Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (15 page)

Mason didn’t know whether he should drop to one knee, take her hand in his, and promise to avenge her honor, or twist her arm until she agreed to take a polygraph test.

“That doesn’t explain last night.”

Beth took another deep breath and sat up straighter. “No, it doesn’t. I was at the grocery and this huge man comes walking down the aisle and dropped an envelope in my cart. I thought it was an accident. Then I saw my name on the envelope. There was an invitation to the party inside and a copy of one of the pictures and a note that said Mr. Fiora looks forward to seeing me at the party. So I went.”

“Did you keep the invitation and the picture?”

“No. I almost got sick right there in the grocery store. I burned them when I got home.”

“What happened when you got to the party?”

“Fiora’s moose found me. God only knows how in that crowd. Fiora told me where to find you.”

“And the rest?”

Beth rose from the sofa and walked to the floor-length windows at the front of the room, her hands balled into fists. She banged them against the glass, pressed harder, and turned to face Mason.

“The little prick told me that since I liked being in pictures so much, he wanted to get some of you and me together. He told me to go find you and use my imagination. He said he’d be watching.”

Mason thought about their embrace, her kiss, and his rejection of her. “What did you do after you left me out on the prow?”

“I got out of there as fast as I could, came home, and got drunk.”

He stared at her, hoping to peel through the layers she was wrapped in and find something or someone he could believe.

“Right after you left, someone tried to shoot me. I had to jump into the river to get away. I got shot anyway and nearly drowned.”

Beth’s hands fluttered to her mouth and she let out a long, low moan as she slid into a heap on the floor. He reached for her and she pulled him toward her.

“Lou, you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t know. It wasn’t me. I’m begging you to help me. Get those pictures for me. I want my life back.”

They stayed that way for a time, neither of them saying anything. Mason left without making a promise he didn’t know whether he could keep.

On Wednesday morning Leonard Campbell swept into Judge Pistone’s courtroom for the start of the preliminary hearing as if it were the Oscars, stopping every few feet so that the press could take his picture, giving each reporter and photographer a hearty smile and a thumbs-up. He plopped his briefcase on the prosecutor’s counsel table, pulled out an empty legal pad, and surveyed the courtroom like a commanding general, shooting his cuffs and snapping off a crisp nod to the press corps.

Patrick Ortiz arrived a few moments later, along with two assistants, one of whom pushed a two-wheel handcart loaded with bankers’ boxes. The other assistant carried two-foot-by-three-foot enlargements of photographs of the murder scene and the victim, the autopsy report, and the results of the tests conducted by the forensics lab. They ignored Campbell and the media, emptying their boxes and setting up the files and exhibits they would use throughout the preliminary hearing.

Court was scheduled to begin at nine o’clock. Mason spent the previous hour locked in a cramped, windowless witness room, little bigger than a walk-in closet, telling Blues about Tony Manzerio, Ed Fiora, and his New Year’s Eve swim. Blues was wearing the one suit he owned. Brown, worn at the elbows, and too tight across his shoulders, it was still a step up from a jailhouse jumpsuit.

“I should have told you about Fiora sooner, but I was afraid you’d try and break out of jail just so you could kick his ass,” Mason told him.

“I might have done that. I think you were more worried that I’d take the deal to save your bony white butt.”

Mason scribbled a bad sketch of the prow of the Dream Casino and laughed. “Yeah, I suppose that’s right.”

“Well, guess what? I’m not taking a fall for you or anybody else, and you know that. So why are you telling me now?”

“You understand street-war strategy better than I do. That’s what this is. The trial may only be a side skirmish. I need your help tying all this together. I can’t do my job if I keep you in the dark.”

“In that case, get me bailed out of here. I can’t do either one of us any good inside.”

Mason said, “Pistone is going to bind you over and deny bail again. Our best chance is with the circuit court judge we draw for the trial. In the meantime, I’ll try to find you a new suit.”

Mason opened the door, and two beefy deputies on the Dunkin’ Donuts diet plan approached Blues to escort him to the courtroom. Blues dropped his right shoulder and gave them a head fake like a running back looking for a seam, cackling when they grabbed for their guns and then blushed like schoolkids when they realized he was pimping them.

“Careful, now, boys. I’m a dangerous man,” Blues said, sticking the needle in a little deeper.

One deputy cursed under his breath and the other nodded in vigorous agreement. A third officer joined them, and the three of them huddled outside the room while Mason and Blues waited. The largest of the three deputies stepped into the room, flanked by his comrades.

“We’re gonna let your little joke go this time, big man. Don’t fuck with us again or it’s gonna be a rough ride back up in the elevator. Got me?”

“Lighten up, Deputy,” Mason said. “He was yanking your chain and you just threatened him in front of his lawyer. That elevator gets stuck and you’ll be on the other end of a civil rights charge faster than you can sing ‘We Shall Overcome.’ Got me?”

The deputy turned on Mason, his hand on his nightstick. “You tell your client we don’t play games here.”

Mason looked at Blues. “No games or they’ll put you in time-out.”

The deputies shepherded Blues through a side door into the courtroom. Mason followed, glad to have avoided the press. Blues took a seat at the defendant’s table, the deputies occupying the row of chairs directly behind him.

Mason sat next to Blues, his chair covered in worn vinyl and thin padding. It swiveled and rocked, but Mason couldn’t get comfortable.

The judge’s bailiff, a stern-faced, middle-aged black woman, entered the courtroom through the door to the judge’s chambers.

“Judge Pistone says that if he sees a camera in the courtroom, he’ll add it to his collection. Pregame festivities are over. All rise! Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! The Associate Circuit Court of the Sixteenth Judicial District is now in session before the Honorable Joseph Pistone. All persons having business before this court draw nigh and pay attention. Court is now in session.”

Everyone stood as Judge Pistone shuffled up the two steps to his seat behind the bench, elevated above the masses to remind them of the power of the court. They all waited for his permission to sit down. Without looking up, he offered a dismissive wave.

“Be seated.”

Mason glanced around the courtroom as the door opened from the hallway. Harry Ryman and Carl Zimmerman slipped inside and leaned against the rear wall. Harry and Lou looked at each other, both trying not to reveal anything. Harry tipped his head at Lou, who responded with the same sparse gesture.

Mason found Rachel standing in the corner on the opposite side of the back wall from Harry and Zimmerman. They exchanged winks and smiles, comforting gestures, while the judge recited the name of the case and his instruction for the attorneys to state their appearances.

Leonard Campbell rose from his chair, buttoned his suit coat, and stepped to the podium in the center of the courtroom.

“The people of the state of Missouri are represented by Leonard Campbell, prosecuting attorney, and Patrick Ortiz, deputy chief prosecuting attorney. We are ready to proceed at the court’s pleasure, Your Honor.”

Campbell turned on one heel, struck a confident, serious pose for the crowd, and resumed his seat. Patrick Ortiz hated showboats and adopted Judge Pistone’s head-down posture, pleased that the next time Campbell got up it would be to go to the bathroom.

Judge Pistone raised his eyes at Mason, who stood.

“Lou Mason for the defendant. We’re ready. I’ve got a preliminary matter that I’d like to take up before we get started.”

“Proceed.”

“There are a lot of people in the courtroom, Your Honor. Some of them may be witnesses. I recognize Detectives Ryman and Zimmerman, who investigated this murder, and there may be some others. I’d like to invoke the rule that prohibits a witness from being in the courtroom prior to testifying.”

“Mr. Campbell?” Judge Pistone asked.

Patrick Ortiz rose in Campbell’s place. “We’ve got all our witnesses sequestered except for Detective Zimmerman. He’s our first witness, and I guess he’s just a little anxious to get started.”

Ortiz’s explanation drew soft laughter from the packed house, establishing his usual easygoing connection to his audience. There was no jury in a preliminary hearing. Only the judge would make the decision whether to bind Blues over for trial. Ortiz didn’t need all the boxes or the blowups to make his case for Judge Pistone. He understood that the reporters in the courtroom would tell everyone who read a paper, listened to the radio, or watched television how overwhelming the state’s evidence was. That message would reverberate with the people who would become the jurors who would decide this case. He also knew that Mason would pay close attention, gauging the gamble between trial and plea bargain, between a crapshoot for freedom and a date with a deadly needle.

“What about Detective Ryman?” the judge asked.

“We don’t intend to call Detective Ryman to testify. I don’t know what Mr. Mason’s plans are.”

Mason was surprised at Ortiz’s decision to keep Harry off the stand. He wondered if Harry had asked to take a pass to avoid a confrontation with him, or whether it had been Ortiz’s idea. Either way, Mason knew Harry wouldn’t help his defense of Blues.

Mason said, “I don’t intend to call Detective Ryman and I have no objection to his presence in the courtroom.”

“Very well, Counsel. The rule is hereby invoked. No witness will be permitted in the courtroom until after he or she has testified. I expect the lawyers to enforce the rule by keeping a close eye on who comes and goes. Don’t expect me to take roll. If you let somebody slip in, it’s on you. Any opening statement, Mr. Ortiz?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Even though this is a pretty cut-and-dried case, I’d like to put the evidence in context for the court and let you know who you are going to be hearing from.”

Mason was glad that the state had the burden to prove its case. He understood that was why the prosecutor got to go first at every stage of the preliminary hearing and trial—first to make an opening statement, first to put on witnesses, first to make a closing argument. But Mason couldn’t stand going second. Sitting on his hands while Patrick Ortiz did his this-defendant-is-so-guilty-why-bother-with-the-trial routine was worse than having a tooth pulled slowly.

“How about you, Mr. Mason?”

“Your Honor, I’m certain that Mr. Ortiz believes that all of his cases are cut-and-dried, that the police only arrest the guilty, and that we could save a lot of tax dollars if we just skipped all this trial stuff. Fortunately, the Founding Fathers decided not to leave it up to Mr. Ortiz, or me or you, to decide innocence or guilt in this case. The jury will make that decision. I’ll save my opening statement for the trial.”

Mason didn’t want to admit that he had nothing to say at this point in the case except that the prosecuting attorney was taking orders from Ed Fiora to offer Blues a plea bargain. He could add that Amy White wanted Mason to find Jack Cullan’s secret file on the mayor even though she assured him that it had nothing to do with the murder. He might mention that someone had tried to kill him after he refused to play ball with Ed Fiora. He could describe how Fiora had blackmailed Beth Harrell into trying to seduce him and that she had asked Mason to get back the blackmailer’s blackmail so she could seduce him, for her own reasons. None of which, he would have to admit to Judge Pistone, he could prove any more than he could prove that Blues was innocent. So instead, Mason took a shot at Ortiz’s understated arrogance and sat down.

“I would suggest that both counsels save their editorial comments for the press, except I’m imposing a gag order. No one connected with this case will discuss it in public outside of this courtroom. When we’re done here, this case is going to be assigned to a circuit court judge. I don’t want the first motion filed by the defendant to be one moving the case out of the county because there’s been so much publicity the defendant can’t get a fair trial. Now, let’s get to it. Mr. Ortiz, you may begin.”

“Excuse me, Your Honor,” Mason interrupted. He stood, hands raised, underscoring his regret at delaying the proceedings again. “I’m certain you didn’t intend to prejudge this case, but your comments suggest that you’ve already decided to bind the defendant over for trial. If that’s so, I’m compelled to ask that this case be reassigned to another court.”

Judge Pistone glared at Mason. “The last time you were before me, Mr. Mason, you practically accused me of being pressured to deny your client bail. I invited you to prove such and you declined. Now you are suggesting that I have prejudged the case against your client. Tell me? Is it your desire to be held in contempt by this court? If you are, I shall be happy to oblige you.”

“Not at all, Your Honor. I’m certain that you misspoke when you said that this case was going to be assigned to a circuit court judge. That will only happen if you bind the defendant over for trial. You can’t know until you hear the evidence whether you will make that decision. I didn’t want to leave that impression on the record without bringing it to the court’s attention. Perhaps you’d like the court reporter to read back your comment.”