“We went over that. He showed us how little Church law had to do with the law of Christ. Canon law was by no means infallible. It’s constantly changing.”
Kleimer thought about what he might be able to do. “He violated his own Church’s law. I could report him.”
“We kept everything very quiet. There wasn’t any scandal because there wasn’t anyone around to be scandalized. Father said if anyone brought it up it would be of no importance to the media, particularly since the divorce happened so long ago. And, anyway, he said he was willing to take his chances with Cardinal Boyle. This was one of the reasons he had chosen to work in the archdiocese of Detroit.”
“I’ll-!” But he could think of no other threats.
“There’s something else, Brad, that hasn’t occurred to you. But it would after you gave this whole thing more thought.”
“Oh?”
“Actually, Lou thought of it-credit where credit is due. You won’t be able to try him.”
“What?! You’re crazy!”
“No. You see, Lou takes much more interest in law than I do. Picture it, Brad: You’re in the middle of the trial when the judge finds out that the defendant blessed the remarriage of your ex-wife. Supposing the defense attorney questions the defendant, and the jury discovers what I’ve just told you. You no longer are the disinterested seeker of justice: You’ve got a very serious personal stake in this. Your prosecution could be perceived as a vendetta-revenge. Wouldn’t that sort of cloud the jury’s judgment? Wouldn’t the judge have to ask you to remove yourself from the case?”
If it were possible for a brain to fry and the smoke to escape from one’s nostrils and ears, Brad Kleimer would be vaporizing. He’d had his dream case in hand. And now, like a bird set free, it was gone.
There sat Audrey, not gloating, not smirking. Passive and tranquil. Metaphorically, she had dislodged the weight of the world from her shoulders and dumped it on him. She had anticipated this moment as one of victory and triumph. She just was not cut from Kleimer’s cloth.
Kleimer threw his napkin on the table, and jumped to his feet. “We’ll see about this!”
It was a flaccid response, and he knew it. Under the circumstances, it was the best he could do. He stormed out, leaving Audrey to pay the bill. That too was neither classy nor effective. This was not Brad Kleimer’s finest moment, and he knew it.
Audrey glanced at the check, covered it with her American Express card, and waited for the waitress. Audrey would leave a generous tip. It was the least she could do.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
If Brad Kleimer were keeping score-and in a vague sort of way he was-this day was beating him badly.
The priest-Father Carleson-had been indicted for murder in the first degree. To date, that was Kleimer’s sole bright spot. The bail had been set too low and, with the totally unforeseen interference of the archdiocese of Detroit, the priest had been able to meet it. Acting again in a most unpredictable way, the archdiocese had engaged Avery Cone to defend Carleson. Cone was good, one of the best.
Next, there were those insane people from Hollywood who’d almost inveigled Kleimer into wasting his time helping them. In what he had believed to be a coup, he had steered the madmen to George Quirt, thus ridding himself of them and, at the same time, further ingratiating himself with Quirt.
Then that had backfired when Quirt became infatuated with moviemaking to the degree that Kleimer would not be able to depend on him to press the investigation into Carleson’s past.
The cherry on the top of this unpalatable sundae was his former wife’s revelation that Carleson had somehow convalidated her marriage to Lou Schuyler. Not only did that negate Kleimer’s painstakingly planned revenge, it also tainted his prosecution of Father Carleson.
The score, as Kleimer tallied it, was about six to two in favor of the opposition.
After serious and solitary consideration of the latest development, Kleimer decided to broach the matter of Carleson’s involvement in Audrey’s marriage with the chief of operations. Better this way than to launch into the trial all the while looking over his shoulder for the subject to surface, leading to a possible mistrial. After all, Kleimer had intended on using this trial as a springboard to fame, not as a catapult to infamy. Being a laughingstock was not in his plans.
And so, as if to treat the whole thing as if it were a ludicrous possibility, Kleimer told the chief, in a most sketchy way, of the cloud that cast a “slight” shadow over the coming trial of Father Carleson.
Unfortunately, the chief wasn’t buying the “slight” possibility that this coincidence could haunt Kleimer in his effort to convict. Kleimer argued the point until it became clear that the chief wasn’t going to budge on the one hand, and that he was about to lose his temper on the other.
Make that seven big ones to two.
And then, the tide turned.
“Don’t get me wrong, Brad.” It was the frustrated voice of Lieutenant Quirt on the phone. “I know you were only trying to do me a good turn, but those Hollywood guys are nuts!”
“What’s the matter?” A glimmer of hope in what had seemed an ocean of depression.
“These guys think the real world is named after Disney!”
Coming from Quirt, an imaginative metaphor.
“They don’t give a damn for any of the facts of this case,” Quirt fumed. “As of now, the Hollywood version of the story is that either Diego or Carleson was a fruit. Or maybe both of them were gay. Or maybe they weren’t gay; maybe they were both in love with the same broad. Take your pick. Any one of those or some combination of them will be their motive for the murder.
“I tried to convince those flakes that something really happened here-that there was a perfectly good murder that wasn’t committed for any of those reasons. But, you know, it’s like I wasn’t there.
“On top of that, they wanted me to arrange for the mayor to give them the key to the city, and to make sure the news media was there to cover the ceremony.
“And that’s not all! They wanted me to be with ’em like twenty-four hours a day!”
“So?”
“So, I told them to go to hell.”
Kleimer was smiling. But he managed to sound seriously concerned. “How about the money? Wasn’t the money good?”
“Hell, I couldn’t even pin ’em down to anywhere near a firm figure. They kept trying to tell me that stuff made for TV wasn’t in the same league as the big screen. After a while, I kept trying to tell them, Okay, I believe you. But they were still vague. They were ‘on a tight budget.…’” Quirt went into an exaggerated imitation of Walberg and Turner. “‘We don’t know how much we’re gonna have to pay the stars … or rental costs’ … or” — Quirt returned to his natural voice-” any of the rest of that shit! They like to sweat bricks when they found out they were gonna need a contingent of our guys to be with them every minute they were working. And that they were gonna have to pay the cops’ full salary, including overtime!”
“So you’re outta there completely?”
“Brad, I’m all yours. That is, when I’m not working on the constant supply of murders this city keeps coughing up.”
“George, I really appreciate that. It just comes a little late.”
“What? Whaddya mean ‘late’?”
Kleimer briefly explained the circumstances that had forced him out of the trial. “So that’s it, George,” he concluded. “I don’t mind telling you I’m feeling pretty damned embarrassed about the whole thing. I had some great-really great-publicity going there. Everybody expects me to be the prosecutor. I haven’t even figured out a PR way to soften the fact that I’ll be on the sidelines.”
“Geez, Brad, that’s rough. After all you already put into it. Sorry. I wish there was something I could do. But …”
“Wait a minute.” Kleimer searched for an elusive thought. “Now that you’re not tied up with the movie guys anymore, maybe there is something we can do … if you’re willing.”