A Fool for a Client (10 page)

It was down among the low-life that Justine had wandered as she pursued her quarry.
She hated it.
But she had little choice.

As the curtain of dusk descended around her, she looked up again at the majestic towers of the skyline, drawing comfort from the squares of light hanging there in the night sky like sparkling gems against black velvet.
These were the windows of the penthouses, where the curtains need never be drawn against the darkness, where the sense of adventure was untainted by the stench of the garbage that littered the streets.

She kept to the shade, avoiding the misty pools of light thrown by the tall, lean streetlamps onto the cold grey stone of the sidewalk.
From lightless corners she had observed him as a zoologist observes his laboratory specimens.
She had studied him in action while he spotted his prey and homed in for the kill.
She knew every movement and physical gesture of his routine.
The only thing she didn
’
t know were the words.
But these didn
’
t matter.
She would find out soon enough.
The important thing was that she knew what kind of girl he liked.
She knew the look... and she knew the type...

She left the bathroom and entered the mahogany-panelled bedroom.
It was fitting, she thought, that she was doing it here and not in her own bedroom.
It was a large room in a large apartment, and she was now the owner.

Some people would have called her lucky to be the owner of one and a half
million dollars worth of
New York City
real estate.
But as she shivered in the emptiness of the apartment, she didn
’
t feel lucky today.
Bitter was more the word.

She went over to the full-length mirror, still wearing the bathrobe.
Even modestly covered up, with only the carves and forearms to hint at the shape and form of the rest, there was no denying the beauty that would carry her plan through to mid-field.
From her teens onward she had never lacked dates or boyfriends, and only her mother
’
s friendly firmness had kept the distractions at bay and the social life in reasonable proportion, to allow her to progress with her studies.
Justine had the willpower to study, but having a determined mother to guard the portals made all the difference between pressing on and falling by the wayside.

Looking at her reflection in the mirror now, Justine could see the source of the potential problem.
She had the smooth complexion, the gentle bone structure and the firm,
athletic
figure that appealed to the traditional tastes of adolescent boys.
And she had blossomed early, making her a prime target for the high school head-hunters.

She realized now that in a way she
was
lucky

lucky to have been blessed with good looks and lucky not to have been toppled by them.
And yet Justine, who seemed to have all the breaks, didn
’
t feel lucky at all.
A stupid war miles away in
Asia
had deprived her of her father
’
s mind and a bullet from the past had deprived her of his physical presence.
Disease had deprived her of her mother and the aloofness that she had developed while studying had deprived her of any lasting friendships.

She sat down on the bed, slipped her arms out of the bathrobe and threw it off behind her.
There was a brusque anger in her movements as she picked up the tight-fitting purple T-shirt pulled it over her head and smoothed it down over her body.
It was followed up by a pair of frilly briefs of black lace.
She didn
’
t know how far the charade would go but she thought she had better be prepared.
Just knowing that she was wearing them gave her the feeling of the part that she had chosen to play and gave her also confidence of turning in an authentic performance.

She returned to the mirror to study the results so far.
It was a pleasing picture.
She certainly looked like his type.
But her eyes were irresistibly drawn from the thighs and hips, that would capture his attention, to the face that she would have to turn into a mask to conceal her real feelings.
It was a sad face, that cried out for sympathy.
But Justine bridled with the stirrings of an inner rebellion at the thought of sympathy.
If the sorrow showed on her face it would destroy her plan.
She would have to work harder to conceal it.

But she would also have to struggle to hide the anger.

The purple shorts came next.
They matched the T-shirt in both colour and style... and carried the same suggestion.
She stepped into them and pulled them up with a swift movement.
They hugged her form, showing it at its best, or at least hinting at the offer.
The whole scenario was repulsive and loathsome, but without the bait there was no way that she could lure that vile man to his destruction.

The combination was complemented by a pair of high leather boots in white.
With every item of apparel in place, she stood before the mirror with her hands on her hips.
A
 
hard cruel smile broke out across her face.
But it was not the smile of one who had no feelings.
It was the smile of one who could feel too much.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,”
Daniel Abrams
’
voice rang out.
“Before you, sits a young lady accused of the crime of murder.
This is a serious crime and it is not an accusation which a grand jury would make lightly.”

There was a stirring in the jury benches as several of the jurors sat forward.
Strictly speaking a Grand Jury indictment is not a finding of guilt or even an accusation, but a finding of the fact that there is a case to answer.
But the press and public frequently take it as a preliminary verdict of guilty, and most prosecutors are only too happy to avail themselves of this popular misconception.

“It is the contention of the prosecution that Justine Levy caused Sean Murphy to die of poisoning.
It is the People
’
s case that she did this wilfully, deliberately and with the most meticulous premeditation.”

The Assistant District Attorney stood by the wooden rail in front of the jury, addressing the twelve representatives of the people in a powerful strident tone as he blasted away at their senses with his opening volley of rhetoric.
He was, by repute, a subtle prosecutor rather than a power prosecutor.
But today he was changing his style in order to give a boost to his political career, and also to render him numb to his own doubts about the justice of his case.

“You will hear medical evidence as to how Sean Murphy died, how Miss Levy entrapped him into inviting her for dinner and then brought along a bottle of tequila as part of her plan to poison him.
You will hear how the defendant took, from the medical school where she studied, certain equipment which she used to extract poison from canisters of insecticide, thereby avoiding having to sign for the purchase of a poisonous substance.
You will hear evidence of how she purchased insecticide from which she extracted this poisonous substance. You will hear how she disguised her appearance before the crime and then went back to her old appearance
after
the crime, thereby indicating criminal intent.
You will hear how she met the deceased at a bar and went off with him the night before the murder.”

There was an eerie quiet in the courtroom during the pauses between Abrams
’
sentences, the kind of silence one expects to hear in the fraction of a second before the verdict is announced.
The judge, a seasoned observer of criminal proceedings, noticed a strange kind of unease hanging in the air, an unfamiliar kind of tension written in lines of earnest intensity across the faces of the numerous spectators.
It was one of those cases that holds the public in its grip.

But there were cases and there were cases. It had always been so.
There were the cases involving the rich and famous, which had drawn the public in droves, to root for their hero or to gloat over a fallen idol whom they hated or envied.
There were the crimes of particular viciousness when the public had shown up to witness the undoing and punishment of the miscreant who had outraged their sense of morality.
There were the serial killers, finally brought to book after tireless months of investigating by the authorities, who had taunted the police with their crimes and were finally hunted down and brought before the judge in chains, their days of gloating over.
There were the helpless victims, the battered wives and abused children who finally and belatedly fought back with more force than the law allowed.
And there were the deceitful ones who tried to
portray
themselves as belonging to that tragic category, their cunning lawyers taking advantage of the fact that the victim is not directly represented by the prosecution and knowing full well that the dead cannot answer back.

Each of these trials had their own peculiar character which marked them out for distinction from each other.
But all of them had one thing in common: the tension came at the end, while excitement and curiosity characterized the beginning.
With the case of
The People of the State of New York versus Justine Levy
all of this was different.
The tension that was usually reserved for the build-up to the verdict pervaded the courtroom from the very beginning.
There was none of the usual tendency of spectators to look at their neighbours and whisper to them.
They seemed afraid even to
look
at their neighbours, as if their neighbours
’
faces were somehow an implacable reproach to themselves.

Abrams proceeded to outline his case in more detail, describing the first meeting between Justine and Sean Murphy, the type of poison used and how it affected the nervous system and the events at the hospital.
Then he paused for dramatic effect.

“But there is another dimension to this case apart from the purely technical one, an aspect which is in fact more interesting than the dry scientific details.”

“I am referring,” Abrams continued, “to the moral aspects of this case, and also of course to the related psychological aspects.
These form the backdrop to this case.”

At the defence table, Justine showed no emotion, except a kind of quiet attentiveness, her face as closed to the outside world as that of a seasoned poker player.

“In a way this case is a tragedy, members of the jury.
A tragedy written by the hand of fate on the subject of human nature, on the theme, I should say, of the
ugly
side of human nature.”

Again he paused, monitoring the jurors
’
reactions to his words.
It was one of those carefully planned dramatic pauses that he had practiced hundreds of times.
Then, in time with his words, he began tapping on the rail in front of the jury with his right hand.

“A
medical
student, a girl who was learning how to
save
human life, instead chose to use her knowledge to become a destroyer by
taking
the life of one of her fellow human beings.”

Now came the technique that Jerry had taught him when he was greenhorn in the DA
’
s office and Jerry was the up-and-coming whiz kid who served as his mentor.
He half-turned and pointed with an extended finger and outstretched forearm towards Justine.
It was the perfect courtroom ploy.
As long as he gave the impression of personal sincerity it couldn
’
t fail.
However Justine reacted, she would look guilty.
She could smile, blush, swallow, look demurely away or burst into tears, the result would always be the same.
As long as the prosecutor sounded sincere to the jury, they would believe him and dismiss the defendant
’
s response as a ploy or an indirect confession of guilt.

“There ladies and gentlemen sits an evil woman who has blood on her hands, a woman who committed cold-blooded murder.
She would have you believe that she
’
s nothing more than a girl, but she is most manifestly a woman.
She lost her childhood innocence the day she decided to play God!”

He lowered his hand and started pacing along in front of the jury.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know that the defendant is young and pretty.
But I urge you members of the jury not to be swayed by her looks or her youth.
Such sympathy would be wholly misplaced. Spare your sympathy instead for her victim, Sean Murphy.
He paid a heavy price for liking her and trusting her: he paid with his
life
.