Lassiter jl-8

by Paul Levine

  Ziegler’s face seemed to draw itself tight. He looked old and tired and beaten. I tried another way to get it out of him.

  “Mr. Ziegler, have you achieved redemption?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what you talked about when I came over to your house one rainy night. But you can’t buy redemption. You have to earn it. Mr. Ziegler, why not begin by telling your part in all of this?”

  He looked toward Krista, whose eyes were wet. She nodded at him, and he began to speak. “There was a party a long time ago to celebrate a win in court. I’d been charged with obscenity up in the sticks. Suwannee County. We’d shipped maybe half a dozen videos into the county and some ambitious D.A. up there indicted me. I asked Alex Castiel for a favor and he helped me get the case dismissed.”

  “How’d he do that? Wasn’t Mr. Castiel a prosecutor in Miami at the time?”

  “Alex drove up to East Jesus and talked to the D.A.”

  “Talked to him?”

  “And left him a briefcase with fifty thousand dollars of my money.”

  “Objection!” Castiel bounded out of his chair and took a step in front of me, as if blocking me out for a rebound. “Move to strike. This is a blatant attempt to smear my reputation and has nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of the defendant.”

  I leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Relax, Alex. I haven’t even begun to smear your reputation.”

  “Sustained. The jury will disregard the witness’ last statement. Mr. Lassiter, I’m allowing you leeway to inquire into events concerning the party, but if you stray afield again, I’m cutting you short.”

  “I understand, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Ziegler, please tell the jury what happened at your victory party.”

  “It was Max Perlow’s idea. He said we had to do something for Alex, and that’s how the whole godforsaken thing started.”

  “Alex has a hard-on for your new girl,” Perlow said.

  “Fuck him.” Ziegler saw where this was going and wanted no part of it.

  They were standing on the pool deck. Porn videos were being projected on a screen anchored to a pair of royal palms in the yard. On the speakers, Color Me Badd was singing “I Wanna Sex You Up.”

  “C’mon, Charlie,” Perlow said. “One night. Let him get it out of his system.”

  “He plays too rough.”

  “Alex promises he’ll behave.”

  “I gave him that girl from Alabama. She couldn’t work for a week. Kid’s a freak, Max.”

  “He comes from good stock. Your little girl will be fine.”

  Ziegler knew it was more than a request. You didn’t say no to Max Perlow. Krista had shown up early in a silver mini and high-heeled sandals with straps that tied at mid-calf. Sunburned and mellowed from smoking weed at the beach. Ziegler told her what she had to do, and she got all pouty and whiny. She’d heard stories about Castiel from the other girls. He liked pain. Inflicting it, not suffering it.

  “Why you doing this to me? He’s a sick fuck, Charlie.”

  “One little favor. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “How?”

  “Paradise Island. We’ll laze around the Ocean Club, eat stone crabs and drink pina coladas all weekend. Whadaya say?”

  She smiled, pecked him on the cheek, and pranced away on long colts’ legs.

  An hour later, the place was mobbed. The usual night crawlers, SoBe scuzzballs, club-hoppers, and wannabe players. He’d caught sight of Castiel, scoring some ludes from Rodney Gifford on the pool deck. Then Castiel took Krista to the cabana, the Fuck Palace. Ziegler had a momentary thought of intercepting them, stopping the whole thing. But he didn’t do it.

  It would be nearly dawn when he next saw Krista. Naked, legs splayed across the bed at an unnatural angle. Unconscious. Face caved in. Blood leaking from an eye. A gym bag of toys spilled across the floor. Handcuffs and whips and dildos. Castiel sat on his haunches in a corner of the cabana, a sheet wrapped around him, muttering gibberish, sucking on his swollen knuckles.

  Ziegler dropped to his knees and vomited. He shouted for help.

  Perlow hurried in and began barking instructions. He would clean up Castiel and drive him home. One of Perlow’s men would get rid of Krista’s car.

  “She was never here tonight, Charlie. You got that?”

  “Jesus, Max. You can’t sweep this under the rug.”

  “Shut up, you pussy! Bury her.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Bury her, now!”

  “She’s still breathing, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Alex is important to us,” Perlow said.

  “Not to me, he isn’t. Jesus, Max, look what he’s done.”

  “She’s nobody. Who’ll even miss her?”

  Ziegler was frozen in place, paralyzed.

  “It’s not just his cock on the chopping block, Charlie. You been fucking an underage girl, using her in porn, giving her drugs, pimping her to your friends. Maybe you and Alex can get adjoining cells.”

  Ziegler didn’t move, didn’t speak. Perlow slapped him across the face. “Goddammit, Charlie! Finish her off. Bury her in the ’Glades. And let’s get on with our lives.”

  Perlow helped Castiel out of the cabana, and Ziegler sat there for several minutes looking at the girl, listening to her moan. Then he took a washcloth and tried to clean her face.

  Ziegler told the story softly and sadly, stopping twice to dab at his eyes and once to blow his nose. Not a person in the courtroom thought he was lying.

  As he spoke, something was happening I’d never seen before. No one was watching the person asking the questions, me. Or the person answering, Ziegler. Everyone-judge, jurors, clerks, bailiff, defendant, every spectator and journalist-was watching Castiel. Looks of shock, horror, and disgust.

  Castiel sat stiffly at the prosecution table, hands clenched in front of him. His face frozen. Maybe he’d found the time machine that would let him hang out with Meyer Lansky in Havana.

  I turned toward the gallery and discovered I had been wrong. Not everyone was staring at Castiel. In the front row of the gallery, Krista Larkin kept her eyes on Charlie Ziegler, tears streaming down her face.

  I took two steps toward the witness stand and said, “Mr. Ziegler, now I want to bring you back to the night of the shooting.”

  Looking exhausted, Ziegler simply nodded his head.

  “On direct examination, you stated that Amy Larkin wasn’t the shooter, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were you telling the truth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The whole truth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The courtroom had been nearly empty when Ziegler had testified before lunch. But the beehive that is the Justice Building had begun buzzing, and now the place was filled. Lawyers. Cops. Office workers. A TV crew belatedly set up a camera. Each time the door opened, I could hear the commotion in the corridor. Lights were turning on, camera crews setting up to pounce on Castiel when he exited. Circus Maximus.

  “You said the figure was a man, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you clearly see this man?”

  He shot a look at Krista, gave a little shrug that seemed to say, “What can I do?”

  “Clear enough,” he said.

  “Who was it?”

  Ziegler sighed, a long whistling breath. He’d come this far. He’d scorched the earth behind him. Why stop now?

  “It was Alex Castiel.”

  A hundred gasps seemed to suck all the air out of the courtroom.

  “Alex Castiel shot Max,” Ziegler continued.

  “That’s a lie!” Castiel on his feet now. “That’s a goddamn lie and you know it!”

  The judge banged her gavel. “Sit down, Mr. Castiel.”

  The State Attorney slumped back into his chair.

  “Were you finished with your answer?” the judge asked.

  “Alex killed the guy,” Ziegler went on.
“That’s all I was going to say, Your Honor. Then Alex blamed it on the sister of the woman he tried to kill. That’s the damn ugly truth.”

  68 Suitable for Framing

  “We stand in recess.” Judge Duckworth banged her gavel. “Counsel, my chambers, now! Bailiff, please summon two sheriff’s deputies.”

  The judge stood and disappeared through the door behind the bench.

  I had failed to get to my feet when the judge rose. I was still reeling.

  Alex Castiel killed his surrogate father.

  There was a certain logic to it. Perlow was about to be indicted on the slot-machine case. All his life, Castiel listened to his uncle Max telling him to be ruthless, to save himself first. So Castiel figured the teacher would do what he taught. Perlow’s get-out-of-jail-free card was his ability to bring down the State Attorney. Tell the feds about Alex being a bagman for a porn producer, then beating a girl to death, and who knows what else over the years? Maybe Castiel was wrong; maybe Perlow never would have talked. Now we’ll never know.

  Amy squeezed my arm and breathed, “Thank you,” into my ear.

  Krista stepped through the gate and joined us at the defense table. The sisters hugged, and Krista said, “Is the case over, Jake?” Hope rippling her voice like a stream over rocks.

  “Not quite yet. Let’s see what the judge has to say.”

  “Whatever happens, you were wonderful, Jake.”

  That gave me the chance for a long overdue apology. “Krista, I’m sorry I didn’t step up when I had the chance. Sorry I didn’t keep you safe.”

  Krista gave me a soft, rueful smile. “Don’t sweat it, Jake. In the shit storm of my life, you weren’t even a drizzle.”

  I wasn’t willing to be let off the hook so easily. “If I knew then what I know now, I would have been a better man.”

  She laughed and gave me a knowing smile. “Amy’s told me all about you. You’re a better man now.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “You’ve proved it by helping Amy.”

  I started for the judge’s chambers, but Amy grabbed my sleeve. “Do you think the jurors believe Charlie?”

  “I do.”

  “About everything? Not just that it wasn’t me. But that Castiel shot Perlow with my gun.”

  I recited the evidence of what I figured would become the second trial: State v. Castiel. “Once Castiel had the bullets you fired into my tires, all he needed was to get the gun from your motel. He had evidence of your stalking, your threats against Ziegler, and now the forensic evidence. By making it look like a botched attempt to kill Ziegler, you were just like Castiel’s law school diploma.”

  Her look shot me a question.

  “Suitable for framing.” I stuffed my briefcase and headed for the door behind the bench. Her Honor was waiting.

  69 Breaking the Conspiracy

  Judge Duckworth’s chambers were a quiet place with the scent of leather furniture and old books. A pair of sheriff’s deputies guarded the door, one on the inside, one on the outside.

  Her Honor wasted no time. As soon as the court stenographer had set up her little machine, the judge started in. “Mr. Castiel, do you have anything to say about the accusations made against you under oath in my courtroom?”

  Stone-faced, the State Attorney said, “Not until I speak to my lawyer.”

  “Fine. You are hereby removed from this case. I’m declaring a mistrial on my own motion. I expect the Governor will suspend you, instanter, pending an investigation. I’m ordering the defendant released from custody and strongly recommending to your replacement that charges be dismissed with prejudice.”

  Yes! That’s what I wanted to hear. The case was won, or nearly so.

  “In the meantime, I am instructing the county sheriff that you be barred from the State Attorney’s Office. All files of this case will be sealed until an acting State Attorney is appointed. Do you have any questions?”

  “May I be excused to call my lawyer?”

  “Not yet.” The judge turned to me and left her smile at home. “Mr. Lassiter, I have never been a fan of your courtroom methods.”

  Ouch.

  “But today, you really showed something in there.”

  Oh.

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “You’ve come a long way. Since that time you scored a touchdown for the wrong team, I mean.”

  “Safety,” I corrected her.

  “That’s it, then. We’re in adjournment.” She rose and flew out of her chambers, robes trailing, looking like a nun on her way to Mass.

  Castiel and I got to our feet at the same time. He seemed to stumble a bit. I didn’t know if his knees buckled, if he tripped on the chair leg, or if he was having a stroke. I caught him by the elbow, and he yanked away from me. We stood there a moment, eyeing each other. His complexion had gone all sallow under his tan, and his eyes were blank and bottomless.

  “Go ahead, Jake. Say it.”

  “Okay. You turn my stomach. You want me to go on? Because that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “I didn’t kill Max.”

  “Like they say, tell it to the judge.”

  “Max Perlow did everything for me that Meyer couldn’t do. To think that I’d kill him because I was afraid he’d flip on me, it’s crazy. I loved the man.”

  “It’s a good argument. I’ll try to be in the gallery when your lawyer makes it.”

  “Goddammit, Jake. I’m being framed, can’t you see that?”

  “I doubt Charlie Ziegler is smart enough or tough enough to do it.”

  “He had help from Krista. I figure her for the shooter.”

  “You’re pissing upwind, Alex.”

  I started to leave, and this time, he grabbed my arm. “Ziegler’s the way in, Jake. He’s the weak link.”

  “In where? Link to what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Breaking the conspiracy. Proving they used you and framed me.”

  “Good luck with that, Alex. Let me know how it turns out.”

  “A long time ago, you had a dirtbag client and you did the right thing.”

  “A wire? That’s what you want me to do?”

  “Your brethren hated you for it, but you didn’t care. You wear your cynicism on your sleeve, but deep down, you believe in the system. You believe in justice.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve always admired that about you, because I don’t believe in anything.”

  “So you admit you’re corrupt?”

  “Maybe it’s in the Lansky genes, but yeah, I’m dirty.”

  “You can’t blame your old man for this. It’s you, Alex.”

  “Okay, I’m corrupt. Through and through. Happy now?”

  “And you admit you beat Krista within an inch of her life?”

  “I was strung out on meth and coke.”

  “So now you’re blaming the drugs?”

  “I nearly killed her. It’s on me, I admit it, okay?”

  “So why would I help you?”

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “Because they used you, Jake. Krista’s grand entrance into the courtroom. Charlie all shocked. The phony alibi. You think that wasn’t planned?”

  “No idea. All I know is that you’re a worthless piece of scum.”

  “But I didn’t kill Max, Jake. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  70 Rough Justice

  Three days after the precipitous end of the murder trial, I was invited to dinner at Ziegler’s house. A foursome. Charlie and Krista. Amy and me. We could have played bridge.

  Earlier that day, the Governor appointed an acting State Attorney, who immediately dismissed all charges against Amy on account of prosecutorial misconduct. I gave her the news by phone, and she whooped with joy. Her tone of voice had become free and uninhibited. A new woman.

  The acting State Attorney immediately announced a Grand Jury would hear evidence against Alex Castiel for Perlow’s murder. Ziegler was delighted with that news. On the home front, Lola had moved
out of Casa Ziegler, Krista had moved in, and Amy was set up in the guesthouse.

  A happy family.

  Of murderers, according to Alex Castiel.

  I promised I would take a shot at them. Not because I wanted to help Castiel. I believed what I said in the judge’s chambers. He wasn’t worth the effort. But a piece of Ziegler’s testimony didn’t hold up, and it nagged at me. I would confront him with it. If I had been used to frame a man for murder, I was going to do something about it. Not for Alex Castiel. But for me.

  And so just like old times, I wore a wire.

  We ate squab in a sticky sweet sauce, and Krista told me about her life.

  When she was near death, it was Ziegler who quietly got her to a private hospital, then flew her to New York for facial reconstruction, and finally five months in a rehab facility.

  “Charlie helped me walk again. Worked with me on speech therapy. When I was better, he got me a job in a casino in Tahoe, but I couldn’t stand on my feet all those hours. I got messed up with painkillers and attempted suicide. Charlie put me into therapy, got me straightened out again.”

  Ziegler was her common denominator. He’d been there-for better or worse-since she was seventeen. A few years ago, he’d convinced her to move back to Florida so they could be together.

  All told, she had been in hiding eighteen years. Castiel thought she was dead. A living, breathing Krista Larkin could ruin him. I understood all that. But something puzzled me.

  “Why didn’t you contact your family all these years?”

  “I tried! I called my father when I was still in the hospital. By then, he’d found out what I was doing in Miami. He told me I was a slut who was being punished by God, that I would be better off dead.”

  I remembered the photo from Bozo’s that Sonia Majeski had given Krista’s father. He’d written on the back: “The Whore of Babylon.”

  “He said if I tried to talk to Amy, he’d tell her all about me,” Krista continued. “He made me feel so ashamed. After a while, I told myself Krista Larkin was dead, so I buried her. I was Melody Sanders, a new person with a new life.”