Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (28 page)

Mason knew that Ed Fiora wouldn’t treat Mason’s favor as a balancing of the books. Instead, he would record it as an investment with an interest rate that would make a loan shark blush. Fiora would come to collect one day unless Mason could wipe the ledger clean once and for all.

Icy pellets peppered Mason’s windshield as he parked in the lot across the street from the courthouse. He cursed the weather and his own weakness as he cautiously made his way across the slick pavement.

Patrick Ortiz was waiting in the hallway outside Judge Carter’s chambers when Mason arrived, sipping a cup of coffee, studying notes on his legal pad. Mason had decided to let Ortiz raise the issue of bail, not wanting to be too obvious with his knowledge that the fix was in. He knew that Ortiz wouldn’t be happy, and he didn’t want to rub his face in it.

“Morning, Patrick.”

“Lou.”

Ortiz greeted him with equal neutrality. They stood like two commuters waiting for the train, strangers avoiding eye contact and conversation, until the outer door to the judge’s chambers opened and her secretary summoned them inside.

Judge Carter was waiting for them in her chambers, seated behind her desk, signing orders from the previous day’s hearings. Her black robe was hanging on a coat hook. A half-eaten bagel and a plastic container of yogurt sat on the edge of her desk next to an empty coffee cup.

Judge Carter was fastidious in appearance and demeanor, impatient with the unprepared, and unsympathetic toward the guilty. Female African American judges were no longer a novelty, but a conservative Republican female African American state court judge who was on a short list for appointment to the federal bench was a rare phenomenon.

She had dark circles under her eyes, made darker by the contrast with her own rich coffee-colored skin. Mason had the sense that she’d either worked late the night before or gotten an early start this morning. Either way, she didn’t look like she was having a good day and he didn’t expect a warm reception.

“Sit down, Counselors,” she instructed, waving them into the leather chairs opposite her desk. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with statutes, appellate decisions, and treatises rose behind her, accenting her own imposing style. “Let’s talk about your case. You’re set for trial on Monday, March fourth. Tell me now if you’ll be ready for trial. I don’t like last-minute requests for continuances.”

“The people will be ready,” Ortiz said.

“The defense will be ready as well, Your Honor.”

“There’s been an awful lot of pretrial publicity. Are you going to ask for a change of venue?” she asked Mason.

“No. Hopefully, the press coverage will die down and we can get a fair jury.”

Mason had been pleased with the press coverage so far and was counting on the jury to have read and remembered the stories that cast doubt on the police investigation and Blues’s guilt.

“When we get to jury selection, you’ll both ask the jurors if they’ve read anything about the case, if they’ve made up their minds already, and if they can be fair. The ones who want to serve will answer no, no, and yes. The ones who want to go home or go to work will answer yes, yes, and no.”

Judge Carter had recited the truth about jury selection that every lawyer and judge wrestled with in every case. She said it with more resignation than humor, and the lawyers nodded their own understanding of the dilemma.

“Any other problems lurking out there on either side?” she asked them.

Mason kept silent, waiting for Ortiz to raise the question of bail.

“There is one issue,” Ortiz said. “Defense counsel is a suspect in an arson and a homicide that took place last Thursday night. In the event that he’s charged with either of those crimes, it could affect the trial date.”

Ortiz dropped his bombshell with a routine matter-of-factness that underscored its crippling impact. Mason’s stomach nose-dived as he stared at Ortiz, unable to contain his utter amazement. Ortiz looked straight ahead at the judge like someone who’d farted in a crowd and pretended not to notice. Judge Carter continued the exercise in understatement.

“I can see how that would be a problem. When does your office expect to make a decision whether to charge Mr. Mason? I’m certain he is as interested in knowing that as I am.”

“It’s a complicated case, Your Honor. The fire marshal is still investigating the cause and origin of the fire. The autopsy of the victim has been completed, but I don’t have the final report. The investigation is ongoing. It’s hard to know for sure when we’ll be ready to present something to the grand jury. Maybe Mr. Mason will withdraw as counsel and the defendant will hire somebody else so that we can stay on track for trial.”

Mason felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience, as if he’d left the room completely and crossed over to the twilight zone. Fiora had returned Mason’s lifesaving favor with his own life-threatening ploy. That was the only thing Mason could conclude. Either that, or Fiora had only had inside information from the prosecutor’s office, and not the juice to make Leonard Campbell give up his opposition to bail for Blues. Mason hated that he had compromised himself with Fiora. He hated it even more that his tactic had blown up in his face.

“Mr. Mason,” Judge Carter said, “I assume you are aware of the ongoing investigation. Have you discussed with your client the possibility that you may have to withdraw as his attorney?”

Mason breathed deeply, collecting himself. “No, I haven’t, Your Honor. I will speak to him today, but I doubt that he will want me to withdraw. I’m confident that I won’t be charged with either of those crimes. My client will consider the threat to charge me as just another part of the prosecutor’s strategy to pressure him into pleading guilty to a crime he didn’t commit and will insist that I remain his counsel. That’s how he and I view the prosecutor’s opposition to bail and that’s how I view these threatened charges.”

“What about that, Mr. Ortiz? Why has the state taken such a hard line on bail? I’ve reviewed the court file on this case. You’re relying on circumstantial evidence and one fingerprint for a capital murder case against a man with long-standing ties to the community and the financial ability to post a considerable bond. I’ve routinely granted bail in such cases. Why shouldn’t I do that now?”

Ortiz clenched the sides of his legal pad, frustrated at the change in direction Judge Carter had taken. “The defendant has a history of violent behavior. He’s a threat to the community, he’s—”

“Getting released on bail. Mr. Bluestone has never been convicted of a crime. He served his country in the military. He served this community as a police officer. I hope you are devoting as much time to proving your case against him as you are the one against his lawyer. I’m setting bond at $250,000. That will be all, gentlemen.”

Ortiz exploded out of his seat, nearly running over Judge Carter’s secretary on his way out. Mason rose more slowly, making certain that his legs weren’t shaking before he stood up. Judge Carter took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her desk drawer, leaned deeply into the back of her chair, and lit up. She blew the smoke out her nose, ignoring the
No Smoking
sign that hung on her wall.

“You know something, Mr. Mason?” she said. “You wasted a very expensive favor. I would have granted your client bail anyway.”

Mason found the men’s room, bent over a sink, and splashed his face with cold water until his skin stung. He wiped his face with paper towels, scrubbing at invisible stains. He challenged his image in the mirror for an explanation but found no answers in his own bewilderment.

He had wasted more than an expensive favor. Fiora hadn’t gone through the prosecutor’s office. He’d gone straight to Judge Carter, and now Mason had wasted her career, laid her bare to whatever hold Fiora had on her. If he didn’t find a way to unring this bell, he would have wasted his own career as well.

At least Blues would be out of jail in a few hours and together they could try to find a way out of the wilderness. Mason found a room reserved for lawyers to meet with their witnesses, locked the door, and called Mickey, unable to stop the flutter in his voice.

“The judge ordered Blues released on bail.”

“You want me to cancel the e-mail to Rachel Firestone?”

“Immediately. Copy Fiora’s bank records on two different flash drives. I’ve got a safe-deposit box at City Bank. The key is in the top drawer of my desk. Put the drives in the box. I’ll call the bank and tell them that you are coming over to use the box. Then wait for me at the office.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Arrange for the bail and wait for them to process Blues’s release.”

“You don’t sound so good, boss. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just trying to figure out the part where Jupiter crushes the Titans.”

“Don’t forget your wingman, boss. You don’t have to go it alone.”

Mason paused, realizing Mickey was right about that. He didn’t have to go it alone, but he didn’t want to take anyone else down with him.

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

Mason’s next call was to Carlos Guiterriz, his favorite bail bondsman. Carlos ran a one-man shop and took it personally when the prosecutor’s office opposed bond for a defendant, claiming they were conspiring against him in his effort to support three ex-wives and five children.

“Guiterriz Bail Bonds,” he said when Mason called.

“Carlos, it’s Lou Mason. I need a bond for a quarter of million this morning. Can you do that?”

“Who’s it for?”

“Wilson Bluestone, Jr., and let’s keep it our secret. The press will pick it up soon enough.”

“Holy shit, Lou! That is too sweet! How in the hell did you swing that?”

Mason had anticipated the question and knew that Carlos would repeat the answer a hundred times before the day was out.

“Judge Carter ordered the bail. She said she’d granted bail to other defendants in cases like Blues and that she wouldn’t treat him any differently.”

“I’ll bet that tight-ass Patrick Ortiz shit sideways!”

“It was a thing of wonder.” Guiterriz’s enthusiasm took the rough edge off Mason’s mood. “Blues will put up his bar as collateral, and I’ve got stocks worth fifty thousand bucks if you need more than that. Get the bond to the courthouse right away.”

Guiterriz laughed loudly enough that Mason had to hold his phone away from his ear. “A thing of wonder,” he quoted Mason when he stopped laughing. “I would have put up the bond myself to see Ortiz take it in the shorts like that. Give me an hour.”

Mason wandered downstairs to the first-floor lobby of the courthouse, undecided how to kill time until Guiterriz showed up. He stood at the glass doors that fronted Twelfth Street and watched pedestrians and drivers fight to keep their balance as a new coating of ice descended on the city.

City hall was across the street. Mason hadn’t heard from Amy White since their meeting in the parking lot of the Hyatt Hotel. If Carl Zimmerman had been keeping her informed about the status of the homicide investigation, she might know something about Zimmerman’s whereabouts the night Shirley Parker was killed.

Clutching his topcoat around his collar, Mason made the crossing from the courthouse to city hall, shook the ice from his shoulders, and rode the elevator to the twenty-ninth floor in the hope that he would catch Amy in her office, finding her waiting for the elevator when it opened on her floor. She stepped onto the elevator and pushed the button for the first floor.

“Perfect timing,” Mason told her as he kept his finger on the button to open the elevator door. “I hoped that I would catch you in the office.”

“Lousy timing. Whatever it is, I don’t have time unless you have a hundred thousand tons of salt and a fleet of trucks to spread it. The weather service says we’re going to get two inches of ice and ten inches of snow in the next twelve hours.”

“I need to talk with you about something. It’s important.”

“What is it?”

“Carl Zimmerman.”

Amy’s mouth tightened as if a sudden pain had struck her. “You’ve got as long as the elevator takes to get downstairs.”

Mason punched the buttons for all twenty-eight floors. “This may take a while,” he said.

Mason and Amy eyed each other as the ancient elevator lurched to a halt at each of the next three floors. Amy broke off their eye contact with a nervous glance at her watch. The illuminated buttons on the elevator panel promised another twenty-five sea-sickening stops. Mason waited for Amy to speak first and set the course for his questions. The door opened on the twenty-fifth floor. Amy took a step toward the open door when Mason blocked her path.

“I’m getting off,” she insisted.

“Nope. A deal is a deal. All the questions I can ask until we hit bottom.”

Mason pushed the button to close the elevator door.

“Okay, fine,” she said without meaning either. “What about Carl Zimmerman?”

“You know him?”

“He’s a cop. Good enough?”

“Easy, Amy. How much snow can fall before we finish stopping at the next twenty-four floors? How do you know that he’s a cop?”

“The chief brought him to the mayor’s office after Jack Cullan was found dead. He and another detective—I think the other one was named Harry Ryman—were investigating the case and the mayor wanted some answers. The chief told Zimmerman to keep me updated on the case.”

Mason listened, his silence prompting her to continue.

“You know all that already or you wouldn’t be asking me,” she said. “And you can’t be so stupid to think I would lie about something you could so easily prove that I did know. So get to the point. You’re running out of floors.”

A barely operable ceiling fan wheezed and sucked warm, greasy air from the elevator shaft into the elevator, filling the car with the metallic taste of friction-heated oil. The odor combined with each ball-bouncing stop, turning their ride into a stomach-churning descent. Amy took off her knee-length navy wool coat and Burberry scarf and unbuttoned the high-necked collar of her dress. Her face was taking on a pasty, alien hue. Mason couldn’t tell if her suddenly green-gilled complexion was due to their rocky ride or his questions.