The Judge

CHAPTER 22

We enter to the sounds of soft strings, a quartet of violins playing on the balcony overhead, something from The New World Symphony-the timbre of Dvorák.

Lenore is dressed to the nines: a black evening gown cinched close at the waist and sleeveless, three-inch patent leather heels. She carries a tiny black sequined bag under one arm, her other hand holding mine. Tonight her silken black hair is up, shimmering like a raven, set off by earrings and a string of pearls that match the white of her eyes and the flashing enamel of her smile.

Overhead in the large gathering room is a glittering chandelier, something that no doubt came around the horn after the gold rush. We are here in the old governor’s mansion, now a museum, with two hundred other swells. The purpose is to be soaked for the latest cause, what passes for political good works. The governor wants to be president.

The place is filled with highbinders and wire-pullers of the lobbying variety, all oozing their particular brand of oily amiability. There are more politicians here this evening than you can count on the floor of Congress during the average workweek, all trying to climb the political bean stalk to dine with the giant.

The tickets for this, a GOP fund-raiser, have come from a judge, a friend who is soliciting a place on the court of appeals, favors from the governor. He bought a table and I am expected to make an appearance, though Lenore and I are flying under false colors. She is a Democrat. I’m a committed political agnostic.

“I’ve never seen so many Republicans in one place,” she says. Lenore assesses this scene with all the fervor of a farmer observing weeds in his rows of corn.

“The flavor of the month,” I tell her. In this town you can do a different fund-raiser every night, all of them stoking the coals of somebody’s burning ambition.

“Do I look okay?” she asks.

“Like you own the place,” I tell her. It is only a mild exaggeration. I would not admit to anyone the spike of adrenaline to my ego as I sauntered up the steps with this woman on my arm. At least a dozen heads, male and female, turned to look. Lenore is an eye-catcher at most times. When bedecked as she is tonight, she stops traffic.

She whispers to me through clenched teeth. “Major-domo off to your right,” she says. Lenore wags her head a little, and I see the governor and his entourage. It is not that Lenore is impressed. It is more a sighting on the order of whale watching, which makes me wonder what she might do if she had a harpoon.

Lenore smiles and nods as we pass a group of people. I suspect that she thinks I know some of these. What Lenore doesn’t realize is that they are all looking at her. She reaches out to squeeze a hand, another woman lawyer she knows from some club.

I glance over at the governor and the circle that has surrounded him. With so many people sucking up to kiss his ass at one time we should have a low-pressure trough over the city any second.

Through all of this, people talking in each ear at once, the governor has both hands plunged into his suit pants pockets like a hard rock miner looking for a nugget he has misplaced.

“Is that a Republican thing?” asks Lenore.

“What?”

“Playing with himself,” she says.

“Maybe you’d like an introduction?” I ask her.

She laughs. “You know him?”

“No.”

“Then what am I doing with you?” she says.

“I’m the only one you know with an invitation.”

“That can easily be remedied,” she tells me, and drops my hand.

I call her a harlot.

She calls it networking.

We wander toward the throng holding forth near a long table in the dining room. This is set with immense ice carvings and hors d’oeuvres, prawns on a silver platter, a guy pouring champagne, a dozen different labels at the other end. All of this is no doubt offered for the cause by the wine and spirits lobby, something to sweeten political dispositions.

There are members of the state senate and assembly, and congressmen I have seen only on the tube. Some guy, as I pass, is talking about the President’s chief of staff, as if he lived with him. There are more names being dropped here than paratroopers on D-Day, enough bullshit to fertilize Kew Gardens for a decade.

I peruse the table through a gap in the bodies.

“Caviar.” I give Lenore a wink. “I told you it would be worth it.”

She turns up her nose, and says something about eating the unborn of another species. “I hope you brought your rubber pockets.”

“Baggies,” I say. “They’re easier to organize.”

As I am edging a shoulder in the opening, working my way toward the cracker basket, I see a mass of bodies moving this way. Like dust after a herd of horses, this can mean only one thing. By the time I come out with my cracker, some fish eggs dripping from one corner, the governor’s cheery face is steaming slowly in this direction. His hands are still thrust in his pockets, and Lenore has a silly smile. Somewhere she has found a glass of champagne. I get a handle on her arm like a rudder, and I’m about to steer her in another direction.

“I didn’t know you were supporters.” It’s a voice I’ve been hearing in my sleep for a week, always uttering the same mantra: I object.

When I turn I am staring into the face of Coleman Kline.

“Did you buy a table?” He’s gauging my commitment.

“Here with a friend,” I tell him.

“I can see that. Lenore.”

She ignores him.

It would be impolite, an insult, not to shake Kline’s hand. So after I do it, for the second time in my presence in two weeks, Lenore declines. Lady’s privilege, she hugs her little black bag with both hands.

“It’s a very interesting Chinese wall you’ve erected.” Kline is all smiles. “I mean the two of you,” he says.

I can feel Lenore flinch as he says this. No doubt he suspects whatever Lenore knows from his office now passes as pillow talk.

Kline has a woman on his arm, a little older than he.

“It’s a good thing Radovich took precautions to protect all the confidences,” he says.

“Maybe you’d like him to vacuum my mind?” says Lenore.

“Now there’s a thought,” says Kline.

“Why don’t you introduce us to your mother?” says Lenore.

This straightens the smile from his lips.

“My wife, Sandra.” He gives Lenore a look that is truly unkind, though Mrs. Kline does not seem particularly offended.

I have seen pictures of her on the society page. For Sandra Kline this is a second marriage. Widowed, she inherited a fortune in almond groves and rice land north of the city, up along the river. She now bankrolls Kline’s ambitions, and in this spends lavishly. Word is that he is looking seriously at the race for state attorney general next year.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” says Lenore. “Some people have a hard time remembering names. I can never guess ages.”

Sandra Kline gives her husband a plaintive look, a non-combatant caught in the cross fire. Some in the crowd are beginning to push in, shades of a childhood fight inside a chanting circle.

“This is Lenore Goya,” says Kline.

“Oh.” The way Sandra Kline says this, it is clear they have exchanged words about Lenore, something unpleasant.

“How long have you been married?” Lenore asks Kline.

“Two years,” he says.

“Have you been enjoying it?” she asks Sandra.

“Immensely,” says the woman.

“And your previous marriage, how long?”

Lenore’s trying to figure out how old she is, but I pinch her arm.

“Ow. That hurts.”

“Sorry.”

Some guy comes up behind Sandra Kline and whispers in her ear. It seems an audience with the governor is in the offing. “He wants to thank the planning committee,” says the man. “If you have a moment.”

“Why don’t we get a drink,” I tell Lenore. Opportunity for an exit before things turn truly ugly.

“Why don’t you be a darling, get a glass and bring it back to me,” she tells me. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Kline. We have so much to discuss. Besides, the governor’s coming.”

“Right. We’ll just stay here,” I tell her.

“And who are you?” says Sandra.

“Paul Madriani,” I tell her.

Kline apologizes for not introducing me.

“Mr. Madriani. My husband has told me so much about you.”

“I can imagine,” I tell her.

She assures me that all of it was very good, which leaves those listening to wonder what it was that Kline told his wife about Lenore.

“He thinks you’re a very good lawyer,” she tells me.

“That’s not what he told the judge in court yesterday,” says Lenore.

Sandra Kline laughs nervously, unsure what’s going to come from Lenore next.

“Maybe Paul should call you in the case as a character witness,” Lenore tells her.

“A good lawyer is what he said,” says Sandra. “And Coleman would know.”

“Why? Is someone giving him lessons?” says Lenore. Then she laughs, almost giddy.

Kline is a shade of green I have not seen since I puked over the side of a friend’s boat a year ago.

At the moment he has his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “My biggest fan,” he calls her. “If I could only clone her for jury duty,” he says.

“That would be a neat trick,” says Lenore. “Now tell me, what does your husband say about me?” She does a ditzy smile like Carol Channing, only from behind a champagne glass. Then, while she is waiting, Lenore reaches over and plucks a large shrimp from the platter, dipping it in the bowl of bloodred cocktail sauce.

Sandra handles this better than one might expect. Her money and class showing. “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to excuse myself. The governor is waiting.”

“Oh, bring him over,” says Lenore. “I’d love to meet him.”

Right, as soon as Sandra gets through introducing him to Typhoid Mary.

She almost curtsies as she pulls away. If Kline doesn’t make it in politics, his wife has a future in diplomacy. She leaves and seems to take half the crowd with her, to a palpable sigh of disappointment.

“So are you giving him pointers tonight on how to antagonize me?” Kline is looking at me, but asking Lenore.

“You’re missing a golden opportunity,” she tells him. “Or can you reach the governor’s ass with your lips from here?”

I’m thinking that the crowd, those kibitzing for a fight, may have left too soon.

“This is not a good situation,” says Kline.

I agree with him, and try to maneuver Lenore toward the door.

“I’d hoped that we’d put this behind us when you were removed from the case,” he tells her.

“Had you?” she says.

“Yes. But it’s obvious that you’re unable to discuss things rationally,” he tells her.

“Now is not the time or the place,” I tell them.

“I see. The hysterical woman,” she says.

“If you like.”

“I don’t like,” she says. Holding it by the tail, she flails the shrimp like a bullwhip toward the front of Kline’s tux. Suddenly he is cocktail sauce from cummerbund to collar, as though somebody peppered him with bird shot.

“Damn it,” he says.

“Would you like something to wash it down with?” she asks him. She reaches back, arm cocked like a catapult, loaded with Dom Perignon, when I grab her wrist. She looks at me, pleading eyes, like just one more. I shake my head, and finally she relaxes.

Kline is himself angry at this moment, wiping the front of his shirt with a napkin.

“She has a hot head,” he says. “Now I remember why I fired her.”

One of his friends helps him mop up a spot on his pants.

Kline is still talking. “I hope it doesn’t spill over between us,” he tells me. “It’s important that you and I maintain a professional tone, at least until the end of the trial.”

“You think anyone would notice?” I ask him.

“Your client might,” he tells me.

“You make it sound like a threat.”

“Hardly,” he says. “A prosecutor’s duty is to pursue justice. It’s not about winning. My job is to look for the truth.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a four-letter word,” says Lenore.

“It is more difficult in some cases than others,” he says. “In this case made much more difficult by present company.”

Before she can reply Kline moves to come between us. It is clear that my relationship with Lenore has created difficulties for him. He motions with one hand toward a waiter who is circling.

“I think the lady would like a drink,” he says. “Hydrochloric acid, with a cyanide chaser,” he tells the guy. The waiter stands in the middle of the crowd with an expression like he’s missed something.

It is the thing that a client can never understand: how lawyers locked in mortal courtroom combat can stand around together downing caviar and swilling champagne, pissing on each other and debating their relative abilities, while the client rots in jail.

In the meantime Kline’s got his arm on my shoulder, walking me away from the group, so that they cannot hear what he is saying.

“Tell me,” he says. “How do you think the case is going? Your honest opinion?”

Like I’m going to tell him. “Honest opinion?”

He nods.

“I think we’re kicking your ass,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s honest,” he says. There’s a moment of mirth in his eyes, before he speaks-bullshit for bullshit.

“So you think we ought to dismiss?” he says.

“I’d do it tomorrow if I were you,” I tell him.

He laughs.

“You know it’s going to get a lot tougher,” he says.

“That’s the thing about life,” I tell him. “It usually does. Is there something I should know?”

“We started with our light guns.”

“Ah. The coroner and the chief investigator,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes. Well, the physical evidence points the way,” he says. “But the motive. That’s the crusher.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. My client was sweating blood over the Keystone Kops’ prostitution case. By the way, which one of them forgot to turn on the mike?”

He laughs at this.

“Of course your client is prepared to take the stand? To deny all of this?” Now he’s fishing.

“I’ll let you know if and when we decide.”

“What kind of witness do you think he will make?” he says. “Honestly?”

“That’s the kind,” I say. “Honest.”

He smiles, comes up empty. He expected no more. This has the feel of small talk, leading to something bigger.

“You don’t really believe this stuff about the cops?” he says.

I give him my best expression of disbelief. “No. Gus Lano’s an archangel.”

“Well, I grant you the union,” he says. “I’m no defender of organized labor.”

I can believe that.

“But you’re reaching,” he says.

“At least you hope I am,” I tell him.

I get a quizzical look from him.

“Do you know something you haven’t told us?” He stops walking and looks at me dead in the eye.

Now he wants to know what we are thinking.

“If you do, you should tell me,” he says. “It might make a difference.”

Yeah. He would take the information, put a point on it like a pike, and jam it up my ass.

Before I can respond he looks over his shoulder at Lenore.

“Does she know something?” he says. “I know she was there that night. Her fingerprint on the door,” he says. “I’m not interested in making trouble for her. I know she doesn’t believe that. But you should. If she knows something. .”

He leaves the thought dangling and gives me what I can only describe as the big eye, waiting for a reply. When it doesn’t come, he tries another tack.

“We could handle it in private,” he says. “No need for any trouble,” he tells me. For a moment I think perhaps he actually believes Lenore had something to do with Hall’s death.

“You just want the truth,” I tell him.

“Just the truth.” He seems to lean toward me as he says this.

I make a face, but say nothing.

“If she’s withholding something.” He pauses for an instant, as if perhaps he is waiting to see if I get his drift, but he’s a cipher. He can tell by my expression that I don’t have a clue as to what he’s talking about.

“She hasn’t said anything to you?”

I shake my head.

This seems to be a major letdown for him.

“She may have gotten information from Hall,” he says. “It is possible that if she knows something we don’t, that we could have made a mistake.”

As if somebody freeze-dried my blood, I am stunned by this admission. I begin to laugh, the best I can do, a mocking effort at humor.

“You’re telling me you made a mistake? What kind of mistake?” I ask him.

His arm is back to my shoulder, a tight grip, and we are walking again. He’s shushing me with a finger to his lips. Drawing me farther away, toward the quiet corner.

“I didn’t say we made a mistake. I said it was possible to make a mistake if we don’t have all the facts. I just need to know if there is something she’s hiding.”

A prosecutor, trying my client for his life, halfway through his case, telling me that maybe he’s made a mistake, and I’m supposed to whisper.

I stop and turn, unhook his arm from my shoulder.

“You talked to Hall,” I tell him. “You tell me. What did she say?”

“What you heard in court,” he says.

“Your witness Frost?”

He nods.

I laugh at this.

“That’s the problem,” he says. “Perhaps Hall was willing to be more candid with a woman,” he says. “Talk to her.” He wags his head toward Lenore. “She’ll tell you if she knows something. No matter what you think, I’m not looking for political points on this one.”

He is the soul of sincerity. I might trust him from here to the punch bowl.

“It’s possible that we can deal on this,” he says. “Just talk to me.” There is an earnestness in his voice, his final word almost pleading, as he turns, bids a bitter farewell to Lenore from a safe distance, beyond the flinging range of cocktail sauce. Then Kline strides off to join his wife on the other side of the room.

It hits me in this instant as he walks away, the magnitude of this revelation. There is something missing in the equation of Brittany Hall, something lurking that he senses but does not know, a missing element to the prosecution’s case, and Kline believes that Lenore has it.