“Ever alone or with friends?”
“No.”
“Were you aware when they were separated?”
“François had his own restaurant then. In this business we all gossip about one another, so yes, I heard.”
“Did Leesa ever come into your club after the separation?”
“No.”
Like a slap.
“Never met any man at your club after the separation?”
“Not that I ever knew of, no.”
Like a crisp slap about my head.
“Did you ever tell anyone any different?”
“Yes. I told-”
“Objection,” I said, none too calmly.
“Grounds, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.
Because he’s lying, Judge. Because he’s crapping in my hat out of high-school spite. Because Dalton is playing dirty. Because the whole thing is pissing me off. Because I feel like I’ve been slapped. This is what I wanted to say, but a trial is run on the rules of evidence, and none of those extraordinarily valid reasons fit within the rules. So instead I sort of croaked out some boilerplate nonsense about relevance and hearsay and such.
“Your Honor,” said Dalton, with the calm of a woman who had figured this all out the night before, as opposed to yours truly, who was winging it badly, “Mr. Carl, in his opening, introduced the possibility of Leesa’s having met another man. Mr. Carl claimed that this man is the true murderer, and he has continued implying such in his examinations. We are entitled, in our case in chief, to refute the proposition that Mrs. Dubé was ever involved with another man during her separation. Mr. Sonenshein is testifying that Leesa Dubé didn’t meet any such man at his club, the place where she had gallivanted as a single woman and where she had met the defendant. Mr. Sonenshein made a statement inconsistent to his current testimony. In the interest of full disclosure, and so that the jury won’t think we are hiding something, we are allowed, by the rules of evidence, to let him testify about that prior inconsistent statement.”
“I think she is allowed that, Mr. Carl. Objection overruled.”
“But, Judge,” I stammered.
“Overruled.
“Exception.”
“Noted. Now sit down, Mr. Carl, so Ms. Dalton can finish this.”
I sat. Dalton slipped me that sly smile once more, and then she continued.
“Did you ever tell anyone, Mr. Sonenshein,” said Dalton, “that Leesa Dubé actually did meet a man at your club after her separation, some violent motorcycle rider named Clem?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Whom did you tell?”
“Mr. Carl and Ms. Derringer over at the defense table.”
“And was what you told them the truth?”
“No. It was a lie.”
“There is no Clem?”
“No.”
“He’s completely make-believe?”
“Like Mickey Mouse, without the ears.”
“Why would you do that? Why would you lie to Mr. Carl and Ms. Derringer?”
“Other than for the fun of it?” said Sonenshein. “I did it as a favor for a friend of Leesa’s.”
“What friend?”
“Velma. That Velma Wykowski I mentioned before, who is married and now called Velma Takahashi.”
“She asked you to lie.”
“Yes.”
“And so you did.”
“Right.”
“But you’re not lying now.”
“Now I’m under oath.”
“One more thing, Mr. Sonenshein,” said Dalton. “You are currently under criminal investigation by our office, is that right?”
“So I’ve been told.”
“For fraud and embezzlement and tax evasion, all involving your restaurant, is that right?”
“I’m not admitting to anything, but that’s what I’ve been told.”
“And the purchase of certain illegal narcotics.”
“So you guys say.”
“And you volunteered this information why?”
“I hope it helps resolve my situation.”
“Any promises from our office?”
“None, even though I tried to get them. But I’m a hopeful guy, and so I’m hoping.”
“Hoping what, Mr. Sonenshein?”
“That the truth will keep me free.”
“No further questions,” said Dalton. “I pass the witness.”
She passed the witness, sort of like a soldier passing a live grenade. Hold this a minute, will you, pal? François looked sick at the end of the table. Beth was furious. I leaned over and asked her what she thought.
“He’s lying,” she said. “He’s full of crap and he’s lying. Lying through his teeth.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“You have no choice,” she said. “Go after the bastard. Screw him to the wall. You sure have enough to work with.”
And she was right about that. There was the lying, the criminal investigation, the currying of favor with the prosecution, his general all-purpose sleaziness. It wouldn’t be hard to split his festering carcass on the stand. I had the material, I had the wherewithal, and believe you me, there was nothing I wanted more. I had been waiting for this opportunity since high school. Destroying him would be as easy as stomping on a roach, and twice as much fun. I stood and stepped to the lectern and stepped back and stepped forward again. I was like a shark getting ready to attack. My blood was up, chum was in the water, an old high-school chum. I was ready.
But there was something in Dalton’s smile, something in the unconcern with which Sonenshein sat in the witness stand, something about what the bartender at his club had said, something about a flower in a vase.
I shook my head and tried to dismiss it all. He was there, on the stand, with a bull’s-eye on his chest. Impossible to resist. I leaned forward, pointed my finger, opened my mouth and…
And it came to me again. The image of a single flower in a narrow vase.
I couldn’t place it, the image. I turned my head, looked again at Dalton. She was watching me with more than her usual interest, she was watching me as if I were some sort of specious jewel that she was trying to appraise. And I remembered the wink she gave me after my closing, the wink that had sent chills down my spine.
“Mr. Carl?” said Judge Armstrong. “We’re waiting.”
I nodded, leaned forward on the lectern, tapped it once, twice, turned once more to look at Dalton and then at Beth, her face twisted in anticipation, and at François, his own face creased with worry. They were waiting for me. They were all waiting for me, waiting for me to rush forward and tear this bastard apart.
“Mr. Carl?” said the judge.
“Your Honor,” I said, biting my cheek in frustration all the while, “the defense has no questions for this witness.”
55
I was in my car, driving and stewing, accompanied by the raging of my anger. I had been lied to, I had been used and abused, I had been manipulated like a monkey. It had all been a fabrication, the whole violent affair between a dead woman and a mysterious motorcycle maniac named Clem, a figment of one person’s twisted imagination.
And I had bought it.
That’s what got to me the worst, not that I had been lied to – I’m a lawyer, everybody lies to me; lying to the lawyers is the true national pastime, as American as baseball and cheating on your wife – but that I hadn’t sussed out the lie. And it’s not like there weren’t enough clues. The overly dramatic visits to the grave site by Velma Takahashi. The way I forced the story of Clem out of that bastard Sonenshein with my way-too-clever threat of Japanese gangsters. The manner of Velma Takahashi, going through the motions during our confrontation about the mystery man. And what had she said of him? He is nothing. He’s nowhere. He’s a phantom.
Sometimes I almost think I’m clever, and then reality spits a glob of humiliation in my face.
I realized it all while staring at Jerry Sonenshein on the witness stand. And still I thought of going after him, of showing him to be a liar and continuing with the Clem defense. The believable lie is often the best approach in court. Where would lawyers be if all we had to work with was the truth? But the strange image that kept coming back to me, the image of the flower in the vase, convinced me otherwise. Even one question to that bastard would have been one question too many. So I declined our cross-examination. And as the spectators let out a collective gasp, I stormed out of the courtroom without another word, leaving it for Beth to clean up the mess.