Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  The ballistics expert testified that the shots that destroyed Lombardi’s cranium came from the gun bearing Christina’s prints, fired at point-blank range. Moltke, of course, suggested that the proximity to the victim proved the assailant was a friend…or lover. Ben proposed a few other possibilities during cross-examination (“If someone’s pointing a gun at your head, he can probably get as close to you as he wants, huh?”).

  Ben did his best to avoid any contact with Derek, even eye contact. Derek never addressed him directly, but it was clear he had not forgotten their conversation the night before. Every time he looked at Ben, his face was stone cold.

  In the early afternoon, Moltke called the coroner, Dr. Koregai. Ben remembered Koregai from their previous encounter during the Adams case; he hadn’t warmed up any during the intervening year. In a curt, clipped voice, Koregai declared that Lombardi died where he was found, between one and two A.M., of gunshot wounds to the head. Irreparable fractures of the occipital bone. In all likelihood, he testified, the first shot killed Lombardi.

  As far as Ben knew, that was the end of the prosecution’s case. They had covered all the bases, and Moltke had the jury eating out of his hands, nodding their heads almost every time he pontificated. To Ben’s surprise, however, Moltke stood and called an additional witness. “Your honor, the United States calls Holden Hatfield.” Spud? The security guard from Lombardi’s building? But of course. To establish that Christina was in the apartment well before Lombardi, and hadn’t left before he was killed. After the preliminaries, Moltke asked, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Hatfield?”

  “Call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everyone does.” Moltke smiled. “All right, Spud. Tell us about your job.” Spud ran through a general description of his duties as security guard, making his duties sound as glamorous as possible. He explained in detail the system of doors and elevators he controlled, how a visitor could only enter through the front door, could only ride the elevator if Spud triggered it, and could only open the stairwell doors from the outside. Spud explained that, as a result, he could state positively that only four people went up to Lombardi’s apartment the night of the murder before Lombardi himself.

  “And who are those four people, Spud?”

  “Well, there’s the defendant, of course. Miss McCall.”

  “Who else?”

  “That would be Quinn Reynolds, Clayton Langdell—he drew in his breath—“and Albert DeCarlo.”

  As before, the mention of the mobster’s name had an electrifying effect on the jury. This time, however, Ben saw several jurors nudging one another, pointing toward the gallery. Sure enough, DeCarlo himself was sitting in the back of the gallery, wearing his scarf and white overcoat, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, even while he was inside. Pretty damn gutsy, showing up here at the same time federal agents were trying to use Vinny and the other drug runner they picked up Tuesday morning to build a case against him. DeCarlo must’ve realized his name would come up during the trial. Why else would he be here?

  Moltke continued his direct. “And you don’t know when those people left Lombardi’s apartment. Correct?”

  “That’s right. The back door to the parking lot can be opened from the inside, and most people go out that way. I know when Miss McCall left, though.”

  “And why is that?”

  “ ’Cause I went upstairs with the FBI agents and watched them haul her out of Lombardi’s apartment. I am the security guard, after all.”

  “I see. So to summarize, you know the defendant went up to his apartment around ten, before Lombardi arrived, and that she was still there at two, when Lombardi was found dead.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Just a few more questions, Spud. Could you describe the defendant’s demeanor when she came in that evening?”

  “Oh, she was pissed.” He looked quickly at the judge. “I mean she was real angrylike. ’Scuse my French.”

  “I think we all catch your meaning, Spud,” Moltke said, with a quick wink to the jury. “Any idea what she might’ve been angry about?”

  “I think so.”

  “Please tell us.”

  “Well, Mr. Lombardi called that afternoon and told me—”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”

  Moltke raised a finger. “This is not being offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted, your honor. Goes to show the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the murder.”

  “I believe that’s correct,” Derek said. “Overruled. You may answer the question.”

  “I don’t remember the exact words,” Spud continued. “Mr. Lombardi called and instructed me to let this woman up when she arrived. I kind of teased him about having a new girlfriend, and he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of her after tonight.’ ” He chuckled. “I guess she was about to get the big brush-off.”

  Ben glanced at the jury box and saw Mrs. Applebury cast a meaningful look at another woman in the jury. Yes, they knew what that meant. Hell hath no fury. “Move to strike, your honor. The witness is speculating.”

  “I think he’s simply characterizing his observations in a colorful manner,” Derek said. “Overruled.”

  “So when the defendant went up to Lombardi’s apartment,” Moltke said, “she was furious because she either had been dumped, or knew she was about to be dumped. Is that correct?”

  “Objection,” Ben said. “Leading.”

  “That’s all right,” Moltke said. “I’ll withdraw the question.” Why not? He’d already made his point. “Nothing more, your honor.”

  “Cross-examination?” Derek asked, in a tone of voice that clearly implied he thought it inadvisable.

  Ben couldn’t think of a single question worth asking. Spud was wrong, and Ben knew it, but there was nothing malicious about his testimony. Right or wrong, he wasn’t lying; he was telling the jury what he honestly believed. And Ben knew if he tried to get tough with Spud, Derek would shut him down in a heartbeat. For that matter, regardless of what Ben tried, Derek would be sure to turn it against him.

  “No questions,” Ben said reluctantly. He felt the eyes of the courtroom—the reporters, the jury, even Christina—bearing down on him.

  “Anything more from the prosecution?” Derek asked.

  “No, your honor,” Moltke said. “The prosecution rests.”

  “Very good,” Derek said. “I think that’s enough for today. Tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, the defense will begin presenting…whatever case they may have.” He banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

  The courtroom came alive. Reporters sprang into the aisles, blocking the way. Flashbulbs and minicam lights illuminated the room. Moltke strolled back to give his daily press statement about his triumphs on behalf of the cause of the justice everywhere. A few reporters yelled questions at Ben, but he ignored them.

  He felt Christina’s eyes burning down on him. She didn’t understand; how could she? She hadn’t been there last night. All she knew was the conventional wisdom—a criminal defendant wins by breaking down the prosecution’s case. If the defense attorneys haven’t made their mark by the time they call their own witnesses, turning the jury around is almost impossible. And she knew what they had lined up in the way of defense testimony to turn that jury around. Not much.

  “We need to discuss…our case strategy,” Christina said haltingly.

  Ben nodded. They started toward the door, plunging into the throng of reporters. “Who are you going to call?” “Do you think you have a chance?” “Was this a revenge killing by a jilted lover?” Ignoring the questions, avoiding the blinding lights and the sense of impending doom tightening its grip around them, Ben and Christina pushed their way out of the courtroom.

  38

  BEN STOMPED INTO HIS office, sending chickens flying in all directions.

  “How goes the war?” Jones asked.

  “Not well at all. We start putting on our case tomorrow morning, assuming we have a case
tomorrow morning.” He noticed a brown lumpish thing on Jones’s table. “What in the world is that?”

  “Mrs. Marmelstein sent you a fruitcake. She’s been watching the TV coverage; she thought you needed it.”

  Ben scrutinized the alleged edible. “I hate fruitcake.”

  “Doesn’t everyone? Still, it’s the thought that counts.”

  “You’re right, of course. Get rid of it, okay?”

  “Will do, Boss.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder if chickens like fruitcake?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Hey, Skipper!”

  Ben whirled around and saw Loving sitting in the lobby.

  “Hi ya, Skipper. How’s the big trial going?”

  “Let me see,” Ben said. “The judge hates my guts, the jury is convinced Christina is guilty, and we haven’t got a shred of defense evidence.”

  “Things could be worse.”

  “How can you possibly say that?”

  “Because he hit the jackpot,” Jones explained.

  Ben planted himself beside Loving, who appeared to be wearing the same stained T-shirt he’d worn every time Ben had seen him. Was that the only shirt he owned, Ben wondered, or did he have several of them, just alike? “You got the DeCarlo documents?”

  “Guess so,” Loving said nonchalantly. “I dinnt really know what was important, so I grabbed everything. Yer secretary pulled out what he wanted.”

  “That’s wonderful! How did you do it?”

  “Oh hell, it weren’t nuttin’. Some of the boys put me on to DeCarlo’s head bean counter. A CPA. Very soft. I waited for him in his car last night. He was kinda startled to see me.”

  I’ll just bet. “You didn’t do anything improper, did you?”

  “I just suggested in a nice way that it would be bad for his health if I didn’t see DeCarlo’s business records.”

  “It wouldn’t be ideal for his health if DeCarlo found out he showed them to you.”

  “His point exactly. So I described the various ways I could rearrange his face without even working up a sweat. Real friendlylike, you know. He said he thought maybe he could lay his hands on the documents. I promised I’d get them back to him in twenty-four hours. DeCarlo’s all wrapped up in this trial business, so he’s not likely to miss them.”

  “Jones,” Ben said, “get everything you need copied, pronto.”

  “Already done, Boss. I’ve begun comparing DeCarlo’s records with Lombardi’s. There are several discrepancies, and numerous unexplained financial contributions from DeCarlo to Lombardi. I think you’ll find that DeCarlo had a definite motive for offing Lombardi. If Lombardi went down, so would DeCarlo.”

  “That might work,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “Even if we can’t absolutely prove that DeCarlo killed him or hired out the job, the mere suggestion of motive and involvement by such a notoriously shady figure might create reasonable doubt about Christina’s guilt.”

  “Can we subpoena DeCarlo?” Jones asked.

  “Probably not at this late date,” Ben said. “Especially since he doubtless has a battalion of lawyers who would try to quash it. But he was in the courtroom today. Maybe he’ll be foolish enough to show up again tomorrow. Draft a subpoena dated tomorrow, Jones. Just in case.”

  “Will do, Boss.”

  “Loving, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. This is the first piece of solid evidence we’ve turned up. You may have helped save a woman’s life. Consider us even. Square.”

  Loving batted his eyes. “Gosh,” he said softly. “I never really done anything, you know, good before.” Ben could see his throat constricting. “I’m never gonna forget this. You’re the best, Skipper. The abso-goddamn-lutely best.”

  Ben moved away before Loving tried to hug him. “Jones, I’m going to be in my office, planning strategy for tomorrow. I don’t want to be bothered.”

  Jones nodded. “Give ’em hell, Boss. Pull a Perry Mason.”

  “Oh yeah!” Loving said enthusiastically. “I love that show. I watch the reruns all the time. I love the way he makes the killer break down right there on the witness stand. I bet you watch it too, huh, Skipper?”

  “No,” Ben said. “I can’t stand it. It’s not remotely realistic. That never happens in real trials.”

  Loving looked crushed.

  “Too bad,” Jones said. “We could use a little Raymond Burr pizazz right now.”

  “Mind if I use the phone, Skipper?”

  “Of course not. Help yourself.” Ben started once again for his office.

  Jones piped up. “Boss?”

  “Yessss?”

  “Since the trial isn’t really going so hot, and we’re, well, we’re basically desperate, how about I do a little investigating of my own at the scene of the crime?”

  “Absolutely not. I need you right here comparing those records.”

  “What if I finish early?”

  “You’ll be lucky if you finish before dawn. And the trial resumes at nine A.M.”

  “You sure are tough sometimes.”

  “These are tough times.” Ben started again for his office.

  “Uhh, Skipper?”

  “I have work to do, people!”

  Loving stared at the floor. “Gee, sorry.”

  “Total stress-out,” Jones muttered under his breath.

  “What is it, Loving?” Ben asked.

  “It’s your phone.” He put down the receiver. “There’s something wrong.”

  “Tell Jones. He’s in charge of office maintenance.”

  “You don’t understand. I was calling that CPA guy to let him know I’d be back with the records soon.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So, listen.” He picked up the receiver. Ben heard a quiet but distinct click, followed by the dial tone.

  “Okay,” Ben said. “So what?”

  Loving looked at him earnestly. “Maybe you don’t know what that means, Skipper, but I sure do.” He picked up the receiver again and let them both listen to the quiet click. “Someone’s tapped your phone.”

  Ben sat at his desk trying to rethink the case from every possible angle. What had he missed? What brilliant question had he failed to ask? He tried to read his trial notes, but it was virtually impossible; you can’t take notes and try a case at the same time. Normally, a legal assistant would take notes, but he didn’t have one, unless he counted Christina, and he couldn’t have the defendant scribbling away during the trial. His mind kept drifting off, thinking about all the victims this case had created. Christina. Margot. And Wolf.

  He forced himself to focus on his trial plans for the next day. As far as he could tell, he’d punched every hole he could find in the prosecution’s story, and it still hung together. The testimony was all circumstantial, but overwhelmingly so. None of the evidence was absolutely conclusive, but the cumulative effect would weigh heavily on the jurors’ minds. No one wanted to be responsible for letting a murderer go free; and Moltke would make the jury feel that, unless they returned a guilty verdict, they were co-murderers themselves. Conviction by guilt complex, a tried-and-true prosecution technique.

  Ben heard a timid knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Christina.” She opened the door and poked her head through. “May I come in?”

  “I’m preparing for tomorrow.”

  “Jones told me you’ve been in here for hours. Maybe you should take a break.” She gave him the once-over. “Boy, do you look wrecked.”

  “Thanks bunches.”

  “You need a serious pick-me-up, Ben. Something to pull you out of the doldrums.”

  “I agree, but I think a trip to Hawaii would be inappropriate at the moment.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing that elaborate. Just a little something to remind you what’s important in life. You need some tall, seductive blonde to plant a cool wet smoocher on you. Square on the lips.”

  He shivered in mock revulsion. “Brrrr. Don’t you know lawyers n
ever kiss on the lips? It would destroy our image.”

  “Maybe that’s your problem.”

  Ben averted his eyes to his notes. “I’m afraid I haven’t come up with much for tomorrow.”

  “You’ll think of something. I know you will.”

  “I’m just trying to be realistic, Christina. Our prospects are bleak.”

  “Nonsense. Things could be worse.”

  “Now you’re saying it. Why does everyone keep telling me that?”

  “Because it’s true. You’ll pull something out of your hat.”

  “I’m not a magician, Christina. I’m not even a very good lawyer.”

  “I disagree.”

  “I feel like I’m trying to be the White Queen. You know, in Through the Looking Glass. She believed six impossible things every day. Before breakfast.”

  “I thought you displayed great panache in the courtroom today.” She fidgeted with her hands. “Ben, I told you earlier I wanted to discuss strategy. I think you should put me on the stand.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the Fifth Amendment is there for a reason, and it’s a good one. I’m not going to put you through that.”

  “Oh, Ben. What’s the use of protecting me from cross-examination if the end result is a life sentence? Or worse?”

  “Most criminal attorneys never let the defendant testify. It rarely helps and always hurts.”

  “You haven’t any choice!” Christina’s voice trembled. “Look, Ben, I’m an experienced legal assistant. I’ve been down this road before, and I know where we stand. We need an impeccable defense witness, and I’m all we’ve got. So use me.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Ben, just this once, don’t try to do everything by yourself. Let me help.”

  “Christina, I—”