Death on a High Floor (47 page)

“Excuse me a moment,” Jenna said. She walked back to the counsel table and picked up her water glass. She stood sipping for a few seconds. Either she was genuinely thirsty or she was borrowing time to consider what she wanted to do next. I pushed a note at her:
Ask about drugs
! She glanced at it and pushed it back. Then she walked back to the podium.

“Detective, why did you feel you should investigate Mr. Tarza further?”

Even without looking at him, I could feel Oscar stiffen beside me at the open-endedness of the question Jenna had just asked a hostile witness.

“Because he found the body. And because one of my officers had immediately examined the building’s after-hours elevator access records, which cast suspicion on the defendant.”

Jenna had made a mistake. Now she faced the choice of whether to ask him to explain his suspicions further or to drop the subject. She chose to drop it.

“And yet, Detective, despite the fact that you were suspicious of him, you didn’t ask him to take off his undershirt to see if he had any bruises on him, did you?”

“No. There was no indication at that time that there had been any kind of struggle.”

“But there was no indication that there
hadn’t
been a struggle, was there?”

“Objection,” Benitez said. “This whole line of questioning is irrelevant and speculative. There’s nothing in the record to suggest, one way or the other, that the killer sustained bruises or that there was a struggle.”

Benitez had to that point been pretty quiet. His objection seemed kind of silly. Particularly since it was the chief detective on the case who was being cross-examined. I assumed that he had objected just to show that he was still alive.

“There
is
evidence of a struggle, Your Honor,” Jenna said. “I established with the medical examiner that the victim had premortem bruises on both his right palm and left ankle.”

“It’s only speculation,” Benitez said, “that they were caused by a struggle instead of a fall.”

“Overruled,” Judge Gilmore said. “This is cross-examination. You may answer, Detective.”

“Put it this way,” Spritz said. “I had no indication at the time of a struggle—one way or the other.”

Oscar pushed a note at me:
Where is this going?
Without turning toward him, I shrugged. I had no idea. It was a small piece, apparently, of something larger that Jenna was trying to construct. But I couldn’t yet make out what it was.

“Detective,” Jenna said, “did you investigate anyone else for this murder?”

“It depends what you mean by investigate, Counsel.”

“You used the term earlier yourself, Detective. So let’s say investigate means exactly what it meant when you said you thought you should investigate Mr. Tarza.”

It was a classic technique. Stuff the witness’s own words back in his mouth. It usually works like a charm.

Spritz had no ready answer. He sat silent for an uncomfortably long time. Long enough that Judge Gilmore looked over at him to see if he was actually going to answer. Finally, he did.

“Well, no, we didn’t investigate anyone else that way. But we did interview everyone else who’d had recent contact with the victim, everyone else who had a potential motive.”

“Did you interview me?”

“No.”

“Wasn’t I the victim’s secret girlfriend? Didn’t that give me a motive?”

There was a stir behind me. To my right, I heard Oscar say “Ah, shit” under his breath. And then say it again. When I glanced at him, his eyes were closed while his lips continued to move. I didn’t turn around, but I heard rapid footsteps and then the door slamming open and closed as a few members of the Blob sprinted for a cell phone-usable area.

Spritz had a lopsided grin on his face as he waited for the murmur to die down. Then he said, “Yeah, well, being his girlfriend isn’t a motive unless you had some reason to kill him. Did you?”

Jenna actually laughed. “Maybe you’ll interview me and find out, Detective.”

Judge Gilmore, who had to that point been impassive, raised her hand off the bench, as if to punctuate something she was about to say. Then she apparently thought better of saying anything, put her hand down, and sank back into her large leather chair. Waiting, I guess, to see where this bizarre scene might go. As it was, it went nowhere else.

“So Detective Spritz,” Jenna said, “did you investigate Harry Marfan?”

“No.”

“Or Susan Apacha?”

“No.”

“Or Stewart Broder?”

“No.”

“Or . . . anyone else.”

“Not seriously, no.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Jenna said, and headed back to our table.

Judge Gilmore looked expectantly at Benitez. “Any redirect, Mr. Benitez?”

“Just a few questions, Your Honor.” Benitez got up, walked unhurriedly back to the podium, and peered down at his notes. As we waited for him to find what he was looking for, Oscar passed me a note and whispered to me to give it to Jenna. I read it as I passed it on. It said:
That was fucking stupid.
Jenna looked at it for a microsecond, crumpled it up, and dumped it in her large purse, which was beside her on the table.

“Detective Spritz,” Benitez said, “what led you to consider Mr. Tarza to be particularly worthy of further investigation?”

“He discovered the body, and he had no alibi. Also, the elevator records showed he came up very early in the morning, around the estimated time of the murder. Also, the crime lab later detected Mr. Rafer’s blood on the cuffs of the defendant’s shirt and more of Mr. Rafer’s blood on a couch in the defendant’s office.”

“Objection,” Jenna said. “The testimony about the elevator records and the crime lab report are hearsay, and I move that the answer, after the word ‘alibi,’ be struck.”

A sly smile of superiority attached itself to Benitez’s face. “Pursuant to the Penal Code, a law enforcement officer is permitted to testify on the basis of hearsay at a preliminary hearing.”

“That’s all correct,” Judge Gilmore said. “Overruled.”

Jenna looked pissed. Lawyers hate to be shown up on small things like that. Oscar shoved a note in front of me:
Told you, forgot to tell her
. Meanwhile, Benitez went on mining hearsay from his witness.

“Were there any other reasons to investigate Mr. Tarza?”

“Yeah. After we looked at the elevator records, we examined Mr. Tarza’s computer files. We found he had tried to delete certain files. But we recovered them. When we read them, we found that the victim and Mr. Tarza were having a dispute over a rare ancient coin—the Roman
Ides
—that Mr. Tarza sold the victim for five hundred thousand dollars. The victim claimed that the coin was a fake.”

“Same objection,” Jenna said.

“Same ruling,” the judge responded.

“Anything else?” Benitez asked.

“We found two more counterfeited
Ides
in the pocket of the defendant’s suit coat when he was arrested and several more buried in a box in his garden.”

“Objection,” Jenna said. “There is no evidence in the record that the coins allegedly found are in fact counterfeits.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “I will not consider the statement that they were counterfeit in ruling on probable cause.”

Jenna had won a small point. Very small, given the evidence being stacked up against me. Of course, Jenna had opened the door to all of this by asking why he had investigated me. Perhaps she had thought that whatever new information the open-ended question might turn up was worth the risk. It wasn’t turning out that way.

Benitez continued. “Did you know that Ms. James was the victim’s girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know that?”

“Susan Apacha told us when we interviewed her.”

“Why didn’t you investigate Ms. James further?”

“We did a preinvestigation, and although she might have had opportunity, we couldn’t find any plausible motive. Or any physical evidence connecting her to the crime.”

Preinvestigation? It was a nice way to cover his earlier answer that there had been no investigation of Jenna.

“I have nothing further,” Benitez said.

“Any re-cross Ms. James?” Judge Gilmore asked.

Jenna sat for a few seconds, thinking. I pushed my note at her again, to which I had added a line.
Ask about drugs
!
Harry went to Hilo last month!
She glanced at it but didn’t even bother to push it back.

“Only two quick questions, Your Honor,” she said. She rose from her chair but didn’t return to the podium.

“Detective, did you have an expert evaluate the coins you found as to whether they are in fact fake?”

“Based on an interview with an expert, we believe that the two recovered from the defendant’s pocket are. We are in the process of evaluating the others, the ones from his garden.”

Had they talked to Serappo?

Jenna went on to her second question.

“Did you know, Detective, that there is a secret compartment in a bookcase in Mr. Broder’s office and that there was an
Ides
coin in there? Plus a dagger?”

Spritz actually blinked. It was quick, and it was subtle, but it was there. Benitez had started to get up, presumably to object that the question was not only compound but that the second part of the question was without foundation because the second part assumed a ‘yes’ answer to the first part. Spritz saved him the trouble.

“No,” Spritz answered, “I didn’t and don’t know that.”

“I have no further questions,” Jenna said.

“Any re-redirect Mr. Benitez?” Judge Gilmore asked. She said it in a tone that suggested that she wanted the answer to be ‘no.’

“Your Honor,” Benitez said, “could I have a minute to consult with my co-counsel?”

“Of course.”

While Benitez put his head together with his two assistants, Oscar put his hand over his mouth and leaned across me so that he could whisper to Jenna.

“You should have kept your mouth shut about being his girlfriend.”

“I had my reasons.”

“Why didn’t you ask about drugs?

“I think it’s bullshit.”

“Why?”

“Boone never said he heard anything about drugs.”

Before I could respond, Benitez spoke up and said, “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

“Please call your next witness then.”

Benitez headed back to the podium. “The people call Stewart Broder.”

I turned and watched as someone in the back row, apparently in Benitez’s employ, went out into the hall to fetch Stewart. I was startled to see Daniel Boone sitting quietly in that very same back row. He was wearing his trademark leather jacket, but it had a crisp, clean look. If you told me he’d bought it at Brooks Brothers, I wouldn’t have doubted it.

Stewart must have been lurking nearby, because he came in through the doors only a few seconds later and walked quickly up to the witness box. He looked nervous as he took his seat, stated his name, and was sworn.

“Mr. Broder,” Benitez began, “are you acquainted with the defendant, Robert Tarza?”

“Yes, I
am
,” Stewart said.

I had almost forgotten about Stewart’s strange way of speaking, but there it was, front and center.

“How are you acquainted with him?”

“We have worked at the same
law
firm for more than thirty
years
. We started there together, within
weeks
of each other.”

“How would you describe the nature of your relationship, then?” Benitez asked.

“Good friends.”

I would not have used anything close to that term to describe my relationship with Stewart. I had a sudden sense of foreboding. Maybe this wasn’t going to be the quick on-and-off the stand Oscar had predicted.

“Could you explain what you mean by that?”

“Sure. We’ve gone to
parties
at each other’s homes, we’ve
gone
to dinners together, we’ve gone to breakfasts
together
, we’ve gone on outings together, we’ve attended each other’s important
family
events. You know, weddings, birthdays,
stuff
like that.”

What he said was, of course, literally true. But all those dinners, breakfasts, and events are the kinds of things you always do with your law partners, even if you loathe them. A close friendship they are not.

“Did you see the defendant on the morning of Mr. Rafer’s murder?” Benitez asked.

“Yes, I
did
. I ran into him in the
parking
garage and gave him a ride home. Because his own car was taped
off
.”

Stewart, I noticed, was avoiding looking at me. But I also noticed that Judge Gilmore was looking at him rather intensely. Probably trying to figure out his weird speech pattern. I wished her luck. There was no rhyme or reason to it.

“How did he seem to you?” Benitez asked.

“Objection,” Oscar said. “Vague and ambiguous.”

“Overruled,” the judge said.

It had surprised me that Oscar, not Jenna, had made the objection. I looked over at her, quizzically. She scribbled a note and pushed it at me:
Oscar’s doing it. Short witness. I needed a rest.
Meanwhile, Stewart was answering the question.

“He
seemed
really
nervous,” Stewart said.

“Did you ask him about the murder?”

“Yes. He didn’t
want
to
talk
about it.”

“Not at all?” Benitez asked.

“Not
at
all.”

That was not true, of course. I had talked to him about it some and then clammed up because I was in such a state of shock.

“Did you ever talk to him again about the murder?”

“
Yes
, I did,” Stewart said.

“When was that?”

“Well,” Stewart said, “two days after the murder, Robert called me up and asked me to have breakfast with him at the
DownUnder
.”

I felt ice go down my spine. He had invited
me
. Jenna, who had been quietly taking notes, jerked her head up. Oscar growled something, although I couldn’t make it out.

“Did you have breakfast with him?” Benitez asked.

“
Yes
, I did.”

“Please relate the conversation at breakfast to us.”

“Objection!” Oscar said. “Calls for a narrative.”

Judge Gilmore cocked her head, which I had learned meant she was thinking it over. She brought her head back to the vertical and ruled. “Technically, you’re right Mr. Quesana. But there’s no jury here, and it will be more efficient just to let him tell the story. You can probe the narrative on cross. Overruled. You may answer, sir.”

“There’s not a lot to tell, really,” Stewart said. “We engaged in chitchat for a while. Then he just blurted out that he had killed Simon. And his eyes began to tear up.”

For a few seconds, I was in a state of shock. I was being framed. I needed to pay attention, though, and I managed to pull myself out of it. Then I thought about something. Stewart had lost his odd inflection. Just like he had at our real breakfast at the
DownUnder
. I suddenly put it together. Stewart lost the inflection when he was under great stress. Like when he was lying. Like when he was trying to put me in a prison cell.

“Did you ask him why he had done it?”

“Yes. He talked about the
Ides
. You see, Robert
owned
a rare Roman coin. The
Ides
of Brutus. He and Simon both collected Roman
coins
. Anyway, he
sold
the
Ides
to Simon for a lot of money. There were a lot of collectors in the
firm
and everybody knew about it. It
caused
a big buzz. Then Simon discovered Robert had sold him a
fake
coin and demanded his money back.”

“Did the defendant say,” Benitez asked, “that that was why he killed him?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“Sustained.”

I laughed inwardly, despite the painful knot in my stomach. Benitez was having a classic problem with his witness on direct. Stewart hadn’t managed to say flat out that I told him I had killed Simon because of the counterfeiting dispute, and Benitez wasn’t permitted to lead him to the right answer. So Benitez would have to fish for it, probably dangling the “was there anything else” lure in front of Stewart to try to reel it in.

“Well,” Benitez asked, “did the defendant say anything else about the killing?”

“Oh, yes, yes he did.” Stewart reached out and took a sip from the water glass next to the witness stand. His hand shook slightly. “Robert said he killed Simon because Simon had discovered that Robert had had many counterfeits made in China, not just one, like Simon originally thought. So Simon stopped just demanding his own money back and was going to go to the police on Monday. That’s why Robert said he had to kill him early Monday morning. To keep him from revealing the counterfeiting.”

The fish had bitten. Of course, the fish was lying.

“Did he say why he was telling you this?”

“Yes. He said he felt guilty, and needed to tell someone. He said he was making me his priest. And he asked me to promise not to tell anyone.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“Well, I was.”

“Did you promise?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

“Shock, I guess. Friendship, I really don’t know.”

Oscar had been writing a note, and now he shoved it in front of me.
WE’RE FUCKED
. Jenna was rummaging for something in her giant purse, but I wasn’t sure what. I was feeling cold and starting to shake slightly, but I knew that if I started visibly shivering, some people might take it as a sign of guilt. I tried saying my old mantra, quietly, to myself. It seemed to work. I stopped shaking. Then I took Oscar’s note and wrote on it and shoved it back to him:
Loses weird accent when he lies.

“Did Mr. Tarza say anything else to you about the murder?” Benitez asked.

“No . . . Well, yes. A little. He said he felt guilty about killing someone but wasn’t sorry it had been Simon. That Simon was a shit who deserved to die.”

“Did you learn anything else?”

“No, I should have asked for more details, I know. But I was upset, and I just wanted to get out of there.”

“Did you go to the police with the information?”

“No.”

Benitez paused, put both hands firmly on the podium, and leaned forward slightly, as if the question to come was going to be a big piece of drama.

“Why not?”

The drama, of course, was that Benitez had just, as we lawyers say, pulled the sting on his own witness. Brought out the bad thing on direct, so that the cross-examiner wouldn’t be the first one to bring it up.

Stewart was silent for a second or two as he considered the question, then shrugged. “I really can’t explain it. The promise I had made to Robert to keep it secret, maybe. Misplaced friendship. I’m not sure.”

“I have no further questions,” Benitez said. As he said it, I heard noises behind me as part of the Blob thumped through the courtroom doors.

Oscar got up and moved toward the podium. I thought I heard him sigh as he walked behind me. In truth, I would rather have had Jenna. But I wasn’t apparently going to get a choice.