Divas (54 page)

‘I don’t, thank you, ’ she said to the judge, and saw Simon Poluck, seated at the defendant’s table, give a little nod of approval at the courtesy. He had been stressing
all along that the better manners she showed, the less likely it would be that a jury would believe that she was a killer.

Lola looked over at the jury.

‘I can keep going, ’ she said firmly, suppressing the little catch in her voice. She was scared that if she asked for a break from Joshua Greene’s cross-examination, it would
only be worse when he started up again. For the past forty-five minutes he had been worrying her as relentlessly as a dog with a bone full of marrow, finding new ways to ask her the same questions,
trying to break her down.

No matter how many times Simon Poluck barked:‘Your Honour, this question has been asked and answered!’ Joshua Greene would come at Lola from a different angle, his eyes glinting
menacingly from behind his glasses, taking her through every detail of that last visit to her father, throwing in comments about her extravagant lifestyle, doing what even she could see was an
utterly successful job of painting her to the jury as a depraved, money-hungry socialite desperate enough to do anything, anything at all, to ensure that her ‘money tap’, as he called
it, was turned back on.

‘Miss Fitzgerald?’ Joshua Greene snapped. ‘Are you ready to answer the question now? I’ll remind you of it, shall I?’ he said, striding back towards the witness
box. ‘I was asking you where you went after you were forced to settle your hotel bill at 60 Thompson? When the manager effectively made it clear to you that, without a functioning credit
card, you would no longer be welcome to stay there?’

‘She didn’t quite say that, ’ Lola said weakly.

‘So where
did
you go, Miss Fitzgerald?’ Joshua Greene persisted.

Lola opened her mouth to say that she had packed her bags and gone straight to the Plaza. And then she met the prosecutor’s eyes, and the lie died on her lips. From the triumph in his
stare, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse that has just made the fatal tactical mistake of going left rather than right, she realised suddenly that the prosecution knew about her brief, abortive
attempt to sneak into Madison’s apartment, the bribe of her beautiful lemon sable wrap to Mirko.

This was going to make her look
terrible.
Bribing a doorman with the clothes off her back. Nothing could make it so clear that, before her father’s death, Lola had been utterly and
completely at her wits’ end. This pathetic little story would demonstrate with merciless clarity that Lola had really had absolutely nowhere else to turn besides the charity of a former
fiancé who might decide to withdraw it from one moment to the next.

It was the biggest motive possible. Financial desperation.

She darted a frantic glance towards Simon Poluck, hoping against hope that he would have some objection that would save her from having to answer the question. Joshua Greene, watching every
fleeting emotion that played across her face, scanning it with the experience of years spent in courtrooms, cross-examining reluctant defendants, smiled nastily, his round chubby features
contorting into a grimace of satisfaction.

But Simon Poluck wasn’t looking back at her. He was huddled over to his second chair, who was squatting down by the side of the table, whispering something to him, her eyes wide and
staring, one hand tapping convulsively on the leg of the table for emphasis.

Joshua Greene’s smile deepened as he saw Lola floundering, hoping for a rescue that wasn’t going to come.

‘Miss Fitzgerald, I’m going to have to press you! Will you please answer the question –
where did you go when you were forced to leave the 60 Thompson hotel?
’ he
thundered.

‘Your Honour!’ Simon Poluck jumped to his feet. ‘We have just been presented with new evidence that is so explosive that I couldn’t wait a moment longer to bring it to
your attention—’

Joshua Greene threw up his hands.

‘What,
more
grandstanding from Mr Poluck?’

‘Enough!’ said the judge sharply. ‘Both of you, approach the bench immediately!’

Simon Poluck and Joshua Greene bustled up to the bench, Poluck whispering away so urgently that everyone in the courtroom was agog.

‘My chambers,
now
, ’ the judge said grimly, rising to her feet.

As Poluck and Greene duly followed her, Lola was escorted back to the defendant’s table. Swivelling around, she exchanged stares of incomprehension with her mother and India. David’s
blue eyes were saucer-wide.

Then, beyond them, Lola noticed the man standing just inside the courtroom doors. Chunky and square-built, he had a head shaped like a big bullet on his short muscular neck. Though he had to be
in his sixties, he looked strong and energetic, his wide arms folded over his chest, his big upper torso encased in a dark blue suit that was so well-cut that it must have cost several thousand
dollars. She would have assumed that he was a policeman, because the way he was standing, completely comfortable waiting there, was very reminiscent of the cops she’d been forced into contact
with over the past few weeks. But the quality of his suit contradicted that. She was wondering who he was, and why the court officers were letting him stand there, when the door at the back of the
courtroom opened, the bailiff calling for everyone to stand as the judge bustled back in, followed by the four attorneys.

Joshua Greene looked livid, Lola noticed as she turned to face the courtroom, rising to her feet. Serena Mackesy was biting her lips in fury as he whispered to her what had happened. And Simon
Poluck was taking his place beside Lola, his eyes bright, his entire body seeming to be surrounded with an aura of triumphant golden light.

‘What—’ Lola hissed to Simon Poluck, but he shushed her, grinning, as they resumed their seats and the judge began:

‘This trial has, without question, been full of surprises. Having heard what Mr Poluck has had to tell me about a defence witness who has just come forward, I must agree that the nature of
the testimony is such that it does indeed justify his taking the extreme step of breaking into Mr Greene’s cross-examination of the defendant. Normally, I wouldn’t allow the testimony
to be given at this time. But because of the very unusual nature of the decisions I have already had to make during the course of these proceedings, I am going to allow the defence witness to
testify – with the proviso that it may be necessary to declare a mistrial if events do not proceed exactly as Mr Poluck has assured me they will. And—’ she stared severely at
Simon Poluck – ‘if the witness’s credentials do not prove to be absolutely as impeccable as I have been assured that they are.’

‘Duly noted, Your Honour, ’ Simon Poluck said as demurely as a lawyer with the glint of victory in his eyes can ever manage.

‘The defence calls Marco Ranieri to the stand!’ called the court officer, and Lola saw the Latino man in the very well-cut navy suit walk past her down the aisle. As he passed Lola,
he turned his big bald head in her direction, looking at her directly, and there was something in those black, flat eyes that Lola would have given a great deal to be able to read.

Marco Ranieri settled his heavy body into the witness stand, shot his cuffs, and swore the oath with the blasé air of a man who had gone through this kind of proceeding many, many times
before. Lola stared at Simon Poluck, her eyes wide, pleading to have her curiosity satisfied: but he shook his head again.

And then he winked at her.

Simon Poluck, a man whose tie always co-ordinated with his silk pocket square, whose shoes were perfectly shined and whose shirts cost more than most people’s entire outfits, winked at his
client.

Lola felt a terrible hope swelling inside her – terrifying, because how could she dare to hope, when things had been going so badly for her? But as Simon Poluck, taking his time, rose
slowly to his feet, with the air of a matador about to strike a killer blow, she could hardly suppress the excitement she was feeling.

‘Mr Ranieri, will you please tell us your profession?’ Simon Poluck began.

‘I’m a PI. A private investigator, ’ Ranieri clarified in a gravelly voice, turning to nod at the jury.

A buzz of interest ran round the courtroom at this information. The jury, already highly stimulated by Simon Poluck’s dramatic interruption of Lola’s cross-examination, sat up even
straighter in their seats.

‘And before you were a private investigator—’ Simon Poluck prompted.

‘I was on the job for twenty years. A cop with the NYPD, ’ Ranieri explained.

So she had been right about him
, Lola realised. And that explained his ease in the witness box: he must have had to give testimony countless times during the course of his career.

‘Ended up as a detective on the Major Case Squad, ’ Ranieri was saying.

‘And during the twenty years you served the city of New York, you received several commendations, and a medal, I believe—’

‘Racked up three commendations, plus the Medal of Honour, ’ Ranieri agreed casually.

‘Which is awarded for—’

‘Your Honour, ’ Joshua Greene said between his teeth, ‘the prosecution will stipulate that ex-Detective Ranieri had an exemplary career with the NYPD, and that he has since
collaborated with my office on a couple of occasions.’

‘Leading to successful prosecutions, ’ Ranieri added nonchalantly.

‘Thank you, Mr Greene, ’ the judge said. ‘Mr Poluck, I think we can move forward with the understanding that this witness’s character and credentials have been thoroughly
established.’

Simon Poluck dipped a little bow in her direction.

‘Mr Ranieri, the story you have to tell is a very dramatic one, ’ he began, ‘and in order to lay it out fully we need to go back to January of this year, when you were
contacted by a new client. Will you please tell us the name of this client?’

‘It was Ben Fitzgerald, ’ Marco Ranieri said. ‘The dead guy.’

The jury leaned forward almost as one, sensing that some really good dirt was about to be dug up.

‘And what did Mr Fitzgerald ask you to do?’ Simon Poluck inquired, with the nonchalance of a poker player who knows that he’s holding a Royal Flush.

‘He wanted me to upgrade his house’s security system.’ Ranieri grinned, and it was like watching a shark swim up behind an unsuspecting shoal of fish and open its mouth.
‘Well, that was the official version. You know, what we said we were doing when I sent my guys in there.’

‘And the unofficial version?’

‘He wanted a master feed of all his house’s security cameras.’

‘Can you explain that for the jury, Mr Ranieri?’

Ranieri swivelled in his seat, his grin deepening, as he crossed one leg over the other.

‘OK, this is how it works, ’ he started leisurely. ‘You have security cameras already installed in your house, say, like Mr Fitzgerald did, God rest his soul. You know, you got
them there so you can check your staff aren’t going through your personal shit they got no reason to be in, ’ he added over his shoulder. ‘You and your wife are the only people
who get to watch the footage, obviously. But then, like Mr Fitzgerald, maybe you start to . . . have concerns.’

He paused, enjoying the cliffhanger moment.

‘What kind of concerns?’ Simon Poluck prompted.

‘Well, about his wife, of course!’ Marco Ranieri said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes gleaming. ‘I mean, who else? She’s the only one who sees the footage, apart
from him! She’s the only one who could wipe stuff off so he doesn’t see it! So when a guy asks you for a master feed’ – he looked at the jury – ‘that means all
the footage,
everything
, goes to this kinda online website that only he can access. Raw, unedited. When a guy asks a PI for that, it means he don’t trust his wife. No other explanation
possible.’

Joshua Greene was on his feet.

‘Your Honour—’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Greene, ’ the judge said. ‘Mr Poluck, this had better not be speculation on the part of the witness—’

‘Mr Ranieri, ’ Simon Poluck asked, ‘did Mr Fitzgerald inform you of these suspicions, or are you merely making assumptions?’

‘Oh, I’ve been round the block a few times, ’ Ranieri said cheerfully. ‘Believe me, I know how a courtroom works. I got emails from Mr Fitzgerald, printed out right
there.’ He nodded to the defence table.

Simon Poluck picked up a clear plastic folder containing several sheets of paper.

‘Defence exhibit number sixty-seven, Your Honour, ’ he said, putting it back on the table. ‘Email correspondence between Mr Fitzgerald and Mr Ranieri . . . So, did Mr
Fitzgerald engage you to acquire evidence he would use in divorce proceedings?’

Ranieri’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

‘Well, sure, ’ he said. ‘There was a big prenup. Mr Fitzgerald showed me. If the wife cheated, she got nothing. Nada. Zippo. Bye bye, babycakes, and don’t slam the door
on your way out.’

For the past few minutes, the stares of practically everyone in the courtroom had been darting back and forth between Marco Ranieri and Carin Fitzgerald. The two of them could not have presented
more of a contrast.

Ranieri was relaxed, charismatic, enjoying to the full the drama of his testimony.

And Carin Fitzgerald, who, since Ranieri had mentioned the words ‘master feed’, had been as still as if she were carved from bone. The white mink collar of her black
silk-and-cashmere sweater didn’t even tremble with the rise and fall of her breast, nor did her sapphire earings; she might not even be breathing, so motionless was her body. Any colour had
faded completely from her face, which was as pale as the marble tombstone at the head of her husband’s grave; apart from her Siberian-husky blue eyes, whose pupils were dilated to large black
dots. The fuchsia lipstick she wore made the rest of her face look blanched.

Lola sneaked a glance over at the jury. They were all riveted on Carin now, greedily observing every detail of her appearance.

‘So you proceeded to set up this master feed?’ Simon Poluck was asking Ranieri.