She considered her answer for an extended period of time. “Not very much,” she said finally.
Ben closed his trial notebook and took a step away from the podium. His notes couldn’t help him now. “Mrs. Lombardi, what were you doing the night your husband was killed?”
“I was at home.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“No, I was alone. I told you that before.”
“So you have no witnesses?”
Her fingers were locked together; her arms were pressed tightly to her body. “I suppose not.”
“Mrs. Lombardi, you weren’t home all night, were you?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something that’s been nagging at the back of my brain, Mrs. Lombardi, but I didn’t fully realize what it was until this morning. When I first talked to Spud about you, the day after your husband died, he described you as a blonde. But now, as the jury can see, your hair is black—just like Mr. DeCarlo’s. Have you dyed it?”
“That’s…rather personal.”
“Mrs. Lombardi, don’t make me yank out a strand and show the jury the roots.”
Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “So I dyed my hair. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her hair color.”
“And, I imagine, her hairstyle as well,” Ben said. “Tell me, Mrs. Lombardi, have you ever worn your hair in a ponytail?”
Ben felt the activity behind him, the furious notetaking, the quiet whispers.
“I guess. Once or twice.”
“And I know you have a pair of dark sunglasses. I saw you wearing them in the courtroom yesterday.”
“I hardly see how that proves—”
“And how about a black muffler, Mrs. Lombardi? And a white overcoat. Do you have those, too?”
Her face was becoming blotchy, even more so than before. “Let me ask you again, Mrs. Lombardi. You didn’t stay home the entire night your husband was killed, did you?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Isn’t it true you went to your husband’s apartment that night, after altering your appearance sufficiently to fool a nearsighted, blurry-eyed, drunken doorman?”
Tears welled up in her eyes. She moved her mouth wordlessly.
“Isn’t it true the doorman let you up to your husband’s apartment?”
More movement, no words. The tears streamed down her face.
Ben looked away. He couldn’t let it get to him. He had to press forward. “Isn’t it true you let yourself in and found another woman, Christina McCall, in the apartment with your husband?”
“I-I—oh God, no…”
Ben heard the sound of an objection somewhere in the background, and some sharp words from the judge. It didn’t matter.
“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Lombardi?” Ben shouted. “Isn’t that exactly what you did?”
“I—no, I—”
“Mrs. Lombardi, isn’t it true you took your husband’s gun and shot him in the head?”
“Oh God, God!” she wailed. Her voice was a shriek, a sick, desperate cry.
“Isn’t it true, Mrs. Lombardi? That you shot your husband?”
“Oh my God,” she cried. Her voice was hoarse, broken. “Oh God—yes…It’s true.”
41
DEREK BANGED HIS GAVEL, futilely attempting to reassert his control. Almost as one body, the front rows of the gallery raced toward the back door, each reporter hoping to be the first to call in the story. The running, yelling, talking, and crying drowned out the impotent banging of Derek’s gavel.
Margot’s head drooped forward, her face in her hands.
“I repeat, objection, your honor!” It was Moltke, running up to the bench where he could be heard.
“A bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Ben asked.
“Your honor, I see no reason to put this poor widow through further ordeal—”
Ben interrupted him. “Are you ready to dismiss the charges against my client?”
“I—why—” Moltke looked sideways toward the gallery, his remaining audience. “Well, I don’t know.…I think that’s premature. Perhaps we could just recess and let everyone take a minute to regroup.”
“No way,” Ben said. “If you’re dismissing the charges, fine. Otherwise, I’m continuing my examination now, before you can get to her.”
“Your honor,” Moltke said, “I think the most charitable course of action would be to allow Mrs. Lombardi a chance to clear her head—”
“Sorry,” Derek said. “Much as it grieves me to do so, I agree with Mr. Kincaid. Either you dismiss or the trial goes on.”
Moltke looked imploringly at Derek, then back at the gallery. “I can’t do that,” he said. He slowly retreated to his table.
Ben returned to the podium and continued his examination. “Mrs. Lombardi, I’m sorry to press you, but if you’re able, we need to continue.”
Margot brushed the tears from her eyes and face. She seemed to have collected herself somewhat. “I know,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Mrs. Lombardi, would you tell the jury why you went to your husband’s apartment that night?”
“I—” She coughed, cleared her throat. “I told you before Tony called me the night he died, desperate, begging for money. I didn’t have nearly enough. But I wanted to comfort him, to help him any way I could. I asked if I could come over to see him.” Her face clouded over. “But he said no. He said he was expecting someone. And I knew what that meant.” She pulled her head erect. “You see, I still foolishly hoped Tony and I might get back together.”
Ben was stunned. After all the beatings, the cruelty, and the humiliation, she still wanted him back. “And you feared his relationship with Christina would prevent any reconciliation between the two of you.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Of course, I realized his feelings for me”—her voice dropped—“or lack thereof, would never change. But if he was going to have someone female around, for whatever reason, why shouldn’t it be me? I was his wife, after all.”
“And you intentionally disguised yourself.”
“I didn’t want anyone to recognize me. I knew Spud had been instructed by Tony not to admit me under any circumstances. So I made Spud think I was someone else. I knew it wouldn’t take much to disguise myself. Spud could barely see over his desk and everyone knew he had a, well, predilection for the bottle. I chose Mr. DeCarlo because his trademark apparel was well-known, and I thought Spud was very unlikely to give him any trouble. And I was right. Spud didn’t say a word to me.”
“And you were willing to let DeCarlo be blamed for the murder?”
“Well, of course, at that time I didn’t know…”
“I see. Please continue. What did you do after Spud let you up the elevator?”
“I went to Tony’s apartment and knocked on the door. There was no answer, so I let myself in. I found your client sound asleep in the living room chair. I assumed she was dead drunk.”
“And that’s when you shot him? Because you found him alone with Christina?”
Margot frowned; her eyebrows knitted together. “You just don’t get it, do you, Mr. Kincaid? He was already dead.”
Ben felt as if his head might explode—too much blood to the brain. “But you said—I don’t understand—”
“Don’t you see? He killed himself. Shot himself in the head. I told you before he had a fear of going to prison. Absolutely pathological. Apparently he’d gotten some inside information, found out about the FBI net closing in around him. What’s more, someone was demanding money from him and threatening to get him into trouble with DeCarlo if he didn’t pay. Tony saw no way out. So he killed himself.”