by David Ellis
“We know that he was having an affair with Mrs. Reinardt,” Phillip Everett continues, waving his arms as he walks along the jury box. “He’s admitted that much.”
He admitted that much because he had no choice after the videos.
The jury in my trial saw the videotapes and read the phone records, all of which completely impeached Rachel’s testimony. But the topper, no doubt, was when an anonymous caller informed the Highland Woods Police Department that the body of Dr. Derrick Reinardt could be found beneath a baseball field at Laramie Elementary School, in Mount Rayford. This call was made just after ten A.M. from a phone booth by a gas station in Mount Rayford, presumably by someone who saw the burial rite take place on November 18 and had been reluctant to come forward. That same day, Greg Quillar caught the twelve-fifteen flight for a much-needed and much-deserved trip to Bermuda.
The police dug up two other baseball fields before they reached the one I used. Finally, they found Dr. Reinardt, somewhat decomposed and wrapped tightly in plastic. Roger Ogren, as expected, asked for a delay in the trial to perform an autopsy and other tests on the doctor—tests that revealed very little, except that Dr. Reinardt died from two very sharp bullets in the chest. And, oh yes, they found Rudy’s ATM receipt—which I had removed from Rudy’s jacket pocket during one of my trips to his house—right alongside the doctor. They had to turn over the receipt to Paul.
At this point, Andrew Karras was running daily articles in the Metro section of the Watch, wondering why the police weren’t investigating Rudy Sprovieri. The phone records, the videotape, the ATM receipt. Didn’t they care about the truth? Would C.A. Phillip Everett see Marty Kalish convicted at any cost? Is that the kind of character we look for in a senator?
But the prosecution resisted, despite the pressures, and the trial resumed about a week later. Paul decided not to call me as a witness after all. The only witness we called after the body was found was Rudy Sprovieri.
Rudy refused to answer Paul’s questions, citing the protection against self-incrimination. You should have seen the look on the jurors’ faces the first time Rudy pleaded the Fifth. We proved it was Rudy’s bank account on the ATM receipt. We proved he had called me, over and over. We proved he and Rachel were having an affair. And we put plenty of dents in Rachel’s testimony. We had more than reasonable doubt. The jury took less than an hour to come back “not guilty.”
Now, Andrew Karras cried in his article the next day, now are the police going to go after the real suspect, Rudy Sprovieri?
So the police searched his house. They found Dr. Reinardt’s gun in Rudy’s wooden chest in the basement—which I placed there after removing it from its hiding spot behind the gas station. They also found granules of sand in the basement, sand that I had removed from the baseball field and sprinkled in Rudy’s carpet down there. They had no choice but to arrest him.
Rachel skated out of this, just barely. The prosecutors considered voiding her immunity deal based on perjury. She convinced them, somehow, that the only thing she said that was false was that she saw me coming through the door. She claimed that she assumed it was me but never actually saw me. Yes, indeed, she said, it could have been Rudy who came through. As for her lying about the affair, apparently that fib was not “material” enough to constitute perjury. That’s how my lawyers explained it to me, anyway. So in the end, the prosecutors weren’t too pleased with Rachel, but they knew they couldn’t prove perjury to void the deal, and besides, they needed all the witnesses they could get against Rudy. So they held to the deal, and Rachel testified in Rudy’s trial. She admitted to the affair. She said Rudy was the jealous type. That was about it, from what I understand.
Everett is actually doing a pretty nice job on this close. Not as good as Ogren did at my trial—and Ogren had a whole lot less to work with—but not bad.
“So what does the defendant do, in the face of this insurmountable evidence? The gun found in his house, the ATM receipt found at the burial site, the sand from that baseball field in his basement carpet? What does he say?”
Everett opens his hands in wonder. “He says he was framed, ladies and gentlemen. Set up. Set up by Marty Kalish. He says Marty Kalish must have made all those phone calls from his building and his house. Now, I have to wonder. What about the calls that came from the defendant’s office, calls that were made to Mr. Kalish? Does the defendant claim that those calls were made by Marty, too? What, did Mr. Kalish sneak into the defendant’s office and make all those calls, with not a witness to notice, or to stop him, or to ask him, hey, who are you and what are you doing in Mr. Sprovieri’s office? Ridiculous, ladies and gentlemen. Smoke and mirrors.
“And what about the calls from the defendant’s home? Are we to believe that Mr. Kalish broke into the defendant’s home and made all those phone calls? With absolutely no sign of forced entry? Is that a credible explanation?
“And what about those threatening phone calls the defendant made to Marty Kalish during Mr. Kalish’s trial? How does he explain that one? He says, Marty told him to call him. You saw that note he showed you. All those words cut out of magazines, like a ransom note or something. Pretty smart, when you think about it. He knows he can’t imitate Marty’s handwriting, so he makes up this note out of words from magazines.” Everett laughs. “Boy, I thought I heard ’em all.”
The County Attorney shakes his head. “And I suppose Mr. Kalish also put the ATM receipt next to Dr. Reinardt’s body. Boy, that Marty Kalish must have been pretty busy. He must have been one very resourceful fellow.”
Please, you’re embarrassing me. Let’s leave it at this: I have my moments.
79
“WHEN ARE YOU COMING?”
I can’t suppress a smile at my nephew’s enthusiasm. “A couple of days, little man.”
“You’re still staying with us, right?”
“For a while, Tom. Until I can find my own place.”
Until I can find a job, too. The career opportunities for Marty Kalish have hit a wall here. I’m clean on paper, but there isn’t a firm in the city that would take me.
Not that I’ll miss the work. I need to do something that reaches people, not their wallets. I still have a little savings left. I’m considering grad school again, getting a master’s and teaching. There are a couple of universities out by Jamie, but I’m leaning toward elementary education. Who knows? The beauty is in the possibilities.
“Here’s Mom.”
“Hi!”
God, she sounds so much like our mother. “Hey, Jame. You’re sure this is okay.”
She covers the phone, speaking to little Jeannette in the background, something about not drawing on the floor.
“Are you kidding?” she says. “Tommy can’t wait. Neither can I.”
Neither can I. The shadow will always follow me here. There was some degree of vindication after my acquittal, but only some. And after Rudy’s trial, where I testified, there was plenty of lingering doubt about my involvement in the events of November eighteenth of year last. I guess I invited it with my testimony. But I had to hold up my end of the bargain. Marty Kalish never welches.
Rudy Sprovieri’s defense attorney, Terry Galbraith, didn’t expect to see me that morning, or any morning. He remained seated and scowling, his hands resting on a considerable paunch. His tie was askew and stained. “What can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m willing to help you,” I said. “But I need some information.”
Galbraith was stoic, revealing nothing, his hands raised in a steeple. “Go on.”
“Let’s keep it hypothetical,” I said.
Galbraith waved a hand. “Okay.”
“Okay. Hypothetically, I know who made those videotapes of your client’s secret interludes with Rachel.”
“That’s not terribly surprising.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But hypothetically, there’s more.”
“More of the same?”
“Something different.”
I’ve go
t audio, Greg Quillar told me, when he turned over the videotapes.
“Hypothetically, I have an audiotape of your client and Rachel. Hypothetically, this tape depicts a rather sordid sexual encounter.”
Galbraith’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you’re going to tell me about that.”
“Have you ever heard of a rape fantasy?”
The expression on the face of Rudy’s attorney was one for the record books.
“Apparently, the two of them liked to stage one. A rape, that is. It was a first date, it seems, that turned violent when Rachel just wanted to give a kiss good night.”
Galbraith wrapped his arms around his chest. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I have some questions.”
“Your curiosity is not my concern.”
“Your client getting off murder charges is very much your concern. You get some answers from Rudy, you give them to me, and I can deliver an acquittal. And I keep the audiotape buried.”
“I’m not making any promises,” he said.
“It’s a two-for-one, Mr. Galbraith. A couple of answers for a not-guilty, plus, for a limited time only, this lovely audiotape. Take it to Rudy. He’ll say yes.”
Well, Rudy did say yes. So I got my answers. And I did my part for him, too. I was called to testify at Rudy’s trial, and Terry Galbraith threw the questions at me, one after another.
Mr. Kalish, you buried Dr. Reinardt at that baseball field, isn’t that true?
You buried the gun used to kill Dr. Reinardt, didn’t you?
You broke into Rudy Sprovieri’s house.
You removed the ATM receipt from his coat.
You placed that receipt next to Dr. Reinardt’s dead body.
You hid the murder weapon in Mr. Sprovieri’s basement.
You placed the sand from the baseball field in his basement carpet.
You made those phone calls to Rachel Reinardt.
You placed that note on Mr. Sprovieri’s car.
I answered every single one of Mr. Galbraith’s questions the same way. “On advice of counsel, I decline to answer on the grounds it might incriminate me.”
Oh, the prosecutors almost came out of their skins when they heard me. Really, it was their fault. After my acquittal, Roger Ogren had made noise about trying me for obstruction of justice, claiming I tampered with evidence and framed someone else. They tried to interview me, and Paul Riley told them I wouldn’t talk without total immunity from prosecution. Of course, they balked. So without immunity, I had every right to take the Fifth.
Well, the tide turned in favor of Rudy after my testimony. By remaining silent, I essentially confirmed everything Rudy’s attorney was saying. I hid the body. I hid the gun. I broke into Rudy’s house. I planted the evidence, made the phone calls.
The headline in the Watch—“Second Acquittal in Reinardt Murder”—was not nearly as titillating as the sub-heading beneath: “Suspicions Turn Back to Original Suspect.”
They can turn back all they want. I can’t be retried for murder, and they don’t have any hard evidence on obstruction. Paul Riley has inquired at the prosecutor’s office, and they have closed the case.
But getting away from the circus is not the only reason I’m looking forward to the move. “I can’t wait to be with you guys,” I tell Jamie. It’s time to turn the channel to real life. It’s time for things I never realized I wanted.
80
NOVEMBER 18 OF LAST YEAR. SOMEWHERE CLOSE TO ten o’clock.
Still no sign of Rachel. Looks like the show won’t go on tonight.
I look back at the den again. I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and stomp my feet in a feeble attempt to keep warm. I fix on the staircase in the hallway, my eyes tearing from the wind.
I jump at the sight of her, my one and only, my beautiful Rachel, the ink-black hair to her shoulders, the shapely outline, even from a distance the shiny amber eyes. My hand leaves my pocket just in time to grab the tree to keep my balance. She must have been in the living room, not upstairs. Or did I miss her coming down the stairs?
I can’t make out her features very well; I’m too far away to see the expression on her face. She’s wearing a whitish blouse and blue slacks, not her ordinary attire for the occasion—she usually opts for a negligee, sometimes surprises me with some outfit like a schoolgirl skirt and knee-high socks. But tonight, as she walks along the tiled hallway in a semicrouch, almost tiptoeing yet moving with some urgency, Rachel is anything but provocative, her whole body wearing an obvious pain, maybe fear.
Scars you can never see.
She reaches the den, still crouching sheepishly, one hand tucked under her shirt. She walks to the bar. Her back is to me as she reaches the counter, a deep mahogany brown. She keeps looking up at the ceiling, probably listening for her husband upstairs? At the bar, she raises a trembling hand to the ice container. She removes a couple of cubes but knocks the tumbler sideways, the ice spilling onto the bar and floor.
Her head turns upward again.
It’s only when he drinks.
She sets the glass upright, stuffs some more ice into it, and reaches for a bottle of liquor. She fills the glass and tries to gather the spilled ice. But her hand is shaking so hard that she can barely put the cubes back into the container.
The other hand remains tucked under her shirt.
She looks up again, but this time not straight up at the ceiling. This time, she looks more toward the staircase in the hallway. Her hands are still now.
A clumsy, uncertain foot stomps onto that last stair, then into the hallway. Dr. Reinardt is wearing an oxford shirt, haphazardly tucked into his pants with the sleeves rolled up. His movements are slow and awkward. He stops at one point in the hallway and reaches out to the wall to steady himself.
The doctor can’t see Rachel yet; she is still by the bar, against the front wall of the den. But now Rachel has placed the drink on the bar; she is reaching behind the bottles of booze that line the countertop. She pulls the bottles back and reaches out with her other hand. I catch a glimpse of shiny steel as she raises the object over and behind the bottles.
I shift and feel the wood from the Reinardts’ deck. I’m only about twenty feet from the glass door now. The deck is raised three steps off the grass, leaving me the perfect amount of space to crouch down from their view. I reach up to the deck for balance and realize that my hands, like Rachel’s, are trembling.
The outside porch light is off, so they can’t see me unless they’re looking. And as Dr. Reinardt enters the den, he is not looking out the glass door.
He stops and just stares at Rachel. She reaches for the glass on the bar, but the doctor, without moving, says something to her that makes her put her hands at her sides. He says nothing more, just glares at her.
Rachel fidgets. She brushes back a strand of hair from her face, then puts her hands at her sides again. She’s talking to him, her head moving compliantly, but he doesn’t respond. Finally, she picks up the glass and offers it to her husband. When he doesn’t take it, she sets it down on the bar near him. The doctor lashes out with his right hand, knocking the glass and its golden contents to the carpet. Rachel instinctively steps back, says something in apology, then crouches down to retrieve the glass and ice. She is facing me now. For the first time, I see her face. I can make out cuts and bruises on her cheeks.
Scars you can see.
Rachel stands now, turning away from me and toward her husband. Her hands raise in compromise; she’s trying to calm him.
The doctor staggers toward his wife, who holds her ground. They are face-to-face now. As slow as he’s moving, his right hand rises in a flash, fist half closed. Rachel’s head whips to the right, her hair and arms flying wildly, her knees buckling as she falls backward to the carpet. She lands awkwardly on an elbow, then rolls over so she’s facing the carpet. The doctor nods approvingly, that’s-what-ya-get, as Rachel brings a hand to the developing bruise below her eye.
Rachel slowly makes it to
her feet again, her hand returning to her cheek, her entire body trembling.
“I know how it’ll end,” she told me only a few days ago. “He told me how.”
Dr. Reinardt approaches her. He grabs her by both arms, shaking her. Rachel breaks a hand free and swings it lifelessly toward his face.
I am on the deck now, crouched down like a catcher, as I watch this silent horror movie, no sound but the thump-thump, thump-thump of my pulse. The only thing separating me from the sliding glass door is the wooden bench and the picnic table.
“Tell me how, Rach.”
Dr. Reinardt reasserts his grip on Rachel. He pulls down on her, forcing her to the carpet in a vise grip. Once on the floor he tears at her blouse.
“He’s going to rape me first. He said he’ll rape me then kill me.”
I grip the wooden bench and slowly rise.
The glass shatters on the impact; it takes a second blow of the bench to create the considerable, if jagged, hole.
Dr. Reinardt’s head moves slower than normally would be expected at the sight of a home intruder. Rachel, lying prone, grips his arms tightly. He begins to yank free, his superior strength overcoming both his intoxication and his wife.
“What—” Dr. Reinardt lifts himself up, freeing himself from Rachel, as I pull my second leg through the gaping hole, my other foot crunching the glass farther into the carpet.
Dr. Reinardt absorbs the impact of my charge; we linger together a moment, locked in a tense draw, our taut frames forming a tent over Rachel. I loosen my left arm and drill it into the doctor, somewhere near the jaw. He grunts, releasing his grip.
