taken place as late as eleven-thirty, or even as early as ten.”
“Maybe, but his impression was eleven.”
“A jury’s not going to be swayed by his impression. Especially with other people placing the hand much later.”
“Exactly. So what do you want to do about it?”
Richard frowned again. “The only one who actually gave you a time was the guy who ran the game—what’s his name?”
“Sam Kestin.”
“Yeah, him. He’s the only one?”
“That’s right.”
“Then he’s gotta be wrong.”
“Unless Tim Hendricks is.”
Richard shook his head. “Not worth considering. Not with everyone saying, Tim Hendricks left at midnight, Tim Hendricks always leaves at midnight.”
“So you wanna talk to Kestin, or you want me to?”
I never got an answer, because at that moment the phone rang, and when Richard picked it up it was Anson Carbinder, in a rather agitated state of mind.
The cops had just given him his one phone call.
18
EVER FEEL LIKE A SECOND-CLASS CITIZEN? I sure did, sitting in the corner of the booking room of the police station, while Richard Rosenberg was upstairs in the visi
tors room conferring with his client. As I sat there, watching the dregs of the earth being dragged in in handcuffs, it occurred to me that just once in the fucking case I would like to have the faintest idea what was going on.
All I knew at that point was that Anson Carbinder had been arrested for murder. No real surprise, of course—we always knew he would be—it was just a matter of when. Still, it would have been nice to know the details.
And it would have been nice to get them straight from the horse’s mouth. As I watched a particularly tarty-looking hooker being booked, I realized that since our initial meeting I had had no contact whatsoever with my client.
Largely because he wasn’t my client. He was Richard Rosenberg’s client.
And I was Richard Rosenberg’s employee.
A functionary.
A second banana.
That’s what I’d been reduced to for two hundred bucks a day.
I wondered if it was worth it.
Three drunks, two prostitutes, four black teenagers, and one rather scary-looking Hispanic later, Richard Rosenberg came to get me.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Richard said in an unnecessarily loud voice, then stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, looking around as if challenging anyone to try to stop him. There were no takers, and minutes later Richard and I were sailing out the front door.
“So, what’s up?” I asked.
Richard snorted. “Sons of bitches. The grand jury’s indicted Anson Carbinder for murder.”
“Well, we always knew they would.”
“Yeah, but it means they got something.”
“Well, now you can find out what it is.”
“Well, that’s the other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m entitled to the transcript. But they don’t have it ready yet. They say I can have it tomorrow.”
“Who says that?”
“The ADA Beef Wellington himself.”
“He was there?”
“In person. Smiling, helpful, hearty. Makes me want to push his face in.”
“What did Anson tell you?”
“Basically, nothing. Because he knows nothing. It’s not like the cops told him anything, either. He knows he’s under arrest for killing his wife. How the grand jury arrived at that conclusion, we have no idea.”
“What about the time of death?”
“We don’t know that, either. Presumably, we’ll find out tomorrow when we get the transcript, but I’d like to know now.”
I put up my hand. “No way.”
“Huh?” Richard said.
“I’m not talking to MacAullif.”
“Who asked you?”
“Well, whaddya want me to do?”
“I’ve hired you as an investigator. I’d like you to investigate.”
“Investigate what?”
“The time of death.”
“How would you like me to do that?”
“Any way you can.”
“The only lead I have is MacAullif.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Makes it tough.”
“Makes it impossible.”
Richard put up his hand. “No, no. You’re talking to a lawyer. Not impossible. It’s just hard. I hired you to investigate. I’m paying you to investigate. And I’m telling you to investigate. And you know what I want you to investigate. Now, then, you tell me.”
Richard cocked his head. “What you gonna do?”
19
MACAULLIF WASN’T SURPRISED TO SEE ME.
“Well, well,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Oh?”
“Grand jury indictment came down, could you be far behind?”
“I wish I were.”
“You and me both. Now I got you in my office, and what’s it gonna take to get you out?”
“How about the time of death?”
“How about it?”
“Well, now it’s no big deal. With Anson indicted, we’ll get to see that grand jury testimony.”
“What makes you think it’s in there?”
“Are you saying it isn’t?”
“No, I’m just asking why you think it is.”
“Come on. Are you telling me the grand jury would indict without knowing when she died?”
“Why not? If you’ll recall, your man wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t say where he was that night. Which means he could have killed her anytime.”
I put up my hand. “Hold on. You’re swapping words with me. Are you telling me the time of death won’t be in the grand jury transcript?”
“I would not wish to be quoted as having told you anything of the sort.”
“I’m not gonna quote you. I just wanna know.”
“Yeah, sure. For all I know you’re wearing a wire. To set me up to shake me down.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Because that would constitute blackmail. Which, the last time I looked it up, was against the law.”
“We were talking about the time of death.”
“You were talkin’ about the time of death. Me, I’m just minding my own business, sitting here going over my case files.”
“Including Anson Carbinder s?”
“I may have glanced at his.”
“Did it mention the time of death?”
“You know, I didn’t look at that.”
“Yeah, but you know when it is.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re the investigating officer.”
“I’m not the medical examiner.”
“But you know what he said.”
“Sure, but that’s hearsay. I couldn’t testify to that.”
I looked at him. “Hey, MacAullif. What’s your problem? Are you doing this to be a hard-on? Or have you had instructions from above? Or are you just covering your ass on general principles? I mean, what’s the big secret about the time of death?”
MacAullif shook his head. “Schmuck.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“You’re in here askin’ me about the time of death. If you’ll recall, it’s the second time you’ve been in here askin’ me about the time of death. Well, guess what? I’m not on your side. I’m the investigating officer. I’m working for the ADA. Responsive and responsible to him.”
“What are you saying?”
“You come in here, he’s gonna know. Why? ’Cause I’m gonna tell him. Why? ’Cause that may be bad, but if he heard it from someone else, it would be ten times worse. You got that?”
“It’s a little convoluted, but—”
“Don’t fuck with me. I’m tryin’ to do you a favor here.”
“How?”
“By explaining the obvious.” He shook his head. “Jesus, what a moron. You ask me what’s the big secret about the time of death.” MacAullif waved his hand for emphasis. “There’s no fucking secret about the time of death.” He spread his hands. “Except, you come in askin’ for it. Well, I gotta report that to the ADA. And he wonders why. Particularly since your client ain’t talkin’. So he’s thinkin’, if the defense wants to know the time of death, fuck ’em, I ain’t gonna tell ’em. So instructions to that effect go out, and you’re hoist by your own petard.”
“You’re saying he won’t tell ’cause I asked?”
“Bingo, right on the button. Geez, I thought you were dumb, but, no, you catch on just like that. How nice. Now you know how it is, you can leave me alone. And if you happen to be wearin’ a wire, tough luck for you, you ain’t gettin’ a thing.”
“MacAullif—”
“No, that’s it. Too bad. Tough luck. You lose. Go on, get out of here.”
“Can’t you just—”
“No, I can’t.” MacAullif got out of the chair, came around the desk. He took me by the elbow and turned me around. Placing one hand in the small of my back
and the other on my side, he smoothly and efficiently piloted me out the door.
“And do me a favor and do not come back,” MacAullif said.
I couldn’t tell if he was saying that for the benefit of the three cops who were close enough to hear. Or for the wire I might be wearing. Or if the son of a bitch really meant it.
Before I had time to give it any thought, MacAullif had ducked back inside his office and slammed the door.
As I stomped out the front door of One Police Plaza it occurred to me that Richard Rosenberg was paying me two hundred bucks a day for a friendship that wasn’t worth a plugged nickel.
I stopped on the sidewalk to brush off my jacket and straighten my tie. MacAullif’s push had not been gentle. He had given me a regular bums rush out the door.
In fact, I was lucky he hadn’t torn my clothes. As it was, the flap on one of my jacket pockets was askew. I put my hand in the pocket to straighten it.
And felt something.
A small, folded piece of paper.
I pulled it out, unfolded it.
On it was written “12–1.”
20
“SHE WAS KILLED BETWEEN TWELVE AND ONE.”
Richard frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
“MacAullif tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“That’s not important.”
“It may not be important, but it’s certainly relevant. How do you know?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I have a confidential source.”
“Bullshit. You’re working for me.”
“That doesn’t matter. If I violate the confidence, my source dries up.”
“You’re saying if you don’t you’ll get more?”
“I’m not promising anything. I’m saying it’s possible.”
“How can you know that?”
I put up my hand. “Richard. Back off. If you took a moment to stop and think, you’d realize I got you what you wanted.”
“Yeah, but I can’t vet it.”
“You don’t have to. It’s gold.”
“Twelve to one?”
“Right.”
“That’s what it’s gonna say in the transcript?”
“No.”
“No? Then what is it gonna say?”
“It’s not gonna say a thing.”
“They’re gonna leave off the time of death?”
