by Parnell Hall
“Were they all there the entire time?”
“Tim Hendricks left at midnight.”
“Did anyone else leave early?”
“No, they did not.”
“Did Anson Carbinder leave the poker game at any time for any reason?”
“No, he did not.”
“Is it not a fact, Mr. Brown, that Anson Carbinder was not at that poker game, but he was there on a previous night?”
“No, it is not a fact. He was there that night.”
“But not on a previous night?”
“He’s been there on previous nights also.”
“Then isn’t it possible you confused the two events—no, let me finish, Mr. Brown. Isn’t it possible that you’re remembering Anson Carbinder from having been there at a previous game, and that is why you are now mistaken in placing him at that one?”
“No, it is not possible. He was there that night. I happen to remember particularly, because of the big high/low hand.”
“Ah, yes,” Wellington said. “And would that be the hand where Sam Kestin beat him out of a large pot?”
“No, it would not,” Barry Brown said. “It was the other way around. Anson won the pot. He had a full house and he took it all.”
“How is it you remember it so particularly?”
“Are you kidding? I was in the hand. I had a queen-high straight. Thought I had a good shot. It turned out I didn’t.”
“What hand did Sam Kestin have?”
“Three of a kind. Big deal. I beat him.”
“I see,” Wellington said. “So, even if Anson Carbinder hadn’t had a full house, Sam Kestin wouldn’t have won?”
“No. Like I say, I had a straight.”
“Then Anson Carbinder didn’t beat Sam Kestin out of the pot. That doesn’t make any sense. Because Kestin couldn’t have won it anyway.”
“No, no, you’re missing the point,” Barry Brown said. “Sam could have gone low. He’d have gotten half the pot if he had. No one else had a low. Anson beat him out of it by looking low and forcing Sam high. See what I mean?”
Wellington clearly didn’t. It was almost comical, watching him trying to understand the nuances of high/low poker, and realizing, if he couldn’t, he was going to lose his case. He put Barry Brown through a wringer. And I have to give the guy credit. Barry Brown, I mean. Grueling as the cross-examination was, he never lost his cool. And, finally, Wellington gave up.
It would have been great if court had adjourned just then. Richard would have accomplished his purpose—two solid witnesses, nailing down the alibi, locking it into the jurors’ minds.
Unfortunately, Barry Brown was too good. Wellington gave in too soon. There was too much time left.
“Call your next witness,” Judge Blank said.
For the first time all day, Richard did not look pleased.
“Call Phil Janson.”
38
AS PHIL JANSON TOOK THE WITNESS STAND, the thought that ran through my mind was, oh, my god.
He’d dressed for the part.
He was in costume.
Phil Janson was wearing a suit and tie, circa 1940, obviously ripped off from the wardrobe department of some summer theater somewhere. The wide-lapeled, pin-striped jacket had seen better days. It had also seen larger men. On him it was huge. Almost grotesquely so.
And the wide-striped tie didn’t go. I must admit I’m no good at clothes—Alice always has to tell me if things match—but even I could tell the tie clashed. It wasn’t close.
Then there was the shirt. I swear to god there was a tan ring around the collar of the shirt. And I knew exactly what it was. It was makeup. Theatrical base makeup. I don’t think he was wearing it then. I certainly hope he wasn’t wearing makeup then. But this was obviously a white shirt he had worn in plays. The makeup on the collar was quite visible, and what a bizarre touch that added to the scene.
Then there was the man himself.. Janson, you will remember, was the one who kept fidgeting with his fingers. As if figuring that alone wasn’t enough, he had now taken to biting his lip. And he was doing it at such a steady pace, the damn thing was bound to start bleeding before we were done.
Richard was on his feet before he was even sworn. I immediately recognized the strategy—get him on and off as fast as he could.
“Mr. Janson, were you at a poker game on the evening of October twelfth and the early-morning hours of October thirteenth?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Who else was in the game?”
Phil Janson almost tore his hands apart and bit through his lip. But he managed to croak out the answer, listing all the usual suspects, Anson Carbinder chief among them.
“And from eight o’clock until two in the morning, did Anson Carbinder ever leave the game?”
“No, he did not.”
“And do you recall a large high/low hand, where Anson won the whole pot?”
“Objection. Leading and suggestive.”
“Sustained. Mr. Rosenberg, kindly avoid leading the witness.”
“Sorry, Your Honor,” Richard said. But he wasn’t. This was one witness Richard intended to lead as much as he could. “Ah, Mr. Janson, do you remember any hand in particular?”
“Yes, I do. There was a big high/low hand, and Anson won it all.”
“And what can you tell us about that hand?”
“Just that. Anson looked like he was going low, but he went high. We all went high, and he took the whole pot.”
“You went high too?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you have?”
“I had a straight to the jack.”
“Do you know when this hand took place—what time of night, I mean?”
“No, I don’t. I just remember the hand.”
“But you do remember Anson Carbinder won the hand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And that Anson Carbinder was at the game from eight o’clock until two in the morning when the game broke up?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank you, Mr. Janson. That’s all.”
I’ll never forget the look on Janson’s face when Richard said that. He had stopped tearing at his own fingers. Now his hands gripped the sides of the witness stand, his fingernails digging into the wood. He was sitting very erect, with his back slammed against the back of the chair, his head up, his eyes wide. And his chin tucked in. It was quite a position. Defensive, defiant, terrified out of his mind. He looked for all intents and purposes like a man tied to a stake, about to be torn apart by a ravenous lion.
He go to his feet, that ravenous lion. ADA Beef Wellington. After Sam Kestin and Barry Brown, he was practically salivating at the chance to get at this one.
But it was not to be.
Before he could commence his cross-examination, Judge Blank took notice of the time and adjourned court until ten o’clock the next morning.
39
“WHAT’S THE MATTER?”
“I don’t know.”
I really didn’t. Something was bugging me about the day in court, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. And Alice couldn’t help me because she hadn’t been there.
Well, that’s not quite true. Alice could probably help me fine if I just knew how to let her. I sometimes think of Alice as a computer, capable of solving anything if just fed the right data. I was the one not up to the task of knowing what data to feed.
“Tell me again,” Alice said.
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me everything. Anything that strikes you. Anything that made an impression.”
“I think it’s the last witness.”
“The nervous one?”
“Yeah. The actor. Phil Janson.”
“You said he wasn’t that bad.”
“His direct examination wasn’t that bad. Richard helped him along, asked him easy questions and accepted whatever he said. Wellington will make him jump through hoops.”
“I thought you already knew t
hat.”
“I did.”
“I thought that was part of the plan. Isn’t that what you told me last night? Two strong witnesses, then the weak one. They tear him apart, but it doesn’t matter. Isn’t that what you said?”
“That’s what Richard said.”
“And you don’t agree?”
“It isn’t that.”
“What is it, then?”
“I don’t know.”
Which is where you came in. And would seem a suitable stopping place. Only Alice wouldn’t leave it at that.
“All right,” she said. “What about the other witnesses?”
“What about them?”
“You said they were good?”
“They were perfect. Couldn’t be better. If court had adjourned after them, everything would have been fine.”
“So, it isn’t them.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“And their testimony took most of the day?”
“That’s right.”
“And this actor—how long was he on the stand?”
“Just a few minutes. That’s all.”
“And if it hadn’t happened—if he hadn’t gone on—everything would have been just fine?”
“Everything would have been aces. The jury would have gone home sold on the idea Anson Carbinder was at that game.”
“And they didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. Because of the actor.”
“Yes, but what was it about the actor?”
“I told you. He’s nervous, he’s insecure.”
“So what?”
“What do you mean, so what?”
“Lots of people are nervous and insecure. They don’t necessarily make a bad impression.”
“He did.”
“Why?”
“Why do you keep asking why?”
“Because I don’t get an answer. And I need an answer, because I wasn’t there. So I don’t have my impression, I only have yours. You need to translate your impression for me. Look, here’s how I see it. We have a day here that is basically good. We have one small element that is slightly bad. It’s not even bad yet, it’s just potentially bad. And yet you choose to evaluate the entire day in terms of that one small potential bad element.”
“Are you telling me I’m a manic depressive?”
“No, I’m telling you there must be a reason. Why did the bad witness make more of an impression on you than the two good ones?”
“How about the fact he came last?”
“Not good enough. It’s still only potentially bad. Put yourself in the jurors’ place. You’ve heard testimony all day long establishing the fact Anson Carbinder has an alibi. And then you hear this guy. It doesn’t confirm it, but it doesn’t deny it, either. At worst, you go home wondering, What’s eating him? But you’re still sold on the alibi. See what I mean?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Aha!” Alice said, pouncing on it. “You’re not sold on that premise. Which means there is something more to it. Now, what is it about the witness that disturbs you so much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Think,” Alice said. “This isn’t that hard.”
I stared at her. “Are you telling me you do know?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What, then?”
“Okay,” Alice said. “What is it about this witness—”
I broke in. “Excuse me, but fuck the Socratic method. Just tell me what you think.”
“He’s lying.”
“Huh?”
“The witness is lying. This actor.”
“Lying? How can he be lying?”
“He isn’t, necessarily. What I mean is, he gives that impression. That’s what you’re reacting to. And that’s what disturbs you so much. Not the fact he’s insecure, but the way it translates to you, and the way you’re afraid it translates to the jury. The witness is lying. That is the last impression that was left in everyone’s mind when court broke up. Not that this was an insecure witness. Not that the prosecutor was going to rip him apart the next day. The impression was that Janson was lying. Which doesn’t necessarily have to be true—it’s just an impression. It’s an impression formed by all the mannerisms you recognize as nervousness, but it translates subconsciously into a person who’s not telling the truth. So, even if you know he’s telling the truth—which I assume you do?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Subconsciously, you’re still left with that impression. Which is why it’s bothering you.”
I frowned. “I suppose.”
“Well, what else could it be. Was there anything he said?”
“He hardly said anything.”
“Was his memory bad?”
“No. It was better than I expected. He remembered who was in the game, when they were there, and the fact Anson won the big high/low hand.”
“He hadn’t remembered that before?”
“Yeah, but not what he had. Richard must have worked on him. When I questioned him, he wasn’t sure if he was in the hand or not. Now he remembers he stayed in with a jack-high straight. Maybe that’s what’s bothering me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in his case, the more he remembers, the worse it is. On cross-examination, I mean. If he simply says he doesn’t remember, there’s nothing Wellington can do. The more he remembers, the more Wellington can pound him with—if you remember this, how come you can’t remember that?”
“Uh-huh,” Alice said. “So you think that’s what’s bothering you?”
“I don’t know.”
Yes, we had come full cycle again. Still, I think we went around at least two more times. Even after that, the thing kept revolving in my head. Right through the eleven o’clock news, right through my suggestion of marital bliss (denied), then right through David Letterman’s monologue and top-ten list, after which I turned off the TV and lay there in the dark, unable to stop my mind.
Phil Janson. Walking disaster Phil Janson. Playing in the big game with his relatively well-to-do friends. A wonder the guy could even play cards, assuming he had the spare cash to do so. He seemed to lack the brains and the nerve. Typical of him, that he’d stayed in the big hand with a jack-high straight. Beaten by Barry Brown’s queen-high straight. Not to mention Anson’s full house, and someone else’s flush besides. What did that make him, fourth best? Granted, he beat Sam Kestin’s three eights, but Sam Kestin could have and probably should have gone low.
Easy for me to say, not being in the game. Not sitting there, looking at the ace, two, three, four. Would I have gone low with Kestin’s hand? With a nine? With that much money in the pot?
An impossible question to answer. I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t seen what everyone had on board. What cards were showing around the table. The flush, for instance. Who was that, Tim Hendricks? Had he had a four flush showing? Or only three? Either way would be scary. Particularly with him staying in. Or had his cards looked low as well? Would that be another reason to go high?
And what about Barry Brown’s straight. How good had it looked on board? Or Phil Janson’s, for that matter. Without knowing what he saw, could I really fault Sam Kestin for going high with three eights?
Not on your life.
As I drifted off to sleep, the thought that occurred to me was, that jury was going to learn more about poker than any human being could ever wish to know.
I fell asleep, dreamed I was a high roller playing in the big game.
It was not a happy dream. I had a jack-high straight, and I was beat all over the board.
But I wouldn’t fold. Even knowing I was beaten, I kept throwing money in.
I awoke in a cold sweat, sat bolt upright in bed.
There were five eights.
40
RICHARD WASN’T IMPRESSED.
“Stanley, do you know what time it is?”
Yes, I did. It was two in the morning, and
I’d called Richard at home. After Anson Carbinder did it, I’d pried Richard’s home number out of him as part of the new deal.
I don’t think he expected me to use it.
“It’s important, Richard. There’s five fucking eights.”
“So you say. I don’t see what’s the big deal.”
“He’s lying, Richard.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, yeah? Add it up. Sam Kestin went high with three eights. Barry Brown had a straight to the queen. That’s eight, nine, ten, jack, queen. Phil Janson had a straight to the jack. That’s seven, eight, nine, ten, jack. Any way you slice it, that’s five eights.”
“So he made a mistake. What’s the big deal?”
“Wellington will crucify him with it.”
“Wellington may not even notice it.”
“Are you kidding? I noticed it.”
“After a considerable length of time,” Richard said dryly. “Are you aware of the fact that it’s two in the morning?”
“Yes, I am. Richard, we’ve got to do something.”
“Just what would you like to do?”
“This Phil Janson—we’ve got to see him.”
“Now? Are you out of your mind?”
“Richard, Phil Janson lied. If I figured it out, other people can too.”
“You’re making too much of this.”
“You don’t want to talk to him?”
“Of course, I want to talk to him. I’ll see him before court.”
“That may not be enough.”
“Enough? Stanley, I worked with bad witnesses before. I can straighten this out.”
“If he’s mistaken, yes. But what if he’s lying?”
“About what hand he had?”
“About the whole thing.”
“Stanley, give it a rest. Whatever the guy’s situation, it’s not gonna change between now and this morning. I appreciate your concern, but give it a rest. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be no good in court. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And he hung up.
Damn.
I slammed down the receiver, grabbed my notebook off the kitchen table, flipped through.
I’d been calling from the kitchen so as not to wake up Alice. Nice try. She came padding in from the bedroom, rubbing her eyes. “Stanley. What the hell are you doing?”
