Blind Justice

41

DEREK BANGED HIS GAVEL, futilely attempting to reassert his control. Almost as one body, the front rows of the gallery raced toward the back door, each reporter hoping to be the first to call in the story. The running, yelling, talking, and crying drowned out the impotent banging of Derek’s gavel.

Margot’s head drooped forward, her face in her hands.

“I repeat, objection, your honor!” It was Moltke, running up to the bench where he could be heard.

“A bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

“Your honor, I see no reason to put this poor widow through further ordeal—”

Ben interrupted him. “Are you ready to dismiss the charges against my client?”

“I—why—” Moltke looked sideways toward the gallery, his remaining audience. “Well, I don’t know.…I think that’s premature. Perhaps we could just recess and let everyone take a minute to regroup.”

“No way,” Ben said. “If you’re dismissing the charges, fine. Otherwise, I’m continuing my examination now, before you can get to her.”

“Your honor,” Moltke said, “I think the most charitable course of action would be to allow Mrs. Lombardi a chance to clear her head—”

“Sorry,” Derek said. “Much as it grieves me to do so, I agree with Mr. Kincaid. Either you dismiss or the trial goes on.”

Moltke looked imploringly at Derek, then back at the gallery. “I can’t do that,” he said. He slowly retreated to his table.

Ben returned to the podium and continued his examination. “Mrs. Lombardi, I’m sorry to press you, but if you’re able, we need to continue.”

Margot brushed the tears from her eyes and face. She seemed to have collected herself somewhat. “I know,” she said. “Go ahead.”

“Mrs. Lombardi, would you tell the jury why you went to your husband’s apartment that night?”

“I—” She coughed, cleared her throat. “I told you before Tony called me the night he died, desperate, begging for money. I didn’t have nearly enough. But I wanted to comfort him, to help him any way I could. I asked if I could come over to see him.” Her face clouded over. “But he said no. He said he was expecting someone. And I knew what that meant.” She pulled her head erect. “You see, I still foolishly hoped Tony and I might get back together.”

Ben was stunned. After all the beatings, the cruelty, and the humiliation, she still wanted him back. “And you feared his relationship with Christina would prevent any reconciliation between the two of you.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Of course, I realized his feelings for me”—her voice dropped—“or lack thereof, would never change. But if he was going to have someone female around, for whatever reason, why shouldn’t it be me? I was his wife, after all.”

“And you intentionally disguised yourself.”

“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. I knew Spud had been instructed by Tony not to admit me under any circumstances. So I made Spud think I was someone else. I knew it wouldn’t take much to disguise myself. Spud could barely see over his desk and everyone knew he had a, well, predilection for the bottle. I chose Mr. DeCarlo because his trademark apparel was well-known, and I thought Spud was very unlikely to give him any trouble. And I was right. Spud didn’t say a word to me.”

“And you were willing to let DeCarlo be blamed for the murder?”

“Well, of course, at that time I didn’t know…”

“I see. Please continue. What did you do after Spud let you up the elevator?”

“I went to Tony’s apartment and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I let myself in. I found your client sound asleep in the living room chair. I assumed she was dead drunk.”

“And that’s when you shot him? Because you found him alone with Christina?”

Margot frowned; her eyebrows knitted together. “You just don’t get it, do you, Mr. Kincaid? He was already dead.”

Ben felt as if his head might explode—too much blood to the brain. “But you said—I don’t understand—”

“Don’t you see? He killed himself. Shot himself in the head. I told you before he had a fear of going to prison. Absolutely pathological. Apparently he’d gotten some inside information, found out about the FBI net closing in around him. What’s more, someone was demanding money from him and threatening to get him into trouble with DeCarlo if he didn’t pay. Tony saw no way out. So he killed himself.”

Ben stood sputtering for several seconds, trying to frame a question. Nothing in law school had ever prepared him for an examination like this. “But…how can you know why he killed himself?”

“I’ve still got the suicide note he left,” she answered. “It’s clearly in his handwriting.”

“But…you said before that you shot him.”

“Of course.” She almost laughed, seemingly amazed at his stupidity. “How do you think he managed to end up with four shots to the head? He only fired the first; he was dead after that. I picked up his gun from where it fell on the floor and, after wrapping my hand in my scarf to avoid leaving fingerprints, supplied the final three shots.”

“Why?”

Margot’s eyes drifted away from Ben, to a place at the table behind him. “To get…her.”

She was staring at Christina, of course.

“I’d been married to Tony for twelve years, Mr. Kincaid. I had a lot…invested in him. For better or worse, he was all I had. I had no desire to be divorced. And I especially had no desire to be the spurned woman. The castaway. Last year’s model. The woman who gets shunted aside when a newer, livelier one comes along.”

Ben remembered what Spud had told him. She was a madwoman, he’d said. Crazy jealous. The pieces were finally beginning to fall into place. “So you fired the additional shots into your husband’s head after he was already dead, and took the suicide note, to make it look like a murder. To frame Christina.”

“It was a perfect setup. There she was, lying in the same room with him, sound asleep, and nobody knew I had even been there. I guess I’m weak. It was more than I could resist.”

“That would explain why the coroner had so much trouble establishing a time of death,” Ben said, thinking aloud. “There were two times of death, so to speak. What did you do after you fired the shots?”

“The obvious. I wiped the gun clean and put it on the floor beside her. I considered pressing her fingers against it, but I was afraid that would wake her. I made sure I hadn’t touched anything in the apartment, and I left. I expected to be interrogated, if not arrested, but it never happened. No one suspected. Even when the police finally questioned me, it was strictly routine.”

That’s because they already had their patsy, Ben mused.

“Afterward, I tried to rinse the dye out of my hair but, to my surprise, it wouldn’t come out. I must’ve mixed it wrong—given myself too concentrated a dose. I didn’t want to be seen buying any blonde hair color; after Tony’s death was announced, that would be likely to arouse suspicions. So I just left it the way it was.”

Ben knew he had enough. There was no reason to keep pressing. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Lombardi. I know it wasn’t easy for you, and that you’ve put yourself at mercy of possible criminal charges.”

“For what?” She laughed quietly. “I told you—he was already dead. What am I going to be charged with? Tampering with a corpse?”

Ben suspected Moltke would be more imaginative than that, but there was no reason to bring it up now. “Your honor,” he said, “I have no more questions. And I move for dismissal.”

Derek looked sternly at Moltke. “Any objections, Mr. Prosecutor?”

Moltke’s dismay was obvious, but under the circumstances, he had no alternative. “No, your honor. We’ll consent to dismissal.”

“Very well,” Derek said. “The charges are hereby dismissed. Miss McCall, you are free to go.” He banged the gavel. It reverberated through the courtroom like a clap of thunder.

Everyone leaped to their feet at once. The crowd was loud and raucous, cheering and shouting more like the audience for a rock concert than a criminal trial. Ben saw Jones in the back of the courtroom giving him the thumbs-up. He saw Loving pressing his way to the front, yelling something about a “perfect Perry Mason moment.” The reporters (the ones who were still there) leaned against the railing, shouting questions at Ben.

He ignored them all and strolled back to counsel table. “Well, ma cherie,” he said to Christina, “it looks as if—”

He never managed to finish, Christina threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, right there in front of everybody. A big wet smoocher.

Square on the lips.