Blind Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Mrs. Lombardi, don’t make me yank out a strand and show the jury the roots.”

  Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “So I dyed my hair. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her hair color.”

  “And, I imagine, her hairstyle as well,” Ben said. “Tell me, Mrs. Lombardi, have you ever worn your hair in a ponytail?”

  Ben felt the activity behind him, the furious notetaking, the quiet whispers.

  “I guess. Once or twice.”

  “And I know you have a pair of dark sunglasses. I saw you wearing them in the courtroom yesterday.”

  “I hardly see how that proves—”

  “And how about a black muffler, Mrs. Lombardi? And a white overcoat. Do you have those, too?”

  Her face was becoming blotchy, even more so than before. “Let me ask you again, Mrs. Lombardi. You didn’t stay home the entire night your husband was killed, did you?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Isn’t it true you went to your husband’s apartment that night, after altering your appearance sufficiently to fool a nearsighted, blurry-eyed, drunken doorman?”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She moved her mouth wordlessly.

  “Isn’t it true the doorman let you up to your husband’s apartment?”

  More movement, no words. The tears streamed down her face.

  Ben looked away. He couldn’t let it get to him. He had to press forward. “Isn’t it true you let yourself in and found another woman, Christina McCall, in the apartment with your husband?”

  “I-I—oh God, no…”

  Ben heard the sound of an objection somewhere in the background, and some sharp words from the judge. It didn’t matter.

  “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Lombardi?” Ben shouted. “Isn’t that exactly what you did?”

  “I—no, I—”

  “Mrs. Lombardi, isn’t it true you took your husband’s gun and shot him in the head?”

  “Oh God, God!” she wailed. Her voice was a shriek, a sick, desperate cry.

  “Isn’t it true, Mrs. Lombardi? That you shot your husband?”

  “Oh my God,” she cried. Her voice was hoarse, broken. “Oh God—yes…It’s true.”

  41

  DEREK BANGED HIS GAVEL, futilely attempting to reassert his control. Almost as one body, the front rows of the gallery raced toward the back door, each reporter hoping to be the first to call in the story. The running, yelling, talking, and crying drowned out the impotent banging of Derek’s gavel.

  Margot’s head drooped forward, her face in her hands.

  “I repeat, objection, your honor!” It was Moltke, running up to the bench where he could be heard.

  “A bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

  “Your honor, I see no reason to put this poor widow through further ordeal—”

  Ben interrupted him. “Are you ready to dismiss the charges against my client?”

  “I—why—” Moltke looked sideways toward the gallery, his remaining audience. “Well, I don’t know.…I think that’s premature. Perhaps we could just recess and let everyone take a minute to regroup.”

  “No way,” Ben said. “If you’re dismissing the charges, fine. Otherwise, I’m continuing my examination now, before you can get to her.”

  “Your honor,” Moltke said, “I think the most charitable course of action would be to allow Mrs. Lombardi a chance to clear her head—”

  “Sorry,” Derek said. “Much as it grieves me to do so, I agree with Mr. Kincaid. Either you dismiss or the trial goes on.”

  Moltke looked imploringly at Derek, then back at the gallery. “I can’t do that,” he said. He slowly retreated to his table.

  Ben returned to the podium and continued his examination. “Mrs. Lombardi, I’m sorry to press you, but if you’re able, we need to continue.”

  Margot brushed the tears from her eyes and face. She seemed to have collected herself somewhat. “I know,” she said. “Go ahead.”

  “Mrs. Lombardi, would you tell the jury why you went to your husband’s apartment that night?”

  “I—” She coughed, cleared her throat. “I told you before Tony called me the night he died, desperate, begging for money. I didn’t have nearly enough. But I wanted to comfort him, to help him any way I could. I asked if I could come over to see him.” Her face clouded over. “But he said no. He said he was expecting someone. And I knew what that meant.” She pulled her head erect. “You see, I still foolishly hoped Tony and I might get back together.”

  Ben was stunned. After all the beatings, the cruelty, and the humiliation, she still wanted him back. “And you feared his relationship with Christina would prevent any reconciliation between the two of you.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “Of course, I realized his feelings for me”—her voice dropped—“or lack thereof, would never change. But if he was going to have someone female around, for whatever reason, why shouldn’t it be me? I was his wife, after all.”

  “And you intentionally disguised yourself.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. I knew Spud had been instructed by Tony not to admit me under any circumstances. So I made Spud think I was someone else. I knew it wouldn’t take much to disguise myself. Spud could barely see over his desk and everyone knew he had a, well, predilection for the bottle. I chose Mr. DeCarlo because his trademark apparel was well-known, and I thought Spud was very unlikely to give him any trouble. And I was right. Spud didn’t say a word to me.”

  “And you were willing to let DeCarlo be blamed for the murder?”

  “Well, of course, at that time I didn’t know…”

  “I see. Please continue. What did you do after Spud let you up the elevator?”

  “I went to Tony’s apartment and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I let myself in. I found your client sound asleep in the living room chair. I assumed she was dead drunk.”

  “And that’s when you shot him? Because you found him alone with Christina?”

  Margot frowned; her eyebrows knitted together. “You just don’t get it, do you, Mr. Kincaid? He was already dead.”

  Ben felt as if his head might explode—too much blood to the brain. “But you said—I don’t understand—”

  “Don’t you see? He killed himself. Shot himself in the head. I told you before he had a fear of going to prison. Absolutely pathological. Apparently he’d gotten some inside information, found out about the FBI net closing in around him. What’s more, someone was demanding money from him and threatening to get him into trouble with DeCarlo if he didn’t pay. Tony saw no way out. So he killed himself.”

  Ben stood sputtering for several seconds, trying to frame a question. Nothing in law school had ever prepared him for an examination like this. “But…how can you know why he killed himself?”

  “I’ve still got the suicide note he left,” she answered. “It’s clearly in his handwriting.”

  “But…you said before that you shot him.”

  “Of course.” She almost laughed, seemingly amazed at his stupidity. “How do you think he managed to end up with four shots to the head? He only fired the first; he was dead after that. I picked up his gun from where it fell on the floor and, after wrapping my hand in my scarf to avoid leaving fingerprints, supplied the final three shots.”

  “Why?”

  Margot’s eyes drifted away from Ben, to a place at the table behind him. “To get…her.”

  She was staring at Christina, of course.

  “I’d been married to Tony for twelve years, Mr. Kincaid. I had a lot…invested in him. For better or worse, he was all I had. I had no desire to be divorced. And I especially had no desire to be the spurned woman. The castaway. Last year’s model. The woman who gets shunted aside when a newer, livelier one comes along.”

  Ben remembered what Spud had told him. She was a madwoman, he’d said. Crazy jealous. The pieces were finally beginning to fall into place. “So you fired the additional shots into your husband’s hea
d after he was already dead, and took the suicide note, to make it look like a murder. To frame Christina.”

  “It was a perfect setup. There she was, lying in the same room with him, sound asleep, and nobody knew I had even been there. I guess I’m weak. It was more than I could resist.”

  “That would explain why the coroner had so much trouble establishing a time of death,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “There were two times of death, so to speak. What did you do after you fired the shots?”

  “The obvious. I wiped the gun clean and put it on the floor beside her. I considered pressing her fingers against it, but I was afraid that would wake her. I made sure I hadn’t touched anything in the apartment, and I left. I expected to be interrogated, if not arrested, but it never happened. No one suspected. Even when the police finally questioned me, it was strictly routine.”

  That’s because they already had their patsy, Ben mused.

  “Afterward, I tried to rinse the dye out of my hair but, to my surprise, it wouldn’t come out. I must’ve mixed it wrong—given myself too concentrated a dose. I didn’t want to be seen buying any blonde hair color; after Tony’s death was announced, that would be likely to arouse suspicions. So I just left it the way it was.”

  Ben knew he had enough. There was no reason to keep pressing. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Lombardi. I know it wasn’t easy for you, and that you’ve put yourself at mercy of possible criminal charges.”

  “For what?” She laughed quietly. “I told you—he was already dead. What am I going to be charged with? Tampering with a corpse?”

  Ben suspected Moltke would be more imaginative than that, but there was no reason to bring it up now. “Your honor,” he said, “I have no more questions. And I move for dismissal.”

  Derek looked sternly at Moltke. “Any objections, Mr. Prosecutor?”

  Moltke’s dismay was obvious, but under the circumstances, he had no alternative. “No, your honor. We’ll consent to dismissal.”

  “Very well,” Derek said. “The charges are hereby dismissed. Miss McCall, you are free to go.” He banged the gavel. It reverberated through the courtroom like a clap of thunder.

  Everyone leaped to their feet at once. The crowd was loud and raucous, cheering and shouting more like the audience for a rock concert than a criminal trial. Ben saw Jones in the back of the courtroom giving him the thumbs-up. He saw Loving pressing his way to the front, yelling something about a “perfect Perry Mason moment.” The reporters (the ones who were still there) leaned against the railing, shouting questions at Ben.

  He ignored them all and strolled back to counsel table. “Well, ma cherie,” he said to Christina, “it looks as if—”

  He never managed to finish, Christina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, right there in front of everybody. A big wet smoocher.

  Square on the lips.

  PART FOUR

  Six Impossible Things

  42

  “HAVE I TOLD YOU recently how sick I am of this case?” Mike asked.

  “Aw, what a whiner,” Ben replied. He glanced at Mike’s desk. “At least you’re not reading Shakespeare any more. Tell me what you’ve discovered about the suicide note since the trial.”

  “No surprises. Our experts are convinced it’s genuine. The handwriting matches, plus the note makes reference to financial matters Margot couldn’t have known about. Probably no one could have, other than Lombardi. And we’ve checked with Quinn Reynolds. It’s all accurate. Bottom line—it must have happened just as Margot said it did.”

  “Amazing. How could anyone have guessed?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike said. “How did you guess?”

  “I didn’t. Not really. Jones was the one who had the revelation. Despite my telling him not to on repeated occasions, he snuck out to the scene of the crime, as he likes to say, and visited with Spud while he was on duty. Jones picked up on it pretty quickly—the drinking, the nearsightedness. Maybe it was the stress of the trial, but for whatever reason, Spud was hitting the bottle heavily and couldn’t see well at all.”

  “And that led you to Margot.”

  “Very good, shamus. You’ve been back to crime school.” Ben stretched out in his chair. “I realized then we were looking for someone Spud mistook for one of the three suspects—but which one? Reynolds and Langdell both admitted they went to Lombardi’s apartment; only DeCarlo denied it. That suggested that the person in question had passed him—or herself off as DeCarlo. I saw Margot on my way back into the courtroom and I began to remember—the dark sunglasses, the discrepancy over her hair color. That’s when I figured it out.”

  “You had a lot of guts, Ben, calling her to the stand on a wild hunch like that. And no hard evidence.”

  “Yeah. But, of course, it wasn’t as if I had a lot of other alternatives. I was very lucky.”

  “Chance favors the prepared mind.”

  “Is that Shakespeare?”

  “No. But it should be.”

  “Have you got everything you need?” Mike asked.

  “I think so.” Ben scanned the papers spread across the table in Mike’s office. “Requisition forms, invoices, declassified FBI reports, the works.”

  “Let’s just hope everything goes according to plan.”

  “It will,” Ben said. I hope, he thought silently.

  At that moment, Abshire bounced into the office, his thumb tucked behind his suspenders. “What the hell is this?” He bent over the table and ran his fingers through Ben’s papers. “These are confidential FBI documents. How did you get this stuff?”

  “Through the Freedom of Information Act, mostly,” Ben said, not looking him in the eye.

  “Like hell,” Abshire replied. “FIA requests take a month, minimum, even assuming you know what to ask for.” He whirled around. “Cards-on-the-table time, boys. You did this, didn’t you, Morelli?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mike said, “I did.”

  Abshire approached him, gritting his teeth. “When are you going to figure out which side you’re on, Morelli? I specifically said I wanted no cooperation—”

  “The case is over, Abshire. You lost. Give it up.”

  Abshire’s fists balled up. “Goddamn it, this benevolent attitude of yours is probably the reason we lost the case. May I remind you that a second murder remains unsolved?”

  Mike glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. “It won’t be unsolved for long.”

  “Oh, is that right? I guess you and your old college buddy have got that one all worked out too, huh? Goddamn it, when are you going to get it through your thick fucking head that I’m in charge of this investigation!”

  “You were in charge of the murder case,” Mike said. “It’s over.”

  “It’s over when I say it’s over! Goddamn it, I hate it when you local peons start telling federal officers how the game is played. I make the rules, and I’ll tell you—”

  Without saying a word, Mike stepped forward, grabbed Abshire’s tie and tightened the Windsor knot until Abshire started to choke. “Let me tell you what the rules are, Mr. Federal Officer. I toed the line when there was a pending investigation and prosecution, because I took an oath to defend, obey, and serve the federal government, even when it’s represented by pricks like you. But the trial is over now, and the feds are packing their bags and praise God getting the hell out of Tulsa.”

  Abshire started to speak, but Mike tightened the knot until the agent’s tongue came sputtering out of his mouth. “Now, my friend, Mr. Kincaid, may be an attorney, but regardless of who his client is, he tries very hard to learn the truth and do the right thing, two motivations which you could never be accused of having. Mr. Kincaid needed a few FBI documents to complete his investigation, so I got them for him. And frankly, if you don’t like it, we’ll see how well trained you federal assholes really are.”

  Mike loosened his grip just enough that Abshire could speak, barely. “What are you saying?” Abshire whispered hoarsely.

 
; Mike smiled. “Cards-on-the-table time? I’m saying that if I find out you so much as lodged a complaint against me, I’m gonna flatten your miserable little face. Got it?”

  Abshire nodded his head.

  “Good.” Mike dragged him to the door, still gripping his tie. “Be seeing you.” He shoved Abshire out the office door and closed it after him.

  Ben wagged his head back and forth. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mike.”

  “I know,” Mike said. He grinned from ear to ear. “But, damn, it felt good.”

  Mike glanced at his watch. “He’s late.” He pounded his fists together.

  “Keep your machismo in check, pal. He’ll be here.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Maybe he thought we were meeting at the federal building. You know how easily these guys are confused.”

  “Possible. I’ll go next door and take a look around.”

  With Mike’s absence, the office seemed quiet, almost dead. It was way after hours. Everyone else had gone home; the night shift worked out of a different building. Ben looked over his notes, preparing what he would say. He had to get this right. If he made stupid mistakes, he wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  After two or three minutes passed, Ben heard someone walking down the outside hallway. “So did you find—” He looked up, startled. It wasn’t Mike.

  “All right,” Stanford said. “I’m here. What did Morelli want, anyway?”

  “Well…actually, I was the one who wanted to talk to you.”

  Stanford peered through his half glasses. “What about?”

  “I…think we should wait until Mike gets back.”

  “Why? Surely you can say whatever you have to say without hiding behind him.”

  Ben felt the burn creeping up his neck. “We can start now if you like.”

  “Very good,” Stanford said. “Shoot.”

  “Number one. Someone tapped my phone.”

  “Indeed? Who would want to do such a thing?”

  “You,” Ben said simply.

  “Is that a fact?” Stanford’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What makes you think so?”