Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  30

  BEN WALKED KERI TO the door, squeezed her hand (after he made sure Christina wasn’t watching), and told her to go home and get some rest. “We’re likely to be prepping well into the night. You need to get some sleep.”

  “Me?” she said. “But I don’t even do anything.”

  “Whether you do or not, the jurors’ eyes are on you, constantly. You need to look sharp, confident, and very not guilty. So go home.”

  Instead of moving away, she took a step closer. Her fingers brushed against his. “Ben … thank you.” Her lips turned up toward his.

  Ben backed away. “Keri … I told you …”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “After the trial, it will be different—”

  “It’s just so hard … being close to you, all day long, and not being able to … show you how I feel.”

  Ben felt a sudden dryness in his throat. “I know how you feel. Intimately. But we have to wait.”

  She nodded, unhappy but understanding, and left the office.

  When Ben returned to the central lobby, he found Loving and Christina waiting for him.

  To his relief, Christina made no comment on what she had probably just witnessed at the door. “Are you taking the first witness tomorrow?”

  Fine. As long as they stuck to trial strategy, there should be no problems. “If LaBelle calls the cops first—and I think he will—yes. After all, I cross-exed them before, during the first trial.”

  “Makes sense. But wouldn’t LaBelle be smarter to lead with a strong fact witness?”

  “The truth is, LaBelle doesn’t have that many fact witnesses. He’s got a strong case, but it’s mostly made up of circumstantial evidence and evidence collected after the fact. What few eyewitnesses he has, he’ll save for a big finish. That’s what I would do, anyway.” He paused. As long as Christina was being nice to him, he might as well return the favor. “By the way, I thought your opening was terrific.”

  Christina looked away, almost blushing. “Oh, you’re just being nice.”

  “Christina, you know me well enough to know that I’m never just being nice.”

  “Oh right. I forgot.” Her face turned an even deeper red. This was a reaction Ben had never observed on the normally ultraconfident Christina, but it was a charming change. “You heard that opening so many times before the trial, you must be sick to death of it.”

  “Not at all. And you improvised several additions, I noticed.”

  “Was that all right?”

  “I thought it was brilliant.”

  “I didn’t come off too strident?”

  Ben almost laughed. To hear this from Christina was amazing. She was normally so strong and unruffled it was easy to forget she was as likely to be nervous during her first trial as anyone else. “I thought you were perfect.”

  Ben could see she was pleased. Which was good. She had put an enormous amount of work into this case, and all too often he forgot to appreciate what an invaluable associate she was.

  He turned toward Loving. “Speaking of cases, do we have one yet?”

  Loving heaved his enormous shoulders. “Sorry, Skipper. No news on my front.”

  “No more information from your pal Barry?”

  “I don’t think he knows nothin’ more to tell. And all my other police contacts have clammed up. I know this Blue Squeeze thing is real, and I know they want Keri—and you—bad. But that’s about it.”

  “We know Matthews is involved, right? Maybe if you followed him around …”

  “Tail a cop?” Loving shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Agreed. And if we get any real proof that he’s behind all the … problems we’ve had in this office of late, I could use that against him on cross-examination.”

  “I’m on it, Skipper.”

  “What about Catrona? Have you found anything on him? I still think he was hinting to me about some kind of involvement with Joe McNaughton. I just don’t know what it was.”

  “ ’Fraid I’ve been a bust there, too. No one’s talkin’. The Omerta, you know.”

  Ben did know. The Omerta was the mob code of silence. Penalties for those who violated the Omerta were extreme. And lethal.

  “The thing is,” Ben said, “the man didn’t have to tell me anything. I had nothing over him. But there he was, blabbing away between races. It was almost as if he wanted me to find something out. But what?”

  “Sorry, Skipper, I don’t know. And I don’t know how you’re ever gonna find out, neither.”

  Ben fell silent for a moment, his finger tapping his temple. “What about … a subpoena?”

  “Against some mob guy?”

  “Against Catrona himself.”

  Christina stepped between them. “Ben, are you kidding? You’re talking about a major mob chieftain!”

  “Mob chieftains have to obey subpoenae just like everyone else.”

  “Skipper,” Loving said, “you’re playin’ with dynamite here.”

  “Why? He’s an American citizen, isn’t he? If he knows something, he should tell us.”

  “Ben,” Christina said, “this is suicide.”

  “Maybe so. But if we don’t win this case, it’s death for Keri Dalcanton.”

  “Ben—”

  “We tried being nice guys, and it didn’t get us anywhere. He won’t talk, the cops won’t talk. All these people know something, maybe many things. But they’re not talking. They’re playing games, and Keri’s life is on the line.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Catrona’s going to talk to us, one way or another.”

  “Ben, listen to reason—”

  He didn’t. “Does anyone know if Paula discovered anything? I mean, before the … the …” He didn’t need to say more. A pallor fell over the assemblage, just from the mention of her name.

  “Jones thought she had something,” Christina explained. “Apparently, she called him earlier, very excited. But she didn’t tell him what it was. And now …”

  “Did you look through her papers?”

  “Extensively. There was a huge pile of stuff on the floor, near her body when she fell. A lot of it was soaked in … in …” Christina looked away, batting her eyes. It must be hard to remain professional, Ben thought, when the mere thought of something brought tears. “… in her blood. But I still read it all. There were no surprises, though. Whatever she discovered, it’s locked up in her head.”

  “Which we can’t get into, at the moment. What are the doctors saying?”

  Christina frowned. “They’re not… optimistic. She hasn’t regained consciousness and … well, she’s just barely hanging on.”

  “Damn. Have the police got any leads on Paula’s attacker?”

  “They’ve got nada,” Loving said. His voice seemed a little hoarser than usual. “They say they’re working on it, but given how they feel about this office … who knows?”

  “Damn, damn, damn.” Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. “How’s Jones holding up?”

  “He’s doing okay, all things considered,” Christina said. “But he won’t leave her side. Not that I blame him. But it leaves a big gap in our trial team. I’m doing the work of two, basically.”

  “Christina, you always do the work of two. This time, you’re probably doing the work of a regiment. But we can’t let up. Once LaBelle starts putting on his witnesses, it’s going to be war in that courtroom. LaBelle and the police will stop at nothing—absolutely nothing—to see that Keri Dalcanton is convicted. The only thing, the absolute only thing in the world that stands between her and a lethal injection—is us.”

  The stale, artificial smell of Styrofoam pervaded the small car. Steam rose from the cup and fogged the closed windows. Actually, Frank, better known as The Hulk, didn’t think of Styrofoam as having a smell, most of the time. But tonight it did. Tonight it was all around him, inescapable, perhaps because there was no competition. The coffee was stale and tasteless; it was hot, but nothing else. Matthews’s car was so old it bore
no scent at all, unless you pressed your nose up against the vinyl. Frank suspected his clothes probably did have a scent, this late in the day, but he preferred not to dwell on that.

  Matthews was staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on the lights in the offices on the seventh floor. His eyes never seemed to wander; he barely blinked.

  Frank checked his watch. Well past the time he’d told his wife he’d be home. He was going to have to have that talk with Matthews—the one he’d been putting off for far too long.

  “Arlen, did you ever think maybe … just maybe … we’ve pushed this thing about as far as it needs to go?”

  Matthews’s eyes didn’t waver. “What kinda crap is this?”

  “I just think maybe … maybe we’ve about reached the limit.”

  Matthews grunted. “Don’t think, Frank. You’re not used to it, and you’re not good at it.”

  Frank pursed his lips together. Yeah, that was the standard line. Frank, the force’s likeable lump. The gentle giant. The amiable lummox. Except, Frank did think, on occasion, and he’d been thinking a lot of late.

  “Arlen, you know I feel the same as you. About Joe and all. I want to see justice done. But it’s back in the courts, where it ought to be. Why are we still out here? “

  “It ain’t over till it’s over. I don’t like leaving a job half done.”

  “But I’m tellin’ you, Arlen, this is wrong. It’s no good anymore.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “What the hell are we doin’, anyway? Tailin’ Kincaid and scopin’ out his office? What’s the point? The case is reopened, Kincaid’s got a judge who’s ready to hang the Dalcanton chick, he’s got a member of his team nearly dead and another one watchin’ over her. What are we goin’ to accomplish out here?”

  Matthews paused a few beats before answering. “I don’t know exactly. But there’s no telling what Kincaid might try. We need to keep our eyes open. Maybe we can tip LaBelle off to the next big trick up his sleeve.”

  “Arlen, you’re dreamin’.”

  “Fine. Let me dream.”

  “Arlen—I gotta tell you—my wife’s been complainin’. ’Bout me bein’ gone all the time.”

  “What kind of pathetic little pussy-whipped pissant are you, anyway?”

  “Arlen—you know I don’t like that kind of talk.”

  “Fine. Let’s stop talking.”

  “Arlen—are you hearin’ what I’m sayin’? It doesn’t make sense anymore. You don’t know what you’re doin’. Or why.”

  Matthews whipped his head around to face Frank. “Don’t tell me I don’t know why I’m doing this. I sure as hell do know! I’m doing it for Joe!”

  “Arlen, be reasonable. I knew Joe, too, remember? I loved him like a brother. But this—this stuff we’re doin’—this is crazy. Even Joe wouldn’t want this!”

  “Don’t tell me what my own partner would want!”

  “I’m right, Arlen! You know I am! Joe believed criminals should be punished. But he never wanted to hurt anyone. He wouldn’t stand around and let anyone else get hurt, either! And he didn’t like it when people messed with him.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think I do, Arlen. I still remember.”

  “You’re babbling.”

  “You may’ve got the files expunged, but I’ve got a long memory. I know why Joe got bucked down to patrolman. And I know why he got bucked back up again, too.”

  When Matthews’s voice returned, it was slow and … different. “What exactly are you saying, Frank?”

  “You know what I’m saying. I’m saying this has gone on long enough.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “No, I’m not threatening you, you thick-headed moron! I’m trying to get through to you. I thought this was a good idea when we started. I wanted to see justice done. I wanted to see Joe avenged. But it’s over now. The case is back in the courts. Our work is done. But you won’t let go of it!”

  “I’m very concerned about—”

  “You’re not concerned. You’re obsessed!”

  Matthews slowly turned away until he once again faced forward, staring at the lights on the seventh floor. His calm demeanor was belied by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Get the fuck out of my car.”

  “Arlen—”

  “You heard me.”

  “Arlen, you gotta listen to reason. You—”

  “Get outta my car!” Matthews pounded Frank with his fists, slamming him on his neck and shoulders and face. Frank tried to deflect the blows, but in such a tiny space, there was little room to maneuver.

  “Arlen, get a grip!”

  “Get out!” Matthews was screaming now, his fists still flying. “Get outta my car!”

  “All right!” Frank popped open the car door and shifted his enormous frame forward, but—

  Someone was standing just outside his door.

  “Smile!”

  A moment later, a blinding white flash of light erupted in their eyes.

  “What the—” Frank fell back onto the car seat, his arm covering his eyes. “What’s going on?” Another bright white flash illuminated the darkness.

  “Who the hell is it?” Matthews bellowed. A few moments later, enough of his vision had returned to answer the question for himself. “Loving!”

  Loving was holding a palm-size camera in his hands. “At your service. Poker game break up early tonight, boys?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here,” Loving replied. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ what you’re doin’ here?”

  “None of your goddamned business!”

  “I think it is.” Loving leaned forward, not intimidated in the least by the hulk he had to cross over to get near Matthews. “I think you’ve been tailin’ my man Kincaid. And God knows what else. You should’ve taken the warning I gave you back in the parking garage.”

  “Get stuffed.”

  “I’ll tell you somethin’ else,” Loving continued. “If I find out you’re behind some of the troubles Ben’s been havin’ lately, I’ll be comin’ to you for payback.” His voice dropped a notch. “And I find out you were the son of a bitch who attacked Paula Connelly, you’re a dead man.”

  “Very scary, Loving. I’m trembling.”

  “You should be, Matthews.” He slowly pulled out of the car. “Now if you’ve got any sense at all in that tiny little pea brain of yours, which unfortunately I’m not sure you do, you’ll take your friend’s advice. Let the courts do their job and leave Kincaid alone.”

  “How long have you been eavesdropping?”

  “You see, Matthews, it ain’t eavesdroppin’ when I’m supposed to be here—and you ain’t.” Loving took a step back, then raised the camera again and snapped another picture. “See you in court, Matthews. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  31

  “WHERE ARE THE MATTHEWS exhibits?” Ben said, ripping through the notebooks scattered across the defense table. “I need those exhibits.”

  “I think they’re in one of the bankers’ boxes,” Christina offered,

  Ben scanned the stacks and stacks of boxes beside their table in the courtroom. “That’s helpful. Which one?”

  “If I recall correctly, the blue one.”

  “There is no blue one.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Ben looked at her with unforgiving eyes. “How could this happen?”

  “Beats me. I’m the new grad, remember? How do lawyers normally keep track of their exhibits?”

  “Normally their legal assistant takes care of that. Unfortunately, mine just got a law degree.” He glanced over his shoulder. The bailiff was coming in, which meant the judge would not be far behind. “Christina, could you run to the pay phone in the corridor and call Loving? The box must be back at the office.”

  “Phone’s broken. And I didn’t bring my cell phone. I didn’t think Judge Cable would be amused if it started playing ‘La Vie en Rose’
in the middle of the trial. I could run downstairs—”

  “No way. I need you here.” He snapped his fingers. “I know what to do. I’ve been looking for an excuse to use this.” He popped open his briefcase and took out a small Palm Pilot. “Christmas present from my mother.”

  Christina watched over his shoulder. “Going to look up the office phone number?”

  “Hey, this baby’s wireless. I can send e-mail.”

  “Loving doesn’t have a computer.”

  Ben punched the tiny keys on the palm-sized keyboard. “I’m sending the message to a company called myFax. They’ll receive the message and fax it to Loving. Isn’t that incredible?”

  Christina rolled her eyes. “Boys and their toys.”

  LaBelle started the testimonial phase of the trial predictably enough by calling back to the stand Sergeant Mark Callery, the young cop who was the first on the scene to discover Joe McNaughton’s body. He recounted the whole incident in gory detail. Ben thought he was much more persuasive than he had been at the first trial; as with all things, he supposed, practice makes perfect. Callery painted the picture with an artist’s exactitude. All the grisly details were included; not so much as a single blood splatter was left to the jury’s imagination.

  The effect on the jurors was immediate and apparent. They already knew what had happened to the unfortunate Joe McNaughton. But it was another thing again to hear it described in court, in minute detail, with pictures no less. The true horror of the crime hit home with a force Ben knew would linger for days. This was no longer a hypothetical matter. A man had been killed, horribly so, and according to LaBelle, Keri Dalcanton was the monster who did it.