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11-Trial

Page 10

by Parnell Hall


  “You got it.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “That information came straight from Sergeant MacAullif.”

  “You’re kidding. He said they left off the time of death?”

  “That’s right. And that’s just for starters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The reason they left off the time of death is because we want it.”

  “Huh?”

  “You sent me to MacAullif to find out the time of death. The first time. He reported to Wellington. Beef-baby says, If they’re so eager to know the time of death, fuck ’em, they can’t have it. So the word comes down and the lid goes on, and suddenly the time of death becomes a bigger secret than the naval code.”

  “The naval code?”

  “Oh. There was this movie, see, where—”

  “Never mind. I get the picture. I’m wondering if you do.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Remember when you came back from MacAullif the first time? I was upset that you’d told him too much—hinted about an alibi—implied we might have one, depending on the time of death?”

  “Bullshit, Richard,” I said. “Whaddya crabbin’ about all over the place? It’s like you gotta win the argument? Look, if I hadn’t done that, we’d have nothing now. As it is, I got you what you wanted. I brought you the time of death. Whaddya say we take it and go on from there?”

  “I don’t know if I dare to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know if it’s true.”

  “It’s true.”

  “So you say. But I have just your say-so, and I don’t know what you’re basing it on.”

  “We’re going around in circles.”

  “Yeah. ’Cause you won’t talk.”

  “I’m talking. You’re not listening.”

  “Yeah,” Richard said. “Look. Did you ask MacAullif the time of death again?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “So you got it somewhere else?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where?”

  “Richard, why are you doing this? Why can’t you just drop it and let go? Accept this as a given and move on with the case?”

  “What case?” Richard said. “That’s the whole point. What case? Don’t you see? If the time of death is twelve to one, there is no case. We got a solid alibi from twelve to one.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Whaddya mean by that?”

  “It’s too easy. I don’t trust anything that’s that pat.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s like they told me twelve to one because that’s what I wanted to hear. They gave me exactly what I needed. They couldn’t have planned it any better.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “The guy’s got an airtight alibi till two o’clock. Not one o’clock, two o’clock. So if the time of death was one till two, you could say, hey, there’s a little gray area here, it’s a close thing, it’s not likely, but conceivably the guy could have killed her. But twelve till one it’s ironclad. You’ve got a whole-hour buffer zone. If the alibi stands up, Carbinder walks.”

  “Which is great.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  I blinked. Rubbed my head. “Pardon me, but why not?”

  “Like I said. It’s too pat. It’s too perfect. It’s like they threw me twelve till one to lull me into a sense of false security. I buy that, I let up on everything else, then I get into court and they jerk the rug out from under me.”

  “I swear by twelve to one. You have my personal assurance.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Richard said. “When Anson goes to jail, I’m sure that’ll make him feel a lot better.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” I said.

  And immediately started having my doubts. Would MacAullif do that to me? Mislead me in that fashion? I couldn’t really believe it. But could he put that paper in my pocket, knowing how I’d take it, if it wasn’t true?

  Nothing can stop the paranoid schizophrenic. My next thought was, had MacAullif really put that in my pocket? Or was 12–1 a note I’d put there myself sometime last year to remind me to do something on December first?

  I exhaled.

  No, it wasn’t. It was a note from MacAullif, telling me the time of death. My only problem was Richard’s stubborn refusal to accept that. Why was he being such a prick?

  “Richard,” I said, “I have not been privy to your conversations with Anson Carbinder, or I might be in better shape to understand your present position.”

  “Position? I don’t have a position. I’m trying to formulate a defense for my client.”

  “Well, you just got one. His wife was killed between twelve and one and he couldn’t have done it.”

  “I don’t buy that,” Richard said irritably.

  And suddenly I understood.

  It wasn’t that Richard didn’t trust me or MacAullif or the whole situation. Richard didn’t buy it because Richard didn’t want to buy it. Richard didn’t want Anson Carbinder to have a legitimate alibi. Richard was living his lifelong dream, playing Perry Mason, and, damn it, Richard wanted to go to court.

  Richard’s attitude toward me was finally clear. He wasn’t pissed off about what I told MacAullif. In fact, he couldn’t have cared less. No, this was a simple case of shooting the messenger. In telling him Anson Carbinder had an ironclad alibi, I had become the bearer of bad news.

  I was out of there half an hour later with instructions to shore up the discrepancy between Sam Kestin’s and Tim Hendricks’s testimony, to make sure Anson Carbinder’s alibi was airtight.

  At least, that’s what I’d been told to do.

  But I had a feeling Richard would have been much happier to have me break it down.

  21

  SAM KESTIN WAS PROPERLY AWED.

  “Arrested?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The banker frowned and shook his head.

  I glanced over my shoulder and encountered smiles. Sam Kestin was seated at his desk, and the people I’d barged in front of to see him had taken his head shake to mean I’d just been turned down for a loan.

  “Shocking thing,” Kestin said.

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “But not unexpected. This is what we’ve been preparing for from the beginning.”

  “Right. So what’s being done? Is Anson in jail?”

  “For the time being. We’re trying to arrange bail.”

  “What’s the evidence against him?”

  “We don’t know. We haven’t got the grand jury transcript yet.”

  “He’s been indicted by the grand jury?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That looks bad.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “An indictment isn’t proof of guilt.”

  “Yeah, yeah, he’s innocent until proven guilty,” Kestin said impatiently. “Even so, it’s bad news.”

  “Granted. What I meant was, an indictment doesn’t necessarily mean anything because they’re so easy to get.”

  Kestin frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The defense isn’t there at a grand jury hearing. The prosecutor is the only one putting on evidence, and he tells the grand jurors only what he wants them to hear.”

  “Fine,” Kestin said. “You can soft-pedal all you want, but the fact is, he’s indicted for murder. Which is terrible. It’s bad enough the guy loses his wife, then he has to go through this.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Which is why we have to get him off.”

  Kestin took that as a subtle rebuke. “Of course,” he said. “What can I do to help?”

  “Since it appears we are going to trial, I need to nail down your testimony.”

  “You got it. But I think I already gave you everything. I don’t know what else there is to add.”

&
nbsp; “If you wouldn’t mind going over it again, there are one or. two points I’d like to clear up.”

  “Such as?”

  I opened my notebook. “Okay. With regard to the big high/low hand—you say you could have gone low with a nine but went high with three eights?”

  “Because of what Anson had on board. Sure.” He looked at me. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Probably,” I said. “But we’re not that concerned with the mechanics as with the time of the hand.”

  “The time?”

  “Yes. As you’ll recall, you told me the hand took place sometime around one o’clock.”

  “Well, that’s just an approximation.”

  “Would that be an accurate one?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You also told me Tim Hendricks went home at midnight.”

  “Yes, he always does. But—” Sam Kestin broke off. Looked at me. “Was Hendricks in the hand?”

  “You tell me.”

  Kestin frowned. “Yes, I believe he was.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. I’m trying to remember. It hadn’t occurred to me. But when you pointed it out to me...”

  “I didn’t point it out to you.”

  Kestin smiled. “Don’t be silly. You asked about the hand and pointed out Tim Hendricks left at midnight.” He gestured around him. “One doesn’t rise to this position without being able to make simple deductions.”

  “I’m sure one doesn’t,” I said. “But with regard to the hand.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you remember Tim Hendricks being in it? I’m talking now only about what you remember—not the fact that you deduce he was.”

  “I don’t specifically remember him being in the hand. But then I don’t remember him not being in the hand, either. I know that sounds stupid—I mean, I don’t have a specific knowledge of him not being there.”

  “I understand. In view of that fact, I wonder if it’s possible the hand could have taken place earlier than one o’clock?”

  “Hell, yes. I told you, one o’clock was always an approximation. If Hendricks was in the hand, it had to take place before midnight. That’s a given. It doesn’t matter when I think it was, it matters when it was.”

  “Right. So the hand might have taken place as early as eleven-thirty?”

  “Absolutely. Hey, I’m glad you brought this up. Don’t worry. If you put me on the stand, I won’t blow it with the time element. You won’t find me up there stubbornly insisting the hand was at one.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. It’s the type of thing the prosecutor’d pounce on and play up.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry about it. So, was there anything else?”

  “Actually, yes.” I referred to my notebook again. “I believe you mentioned this was a particularly big pot, even though Anson had bumped half the people out.”

  “Did I say that?”

  “I made a note.”

  “Then I must have said it. Is there a problem there?”

  “It’s just that practically everyone I talked to remembers being in the hand.”

  “Well, they ought to know,” Kestin said. “Once more, my viewpoint is colored by events. You have to understand, I threw half that pot away by making a wrong choice. That’s what I remember. Anson rolling over the full house. And me, shooting myself in the head.”

  “I see. So when you say Anson had bumped half the people out...?”

  Sam Kestin grimaced. “I’m generalizing. I know. I shouldn’t generalize. On the stand I’ll watch it, and tell only what I know.”

  “That would be best.”

  “No kidding. So, telling me—assuming we do a good job and don’t blow it—do we get Anson off?”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Hope so? Don’t you know the time element?”

  “So far the cops haven’t released the time of death.”

  He stared at me. “You’re kidding. You mean all this may be worthless? The cops may be able to show he could have killed her when he got home?”

  I put up my hand. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. At the moment, we just don’t know.”

  Sam Kestin scowled, which wrinkled up his pudgy face. It was like being glared at by a malevolent prune. “Well, what do you know?” he demanded.

  I almost laughed. It wasn’t just the way he looked. But the idea sprang to mind of what the people waiting to see him must have thought. Like the guy had loaned me a million bucks and I’d just admitted my collateral was phony.

  I controlled myself, shook my head. “Frankly, Mr. Kestin, not a whole hell of a lot.”

  22

  “SHIT.”

  I had hoped for more than that. I had been sitting in a chair in Richard Rosenberg’s office for over an hour watching him read the grand jury transcript. No, he was not reading it out loud—then I would have known what it said and would not have been so disappointed by his one-word reaction.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  Richard pointed at the transcript on his desk. “You should read this.”

  “Fine. Let’s have it.”

  “Not now.” Richard said. “I don’t want to sit here and watch you read.”

  I knew the feeling. “Well, when did you mean?”

  “Actually, I didn’t. That was a figure of speech. You don’t need to read it. I can tell you what you need to know.”

  I took a breath. The second-class-citizen counts were piling up. I don’t need to talk to the client. I don’t need to read the transcript.

  “Fine,” I said. “What do I need to know?”

  “First off, they don’t pin down the time of death.”

  “I told you they wouldn’t.”

  “I know. But just because a cop tells you something doesn’t make it true. Anyway, now it’s verified. No time of death.”

  “How can they do that?”

  “Perfectly easy. They say the early-morning hours of October thirteenth.”

  “How can they get away with that?”

  “Who’s to say them nay? They can get away with anything they want.”

  “Right. I forgot. I mean, I didn’t forget. It’s just always hard to believe.”

  “Right. Anyway, no time of death.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I could piss and moan and raise a stink and get them to divulge it, but I’m much happier to just let it go. As long as we’re sure it’s twelve to one...?” Richard gave me a glance.

  “It’s gold,” I said.

  “Then let that be their surprise, and let the poker game be mine. We got ’em there.” He looked at the transcript. “And then the rest of it doesn’t hurt so bad.”

  “The rest of what?”

  “Well, the big stumbling block is Connie Maynard.”

  “What about her?”

  “You met her.”

  “That I did.”

  “Then you know. The woman is sex on wheels. Now, I can lash down her tits and dress her up as a frump, but it isn’t gonna fool anyone.” Richard picked something up from his desk. “Not when the prosecutor can confront her with this.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  “This?” Richard said. “Well, it seems Miss Maynard has worked as a photographic model. Not pornography, per se, but nude pinup art. Here, get a load of this.”

  I got up, went over to Richard’s desk, and accepted what proved to be an eight-by-ten color glossy photo of Connie Maynard. The woman had a dazzling smile. She also had large breasts with rather pointed nipples.

  I handed the photo back to Richard. “The grand jury saw this?”

  “That they did.”

  “Think you can keep it out of the trial?”

  “I could try. The problem is, I lose more points than I win.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Richard grimaced. “Don’t be a schmuck. If you’re sitting on that jury, and the prosecutor tries to show you that pi
cture, how pleased are you going to be if I stop him?”

  “I see your point.”

  “So there you are. The jury either sees the tits, or I’m the bad guy keeps ’em out. Either way I lose.”

  “What about the women on the jury?”

  “They’re the worst. They take one look at this and say the bastard killed his wife.”

  “Right. Aside from the photo, what have they got?”

  “Largely insinuation and innuendo. They got the testimony from her doorman that Anson was a frequent visitor.” Richard shrugged. “Big deal. What’s it prove? Of course, you throw in that photo and they don’t have to prove a thing. The jury’s already sold. Anyway, that’s the story on the babe.”

  “And what’s the real story on the babe?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s the prosecution’s smear. The insinuation and innuendo. So what’s the truth?”

  Richard gave me a look. “Stanley, what does it matter? The guy’s not on trial for getting laid. He’s on trial for killing his wife. Does it matter if he actually planked this broad—assuming he’s innocent, I mean?”

  “There you put your finger on it, Richard.”

  “What?”

  “Assuming he’s innocent. Tell me, is he innocent?”

  “We’ve been over this before.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t get a satisfactory answer.”

  “Oh, yeah? Didn’t I tell you he was innocent?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “That isn’t satisfactory?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re his lawyer. Of course you say that.”

  Richard grimaced. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”

  “Why?”

  “Asking me if he’s innocent.”

  “It’s a natural question.”

  “Which you’ve already asked. And I’ve already answered. Case closed. But here you are, asking me again. Do you know why.”

  “Because I wanna know.”

  “Yeah. But why do you wanna know?”

  “Do you have a point, Richard?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you why you wanna know.” Richard pointed. “Because of the damn photo. I show you the photo, you look at the tits, you say, Jesus Christ, he killed his wife. You’re just like the goddamned jury.” Richard snapped his fingers. “It prejudiced you just like that.”

 

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