“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.
37
THE 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.”