“Like some sort of Lone Ranger riding the range, trying to lend a hand.”
“And succeeding, my boy. Succeeding.”
“Like he succeeded with Lisa Dubé?”
“He did what he could.”
“He killed her, Whit.”
“Oh, no, he did not. You’re being silly now. His whole life is about helping others. He’s not a murderer. He’s a lifesaver, if anything.”
“He killed her.”
“Stop it, now. You are upset, you haven’t thought this through. Listen to me, my boy. I know you don’t trust me as you used to. I understand that. Divided loyalties. But if ever you did trust what I said, then trust this: He didn’t kill that woman.”
“Who did?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Even if I believed you, Whit, I still have an obligation to my client.”
“Save your client without bringing him into it.”
“But the only way I can see to save my client is to use him to at least create reasonable doubt.”
“Think about it, Victor. Examine all your options. You are endangering more than you know. Not just him, but his mission, too, and that he can’t allow. He can be a wonderful friend, as he has shown, but he can also be a most dangerous foe.”
“I don’t know about that. A few false ads, a few late-night calls. I can handle it.”
“Oh, Victor, my boy. Don’t underestimate him. Our mutual friend is just clearing his throat.”
64
I liked the image, Mia Dalton swaying on a hammock in a soft breeze, eyes closed, an umbrella drink in her hand and a rumba playing softly on the radio.
“The prosecution rests,” she said.
“I could use a little rest myself,” I mumbled to Beth.
“Did you say something, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.
Why did I feel like I was back in fifth grade? “No, sir.”
“Do you have witnesses to present?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Let’s have the jury take a break while we go over some legal matters, and then you can begin your case.”
“All rise,” shouted the bailiff. We all rose. The key for a defense attorney as jurors file out of the courtroom is to maintain your air of benign confidence until the door closes behind them. Then all bets are off, and you can sink back into your seat with a despondent expression of utter defeat.
Beth made the usual motions to dismiss, raised the usual arguments, accepted stoically the usual denials.
“Anything else I can reject?” said the judge.
“My credit card was refused last week,” said Beth, “so I suppose that’s about it.”
“Fine,” said the judge. “Twenty minutes, folks,” and we rose once again when he made his way off the bench.
“That went well,” said Beth.
“About as well as could be expected,” I said as I stood at the table. “Dalton’s case was pretty thorough.”
“Are we ready for our defense?”
“I think so,” I said, but just as I said it, Beth’s eyes grew large and I felt a lurking presence behind me. I winced even before I turned around.
Torricelli.
“His name’s Pfeffer,” said Torricelli. “Robert Pfeffer.”
“How’d you find him?”
“One of the victim’s friends told us. A Mrs. Winterhurst. Turns out she was the one who recommended him to Leesa in the first place. So after we got the name, we swung by his office. Nice little guy. And he seems to know what he’s doing. I had a dental question that he answered quite thoroughly.”
“You make an appointment?”
“As a matter of fact. He seems quite competent, and I heard he has gentle hands. Of course, it turns out he also has an alibi for the night of the murder.”
“Of course he does,” I said. “You check it out?”
“It holds,” he said. “He was with someone the entire night.”
“Dr. Bob, that dog,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would have figured? You mind telling me whom he was with?”
“Confidentiality prohibits it, but let’s just say he had his hands full.”
“Got you.” Tilda. Oof.
“So that’s that, right?” said Torricelli.
“I suppose.”
“And we can forgo all the dental crap in this trial?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Carl, you know what you are? Vexing. You are one vexing son of a bitch.”
“Thank you, Detective. Can I make one suggestion?”
“Go ahead.”
“Before you sit in Dr. Pfeffer’s chair, you might want to check out his diploma. There’s a little smudge where his name is. Turns out he wasn’t born a Pfeffer. Before you let him reach into your mouth, I suggest you find out why he changed his name.”
I might beweep a bit too much my outcast state, but there are admitted joys in this job. Chief among them is cashing a retainer check. I also like cross-examining fools, reading deposition transcripts – that’s a little sick, I know, but there it is – and instructing my secretary to hold all calls. I especially like the way people recoil when I tell them I’m a lawyer. Try it sometime at a party or on the street, tell someone you’re a lawyer and watch as they dance away. It almost makes me want to sign up to work for the IRS. And it was a joy just then, let me tell you, when I told Detective Torricelli that his new dentist, Dr. Pfeffer, had doctored his diploma and changed his name for some unknown reason, and then watched as Torricelli’s eyes boggled and he nervously rubbed his tongue across his teeth.
“Call your first witness, Mr. Carl,” said the judge.
“Your Honor, the defense calls Arthur Gullicksen.”
Arthur Gullicksen approached the stand wearing an expensive gray suit, black loafers with tassels, and a fine head of gray hair sleeked neatly back. In fact, sleek was exactly the word for him, his trim figure, his polished nails and sharp teeth, the way his face came to a razor’s edge at the front. You might remember the name Gullicksen, he was Leesa Dubé’s divorce attorney, whom we had tried to keep off the stand during the prosecution’s case. Now he was our first witness. Funny how things change. To see Gullicksen in the flesh was to open once again the eternal debate of nature versus nurture. Are lawyers that look like Gullicksen attracted to matrimonial law, or is it the job itself that turns them into such repulsive specimens?
As Gullicksen sat on the witness stand, he pulled out his cuffs, smoothed his jacket sleeves, adjusted his tie so it sat neatly between the points of his collar. His yellow tie. The very same tie I now was wearing. Would the humiliation over my neckwear never cease?
“Thank you for coming back, Mr. Gullicksen. I have only a few questions. You testified before that you were Mrs. Dubé’s divorce attorney, is that right?”
“That’s correct,” he said while examining his manicure.
“How was it going?”
“Excuse me?”
“The case. From the pleadings you put into evidence in your prior testimony, it is apparent that you and Mrs. Dubé were fighting for custody of the daughter, you were fighting for a lion’s share of the matrimonial assets, including a piece of François Dubé’s restaurant, and you were fighting for a substantial amount in child support and alimony.”
“We were only seeking what she was entitled to.”
“Fine, we’re not going to dispute any of that here. But what I want to know, Mr. Gullicksen, is how was your case proceeding? Did it look like you were going to be successful on all those requests?”
“It is hard to say.”
“Try, Mr. Gullicksen. Let’s take the child-custody issue. You alleged physical abuse of Mrs. Dubé and Amber Dubé at the hands of the defendant. What kind of evidence did you have for that?”
“Leesa Dubé was prepared to testify.”