Blind Justice (30 page)

“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.

B
EN 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 never 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—”

“Ben!” Her eyes went straight to his heart. “Who’s the client here?”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. “You are.”

“Who calls the shots?”

“Unless he or she is requesting something unethical, the client.”

“Fine. I’m glad we got that settled.” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress. “Tomorrow morning, I expect to be called to the witness stand. Understand?”

Ben nodded.

“Don’t stay up too late. I don’t want the jury thinking my attorney is a zombie. And don’t forget to feed your cat.”

“I’ll feed her,” Ben said. “But that doesn’t mean she’ll eat.”

Christina left the office. Ben tried to concentrate on his notes, but insistent questions in the back of his mind kept distracting him. Who would bug his phone? The same person who killed Lennie? The same person who’d been following him? Why was DeCarlo in the courtroom today? And a million other enigmas that had little or nothing to do with the trial. Or perhaps they did, and he was just too stupid to realize it.

He forced the questions out of his mind. He had to concentrate. He had to cover everything, and cover it again and again and again, until it made sense. Until he spotted whatever he had been missing.

The moment of truth was less than twelve hours away.

T
HE COURTROOM, AS BEFORE
, was packed. The reporters maintained their front-row flank. Ben spotted DeCarlo taking a seat in the back, a few rows behind Margot Lombardi. Spud was still around, too—probably standing by in case the prosecution wanted to recall him on rebuttal. On the same row, Ben saw Quinn Reynolds. What was he doing here? And behind him, Clayton Langdell. Behind Langdell, Stanford and Abshire sat on the back row, far corner. Abshire made eye contact with Ben and winked. Smug son of a bitch. He thought they had it in the bag.

And he was very possibly right. Ben had stayed at the office as long as he could, well past midnight. Even after he went home, he found he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even come close, so he opened his briefcase (to the delight of Giselle, who thought it was great fun to play in) and continued looking for the magic answer. After he awoke that morning he went straight to the courtroom, still mentally searching for the elusive detail he had overlooked, the crucial clue that explained everything and proved Christina’s innocence.

He never found it.

Ben walked down the aisle and planted himself in front of DeCarlo. “Have you got someone following me?”

“Why, Ben! The questions you ask. Have you seen someone following you?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Does that necessarily mean I’m responsible?”

“You’re the most likely candidate. So how about it?”

“Would you believe me if I denied your accusation?”

“Probably not.”

“Well, I deny it.”

“You’re a prince.”

The bailiff stepped out of chambers and, a few steps behind him, Judge Derek. Ben felt a helpless, hollow feeling inside. It was happening—the trial was going forward. There was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable course of events, to prevent the conspiracy of circumstances from condemning Christina and destroying her life.