Sheer Gall (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

But the show must go on.

Accordingly, at 9:05 a.m. the next morning, bruised and stiff, my right shoulder still throbbing, I rose at counsel's table. Vincent Contini was seated next to me, ramrod-straight, his hands steepled beneath his chin. I placed my hand on his shoulder and announced that the defendant in
Cecelia Ann Thompson v. Contini's on Maryland
was ready for trial.

Judge LaDonna Williams nodded gravely. “We'll start in a moment.” She leaned over and said something with quiet authority to her docket clerk, who immediately got to her feet and came around behind the bench to confer with the judge.

As they talked in hushed tones, I turned toward the gallery, which was usually empty save for one or two elderly court watchers. But today there was a crowd of about two dozen scattered on the benches. I recognized the society columnist and the people columnist for the
Post-Dispatch
, seated side by side in the third row. Behind them was a reporter from Channel 5 with a steno pad open on her lap. One row over was Charles Morley, a photographer from the
Post-Dispatch
, here today not as a spectator but as a witness. Jacki had served him with a trial subpoena on Monday. I caught his eye and smiled. He acknowledged me with a nod. I spotted two other witnesses we had served with subpoenas. With any luck this morning, they'd never have to take the stand.

Seated in the first row directly behind us were Vincent Contini's stout wife, Maria, and his stouter son, Tony. I winked at Mrs. Contini, who nodded nervously, fingering her rosary beads. Tony gave me a thumbs-up.

On the other side of the courtroom, in the first row behind plaintiff's table, was Cissy Thompson's husband, Richie. He was flanked by two intense members of his Pacific Rim entourage. By contrast to his grim lieutenants, Richie seemed almost languid. With his heavy-lidded eyes, shiny black suit, and dark, slicked-back hair, he reminded me of a drowsy, well-fed panther.

I looked back at the judge. She jotted something in her calendar and then peered down at us over her reading glasses.

“Counsel,” she said to both of us, “I've read your trial briefs and I'm familiar with your legal theories. We'll dispense with opening statements.” She turned to my opponent. “Mr. Brenner, call your first witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Milt Brenner said in his fawning manner. He turned to his client, who was seated next to him. With a benevolent smile and a sweeping gesture, he announced, “Your Honor, we call the plaintiff herself, Mrs. Cecelia Thompson.”

Cissy rose with steely poise and strode across the courtroom to the witness box, where the somber clerk was waiting.

“Please raise your right hand.”

And thus the trial began.

I glanced over at Richie, who had momentarily perked up when his wife took the stand. He soon lost interest, though, and turned to one of his assistants to whisper something. The assistant nodded earnestly, jumped to his feet, and scurried briskly out of the courtroom. Richie turned with a dull expression to watch him leave.

He hadn't always been surrounded by these butt boys. Twenty years ago, Richie Thompson had been a penny-ante jobber who was able to corner the U.S. market in cheapo made-in-Singapore work boots at a time when no one cared about cheapo work boots. That was okay by Richie. His margins on the $12.99 schlock that he peddled to the inner-city discount houses were enough to cover the mortgage, the Blues season tickets, and the twice-a-year junkets to Vegas. As he told his buddies, “So long as the niggers and spics keep buying 'em, I ain't complaining.”

But then a miracle occurred: the fickle finger of fashion pointed to work boots. Richie was so far ahead of the curve that it took years for the rest to catch up. With his Asian factories working triple shifts, Richie went from penny-ante to pennies from heaven. When he took Pacific Rim public on a Tuesday morning in March eight years ago, in the space of six hours his net worth shot from $23,124 to $12.3 million.

Richie went berserk: he chartered a plane and flew his forty-two best buddies, including the entire duck club, to Vegas for a weekend of booze, broads, and blackjack. Cissy, by contrast, went uptown: she took the wife of Richie's securities lawyer to Hilton Head Island over that same weekend and spent most of the time pumping her for information on how to start moving up the social ladder. Richie returned with a cosmic hangover and a genital rash of indeterminate origins. Cissy returned with climbing ropes and pitons.

She was clearly breathing thinner air these days, and her outfit reflected it. She was wearing a subdued but elegant red wool suit and matching neck scarf that brought out the highlights in her shoulder-length auburn hair. At forty-eight, Cissy Thompson was a striking figure with an aura that was almost regal. And with good reason. Whatever nature omitted had been supplied by the finest collection of plastic surgeons, orthodontists, personal fitness trainers, hairstylists, fashion consultants, makeup artists, tutors, and diction coaches that Richie's money could buy.

Many who knew her claimed that Cissy Thompson had ice in her veins and the scruples of a contract killer. Just last year, for example, she had refused to pay her ten-thousand-dollar pledge to the St. Louis Special Olympics when, instead of being seated for the luncheon at the “A” table (with guest of honor Barbara Walters and the snooty wives of several CEOs), she found herself at a table that included two of the gold medal winners at the competition. As she indignantly informed the chairwoman of the event immediately afterward, “I didn't shell out ten grand to buy lunch with a couple of retards.”

Perhaps to soften that image, Milt Brenner started his examination slow and gentle—name, address, place of birth, marital status, children, pets, hobbies. It took nearly an hour of warm, cuddly testimony before Brenner finally reached the day that Cissy called, in a halting voice, Black Tuesday.

What followed was a performance that had obviously been well rehearsed. We heard about her initial confusion when Vincent Contini responded with a silent scowl to her request to return the dress. Then there was the embarrassment of having him place the dress under a high-intensity lamp and inspect it with a magnifying glass. Then the dismay of trying to maintain her composure while he fired questions at her, his voice “dripping with hostility.” And finally, the total mortification of being publicly disparaged.

“There were other women in there,” she said, her lips quivering. “Women I knew, women I admired, women whose views I respected.” She paused to dab her eye with a handkerchief. “He raised his voice to me. He was practically shouting at me. He called me a liar and a cheat. Those women heard every one of his vile accusations.” She paused and took a deep breath, her face a mask of anguish.

Brenner, in a soft, compassionate tone, asked, “Was it painful, Cissy?”

She sighed, her hands fluttering helplessly onto her lap. “Oh, you have no idea.”

“Tell the court, Cissy.”

As if on cue, she began sobbing, covering her face with her hands. Brenner allowed it to go on until Judge Williams came to the rescue by quietly announcing that the court would be in short recess. Brenner helped her off the stand and walked her out of the courtroom as Richie, barely acknowledging the proceedings, huddled with his two aides.

I used the break to get my exhibits arranged. Brenner had to know that he couldn't possibly top that last scene, and he would likely end his direct examination when court resumed. His expression confirmed as much when he strolled back into the courtroom alone. He could not have looked more pleased with himself.

“Rachel,” he said, trying to sound compassionate, “I'm afraid our last settlement offer is off the table.”

Ten minutes later, with his restored and completely composed client back on the witness stand, Milt Brenner stood to announce, “No further questions, Your Honor.” Turning to me with almost a pompous smile, he said, “Your witness, counsel.”

I checked my watch as I stood up. It was eleven-fifteen. We'd break around noon for lunch, which gave me forty-five minutes to set it up. So far, things were going according to the plan—the one I had worked out in the wee hours last night. I'd been so rattled when I got home from Schnuck's that I hadn't been able to fall asleep until three in the morning. Trying to keep my mind off what had happened in the parking lot, I'd used the time awake in bed to map out my cross-examination of Cissy Thompson. If my plan worked, the case would end over the lunch hour. If it didn't, we'd be stuck in a high-stakes mud-wrestling match for at least another day and a half.

I came around the table. “Good morning, Mrs. Thompson,” I said politely. “My name is Rachel Gold, and I represent the defendant.”

She nodded sternly, once again the imperious ice maiden.

“I have a few questions for you, Mrs. Thompson, but before I ask them I'd like to make sure I understand your claim.” I moved back over to Vincent Contini and put my hand on his shoulder. “You've sued my client for libel. You claim he said some false and defamatory things about you, right?”

She looked from me to Contini and then back to me. “That's right,” she snapped, sounding almost annoyed by the question.

“In fact, you allege that Mr. Contini called you a liar and a cheat. You allege that he accused you of lying about whether you wore the dress. You allege that he falsely accused you of attempting to cheat him by asking for a complete refund on something that you had already used.”

Her nostrils flared. “That's exactly what he said.”

I nodded. “And you allege here that those accusations were false, correct?”

She nodded angrily. “They were lies.”

“In fact, Mrs. Thompson, you allege that you didn't wear that dress at all, correct?”

“That isn't just an allegation, Miss Gold. That's the truth.”

“Thank you.” I nodded courteously. “I think I understand your position.”

I walked over to the wall hook where the dress was hanging. “Now, I'd like us to go back to Tuesday, August eleventh.” I looked toward the dress. “That was the day you bought this pretty Adrienne Vittadini dress from Mr. Contini, right?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“You bought two more expensive clothing items the next day, right?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “I'm sure I don't remember something that far back.”

I smiled politely. “I understand, Mrs. Thompson. I can't even remember what I had for breakfast today. Let me see if I can jog your memory.”

I spent the next ten minutes refreshing her recollection with charge receipts, credit slips, and her credit card bill for August. When I was through, Cissy found herself warily eyeing Defendant's Trial Exhibits E and F, which were sitting directly in front of her on the ledge of the witness box. Exhibit E was the pair of Yves Saint Laurent black pumps that she had purchased for $570.67 on August 12. Exhibit F was the Salvatore Ferragamo handbag that she had purchased for $412.35 on the same day.

“Let's make sure our dates are correct,” I said, turning to the blackboard. “On Tuesday you bought that pretty dress. On Wednesday you bought the matching pumps and purse. Then, on the following Tuesday, after the weekend, you returned the purse to Neiman-Marcus and the shoes to La Femme Elégante.” I turned back to face her and gave her my perky elementary-school-teacher smile. “Right?”

She frowned at the blackboard and then looked down at the receipts already admitted into evidence as trial exhibits. “I suppose,” she said quietly.

“Is that a yes?” I said.

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “Yes,” she hissed.

Another perky smile. “I thought so.”

I walked back toward counsel's table. I sat against the table edge, facing the witness. “Tell us about the night of August fourteenth. That was the Friday of the week you bought the dress and the shoes and the purse.”

She laughed. “Come on, lady. That was several months ago. I have no idea what I did that night.”

I nodded pensively.
Perfect answer
.

Time to turn up the flame. I leaned across the table and lifted the next exhibit off the pile. Looking back to her, I said, “Let's see if we can refresh that memory of yours.”

I walked over to the witness box and held out the document. “I'm handing you what I've marked Defendant's Trial Exhibit G.”

I gave a photocopy to the judge and another photocopy to Brenner. Turning back to the witness, I said, “Identify it, Mrs. Thompson.” There wasn't a drop of warmth in my voice.

She stared at the document for a moment and then looked over at Milt Brenner with a frown.

“Identify the document,” I repeated a little more forcefully as I turned toward Brenner. He dropped his eyes.

“It's a program,” Cissy said carefully.

“A program for what?”

“For, uh, a fund-raiser.”

“Specifically, the Carousel Auction Gala sponsored by the Friends of the Children's Hospital, correct?” Fortunately, the Ritz-Carlton had kept several copies of the program and had given me one the night I met Jonathan Wolf for drinks.

She shrugged, trying to sound offhand. “That's what it says.”

“What's the date of the event?”

She looked at the program. “According to this thing, August fourteenth.”

“According to that thing?” I repeated, incredulous. “You can surely do better than that, can't you? You were there, weren't you?”

She sat back with a frown, as if trying to remember. “I might have been. I can't recall for sure.”

“Let me help you, then. Let's see if we can jog that foggy memory of yours.”

Brenner leaped to his feet. “I object, Your Honor.”

Judge Williams peered down at me over her reading glasses. “Sustained.”

“Your Honor,” Brenner said with an obsequious smile, “perhaps this would be a good time for a break.”