Final judgment

TWENTY-FIVE

Juries like different kinds of lawyers. Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, was a rumpled everyman, the kind of lawyer jurors imagined going bowling with or having over for chili. Mason was a street fighter, ready with a killer cross-examination or a devastating one-liner, but always ready. He was the lawyer jurors wanted to represent them if their life was on the line.

Vince Bongiovanni had the chiseled chin, penetrating eyes, and smoky cool that made women want to take him home and men want to be his pal, hoping some of what he had would rub off on them. He was tall, sandy-haired, and trim and dressed like the million bucks he routinely racked up in fees. One local magazine did a feature on eligible bachelors and labeled him the total package.

“Hey, Lou,” he said, as Mason slid into the booth opposite him. “Buy you a drink?”

“I’ll pass. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier. I just got your message.”

“Don’t worry about it. I figured I might catch you here. Nice place.”

Mason looked around. Myles Cartwright’s trio was playing mellow sounds on the small stage, the drummer and bass player taking their lead from Cartwright’s piano. The music complemented the soft buzz of conversation. Some people came to hear the music, others just to be near it.

“Your message said it was important.”

Bongiovanni nodded. “It is important. I understand you represent Avery Fish.”

“It’s been in the papers.”

Bongiovanni grinned. “You kill me, man. You get more ink than I do.”

“Ah, but you get the big bucks.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

Bongiovanni delivered the practiced punch line, grinning again. Mason didn’t envy Bongiovanni’s success. He’d learned the hard way to stick to the cases that suited him best. He dabbled occasionally in representing plaintiffs, always coming back to the higher stakes of life and death.

“Might as well be you,” Mason said.

“Might as well. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in your client’s car has been identified.”

Mason could understand a newspaper getting an anonymous tip. The tipster got off on seeing his story in print. Feeding the news to the lawyer who was suing the victim smacked of inside baseball. He wondered who would gain by leaking to Bongiovanni.

Mason saw no reason to deny something that would be reported in the morning paper. He’d only look foolish if he did. However, that was no reason to tell Bongiovanni anything else. Bongiovanni would eventually find out what had happened between Mason and Mark Hill, but that would be a tap dance for another day. This was the time to listen.

“I heard that too.”

“Guy named Charles Rockley. You know him?”

“Never met,” Mason said.

“You didn’t miss anything. He worked at the Galaxy Casino. In his spare time, he sexually harassed a client of mine, a woman named Carol Hill. I sued him and the Galaxy. The case was arbitrated last week in front of Judge Carter. We’re waiting for a ruling.”

“That’s good to know. The cops think Fish had something to do with Rockley’s death. I’d like to talk with Carol about Rockley.”

Bongiovanni leaned forward in the booth. “I already talked to her. She had nothing to do with it.”

Mason figured it had been little more than an hour since Bongiovanni was tipped off about Rockley. That wasn’t much time to cross-examine Carol Hill about the murder and hustle down to Blues on Broadway to wait for him. The timing made him wonder if Bongiovanni had known Rockley had been murdered before he got the tip.

The quick denial of Carol’s involvement raised, rather than lowered, Mason’s suspicion. He hadn’t considered Carol as a suspect until her lawyer assured him she wasn’t one. Mason could picture Mark Hill angry and drunk enough to kill Rockley especially if his wife egged him on. None of that led to the trunk of Avery Fish’s car. Still, Bongiovanni’s assurance of Carol’s innocence gave Mason an opening.

“I’m glad to know that. Then she won’t mind talking to me.”

Bongiovanni hesitated, rubbing his palm against his bottle of beer. He frowned long enough to convince Mason that his indecision was rehearsed. “I’ll make her available, but I want whatever you come up with on Rockley.”

“Why? Your case is over. Mine is just beginning.”

“My case is a toss-up. Rockley claimed to be a choirboy, said my client was lying. Carol took some hits on cross-examination. If I can get something good on Rockley, I’ll ask Judge Carter to let me add it to the record before she rules.”

Mason remembered Judge Carter’s comment that Carol and her lawyer were out for blood, not money. He knew that lawyers and clients often changed their appetite after the harsh realities of the courtroom set in.

“Why not settle?”

Bongiovanni tightened his jaw. “Not a chance.”

“You said it was a close case. Sometimes a bad settlement is better than a bad verdict.”

“Carol is family. This isn’t ever going to be one of those times.”

Judge Carter’s assessment had been dead-on. If the case was a toss-up, Bongiovanni’s deal made sense except for one thing. The better his case got, the harder it would be on Judge Carter to rule in Galaxy’s favor. Still, Mason needed whatever he could come up with on Rockley, and Carol Hill was as good a place to start as any. He had to talk with her as soon as possible while putting Bongiovanni off until after the blackmailer’s deadline.

“I’ll keep you in the loop, but I may not have anything for a while. Depends on how much cooperation I get from the cops or from Galaxy. The sooner I can talk with your client, the sooner I can start putting something together.”

“How about tomorrow morning? We can meet at her house.”

That was the last place Mason wanted to meet, imagining her husband wandering out from the bedroom with a hangover. He shook his head.

“My office. Ten o’clock.”

“Done. I’ll bring the bagels,” Bongiovanni said.

“One other thing. Who do I talk to at Galaxy about Rockley?”

“Forget it. You’ll have to go through Galaxy’s lawyer, Lari Prillman, and there isn’t enough heat in hell to melt her heart.” He stood, clapping Mason on the shoulder. “A Jew and an Italian on the same team. Look out, world.”

Mason waited until Bongiovanni cleared the front door of the bar before he called Rachel Firestone.

“What do you know about Charles Rockley?” she asked him.

“Just because you have caller ID doesn’t mean you don’t have to say hello.”

“Hello and I’m on deadline. My editor said if you don’t give me something on Rockley we might as well start sleeping together since I won’t be any good to him anyway.”

Mason preferred the old Rachel, the one he could confide in, trade tips with, and not worry about what was on or off the record. He couldn’t give her the whole story because he didn’t know which pieces might come back to haunt him.

“Your message was the first I heard about the victim’s identity. I’ll talk to the cops on Monday and give you what I can,” he said.

“That’s it? This guy is murdered, butchered, and dumped in the trunk of your client’s car and you’ve got nothing? I don’t believe it.”

“Best I can do,” Mason said.

“I wouldn’t brag about it,” she told him.