11-Trial

by Parnell Hall

  “Oh, come on.”

  Richard put up his hand. “Hey. I’m not pissed off at you. I’m pissed off at the situation. Your reaction is a normal reaction. It’s the reaction I’m gonna get. Seeing it does not make my day, that’s all.”

  “I don’t think I’m prejudiced.”

  “No, of course not. But think about it.” Richard raised one finger. “Anson Carbinder has an ironclad alibi.” He pointed at me. “You investigated it. You spoke to all the witnesses. And you’re the one who swears the time of death is twelve to one.” He shrugged his shoulders, spread his hands. “And you’re still asking me if he’s innocent.” He shook his head. “I rest my case.”

  I frowned. “Shit.”

  Richard nodded. “Yeah. So, believe me, the picture is damaging. In spite of anything else.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. But very grudgingly. I was not at all convinced that seeing the photo had prejudiced me into thinking Anson Carbinder had killed his wife. “So what else is there?”

  Richard cocked his head. “After your reaction to the picture, I hate to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “He bought insurance.”

  I blinked. “On his wife?”

  “That’s the ticket.”

  “He bought insurance on his wife?”

  “Want me to say it again?”

  “How much insurance?”

  “Half a million dollars.”

  “Double indemnity?”

  Richard grimaced. “See, there’s the whole problem. Everyone knows the movie. All you have to do is say double indemnity everyone goes off the deep end.”

  “I’m not going off the deep end, Richard, but would you mind telling me when he bought this insurance?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “See what I mean? If you didn’t like the picture, you gotta love this.”

  “How does Anson explain it?”

  Richard waggled his hand. “Well, there we have a little problem.”

  “Oh?”

  “It was Connie’s idea.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I know. But there you are. According to Anson, Connie was afraid his wife would find out about their affair and cut him out of her will—she had all the money, by the way.”

  “This gets better and better.”

  “Doesn’t it? So Connie figured he should protect against that happening by insuring her life.”

  “That’s his story?”

  “Yes, it is. You can see why I’m not too eager to have him tell it.”

  “Good lord.”

  “But again, it’s beside the point. If the alibi holds, there’s no case.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So what else have they got?”

  “Actually, not that much. He had blood on his hands. As it happens, there’s no way be wouldn’t have had blood on his hands. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a catch phrase, for Christ’s sake—blood on his hands. A jury hears that, and it’s as bad as the picture or the insurance. Blood on his hands. Guilty of murder.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “We knew that anyway. What else?”

  “It’s his knife.”

  “Huh?”

  “Or her knife. Anyway, it’s their knife. It was from the kitchen. Whether he ever used the damn thing or not, that’s enough to make it his possession.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “None.”

  “Does that mean there weren’t any, or they just didn’t mention ’em?”

  “No, no. There weren’t any. They’re not going to fuck around with that. It’s one thing to be somewhat vague about the time of death—that could be either incompetence or an oversight. But to withhold the fact that his prints were on the knife—that would be prosecutorial misconduct. I doubt if Beef Wellington would stoop to that.”

  “How’d he kill her without leaving his prints on the knife?”

  “He could have worn gloves.”

  “Then how did he get blood on his hands?”

  “Good point. Unfortunately, there are a lot of ways that could have happened.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if he wore gloves, he’s gotta get rid of them before the cops come. He kills her, leaves the knife on the floor, and ditches the gloves. Then he has to set the scene of having come home, slipped into bed in the dark, and then discovering she was dead. According to his story, he knew something was wrong because he touched the blood. So he’d have to have blood on his hands, even if he killed her wearing gloves.”

  I shook my head. “No good.”

  “What do you mean, no good?”

  “He killed her and got rid of the gloves? How? Where? Where’s the gloves? If there were a pair of bloody gloves in the apartment, the cops would have found them. So what did he do with them? Did he incinerate them? Is there a furnace in the basement? Or did he run out and stash ’em somewhere at two in the morning? I would find that theory pretty hard to sell.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately, there’s others.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. Theory number two—he didn’t wear gloves. He killed her, then he wiped the prints off the knife. And if he got blood on his hands, so what? He was going to have blood on his hands anyway. He set the stage, called the cops, and there you are.”

  “Same problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where’s the bloody handkerchief, rag, or whatever he wiped the knife off with?”

  “It might not be bloody.”

  “Huh?”

  “He kills her, the handle of the knife isn’t bloody. He wipes it off with a handkerchief, which remains clean. He sticks the handkerchief in his pocket, in his dresser drawer, up his ass, I don’t care where—then bloodies his hands and calls the cops.”

  “That’s pretty thin.”

  Richard put up his hands. “Hey, don’t take it personally, like I’m picking on you. These are perfectly good points and are probably ones I will even advance. You ask me how the prosecutor can argue that he’s guilty—well, these are the arguments he’ll make. I’m very happy to hear they’re not strong.”

  “Uh-huh. Anything else?”

  “Not really. Standard shit. Testimony of the cops at the scene.”

  “Uh-huh. So what you want me to do?”

  “Do?”

  “Yeah. You want me to run down these witnesses?”

  Richard looked at me in surprise. “What on earth for? It’s all simple, straightforward stuff. The guy’s got a terrific alibi, so what’s the big deal? The only problem now is getting him out on bail.”

  “How’s that coming?”

  “The hearing’s this afternoon. No problem there. He’s rich enough. If the judge can set it, he can make it. Then we just wait for the trial.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Not long. Maybe a couple of months.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. And that’s if we’re lucky. But it’s no real problem if we’re granted bail.”

  “Uh-huh. So you’ll have him out by this afternoon?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “You want me to talk to him then?”

  Richard looked at me again. “What on earth for?”

  “Well, I’ve interviewed all the witnesses. What do you want me to do?”

  “Oh, right,” Richard said. “I’m sorry. I’m so wrapped up in this, I’ve been thinking just of myself. You must forgive me. It’s my first murder. I’m a little preoccupied.

  Richard snatched up the phone. “Wendy? As of right now, start giving Stanley cases. He’s back on the clock.”

  23

  AND JUST LIKE THAT IT WAS OVER. My new career as a special investigator for the defense team in a murder trial.

  Done.

  Over.

  Finished.

  And just in case there was any doubt in my mind, it turned out Wendy had a case for me right off the bat. So, not an hour later, there I was in H
arlem in a fourth-floor walkup signing up the most enormous black woman you ever did see.

  The woman, one Serita Jones, had fallen and broken her arm. She blamed uneven pavement. That might well have been. On the other hand, the fact that she had fallen was not nearly as surprising as the fact that she had ever been able to stand up at all.

  Do I sound cruel, callous, and cynical? I suppose so. It was just such a comedown from a murder to a trip-and-fall. I had to keep reminding myself, schmuck, this is important to this woman. She’s a client too, she needs your help, and it’s your job to fight for her just as you would for Anson Carbinder.

  You know how hard that was to buy? Well, just the fact I had to keep reminding myself of it would be a good indication.

  So would the fact I didn’t believe her.

  She came downstairs—and what an adventure that was—took me outside, and showed me some broken sidewalk.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Tha’s the place. Swear to god.” Then, rolling her eyes, said, “Tha’s the sidewalk. Tha’s the one tha’ made me fall. I swear it all day long. All night long. Tha’ one right there. Uh-huh. Tha’s the one.”

  Was it just overkill? Was it just a case of, methinks the lady doth protest too much? Or was it just me being pissed off at being back on the game?

  Whatever the reason, my personal opinion was, Serita Jones didn’t deserve one lousy cent. And the only thing that made her case bearable was the fact that I was getting twenty bucks an hour handling it.

  Yeah.

  Twenty bucks an hour.

  And seventy-five cents a mile.

  Hey.

  Not bad.

  As I drove to my next case in Jamaica, Queens, the odometer suddenly looked like a taxi meter clicking over.

  Seventy-five cents a mile. Seven-fifty for ten. A fifteen-dollar bonus on top of my twenty-mile sign-up.

  So, a twenty-mile, three-hour sign-up that had netted me thirty-six dollars at ten bucks an hour and thirty cents a mile, now pulled in a whopping seventy-five.

  A thirty-nine dollar increase.

  Son of a bitch.

  And I must confess, most of the time that I was listening to Leon Roustabout’s tale of woe—regarding his fractured hip and the causes thereof, which, if the truth be known, I don’t really remember—I was mentally doing the math (add and subtract, compare and contrast) and figuring out under the new rate schedule just what the gentlemen was worth to me.

  I did that all day long. And by the time I was driving down the West Side Highway, coming home from my last assignment in Yonkers, I had it all worked out.

  I had put in an eight-hour day. At twenty bucks an hour, that’s a hundred and sixty bucks. Forty less than the two hundred a day I’d been making.

  But I’d gone over sixty miles. At seventy-five cents a mile, that’s forty-five dollars.

  So I’d take home two hundred and five. As opposed to the two hundred plus expenses I was making on the Carbinder case. Well, my expenses there were nil, there was no mileage to speak of, so, all in all, it was much the same thing.

  With that thought to cheer me, I was not at all upset when my beeper went off as I turned off the highway onto Ninety-sixth Street. If Wendy/Janet had a case for tomorrow at twenty bucks an hour and seventy-five cents a mile, that was just fine with me. I pulled up next to a pay phone and called the office.

  Only, Wendy/Janet didn’t give me a case.

  She put me on hold.

  Moments later, Richard’s voice came on the line.

  “Get in here.”

  24

  I HAD EXPECTED TO FIND ANSON CARBINDER in Richard Rosenberg’s office, so the man who was actually sitting there was a bit of a surprise. He was one of the witnesses I had interrogated in the case. If I were better at names and faces, I could tell you which witness. But I’m not, and sudden confrontations with people I don’t expect to see fluster me to begin with. So, at first glance, the best I could tell was that he was one of the two nervous, insecure, ineffectual ones. But what their names were, and which of the two he happened to be, totally escaped me.

  Fortunately, Richard said, “Come in, Stanley. I believe you know Phil Janson. Mr. Janson, is this the man you were talking about?”

  “Yes, of course. He came and questioned me.”

  “He’s the one who gave you my card?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I’m certainly glad you saw fit to call me.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did just right.”

  “Is this going to take much longer? I have an audition to go to.”

  Ah. That completed the picture for me. The name Phil Janson had certainly been a valuable clue. But, as I say, I’m not that good with names. But the fact he had an audition to go to allowed me to identify him as an actor, making him the last witness I had interrogated. The one with the Greenwich Village apartment. The one who was so nervous he couldn’t remember what hand he was holding when Anson won the big pot. As opposed to the other nervous one, the Birdman of Central Park South, who could remember what hand he was holding, though I could not remember it now.

  Anyway, nervous actor Phil Janson seemed even more nervous than usual. It struck me that his desire to leave for an audition might be based on the more fundamental desire just to get away, period.

  Having deduced all that, I still had no idea what he was doing there.

  “Now, Mr. Janson,” Richard said. “Why don’t you tell Stanley what you just told me.”

  “Again?”

  “I’d like him to hear it from you.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Janson. You did exactly right.”

  Oh-oh.

  From the stress on the word you, and the look on Richard’s face, I had a feeling I was in deep shit. Why, I had no idea. But I assumed I had missed something in my questioning of Mr. Janson. Something the gentleman had recollected and decided to call Richard about. What that could be, I had absolutely no idea. But that had to be it.

  Wrong again.

  Phil Janson said, “Like I said, it was just this afternoon. I was at home preparing for the audition. Working on my scene, you know. Actually, I was doing it in front of the mirror. That’s sometimes good, sometimes bad. I mean, you catch things you want to fix, sure. But your concentration’s divided. So—”

  “That’s really interesting, Mr. Janson,” Richard said. “Can you tell him what happened?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Janson, who had actually been looking at me during his explanation of his rehearsal process, now seemed to find his fingernails fascinating. He began picking furiously at a cuticle. “Well, anyway, I was rehearsing and there was a knock at the door. Which shouldn’t happen. There’s a buzzer downstairs, and it hadn’t rung. Sure, sometimes people leave the front door ajar. But they shouldn’t. There’s even a sign on the door about it. I’m sure none of the tenants do. But they have visitors. And the guy will go out and forget. And—”

  “Mr. Janson.”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Janson said. He continued to attack his cuticle. “Anyway, there’s a knock on the door. Frankly, I don’t want to answer, because you never know who it might be. But I got a peephole, so I’m gonna look out, just in case it’s my upstairs neighbor. Even though he would call first, because he knows I don’t like that. Anyway, I’m going to the door to look out the peephole, I hear, ‘Open up. Police.’”

  Phil Janson looked up at me with a look that said, What did I do? Then returned to working on his fingernails. “So I look out the peephole and there’s a big, beefy guy standing there. But he’s not in uniform, so I don’t open up. Then he holds up a badge. Well, even so, I’m not convinced, because I’m in the theater, and I know you can get a fake badge. Besides, what do I know what a real badge looks like. Then he says, ‘Open up, Mr. Janson, it’s about the Anson Carbinder case.’”

  “Tell him what the cop said after you let him in,” Richard prompted.

 
“Yeah,” Janson said. “Well, I let him in, because if he knew about that he was probably a cop, right? So I let him in, but once he’s in, it occurred to me I don’t want to speak to him. And you know the first thing he says? He says, ‘Where were you on the night of October twelfth?’”

  Janson looked up from his fingers again. “Well, that’s it. That’s that night. That’s when it happened. Anson’s wife. So I know, this is it. If I tell him where I was, he’s gonna want to know was Anson there. And when, and when did he leave, and who else was there, and the whole bit. So I tell him I’m not sure I’m supposed to talk to him, I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Which is just what you should have done,” Richard said. “Tell him what the cop said then.”

  “Well, the cop said, ‘Why do you need a lawyer if you’re just a witness?’ And he tried to talk me out of it, but I said no and I called you and you told me to come in.”

  “And what did the cop do then?”

  “He gave me his card.”

  “Show him the card.”

  “Oh, where did I put it. Yeah, here it is. Right here.” Phil Janson dug the card out of his pocket, held it up, and pointed. “Sergeant William MacAullif.”

  25

  “SO,” RICHARD DEMANDED, AFTER PHIL JANSON had gratefully scuttled out, closing the office door.

  I flopped into the chair Janson had vacated, took a breath, and looked up at Richard. “I don’t think I like this.”

  “You don’t like this? How do you think I feel? So what’s the story?”

  “What story? You know as much as I do.”

  “Oh? Would you mind telling me how Sergeant MacAullif got a line on this witness?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, no? What about your little chats with the sergeant? When you implied Anson might have an alibi? Hinted around about several witnesses?”

  “I never said who they were.”

  “Oh, yeah? Are you telling me, if MacAullif got a line on this witness, it wasn’t through you?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  “You sure of that?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Then how did he find him?”