Blind Justice

39

THE 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.

Derek brought the court to order and made his usual opening remarks and instructions to the jury. Preliminaries out of the way, he asked, “Are you ready to proceed, counselor?”

Ben rose slowly to his feet. He could feel his knees wobbling. He felt sick. “Yes, your honor.”

“Call your first witness.”

Ben saw Christina pull herself erect. He tried to speak, but he could not make the name come out.

“Mr. Kincaid?” Derek repeated.

Ben felt a wave of embarrassment cross his face. Here he was, making a fool of himself in the courtroom once again.

“Mr. Kincaid. Please.”

But wait a minute. Derek wasn’t even looking at him; his eyes were focused on the rear of the courtroom. Now that Ben noticed, most of me jurors were looking back that way, too. What in the—?

“Mr. Kincaid. I believe there’s a member of your staff attempting to direct traffic in the back of the courtroom.”

What? Ben whipped around and saw Jones waving his arms wildly in the air, trying to get his attention. And he was holding…a pair of sunglasses?

“Your honor, may I have five minutes to confer with my colleague before calling my first witness?”

“You really like to build up the suspense, don’t you, Kincaid? Very well. Five minutes.”

Ben bolted to the back of the courtroom before the reporters had a chance to block his way.

“Jones, what is going on?”

“I expected you to stop by the office!”

“Sorry. I was running late, so I came straight to the courthouse. So?”

“So? Boss, I’ve been up all night! Guess why.”

Ben was gone almost fifteen minutes, but he had to make sure he understood everything Jones told him and had considered all the ramifications. And he had to grab a magazine from the law library.

“Mr. Kincaid,” Derek said upon his return. “We were afraid you had gotten lost in the hallway.”

Ben raced up the aisle. “Sorry, your honor. It won’t happen again.”

“Of that I am certain,” Derek said menacingly. “Are you at last ready to call your first witness?”

“I am, your honor.” He saw Christina again draw herself up. “The defense calls Holden Hatfield.”

Ben saw Christina give him the most clearly expressed what-the-hell look he had ever seen in his life.

Moltke rose to his feet. “Your honor, this witness has already testified. Learned counsel had the opportunity to cross-examine. Why do we need to hear from him again?”

“An astute question,” Derek said. “Learned counsel?”

“Your honor, the testimony I anticipate goes outside the scope of the prior direct.”

Moltke interrupted. “But your honor—”

“The man is listed on the prosecution’s own witness list,” Ben insisted. “They can hardly claim prejudice.”

“But your honor—”

“I’m sympathetic, Mr. Prosecutor, but if I don’t let him call this witness it will be reversible error, and we both know it. Take the stand again, Mr. Hatfield.”

Spud leaned against the pew, a stricken expression on his face. “Do I have to, Judge?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

Spud crawled down the aisle and into the witness box, looking as unhappy as any man who ever lived.

Ben went to the podium. “Spud, I apologize for hauling you back up here, but I had no choice. I promise I won’t make this take any longer than necessary. You testified before that you saw four people go to Lombardi’s apartment on the night of the murder, right?” Sure, he was leading, but he figured Moltke wouldn’t object. He wanted this to be over, too.

“That’s right.”

“And those four people were Christina, Clayton Langdell, and Quinn Reynolds.”

“And Albert DeCarlo,” Spud added.

“Yes. That’s the one I want to discuss. Are you sure it was Mr. DeCarlo?”

“Course I’m sure. What kinda fool question is that? I’ve seen him a dozen times before. In person and on the TV. I know what he looks like.”

“I’m certain you do. Are you aware that Mr. DeCarlo denies going to Lombardi’s apartment that night?”

Spud grinned. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” There was a mild tittering of laughter.

“Spud, what was your vision like that night?”

“What was my—I don’t get it.”

“I’m asking about your eyesight.”

“What about it?”

“What was the quality of your vision?”

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business.”

Ben glanced at Derek. “Permission to treat Mr. Hatfield as a hostile witness.”

Derek deferred to Moltke. “Any objections?”

“If it will get this over with sooner, I’m all for it.”

Derek granted the motion.

“Now Spud,” Ben continued, “don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to get you in trouble, but you have a certain fondness for a good stiff belt, don’t you?”

“I take a drink every now and again. What of it?”

“And sometimes you drink on the job, don’t you?”

“What are you saying, son? Are you trying to get me fired?”

“Please answer the question.”

“My answer is no.”

“Spud.” Ben looked down at the floor regretfully. “The morning after Lombardi died you were on the job, weren’t you? And didn’t you offer me a shot of Jack Daniel’s from a silver flask strapped to your leg?”

Spud didn’t answer.

“I wonder, Spud, if I asked the bailiff to take a look, would he find that same flask strapped to your leg right now?”

Spud steadied himself on the bar beside the witness stand. “Sometimes I work as much as twelve or eighteen-hour shifts,” he said. “That’s a long haul for a man my age.”

“I know that,” Ben said. “And no one’s condemning you. But, in fact, you’d been drinking the night Lombardi was killed, hadn’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he mumbled.

“And drinking can make your vision blurry, can’t it?”

“Objection,” Moltke said. “Ambiguous. Is he asking if it can or if it did?”

“I’m asking if it can, your honor. Theoretically.”

Derek nodded. “The witness will answer the question.”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“So it’s possible your vision was blurry the night of the murder. And the fact of the matter is, your vision isn’t so hot in the first place. Is it, Spud?”

Spud’s face was cold as ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Spud, aren’t you nearsighted?”

Spud didn’t answer.

“I understand your reluctance, Spud. I realize that if you admit your vision is failing, you may lose your job, maybe even your permit. But this is very important. And I keep remembering when we talked before, at the lodge, and how you had to practically press the clipboard against your nose to be able to read it. Isn’t it true you’re nearsighted?”

“No.”

“Well, let’s have a little test then.” Ben walked back to counsel table and tore a picture out of Time magazine, careful to hide it from Spud. “How close to you was the person you identified as DeCarlo on the night of the murder?”

Spud thought for a moment. “Oh, maybe ten feet away when he came through the door, maybe five feet away when I activated the elevator.”

“Okay.” Ben walked back about ten feet from the witness stand, then held a full-page, glossy photo of George Bush over his face. “Spud, I’m holding a large photograph of a well-known person. Someone who’s on television frequently. Can you tell the jury who it is?”

“I’m not that quick with names,” he grumbled.

“Oh, I bet you’ll know this person, Spud. If you can see the photo clearly. Who is it?”

Spud squinted at the photograph, his eyes obviously straining. “Elizabeth Taylor?” he guessed.

Mrs. Applebury covered her mouth with her hand. Smiles appeared on the faces of other jurors.

“I’m afraid not.” Ben walked about five feet closer to the stand. “Now I’m moving to about where the visitor would have been while you were activating the elevator. Can you tell the jury who this is now?”

Spud hesitated a long time. “Paul Newman?” he said at last.

“Well, you’re getting warmer. Take one more shot at it.”

Spud appealed to the judge. “Do I have to play this fool game?”

Derek stifled a smile. “Answer the question.”

Spud leaned against the front of the witness box. Technically, that was cheating, but Ben had a hunch it wouldn’t matter. “What about that fool reporter? Geraldo Whatever-it-is.”

“I’m afraid not,” Ben said. “But tell me this. Why did you guess the people you guessed?”

“ ’Cuz I thought that’s who it was, obviously!”

“But I mean why.” Ben explained himself slowly, making sure the jury could absorb every word. “Wasn’t it because, although you couldn’t make out the details of the face, you had a general impression of the hair color, the clothing, and the shape of the head?”

Spud shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Good. Now, Spud, I want you to think back to the night of the murder. When you saw that person you called DeCarlo, what did you actually see?”

“I saw what I always see when I see DeCarlo. Dark sunglasses. Dark muffler. Black hair slicked back in a ponytail. That white overcoat.”

“Thank you,” Ben said. “That’s exactly what I thought. No more questions, your honor.”

The judge looked at Moltke. “Any cross-examination?”

“No, sir. On the contrary, I move to strike the entire examination for lack of relevance.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Ben said. “You usually make Myra make motions of this ilk, don’t you?”

“I’m serious,” Moltke insisted. “What does it matter who else might’ve been in Lombardi’s apartment? We know for a fact that the defendant was, and she’s the one who’s on trial.”

Ben stared at Derek. “Do I even need to respond to this lame motion?”

Derek frowned. “Regrettably, no. The motion is overruled. Call your next witness, Mr. Kincaid.”

Ben scanned the rows of spectators, all waiting for his next sentence. He saw DeCarlo look away, apparently hoping Ben wouldn’t notice him. Reynolds and Langdell also seemed to be avoiding his glance. And at counsel table, he again saw Christina correct her posture. Pardonnez, mon cheri. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

“Get on with it,” Derek said.

“Yes, your honor. The defense calls…” He peered into the gallery. “Margot Lombardi.”