Courthouse (12 page)

“Are you kidding?” asked George. “I thought you said that the D.A. said they pulled the job together.”

“That's what the D.A. told the jury that convicted the Professor's client. Can you imagine what the defense counsel for the Black guy could have done with that alibi information at the trial?”

“He would have destroyed the D.A.'s whole case.”

“So there we were in court, the Professor, me, and the Black guy, ten years after he went to prison. The D.A. who originally tried the case was now a judge; a big Irishman from the old school, you know, they owned New York and what's a nigger anyway. Well, the former D.A. took the stand, as calm and bold as can be, and testified he didn't know about the alibi until after the conviction of the Black guy.”

“Did it make any difference?” asked George. “I mean, if it was discovered afterward, you'd be entitled to a new trial on newly discovered evidence. And if it was known before, you'd get a new trial because the D.A. suppressed the evidence.”

Marc laughed. “I didn't know that at the time. While the Professor was cross-examining the former D.A. on some point or other, I got a little angry. I don't know what got into me. I just started to stand and say,
Your Honor
… Needless to say, the Professor was next to me in a flash. He sat me back in my chair, then apologized to the Court for my actions. The presiding judge threatened to remove me from the counsel table if I said another word.”

“What did the Professor say afterward?” George asked, smiling at the thought.

Marc ordered another half bottle of wine. “After he got the guy his new trial,” Marc continued, “he asked if I heard the expression about a lawyer who defended himself having a fool for a client? I told him I had.”

“Well,” the Professor said, “the saying should be changed to
he who represents himself has a fool for a lawyer.”

“How come?” Marc had asked.

“Well, all clients are nervous,” the Professor continued. “That's natural. They can't make objective decisions about what should be done because their rear end is hanging on the outcome. It's hard to be objective about your own rear end.”

“What does that have to do with the old saying?” Marc had asked.

“As a client,” the Professor answered, “the lawyer is acting normally—nervous. But a nervous attorney isn't normal. He can't make the right, the incisive decisions for his client. The lawyer's the fool, not the client. And, that's what you do for your clients when you get emotional about their cases. They have a fool for a lawyer.”

“I just got steamed tonight, Professor,” Marc had said, “listening to that witness lie about what he did when he was a D.A.”

“How would it be for a doctor at the operating table to get upset about the cancer he's trying to cut out of his patient?” the Professor asked.

“He'd probably perform a poor operation.”

“Exactly,” said the Professor. “Your function is to be a lawyer, not a pal, not a sob sister. Don't you think that lying witness was getting me steamed too?”

“I don't know, it didn't show.”

“Well, let me tell you something. I defend people who can't afford a lawyer, because I see them getting chewed up in a vast machine. And it burns my ass to see it. It tears my heart up too, to see people ground into powder by uncaring, unfeeling prosecutors and judges who aren't doing anything purposely but have become callous and impersonal. Who somehow forget they're not dealing with just indictment numbers but people. Well, someone has to come along and show them that the defendant is human, his case has merit, the facts different, that this defendant shouldn't be convicted. Not with emotions, not with anger, not by fist-fighting them. With the facts, Marc. Remember that, and you'll have learned more than most law students.”

“I'll never get angry in a courtroom again, Professor,” Marc had said. And he had meant it.

“Fine,” said the Professor. “You're a good student, Marc. You're going to be a helluva lawyer.”

“Quite a guy,” admitted George as he sipped his wine. He looked at his watch. “He was right about you, Marc. You are a helluva lawyer. And you'll make a great judge. I'm going to talk to the Mayor about it. Okay?”

“Okay. You talk. I'll think.”

“Fantastic,” said Maria. “I can't wait to see you in your black robe.”

7

Sunday, August 13, 11:15
P.M.

“Good night, darling,” said Toni Wainwright, as she walked Courtnay “Sissy” Miller to the front door. Toni was petite, with short blond hair. She was dressed in a flowing caftan of crimson and pink woven with swirls of gold. Sissy was tall, dark-haired, in a long, black dress, slit rather high on one side, trimmed in rhinestones.

“Thank you, darling. The evening was sensational. As usual,” said Sissy, turning to touch cheeks with Toni, as they both made kissing noises. The butler opened the door and rang for the elevator. Toni's apartment, a co-operative on Fifth Avenue and Sixty-sixth Street, was the only apartment on the eleventh floor of the building. The elevator stopped in a small foyer.

“See you tomorrow?” Sissy asked as she stepped into the elevator.

“At ‘21' for lunch,” agreed Toni. “But not too early.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Sissy, raising her eyes to the top of the elevator.

The elevator operator stood at the controls, staring straight ahead at the inside wall of the elevator, hearing everything, but pretending not to hear at all.

“I'm sorry Zack had to leave so early,” said Sissy.

Toni was separated from her husband, Lafayette Wainwright. And pending their divorce, she was seeing a great deal of Zack Lord, a wealthy industrialist impressed by the importance of his own enterprises. Wherever Zack Lord went, there was always at least one telephone handy. Lord had left this evening's dinner party early in order to fly in his private jet to Chicago for a morning conference on the acquisition of Chicago Roller Bearings, Inc.

“Give the dear boy my love,” Sissy continued. “And don't be upset about that damned fool husband of yours. His arrival just gave the party the right touch of drama. It was marvelous!”

Toni smiled, blowing a kiss to Sissy as the elevator door slid shut. Her smile quickly evaporated as she turned back into her apartment. The butler shut the door behind her and silently moved toward the kitchen.

Toni walked into the library and over to the small bar set into the wall. She filled one of the oversized, crystal cocktail glasses with ice, then suddenly twirled and flung the glass against the far wall. It smashed, sending a shower of glass splinters and ice across the room. Her face was streaked with violent anger. The butler appeared at the door quickly, looking around. He saw Toni's face, then the shattered glass. He moved forward to begin picking up the wreckage.

“Leave the fucking thing alone,” commanded Toni. The butler stopped abruptly. He was familiar with Toni's temper. “And fix me a martini. A very dry, very large, martini.” She sat on the couch.

The butler nodded, moving toward the bar. He put ice into a fresh glass and mixed the drink.

Toni was in a fury because Lafayette Wainwright had shown up at her apartment, uninvited and unannounced. He was, as usual, drunk, and as usual when he was drunk, loud and abusive. Everyone was uncomfortable, and, although Lowell Borden, who was also at the dinner party, was able to persuade Wainwright to leave, the dinner party never really regained its balance. Toni did not agree with Sissy. As far as she was concerned, her husband had ruined the evening. She had switched from wine to martinis at dinner just to settle her nerves.

The butler handed Toni a fresh drink. He moved toward the broken glass again.

“You'd better fix me another one,” Toni said harshly, not looking at the butler. He returned to the bar and began to mix another.

“I could break that lousy bastard's skull.” Toni addressed the air. She brought her glass down hard on top of the cocktail table. The liquid slopped over the rim of the glass. Small fragments chipped away from the bottom of the heavy glass.

The butler put the second glass on the table before Toni, then moved toward the broken glass on the floor and began to pick up the pieces.

Toni downed the first drink quickly and picked up the second. The butler moved as rapidly as he could, wanting to get back into the kitchen, out of the line of fire. He knew from past experience that Mrs. Wainwright and martinis were a volatile mixture.

Toni spent about an hour sipping her drink, and muttering to herself. She was chewing the ice as she moved to her bedroom, a large room with much chrome and mirrors. She flung her clothes against every wall and into every corner, and crawled into the huge bed, naked. She was almost unconscious as she hit the pillow.

Suddenly, there was a resounding booming noise echoing through the darkness of the bedroom. First, Toni just opened her eyes, as if to do that would silence the pounding. It didn't. The noise became worse now, and louder and closer. Toni lifted her head. The lighted clock face indicated 1:05
A.M.
She was groggy. She shook her head, but it didn't clear. The pounding was incessant, booming, resounding through the room as if she were inside some giant, black, bass drum; it filled the entire room with its sound and vibration. Toni rose, quickly dashing to the doorway. At the end of a short hallway was another door leading from her bedroom suite to the rest of the apartment. Someone, something, on the other side was pounding, beating, battering that door, with fists, and kicks, and sometimes with a shoulder. The door was straining. The lamps on the tables in Toni's room were vibrating.

“Who is it? Who is it?” Toni demanded. She was becoming sober very fast.

There was no reply. Just the constant boom, booming in the dark, echoing hollowly like the portals of Hades pounded by the devil.

Toni lifted a shaking hand to her head. She felt queasy.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

Toni could hear the crunch of the wood straining. Any moment that horror on the other side of the door was going to break through and pour into the darkness of her bedroom.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

The wood was beginning to splinter now, as were Toni's nerves. She put both her hands to her head, trying to think clearly.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

A panel of the door shattered. Toni could hear someone panting and grunting, tearing at the wood fragments.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

Toni ran to the night table and grabbed for the phone. The extension button on the phone lit up, casting an eerie yellow glow to the blackness. Toni's trembling finger dialed 911, the police emergency number; she screamed for help even before the number began to ring.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

The pounding was unbearable now. Toni was shaking. She felt unbearable nausea. She held her stomach with her free hand, screaming into the phone.

The policeman on the other end was trying to calm her to get the address from her. She couldn't stop screaming. It was an echoing, disembodied voice, reverberating through the room, adding to the cacophony.

BOOM
!
BOOM
!

Her screams were now splintered by the breaking of wood, as more of the panels collapsed and came flying into the hallway. She heard someone fumbling with the key on the inside of the door. It would only be a moment now.

Toni dropped the phone, fumbling with the drawer in her night table. She felt the metal coldness of the carved-silver, pearl-handled .25 caliber automatic. She clenched the pistol in her hand and stumbled around the bed. In the jet darkness, in the dizziness of her head, she stood shakily facing the door.

Now she heard the sound of the door giving way, and a body hurtling, charging in, falling to the floor, struggling to get up. She saw a mass, a dark, bulky shadow, as her head still pounded with the noises of the door being splintered.

The shadow rose and started to move toward her. It came closer. Toni retreated. And still it came closer, panting horribly in the darkness. Toni retreated farther. The bed was now behind her legs and she could retreat no farther. The dark figure stalked the blackness, reached, toward the bed, trying to find her, moving closer. There was a tremendous explosion, a flashing of light, a scream.

“Toni, you rotten bitch,” rasped an alcoholic, pain-seared voice from the blackness. “Toni, you whore. Zack, you too.”

It was Lafayette Wainwright. Her husband. He was shot and bleeding profusely.

“Toni, you rotten bitch whore,” Wainwright coughed, gasping for breath. “Zack, you rotten bastard.”

Toni felt herself fainting, falling into a chasm of deeper, softer black. And then all was totally black, quiet, silent, tomblike.

8

Monday, August 14, 4:53
A.M.

“I realize that you pay us a substantial retainer as your lawyers, Zack.” James Cahill looked sleepily at the clock atop the night table on his wife's side of the bed. It was almost 5
A.M.
Cahill's wife, sleep wrinkles lining her left cheek, was sitting up in the bed, staring wide-eyed at Cahill. He shrugged at her. “But this is a homicide charge you say Mrs. Wainwright is facing. It's just not the kind of thing we're used to handling,” Cahill explained. “We'll have to retain a lawyer who specializes in criminal law.”

Zack Lord said something on the other end of the phone.

“We will get the best one there is. Of course, Zack, but it's only 5
A.M.
I can't get anyone now.”

Cahill shook his head, then listened.

“I do realize the police are at Mrs. Wainwright's home right now,” Cahill protested, “but …”