Line of Vision

by David Ellis

  “And what did your husband do with the gun when he was finished showing it?”

  This isn’t happening.

  “He put it in the oak cabinets below the bar. In the den.”

  “He did this in front of the defendant?”

  “Again. I think so. I’m pretty sure Marty was in there.”

  “Do you know if your husband ever moved that gun back upstairs?”

  “I don’t know. The gun was more of a souvenir than anything else. I’m surprised it was even loaded.”

  Ogren looks up at the judge. “No more questions,” he says.

  Paul leans over, in front of me, to Mandy. “Do we start today?” he whispers.

  “No,” I say.

  “We don’t want to leave this in their minds tonight,” Mandy whispers back.

  “Mr. Riley?” Judge Mack calls.

  “It doesn’t matter, Paul,” I say.

  “Could we have a moment, Your Honor?” Paul asks.

  “A very short one, counsel.”

  “No, Paul.”

  “We can’t leave this hanging like this,” Mandy says. “We have to go after her now.”

  “Paul,” I say quietly, as composed as I can be. “Are you listening to me?”

  He turns to me. “What?”

  “We wait until tomorrow.”

  Paul studies me for a moment. Then he stands. “Your Honor, given the lateness of the hour, and the fact we’ve been completely blindsided with new so-called evidence, I would ask for an adjournment.”

  Judge Mack considers this, glancing at the clock. “Fine. We recess until tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

  I tell my lawyers I will meet them at their offices at six. I have an errand or two to run first.

  76

  I MAKE IT BACK TO MY HOME BY NINE-THIRTY, AFTER a two-hour meeting with my attorneys. Tonight I will add some water to the Glenfiddich. I feel the need to keep my wits about me.

  I sit at the kitchen table and spread out, the prepared text, already thought out, to my right. The yellow pad in front of me, the pen in my left hand. I hold my hand up in the middle of the pen, making the left-handed scrawlings of a right-handed writer all the more difficult to read. Or trace, I should say.

  I am about halfway through the first letter when the phone rings. I look up and see my reflection in the window. How much life has drained from this pale, shadowy mug.

  “Hello?” I say into the phone.

  “Hello. Brett?”

  “Speaking,” I say. “Brett” was the first name I saw in the first magazine I could find.

  “This is Rudy Sprovieri,” the voice says.

  “Oh, are you going by Rudy now? I prefer Michael.”

  “Yes, well—I got your note?”

  “Oh, good. I was afraid the parking attendant would lift it off the windshield.”

  “I’ve been calling all night. I wanna know what this is about. And who you are.”

  “Wasn’t the note clear enough, Rudy?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t. ‘There is something you should know about your position at the company.’ What the hell does that mean? And who are you?”

  “I’m a friend, Michael. Do you mind if I call you Mi—”

  “No, I don’t—will you please tell me what this is all about? And why I’m not supposed to tell my wife?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t tell your wife. Don’t tell anybody. Not until we can be sure.”

  I hang up the phone. It rings again, not ten seconds later.

  “Listen to me. I want an explanation right now. You leave me this cryptic note on my car. It looks like a goddamn ransom note”—because I cut all the words out from magazines—“you tell me my position with the company is not secure—or whatever you meant. You tell me to be secretive. And then you won’t tell me what this is about. What the hell is this? And who are you?”

  Good for me that my number is unlisted. I’m sure Sprovieri checked with directory assistance.

  “A friend, Michael,” I say. “I’m a friend. Really, I’m a little surprised you don’t recognize my voice.” Probably because I’ve been talking out the side of my mouth, in a southern drawl.

  Finally, an exhausted sigh at the other end. “I—have no idea why you’re doing this. Are you going to explain this note to me or not?”

  I cover the phone and take a moment. “If I was you,” I say finally, “I’d burn that note. And I’d keep my eyes open at work. Michael, do not tell a soul about this.”

  “About what? Are you going to tell—”

  “Ssshhhhhh. I’ll take care of it. If anyone knows we’re working together, it will make matters worse. Don’t tell a soul. And don’t tell your wife.”

  “Listen, Brett, or whatever your name is, will you please—”

  “Tell you what, Mike, why don’t you call me tomorrow?”

  “Listen to me—”

  “No, no, Michael Rudolph Sprovieri. You listen to me. Relax. Call me tomorrow morning. What time do you get up?”

  “I—well, I don’t—maybe six-thirty.”

  “Call me then. I might know more.”

  The phone rings five or six more times tonight. My answering machine has been turned off since this afternoon, after court, and I just let the phone ring. Except the third time, when I answer but hang up after five seconds, saying nothing more than “Call me tomorrow” to Mr. Sprovieri.

  It takes me almost twice as long to complete my work with all the noise. But what the hell. It makes it that much more enjoyable, too.

  77

  MY HEAD THROBS AS I SIT AT THE DEFENSE TABLE. Even adding the water, I overdid it a little last night with the scotch. By comparison to my lawyers, however, I look as though I slept like a baby. Mandy’s eyes are red and puffy. Her hair, which never really sits in place anyway, takes on an even more frazzled look today, a little flatter and more disordered.

  Paul isn’t the kind to pull an all-nighter—I’m quite sure he didn’t—but his face is drawn as well. For the first time today, he does not sit calmly, taking in the surroundings and chatting with various members of the law enforcement community who are on hand. Today, he flips through his notes, scribbling at times, mumbling to himself. Somewhere in there, he is probably cursing me for giving him only a few hours’ heads-up before he cross-examines Rachel. But I know that, deep within him, the fire of a trial lawyer, ready to give the biggest cross-examination of the trial, burns bright.

  Michael Sprovieri—I guess he goes by Rudy, his middle name—called me at six-thirty sharp this morning. I was just getting out of the shower. I played coy like I did last night, telling him to sit tight. Jesus, he has no idea who this “Brett” guy is or why he left some bizarre note on his car about his future with his company. He might find out soon.

  The prosecutors, as always, were already seated in the courtroom this morning as I walked in with my attorneys. Ogren briefly looked up at us, and I made eye contact with him. I just nodded, kind of an eager, confident nod. He looked away, blinked a couple times, maybe wondering for a moment why the hell I seemed so chipper, before returning to his deliberations with Gretchen Flaherty.

  The judge enters the courtroom and we all stand. His Honor speaks briefly to the parties. Paul tells the judge he’d like to approach the bench, a new matter has arisen. Paul and Roger Ogren argue quietly before the judge for several minutes. Ogren waves his hands in the air as he argues. Finally, in a huff, he returns to his seat. Paul walks calmly behind him. His Honor, Judge Mack, then calls for the jury.

  Not a face looks in my direction as the jurors take their seats. I’m the killer now. None of them has any doubt about this.

  Rachel walks into the courtroom and takes her seat in the witness box. She assures the judge she understands that she’s still under oath. She is wearing a navy blue turtleneck and a reddish vest. She looks graceful and elegant. I will have to give her that. I will always have to give her that.

  Paul stands and, for the first time, carries a bi
nder with him to the lectern. He places it down awkwardly, pausing for a moment to be sure it will not slide off. This is not the way he likes to do it (“Notes are bush league,” he once told me), but I haven’t given him much time to prepare.

  “Mrs. Reinardt, my name is Paul Riley. I would like to ask you a few questions about yesterday’s testimony.”

  “Fine,” Rachel replies. She folds one leg over the other and looks up innocently.

  “If at any time this morning you would like to take a break, please let me know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Reinardt, you testified yesterday that your husband sometimes abused you.”

  Wow. He’s going right after it.

  “That’s right. He did.”

  “Forgive me for being graphic, but you said he would whip you with his belt?”

  She closes her eyes; her eyebrows lift slightly. “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, but when he would hit you, would he hit you just once and stop?”

  “No.”

  “He would hit you more than once?” Paul scratches his face. He’s not being offensive, but he’s not being gentle, either. And the jury’s picking up on the tension.

  “Yes.”

  “Repeatedly, would you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “About how many times?”

  “I wasn’t counting, Mr. Riley.”

  “If you could estimate . . .?”

  “Maybe—ten times.”

  “So in each one of these episodes, he would hit you approximately ten times, on the back, with his leather belt.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Riley.”

  “And he would have sex with you against your will.”

  “What I said was he didn’t know it was against my will.”

  “But against your will, nonetheless.”

  She sighs. “Yes.”

  “And obviously, these subjects are very painful for you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Riley, they are.” A trace of anger in her voice.

  “But, Mrs. Reinardt, you told a number of people about this abuse, didn’t you?”

  She glares at him. “No.”

  “No? Didn’t you tell a number of women at the foundation that your husband beat you?”

  “Marty,” said Lieutenant Denno. “We know he beat her up. We know about that.”

  “Girls talk. Some of her friends at the foundation. She told them. I think she told you, too.”

  “I might have,” Rachel says quickly. “I’m sure if I said it, I didn’t go into detail.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No, I don’t remember.”

  “So you weren’t all that careful with this information?”

  Ogren objects. The judge sustains.

  “Well, can we agree that you told some other people?”

  “I said I don’t remember.”

  “But you never told any of these people that Marty Kalish was”—Paul waves his hand with disdain—“bothering you. Did you?”

  “I told that lawyer.” Her face relaxes.

  “Oh, we’ll get to that,” says Paul. “But other than that lawyer, you didn’t tell anyone. True?”

  “True.”

  “You didn’t tell any of these people that Marty Kalish was the one who broke into your house on November eighteenth, did you?”

  “You’re correct.”

  “Okay. You started seeing a psychiatrist in May of last year, did you not?”

  “Yes . . .?” Rachel’s eyes search Paul. Those long, thin eyebrows of hers arch.

  “A man named Dr. Benjamin Garrett.”

  “That’s right.”

  Ogren rises and objects. Doctor-patient privilege. Paul informs the judge that Rachel waived the privilege, allowed us to meet with him. Rachel confirms this for the judge. Ogren, it seems, had no idea.

  Paul pauses. “You told your psychiatrist about the abuse.”

  “Yes.”

  “And with Dr. Garrett, you did go into painful detail, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told him about the belt, about the sex.”

  “Yes.”

  “You spoke freely with him.”

  “Not at first.”

  “But eventually.”

  “Yes.”

  “You trusted him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you knew that he was sworn to a patient-psychiatrist privilege.”

  “I—well—it wasn’t foremost in my mind.”

  “Yeah, but you know a psychiatrist can’t repeat what his patient tells him. Everybody knows that, right?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you knew that.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “So you knew that he couldn’t repeat a word of anything—anything you told him without your permission.”

  “I guess—yes.”

  “And yet, Mrs. Reinardt, you never told Dr. Garrett that Marty Kalish was—bothering you?”

  Her eyes narrow slightly. “That’s right.”

  “You never told him, Marty Kalish stands outside my house at night.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You never told him, Marty Kalish makes passes at me.”

  “No. That wasn’t the reason I was seeing him.”

  “You didn’t tell Dr. Garrett that Marty Kalish was the person who broke into your house on November eighteenth, did you?”

  “No.”

  “In fact, you never once mentioned his name to Dr. Garrett, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Despite knowing that he couldn’t repeat it if you did tell him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “In fact, you told Dr. Garrett that you didn’t see”—Paul waves a finger to emphasize each word—“the person who came through the glass door.”

  Rachel, stoic, allows a slow inhale, a blink of her eyes. “That’s right.”

  “After Marty was arrested, you still didn’t tell Dr. Garrett that Marty was the guy who entered your home on November eighteenth.”

  Rachel crosses her arms now. “No.”

  “In fact, Dr. Garrett asked you about Marty, after he was arrested, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you told him you had no idea if he was the person who attacked your husband.”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “And after you yourself were arrested. Even then”—Paul stabs at the air—“you never told Dr. Garrett that Marty did it.”

  “I didn’t tell him. No. I didn’t tell him ever!”

  “Despite knowing that he couldn’t repeat it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “All you talked to your psychiatrist about was the abuse.”

  “Yes.”

  “You wanted to make sure he knew all about that.”

  Rachel crinkles her face. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting.”

  “Your Honor,” Roger Ogren says, “we object to the question as argumentative.”

  “Ahhh”—Judge Mack massages his face—“I’m going to sustain that objection.”

  Paul’s eyes have never left Rachel. “Mrs. Reinardt, you told us yesterday that the abuse began in April or May of last year.”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Well, you said you first went to your psychiatrist in May of last year, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I take it the abuse had already begun when you first went to him?”

  “Yes. That’s the whole reason I went to him.”

  “So you could tell him about the abuse.”

  “So I—yes.”

  “Well, how long after the abuse started did you go to see Dr. Garrett?”

  Rachel frowns. Paul is pinning her down here, something she does not seem to enjoy. “A few weeks, I suppose.”

  “So it was probably April when this . . .abuse”—Paul kinds of flips his hand as he says this word—“started.”

  Rachel’s face goes cold with Paul�
�s hesitation, which falls just short of sarcasm. She’s getting the picture now. “That’s right.”

  “How often did this abuse take place?”

  Rachel draws another slow breath.

  “Every week, I think you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this was consistent, you said. Every week, you told the jury yesterday.”

  Rachel’s eyes water. She blinks away the tears.

  “Mrs. Reinardt—”

  “Yes,” she cries. “It was consistent. It was every week!”

  Paul gives her a minute as she removes a tissue from her purse.

  “Mrs. Reinardt, is it your testimony that you received bruises when your husband abused you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bruises on your back, I take it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Nowhere else, is that true?”

  Rachel folds her hands. “I believe so.”

  “Well, you told us he hit you on the back. Is there anywhere else he hit you?”

  “No.”

  “So if there were any bruises, they would have been on your back only?”

  “I guess that’s right, Mr. Riley.”

  “You never showed these bruises to Dr. Garrett, did you?”

  Paul is bluffing a little here. We didn’t ask Garrett this question.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “In fact, you never showed anyone these bruises, did you?”

  Scars you can never see.

  “No, I didn’t show them to anyone.”

  “You told people about this abuse, but you never actually showed anyone.”

  She glares at Paul now. “What are you suggesting? That I made it up?”

  “Please answer the question, Mrs. Reinardt.” This is the first rebuke Paul has given her. The atmosphere in the courtroom has taken on a decidedly adversarial charge. “Isn’t it true that while you told people about the abuse, you never showed the bruises to anyone?”

  “I really don’t know, Mr. Riley. I might have.”

  “Really? To whom?”

  Rachel’s face goes cold. She stifles, I think, an urge to look my way. We both know she showed me her scars. But she’s no longer sure what I will say. Plus, that would be admitting to intimacy with me, which she surely will not do now.

  “Who’d you show the bruises to, Mrs. Reinardt? Give me a name.”

  Over the last few questions, my eyes have peeked over at Roger Ogren. He is whispering to Gretchen Flaherty. He can’t figure out what Paul is doing. After this last question, he stands. “Your Honor, may we approach?” Ogren turns to Paul with absolute disgust, as in how-could-you-beat-upon-this-poor-woman-and-aren’t-we-all-so-indignant. I notice, however, that the jurors are quite interested in this line of questioning. Paul has more than his share of credibility with them, and they’re gonna give him some rope. Paul and Ogren huddle in front of the judge, who leans forward with his hand over the microphone.