Blind Justice (18 page)

Her mouth trembled almost imperceptibly. Her fingers fluttered upward to cover it. “Of course, in part, I’ve already told you. The strain of working with Albert DeCarlo was beginning to tell on us both.”

“And what was the other part?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it several times before she actually spoke. “Tony had some eccentric tastes.”

“You mean…what he spent his money on?”

“No.” She hesitated, then fell back against the sofa, resigned. “I mean…sexually.”

“Oh. Can you…” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “Were there problems?”

She seemed to look through him. “Yes, there were problems. I didn’t share some of Tony’s interests. I was never able to…satisfy him. No matter what I tried. No matter what I was willing to do. After a while, he simply lost interest.”

Ben waited as she struggled to regain her composure.

“Of course, that meant he began to look elsewhere. I knew what he was doing, but I didn’t say anything. It seemed the least I could do. Clearly, I had failed him.”

She closed her eyes. “At one point, Tony actually placed a personal ad in one of those swinging-singles tabloids. I’m sure you know what I mean—notices for couples who are willing to rendezvous at a secluded location and…swap.” She pronounced the word as if it were a spider poised on the tip of her tongue.

“And did you…”

“No. I refused. Even after Tony had everything arranged. He was furious. That’s when everything worsened.”

“What did Tony do then?”

“It’s difficult to know where to begin. Tony liked…to punish me.”

“Punish?” Ben felt a warm flush creeping up his neck. “You mean he liked to…spank you?”

“Yes. With an electric cattle prod.”

Ben stared at her—stunned and silent.

“It was part of his mania, I suppose, his unstable mental state. His temperament would change in a heartbeat. He would become frustrated, then enraged. He had to hit something, to hurt something, and of course, I was the only person around.”

“Perhaps you should’ve bought him a cheap set of china.”

“He wouldn’t have liked that,” she said matter-of-factly. “China wouldn’t scream. China wouldn’t cry.”

The room fell quiet.

“I don’t know how many times I had to resort to high collars, scarves, sunglasses, or just staying inside. Twice I was admitted to St. Francis.” Ben could see no light in her eyes. “Of course, you tell them you fell down the stairs or tripped over a potted plant. But they don’t believe you.”

“That must’ve been horrible.”

“It wasn’t the worst. As a result of one of Tony’s fits, we lost a baby.” Her eyes met Ben’s. “I won’t be having any more.”

“When did you leave?” he managed to ask.

“When he came home with a taser. Wouldn’t you?”

“I hope,” Ben said, choosing his words carefully, “I would have left a long time before that.”

Margot’s head began to shake. “Easy to say,” she said. “Easy—” She choked, then covered her face with her hands. “I think you should go now, Mr. Kincaid.”

As Ben drove back to his office, he replayed the conversation in his head. Strange—he had been looking for a killer, but instead, he found another victim. Another victim of cruelty, and greed, and organized crime.

Another victim of the murderer.

B
EN SAT IN THE
conference room with Mike, Roger Stanford, and Myra. They were waiting for Abshire to appear so they could begin the discovery process.

Most people probably thought of criminal cases as being more glamorous and exciting than civil suits. Ben did not agree, and days like this reminded him why. Discovery was rarely as extensive and never as revealing in criminal cases. Of course, that heightened the drama, leaving the possibility of surprises at trial. But Ben wasn’t interested in surprises. He wanted information that would get Christina off the hook. And so far, the government had been about as cooperative as an eight-year-old at the dentist’s office.

Mike sat at the far end of the table, staring at the wall. He hadn’t said a word to Ben.

At last, Abshire rushed into the room carrying a large stack of files. “Busy, busy, busy,” he said, thunking his load onto the conference table. “Sorry I’m late. Hope you all had a nice chat.”

No one replied.

“Ready to throw in the towel yet, Kincaid?”

Ben tried not to curl his lip. “Let’s just get on with it.”

“Oooh, we’re verrrrry touchy today.” He opened the top file folder. “Let’s see…the defendant has moved for the production of all exculpatory evidence in the possession of the government, both state and federal levels. Unfortunately, I don’t believe we have any exculpatory evidence, do we, gentlemen?”

Stanford seemed embarrassed. Mike didn’t even grunt.

Ben, however, exploded. “Goddamn it, Abshire, I’m sick and tired of your withholding evidence. I’m calling the judge.”

“Feel free.”

Stanford pushed his half glasses up his nose. “Perhaps we could be more helpful if you would ask specific questions, Mr. Kincaid.”

“All right. I’ll give it a try.” Ben tried to read the notes he had scrawled that morning at breakfast. Unfortunately, there was a large chocolate-milk stain obscuring the top of the page. “What were the results of the blood test you performed on Christina?”

“We didn’t do a blood test,” Abshire said calmly.

Ben’s eyes expanded to saucer-size. “You didn’t—I specifically requested a blood test. In your presence.”

“I don’t feel obligated to do the opposition’s work for them. You should have done it yourself.”

“She was in custody!”

“You could have tested her when she was released.”

“I did. It was too late. The results were inconclusive.”

“Did it ever occur to you that might be because your client is guilty?”

Ben sprang out of his chair. “You son of a—” He gripped the edge of the table. “I’ll take this up with the judge.”

Abshire appeared indifferent. “Cards-on-the-table time? I don’t care what you take up with the judge. He hasn’t ruled in your favor yet, and he’s hardly likely to start doing so now.”

True enough, Ben thought, but he’d be damned if that would stop him from trying. “What about the time of death?”

“What about it?”

“When last I was permitted to discuss these matters, I was told Koregai was having trouble establishing the time of death. Koregai’s too smart to have trouble with a fundamental like that, unless there’s some unusual factor involved.”

“The coroner has had trouble establishing a definite time of death. He says there’s conflicting evidence. But none of it is exculpatory.”

“Says you. Can I talk with Koregai? Alone?”

“Can I talk to your client? Alone?”

“Only if you can get the Fifth Amendment repealed.”

Abshire folded his arms. “Then you’ll see Dr. Koregai in my presence. If he isn’t busy.”

Ben had to keep reminding himself that an assault charge against Christina’s attorney would not help her case. “Did you conduct a paraffin test?”

“Uh…yeah, we may have done that.”

“And the results?”

“Were not necessarily exculpatory.”

Stanford looked at his protégé sternly. “Tell him.”

Abshire’s face tightened. “But it’s not exculpatory,” he hissed.

“I believe I am still your supervisor, Agent Abshire,” Stanford said. “Tell him.”

“We did the test,” he said bitterly, like a child forced to share his candy. “She was clean.” He withdrew a file folder from his stack, then tossed it across the table to Ben.

Ben scanned the report. He knew from his days at the D.A.’s office that the discharge of a firearm automatically released gas and powder residue, including suspended nitrate particles, and that the particles would adhere to any skin touching the gun when fired. As best he could tell, the test had been performed properly—swabs moistened with dilute nitric acid, followed by neutron activation analysis. And they found no nitrate particles on Christina’s hands.

“This is great.” Ben shot Abshire a pointed look. “And you were of the opinion that this wasn’t exculpatory?”

“We’re required to produce exculpatory
evidence.
The
absence
of evidence is by definition not evidence.”

“So you weren’t going to produce this? Even though it proves Christina isn’t the killer?”

“I hardly agree,” Abshire said, snatching back the report. “Have you never heard of gloves?”

“I’ve heard of them. Did you find any?”

“Yes. We found three pair.”

“Where?”

“In Lombardi’s bedroom closet.”

“In his closet? What are you saying? That she killed him, then folded the gloves neatly and put them away in the closet?”

“That’s what I’d do,” Abshire replied.

Ben’s teeth ached from the pressure. Abshire obviously didn’t give a damn about evidence. He had a thirst for conviction that was unquenchable. Ben glanced at Mike, but he was still staring at the wall.

“Talked to any witnesses?” Ben asked.

“Scads.”

“Did you learn anything exculpatory?”

“Not by my definition. On the contrary, I think everyone I’ve spoken to is convinced your client offed Lombard.”

“Then what else have you got for me?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Ben put his notes back in his briefcase. “This is just as well, Abshire. It removes some confusion I was having. For a second, I thought I saw a glimmer of decency in you. Now I realize it must have been a trick of the light.”

Stanford turned away and covered his mouth. Even Myra appeared to be suppressing a smile. And Mike—did he look up? Ben couldn’t be sure.

“I’m moving to suppress your testimony at trial, Abshire,” Ben added. “You’re a hopelessly biased witness.”

“You certainly are planning a lot of motions. I guess that’s based on your record of success with the judge.”

Bastard. “If you come up with anything new, I expect to be informed.”

“Of course,” Abshire said, grinning. “If it’s exculpatory.”

Ben hesitated beside his chair. He wanted to give Mike one last chance to say he wasn’t in on this railroad, that he was appalled by Abshire and the way he and Moltke were handling this case.

Or just one last chance to acknowledge that he was listening.

But Mike didn’t move a muscle.

B
EN’S OFFICE WAS IN
chaos. Even more so than usual.

Outside, representatives of the Creek Nation were protest marching, insisting that the McCall case be referred to tribal courts. A large placard read:
WHITE MAN’S LAW—WHITE MAN’S JUSTICE.

The protest was senseless; tribal courts don’t have felony jurisdiction. Besides, didn’t they know he tried to get the case out of federal court? Why protest here? Because they weren’t allowed in the courtroom, Ben supposed, and besides, this was where the reporters were.

Inside, the front lobby of Ben’s office was brimming with journalists of every variety. The blue beam of minicams crisscrossed the room. Reporters were huddled around Jones’s table, trying to read the paper in his typewriter.

They spotted Ben before he had a chance to sneak into his private office. A tall, anorexic-looking female he thought he recognized from the Channel 8 news pressed herself in front of him.

“Mr. Kincaid!” the woman shouted, although she was less than a foot away. “Can you give us a statement?”

“No.” He tried unsuccessfully to pass her.

“Can we take your reluctance to speak as an admission that you haven’t got much of a case?” Her microphone was tickling his nose.

“No, you may not. Our case is rock-solid. The Rules of Professional Conduct prohibit me from making substantive comments regarding pending criminal actions.”

“U.S. Attorney Moltke didn’t have any problem talking to us.”

“No comment.”

Another reporter; a tall man with wavy, blond hair, accosted Ben from the other direction.

“Is it true that a radical minority sect of the Creek Nation tribe is protesting your representation and requesting immediate custody of the murderess?”

“Christina McCall is not a murderess! She’s innocent until proven guilty.”

“Can you tell us what, if any, evidence you have uncovered to rebut the prosecutor’s seemingly airtight case?”

Ben clenched his teeth. “No.”

“Mr. Kincaid, with the scheduled trial date close at hand, the evidence against Christina McCall appears to be overwhelming—”

Ben grabbed the microphone and shoved it back in the man’s face. He grabbed the reporter by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket. “Don’t you have any sense of
decency
, you acerebral twit?”

The minicam operators scrambled, butting heads for the best angle.

“Don’t you realize what you’re doing?” Ben continued. “You’re tainting the jury pool!”

“Can you explain that?” someone shouted.

“Those aren’t just Neilson ratings sitting out there in television land. Those are prospective jurors! And if you tell your viewers the evidence against Christina McCall is overwhelming, most of them will believe you!”

Ben shoved the blond man away with disgust but found he had nowhere to go. The reporters pressed even closer. The bright white lights were everywhere, disorienting him. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, his face, under his collar. He was trapped. And the cameras were rolling.

Suddenly a new voice emerged from the crowd. “Yo! Armed robbery at the pawn shop next door. They’ve got automatic weapons!”

As one body, the reporters scrambled toward the front door. After an unseemly scuffle, they managed to plunge through the narrow opening—leaving Jones standing just outside.

He smiled. “Hiya, Boss. Giving an interview?”

“Not very well,” Ben replied. “I don’t suppose there really
is
a robbery at the pawn shop.”

“Nope,” Jones said, locking the door behind him. “But wouldn’t you like to see the look on Burris’s face when he sees twenty or so reporters bashing their way into his shop? He’s gonna think he’s on
Sixty Minutes.
”

Ben pictured the tableau next door. He would like to see it, at that.

“You got off easy,” Jones continued. “I’ve been dealing with those news fiends all week. What vultures.”