“Objection,” Moltke said. “Ambiguous. Is he asking if it can or if it did?”
“I’m asking if it can, your honor. Theoretically.”
Derek nodded. “The witness will answer the question.”
“I suppose it’s possible.”
“So it’s possible your vision was blurry the night of the murder. And the fact of the matter is, your vision isn’t so hot in the first place. Is it, Spud?”
Spud’s face was cold as ice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Spud, aren’t you nearsighted?”
Spud didn’t answer.
“I understand your reluctance, Spud. I realize that if you admit your vision is failing, you may lose your job, maybe even your permit. But this is very important. And I keep remembering when we talked before, at the lodge, and how you had to practically press the clipboard against your nose to be able to read it. Isn’t it true you’re nearsighted?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s have a little test then.” Ben walked back to counsel table and tore a picture out of Time magazine, careful to hide it from Spud. “How close to you was the person you identified as DeCarlo on the night of the murder?”
Spud thought for a moment. “Oh, maybe ten feet away when he came through the door, maybe five feet away when I activated the elevator.”
“Okay.” Ben walked back about ten feet from the witness stand, then held a full-page, glossy photo of George Bush over his face. “Spud, I’m holding a large photograph of a well-known person. Someone who’s on television frequently. Can you tell the jury who it is?”
“I’m not that quick with names,” he grumbled.
“Oh, I bet you’ll know this person, Spud. If you can see the photo clearly. Who is it?”
Spud squinted at the photograph, his eyes obviously straining. “Elizabeth Taylor?” he guessed.
Mrs. Applebury covered her mouth with her hand. Smiles appeared on the faces of other jurors.
“I’m afraid not.” Ben walked about five feet closer to the stand. “Now I’m moving to about where the visitor would have been while you were activating the elevator. Can you tell the jury who this is now?”
Spud hesitated a long time. “Paul Newman?” he said at last.
“Well, you’re getting warmer. Take one more shot at it.”
Spud appealed to the judge. “Do I have to play this fool game?”
Derek stifled a smile. “Answer the question.”
Spud leaned against the front of the witness box. Technically, that was cheating, but Ben had a hunch it wouldn’t matter. “What about that fool reporter? Geraldo Whatever-it-is.”
“I’m afraid not,” Ben said. “But tell me this. Why did you guess the people you guessed?”
“ ’Cuz I thought that’s who it was, obviously!”
“But I mean why.” Ben explained himself slowly, making sure the jury could absorb every word. “Wasn’t it because, although you couldn’t make out the details of the face, you had a general impression of the hair color, the clothing, and the shape of the head?”
Spud shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“Good. Now, Spud, I want you to think back to the night of the murder. When you saw that person you called DeCarlo, what did you actually see?”
“I saw what I always see when I see DeCarlo. Dark sunglasses. Dark muffler. Black hair slicked back in a ponytail. That white overcoat.”
“Thank you,” Ben said. “That’s exactly what I thought. No more questions, your honor.”
The judge looked at Moltke. “Any cross-examination?”
“No, sir. On the contrary, I move to strike the entire examination for lack of relevance.”
“Oh, give me a break,” Ben said. “You usually make Myra make motions of this ilk, don’t you?”
“I’m serious,” Moltke insisted. “What does it matter who else might’ve been in Lombardi’s apartment? We know for a fact that the defendant was, and she’s the one who’s on trial.”
Ben stared at Derek. “Do I even need to respond to this lame motion?”
Derek frowned. “Regrettably, no. The motion is overruled. Call your next witness, Mr. Kincaid.”
Ben scanned the rows of spectators, all waiting for his next sentence. He saw DeCarlo look away, apparently hoping Ben wouldn’t notice him. Reynolds and Langdell also seemed to be avoiding his glance. And at counsel table, he again saw Christina correct her posture. Pardonnez, mon cheri. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
“Get on with it,” Derek said.
“Yes, your honor. The defense calls…” He peered into the gallery. “Margot Lombardi.”
40
BEN HEARD THE SUDDEN silence, the suspension of breath, the tangible surprise. Half the gallery turned to scrutinize Margot.
Her lips parted slightly; her eyes widened. She obviously was not prepared for this development.
“I object, your honor,” Moltke said.
“Again?” Ben replied, an eyebrow arched.
“Your honor, we’ve had no advance notice.”
“How could he?” Ben asked. “I didn’t know I needed to call her until this morning.”
“Your honor, this court should not make excuses for counsel’s sloppy preparation and eleventh-hour discovery.”
Ben stepped closer to the bench. “Judge, my client is on trial for her life. I ask for the widest possible latitude.”
Derek’s lips were pursed. “You are pressing this court’s patience to the outermost limit, counsel. The days of trial by ambush are long past.”
Ben stepped even closer to the bench and said in a soft voice the reporters couldn’t hear: “If you don’t let this witness testify, I’ll make an offer of proof on the record indicating that this witness could have exonerated my client. You’ll not only be reversed; the Tenth Circuit opinion will make you look like an idiot.”
Ben felt Derek’s eyes burning down on him. If he had any recourse against Ben whatsoever, Ben knew he’d take it. But he didn’t have any choice. “I’ll allow you to call this witness, counsel, subject to a subsequent ruling on the relevance of her testimony. But the court is mindful of the fact that this witness is the victim’s widow. You will proceed quickly to the point, and it had better be a relevant point at that. Furthermore, if you harass or mistreat this witness in any way, you will find yourself in a federal jail cell for a period of time longer than your entire previous legal career!”
“I understand, your honor.”
Derek cast his eyes into the gallery. “The defense has called Margot Lombardi.”
“As a hostile witness,” Ben added.
“Whatever.” Derek waved her to the front of the courtroom.
She rose slowly, like a wobbly pony just learning to walk. She hovered for a moment, apparently confused. The men on the end of the row slid out, allowing her to pass. She pressed past them and walked to the witness stand.
After she was sworn, Ben said, “Mrs. Lombardi, please excuse my bluntness, but the judge has instructed me to get straight to the point. What was the state of your relationship with your husband at the time of his death?”
“We…were separated.”
“In the process of becoming divorced?”
“Y-yes.”
“How did your husband treat you?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, Mrs. Lombardi, I’m referring to what you and I talked about when I visited your home. Your husband was very cruel to you, wasn’t he?”
“In…in some ways.”
“Both mentally and physically.”
Her voice became quiet, almost infinitesimal. “I suppose.”
“Did you know he was seeing other women?”
“Yes. Lennie—Tony’s assistant—told me.”
“What did you think about that?”