Blind Justice (29 page)

He knocked on the open door. “Excuse me, Judge.”

He caught Derek in the middle of chewing another tablet. “Kincaid? What the hell are you doing here?”

“If I may have a minute of your time…”

“Is Moltke outside?”

“No, he left. Press conference, probably.”

Derek drew himself erect. “You want to have an
ex parte
conversation? Without the presence of opposing counsel? Do you know how improper that is?”

Ben stared at a safe point in the middle of Derek’s desk. “This isn’t about the case. Well, it is, but not about the substance of the evidence or legal issues.”

Derek took another swig from the scotch bottle and washed down the remains of the tablet. “Then what is it you want?”

“I want to ask you…to
plead
with you, really…to stop taking your hatred of me out on my client. In the courtroom. If it were just me on the firing line, I wouldn’t complain. But someone else’s head is in the noose, and it isn’t fair that she get a bad shake just because you’re holding a grudge against me.”

Derek stared back at Ben, his mouth slightly agape. “I cannot
believe
…Are you actually suggesting I am biased in my deliberations?”

“Let’s not play games. You’ve ruled against me at every important juncture. Even when you occasionally toss me a bone, you make it clear to the jury that you do so grudgingly. Juries are very good at picking up messages from the judge, and yours are going to be translated into a conviction if you don’t ease off.”

“I do not believe my ears. Bad enough that you barge in here demanding an unethical
ex parte
conversation. But then you use that time to accuse me of judicial impropriety of the worst order.”

“The pattern of your rulings is clear—”

“Did it ever occur to you that my rulings might be against you because you have a lousy case!” Derek shouted. “Correction. A combination of the fact that you have a lousy case and that you are a lousy attorney.”

“That’s uncalled for.”

“That’s the goddamned truth, you miserable wimp.” He reached into his desk and brought out what Ben now could see was a box of Tums. “I’ve had the worst heartburn all week long. I shouldn’t be surprised. In the world of indigestion, you’re a frigging carrier.”

“Derek, listen—”

“No, you listen to me, Kincaid.” He crunched another tablet. “I tried to work with you back at Raven. With God as my witness, I did. But I could see then you’d never cut it as a litigator, and I was right. You just haven’t got the cajones for it. I said you had to learn to work, not whine. And what is this whole conversation but proof of my point?”

“That’s not fair—”

“Just shut up and listen. You were a whiner then, and you’re a whiner now. Okay, you took some knocks in the courtroom today. Tough, it happens. You should be back at the office working, trying to figure out a way to make the next day go better. Instead, you’re in the judge’s chambers, trying to get an edge on the competition by complaining to the judge when they’re not around.”

“That’s not justified—”

“This whole conversation is not justified, Kincaid! You’ve violated every rule of ethics I know.”

“Which one would that be?”

Derek’s teeth clenched tightly together. “They never should have let you pass the bar. I was right about you back at Raven, and I’m still right.”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Raven, Tucker & Tubb. A year ago. The Sanguine Enterprises fiasco.”

Derek didn’t say anything.

“You lost a big client so, in your infinite pettiness, you got me fired.”

Derek made a
pfui
sound.

“Haven’t you hurt me enough already? I lost the job with the big firm. I’ve been scrabbling along on my own, one day at a time, barely getting by, for over a year now. Haven’t you exacted your revenge? Isn’t that enough punishment for one lousy client?”

Derek was silent for a long, dreadful time. He placed his palms against his desk, fingers spread wide. “There’s more to it than that,” he said finally.

“In what way?”

“In the first place, I lost more than a client. I lost a hell of a lot of money.” He patted himself down, searching for cigarettes, but didn’t find any. “That Sanguine business was just the first event in a miserable chain reaction. I imagine you know, even from your brief tenure at Raven, that I was not exactly the most popular shareholder in the firm.” He laughed. “Hell, when you’re good, when you’re the best there is, you’re not going to be popular.”

Ben could think of other possible explanations for his lack of popularity.

“But they couldn’t touch me, because I had a great client base. Until you came blundering along. I’d lost a few clients in recent years, nothing major, but they stung a bit. When Sanguine pulled out and took his business to Conner & Winters—well, it was the beginning of the end. Other clients heard about what happened; they pulled out, too. It’s a bad scenario for a lawyer—more clients going out than coming in. Before long, my client base was so low the controlling shareholders at Raven could justify giving me the heave ho. Bastards.”

“I’m…sorry,” Ben said haltingly. “I never suspected—”

“I wanted to go back to Philadelphia, but of course, Louise said no. Can’t uproot our children and all that crap. What the fuck does she care about my problems? As long as someone pays the Visa bill every month, she’s happy.” He slammed his top desk drawer shut. “I need a cigarette. I don’t suppose you’d lend me one?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“No, of course not. Still campaigning for sainthood.” He inhaled sharply, then continued. “The firm gave me four months to find a position somewhere else. Shit, when you’ve already worked for the best firm in town, where are you supposed to go?”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Ben said quietly.

“A judicial position opened up in the Northern District, so, what the hell, I took it.”

Ben could not conceal his amazement. “You mean you’re
disappointed
about an appointment to the federal judiciary? Most people would kill to be where you are!”

Derek made a snorting noise. “Do you know what I make here?”

Ben shook his head.

“Less than half what I used to pull down at Raven. Less than
half
!” He leaned across his desk. “And the worst part is, I have to sit around and listen to a bunch of inferior, incompetent pseudo-litigators argue day in, day out, none of them
one-tenth
as good as I was. But I’ve been taken out of the game, Kincaid. I’ve been put on the sidelines, and in my personal opinion, it’s all because of
you
, you miserable little turd!” Spittle flew into Ben’s face. “It’s all your fucking fault!”

Ben was dumbfounded. It was worse than he had imagined. Incredibly, devastatingly worse. “I-I still hope you’ll be fair to my client—”

Derek threw a pencil across the room. “Stop whining and get the hell out of my chambers!”

“I think she’s innocent, I really do—”

“I said get out!”

“But—”

“Shall I call my bailiff? Would you enjoy spending the night in jail?”

Ben hated to leave on that note, but he had no choice. He departed, knowing full well he had not accomplished any of his goals. On the contrary, he’d only managed to bring all Derek’s hatred bubbling to the surface. Christina’s case already looked grim, and now he’d made it worse.

And the prospect for tomorrow was no better.

T
HE NEXT MORNING PASSED
tediously. The forensics testimony was no more interesting at trial than it had been at the preliminary hearing. The dactylogram expert confirmed that Christina’s prints were found on the gun and elsewhere throughout Lombardi’s apartment. Ben reminded the jury during cross that the paraffin test had been absolutely negative. All hair and fiber analysis apparently had proved inconclusive; the prosecution didn’t call their designated witness.

The ballistics expert testified that the shots that destroyed Lombardi’s cranium came from the gun bearing Christina’s prints, fired at point-blank range. Moltke, of course, suggested that the proximity to the victim proved the assailant was a friend…or lover. Ben proposed a few other possibilities during cross-examination (“If someone’s pointing a gun at your head, he can probably get as close to you as he wants, huh?”).

Ben did his best to avoid any contact with Derek, even eye contact. Derek never addressed him directly, but it was clear he had not forgotten their conversation the night before. Every time he looked at Ben, his face was stone cold.

In the early afternoon, Moltke called the coroner, Dr. Koregai. Ben remembered Koregai from their previous encounter during the Adams case; he hadn’t warmed up any during the intervening year. In a curt, clipped voice, Koregai declared that Lombardi died where he was found, between one and two
A.M.,
of gunshot wounds to the head. Irreparable fractures of the occipital bone. In all likelihood, he testified, the first shot killed Lombardi.

As far as Ben knew, that was the end of the prosecution’s case. They had covered all the bases, and Moltke had the jury eating out of his hands, nodding their heads almost every time he pontificated. To Ben’s surprise, however, Moltke stood and called an additional witness. “Your honor, the United States calls Holden Hatfield.” Spud? The security guard from Lombardi’s building? But of course. To establish that Christina was in the apartment well before Lombardi, and hadn’t left before he was killed. After the preliminaries, Moltke asked, “What do you do for a living, Mr. Hatfield?”

“Call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everyone does.” Moltke smiled. “All right, Spud. Tell us about your job.” Spud ran through a general description of his duties as security guard, making his duties sound as glamorous as possible. He explained in detail the system of doors and elevators he controlled, how a visitor could only enter through the front door, could only ride the elevator if Spud triggered it, and could only open the stairwell doors from the outside. Spud explained that, as a result, he could state positively that only four people went up to Lombardi’s apartment the night of the murder before Lombardi himself.

“And who are those four people, Spud?”

“Well, there’s the defendant, of course. Miss McCall.”

“Who else?”

“That would be Quinn Reynolds, Clayton Langdell—he drew in his breath—“and Albert DeCarlo.”

As before, the mention of the mobster’s name had an electrifying effect on the jury. This time, however, Ben saw several jurors nudging one another, pointing toward the gallery. Sure enough, DeCarlo himself was sitting in the back of the gallery, wearing his scarf and white overcoat, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, even while he was inside. Pretty damn gutsy, showing up here at the same time federal agents were trying to use Vinny and the other drug runner they picked up Tuesday morning to build a case against him. DeCarlo must’ve realized his name would come up during the trial. Why else would he be here?

Moltke continued his direct. “And you don’t know when those people left Lombardi’s apartment. Correct?”

“That’s right. The back door to the parking lot can be opened from the inside, and most people go out that way. I know when Miss McCall left, though.”

“And why is that?”

“ ’Cause I went upstairs with the FBI agents and watched them haul her out of Lombardi’s apartment. I am the security guard, after all.”

“I see. So to summarize, you know the defendant went up to his apartment around ten, before Lombardi arrived, and that she was still there at two, when Lombardi was found dead.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Just a few more questions, Spud. Could you describe the defendant’s demeanor when she came in that evening?”

“Oh, she was pissed.” He looked quickly at the judge. “I mean she was real angrylike. ’Scuse my French.”

“I think we all catch your meaning, Spud,” Moltke said, with a quick wink to the jury. “Any idea what she might’ve been angry about?”

“I think so.”

“Please tell us.”

“Well, Mr. Lombardi called that afternoon and told me—”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Hearsay.”

Moltke raised a finger. “This is not being offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted, your honor. Goes to show the defendant’s state of mind at the time of the murder.”

“I believe that’s correct,” Derek said. “Overruled. You may answer the question.”

“I don’t remember the exact words,” Spud continued. “Mr. Lombardi called and instructed me to let this woman up when she arrived. I kind of teased him about having a new girlfriend, and he said, ‘I don’t think you’ll be seeing much of her after tonight.’ ” He chuckled. “I guess she was about to get the big brush-off.”

Ben glanced at the jury box and saw Mrs. Applebury cast a meaningful look at another woman in the jury. Yes, they knew what that meant. Hell hath no fury. “Move to strike, your honor. The witness is speculating.”

“I think he’s simply characterizing his observations in a colorful manner,” Derek said. “Overruled.”

“So when the defendant went up to Lombardi’s apartment,” Moltke said, “she was furious because she either had been dumped, or knew she was about to be dumped. Is that correct?”

“Objection,” Ben said. “Leading.”

“That’s all right,” Moltke said. “I’ll withdraw the question.” Why not? He’d already made his point. “Nothing more, your honor.”

“Cross-examination?” Derek asked, in a tone of voice that clearly implied he thought it inadvisable.

Ben couldn’t think of a single question worth asking. Spud was wrong, and Ben knew it, but there was nothing malicious about his testimony. Right or wrong, he wasn’t lying; he was telling the jury what he honestly believed. And Ben knew if he tried to get tough with Spud, Derek would shut him down in a heartbeat. For that matter, regardless of what Ben tried, Derek would be sure to turn it against him.

“No questions,” Ben said reluctantly. He felt the eyes of the courtroom—the reporters, the jury, even Christina—bearing down on him.

“Anything more from the prosecution?” Derek asked.

“No, your honor,” Moltke said. “The prosecution rests.”