Blind Justice

37

THE NEXT MORNING PASSED tediously. The forensics testimony was no more interesting at trial than it had been at the preliminary hearing. The dactylogram expert confirmed that Christina’s prints were found on the gun and elsewhere throughout Lombardi’s apartment. Ben reminded the jury during cross that the paraffin test had been absolutely negative. All hair and fiber analysis apparently had proved inconclusive; the prosecution didn’t call their designated witness.

The ballistics expert testified that the shots that destroyed Lombardi’s cranium came from the gun bearing Christina’s prints, fired at point-blank range. Moltke, of course, suggested that the proximity to the victim proved the assailant was a friend…or lover. Ben proposed a few other possibilities during cross-examination (“If someone’s pointing a gun at your head, he can probably get as close to you as he wants, huh?”).

Ben did his best to avoid any contact with Derek, even eye contact. Derek never addressed him directly, but it was clear he had not forgotten their conversation the night before. Every time he looked at Ben, his face was stone cold.

In the early afternoon, Moltke called the coroner, Dr. Koregai. Ben remembered Koregai from their previous encounter during the Adams case; he hadn’t warmed up any during the intervening year. In a curt, clipped voice, Koregai declared that Lombardi died where he was found, between one and two A.M., of gunshot wounds to the head. Irreparable fractures of the occipital bone. In all likelihood, he testified, the first shot killed Lombardi.

As far as Ben knew, that was the end of the prosecution’s case. They had covered all the bases, and Moltke had the jury eating out of his hands, nodding their heads almost every time he pontificated. To Ben’s surprise, however, Moltke stood and called an additional witness. “Your honor, the United States calls Holden Hatfield.” Spud? The security guard from Lombardi’s building? But of course. To establish that Christina was in the apartment well before Lombardi, and hadn’t left before he was killed. After the preliminaries, Moltke asked, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Hatfield?”

“Call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everyone does.” Moltke smiled. “All right, Spud. Tell us about your job.” Spud ran through a general description of his duties as security guard, making his duties sound as glamorous as possible. He explained in detail the system of doors and elevators he controlled, how a visitor could only enter through the front door, could only ride the elevator if Spud triggered it, and could only open the stairwell doors from the outside. Spud explained that, as a result, he could state positively that only four people went up to Lombardi’s apartment the night of the murder before Lombardi himself.

“And who are those four people, Spud?”

“Well, there’s the defendant, of course. Miss McCall.”

“Who else?”

“That would be Quinn Reynolds, Clayton Langdell—he drew in his breath—“and Albert DeCarlo.”

As before, the mention of the mobster’s name had an electrifying effect on the jury. This time, however, Ben saw several jurors nudging one another, pointing toward the gallery. Sure enough, DeCarlo himself was sitting in the back of the gallery, wearing his scarf and white overcoat, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, even while he was inside. Pretty damn gutsy, showing up here at the same time federal agents were trying to use Vinny and the other drug runner they picked up Tuesday morning to build a case against him. DeCarlo must’ve realized his name would come up during the trial. Why else would he be here?

Moltke continued his direct. “And you don’t know when those people left Lombardi’s apartment. Correct?”

“That’s right. The back door to the parking lot can be opened from the inside, and most people go out that way. I know when Miss McCall left, though.”

“And why is that?”

“ ’Cause I went upstairs with the FBI agents and watched them haul her out of Lombardi’s apartment. I am the security guard, after all.”

“I see. So to summarize, you know the defendant went up to his apartment around ten, before Lombardi arrived, and that she was still there at two, when Lombardi was found dead.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Just a few more questions, Spud. Could you describe the defendant’s demeanor when she came in that evening?”

“Oh, she was pissed.” He looked quickly at the judge. “I mean she was real angrylike. ’Scuse my French.”

“I think we all catch your meaning, Spud,” Moltke said, with a quick wink to the jury. “Any idea what she might’ve been angry about?”

“I think so.”

“Please tell us.”

“Well, Mr. Lombardi called that afternoon and told me—”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”

Moltke raised a finger. “This is not being offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted, your honor. Goes to show the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the murder.”

“I believe that’s correct,” Derek said. “Overruled. You may answer the question.”

“I don’t remember the exact words,” Spud continued. “Mr. Lombardi called and instructed me to let this woman up when she arrived. I kind of teased him about having a new girlfriend, and he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of her after tonight.’ ” He chuckled. “I guess she was about to get the big brush-off.”

Ben glanced at the jury box and saw Mrs. Applebury cast a meaningful look at another woman in the jury. Yes, they knew what that meant. Hell hath no fury. “Move to strike, your honor. The witness is speculating.”

“I think he’s simply characterizing his observations in a colorful manner,” Derek said. “Overruled.”

“So when the defendant went up to Lombardi’s apartment,” Moltke said, “she was furious because she either had been dumped, or knew she was about to be dumped. Is that correct?”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Leading.”

“That’s all right,” Moltke said. “I’ll withdraw the question.” Why not? He’d already made his point. “Nothing more, your honor.”

“Cross-examination?” Derek asked, in a tone of voice that clearly implied he thought it inadvisable.

Ben couldn’t think of a single question worth asking. Spud was wrong, and Ben knew it, but there was nothing malicious about his testimony. Right or wrong, he wasn’t lying; he was telling the jury what he honestly believed. And Ben knew if he tried to get tough with Spud, Derek would shut him down in a heartbeat. For that matter, regardless of what Ben tried, Derek would be sure to turn it against him.

“No questions,” Ben said reluctantly. He felt the eyes of the courtroom—the reporters, the jury, even Christina—bearing down on him.

“Anything more from the prosecution?” Derek asked.

“No, your honor,” Moltke said. “The prosecution rests.”

“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.