"The guy from the gun shop will be first. He'll testify you bought the Beretta on June thirteenth, three days before the shooting. On cross, I'll bring out that you used your own name and ID and properly registered the gun. There may be another housekeeping witness or two, but then Abe will rest, and it'll be our turn."
"What about my brother and Larry?"
"Abe doesn't need them. Probably doesn't want them either. Abe's got great instincts. If he senses those two are trouble, he won't call them."
"Are they trouble?"
"Look, even if Schein whispered in your ear that you should kill your father, you're still technically guilty. But jurors do strange things. Look at the O. J. Simpson case. A couple jurors thought he killed his ex-wife but were so offended by Mark Fuhrman that they went along with the acquittal. Part of a defense lawyer's job is to get the jury mad at somebody else."
She moved close to me. A charred crumb stuck to her pouty lower lip. "So you'll put them on the stand?"
I took her in my arms. "I'll call Schein. His tapes both help and hurt us, but I don't have a choice."
"Will it work? Will the jury get mad at somebody else?"
"Sure," I said. "Probably at me."
27
There were no surprises. Just the procession of reliable witnesses, Abe Socolow finishing his house, sanding the wood, applying a slick coat of paint and then another. Waterproof, hurricane-proof, Lassiter-proof.
At precisely 4:30 P.M., the witnesses having testified, the last of the exhibits having been identified, marked, and admitted, the judge turned to Abe Socolow and waited. The lanky prosecutor pulled himself out of his chair, dusted imaginary lint from his trousers, stood ramrod-straight, and announced crisply, "The state rests." He made it sound so triumphant, Hannibal crossing the Alps, that I half expected a corps of buglers to accompany him.
"Very well," Judge Stanger said. "We start with the defense case at nine A.M. tomorrow." He banged his gavel and sent us on our way.
The pickup truck arrived at the house just after eight P.M. with its precious cargo: my nephew, my granny, and my doc.
"Jake, I believe that gray-and-white bird in the chinaberry tree is a swift," Doc Charlie Riggs said.
"Uh-huh."
"It's too dark to see it clearly right now, but in the morning, I'll check it out."
"Sure, Charlie."
Granny hauled her wicker basket into the kitchen. A checkered cloth covered the goodies, and for some reason I thought of all those movies where the prisoner gets the gift of a pie with a file or gun inside. "Criminy, Doc! Jake's in no mood to talk about birds," Granny said, pulling a sweet-potato pie out of the basket. It was still warm, and I could smell the cinnamon, but I didn't see any trace of a weapon.
"All right, all right," Charlie said. "I just thought I'd look for the nest. It's what the Chinese use to make bird's nest soup."
"Yuck," Kip said, wrinkling his face. "That's gross." He was helping Granny put jars and bowls in the refrigerator. I caught sight of some swamp cabbage ambrosia made with hearts of palm, papayas, oranges, and coconut. If I knew Granny, there'd also be a sour-cream cake; hopping John made from rice, black-eyed peas, and salt pork; and bread pudding. Granny's idea of nouvelle cuisine is draining the fat from the bacon before wrapping it around a scamp steak.
Charlie cleared his throat. "Kippers, bird's nest soup is a rare delicacy. Swifts make their nests entirely from saliva, and if you're ever in Hong Kong, I recommend-"
"Spit!" Kip was carrying a plastic bowl of deep-fried conch fritters. "You eat soup made of bird spit?"
"Don't be squeamish, lad," Charlie said. "In some parts of the world, termite larvae are added to rice for flavoring and protein."
"Gross and double gross!"
"Caterpillar has as much protein per gram as beef, and ten times the iron. Personally, I have tried Rhynchophorous phoenicis, weevil, and found it delightful."
"I think I'm gonna hurl," Kip said.
"Not in my kitchen," I advised, then turned to my old friend, the deranged gourmet. "Charlie, if you're finished educating Kip, maybe we can talk."
"We can indeed, but not just yet. I seem to have worked up an appetite."
"You're spitting against the wind," Charlie said, and I wondered if he was still thinking of his favorite soup. We were sitting on the back porch, Charlie sipping at a mason jar of moonshine. I stuck to coffee.
"I've read and reread the autopsy report," he said, "as well as the surgeon's notes, the hospital records, and I've talked to the nurses. There's nothing to indicate Dr. Schein did anything remotely suspicious in that hospital room. The only marks on the body came from the gunshot wounds and the surgery. A heart attack caused Harry's death. You have no proof of anything else."
"Just the knowledge that Guy Bernhardt wanted his father dead and Larry Schein is Guy's errand boy."
"Why? What's the motive?"
"Harry's estate. With Chrissy convicted of murder, Guy gets it all."
Charlie shook his head and tamped some tobacco into his pipe. "If that's true, don't you think they would have kept their distance? I doubt Schein would have shown up in the hospital."
"He had to make sure Harry was dead, and if not…"
Charlie lit his pipe, and the scent of cherry tobacco mixed with jasmine from my neighbor's yard. "Do have the slightest thread of evidence that would support such an outrageous theory?"
"Evidence?" I said, as if I'd just discovered a new word. "That's your job. Mine's to spin the tale of the destruction and death of a rich man."
"Like Appointment in Samarra," Charlie said.
"What?"
"A book by John O'Hara. A wealthy man-"
"I know the book, Charlie. I have a college degree that only took five years to earn." I stared off into space before saying aloud, "Appointment."
"What?"
"You're a genius, Charlie."
He grumbled some disclaimer, then said, "What is it, Jake?"
"Harry had an appointment."
"Hmmm?"
"Appointment at Paranoia, Charlie."
You bait different hooks in a trial. And sometimes the lines get tangled. You can say to a jury that dirty cops engaged in an elaborate conspiracy to frame your saintly client, a handsome former running back accused of butchering his wife and her friend. And you can also say that the cops are so woefully incompetent that they can't put the right labels on their little bags of evidence or keep souvenir hunters out of impounded vehicles. It's not my client's blood, but if it is, it was planted, and if it wasn't planted, he cut himself a week earlier when he was carving turkeys for the poor.
To laymen, those poor souls deprived of legal training, the strategy seems contradictory. But to those of us trained in the fine arts of pettifoggery, hairsplitting, and wordplay, it all makes sense. In the first semester of law school, we learn contracts. A man lends a pot to another. When it is returned, it is cracked. The first man sues. The second answers the complaint in the time-honored fashion: I never borrowed the pot, but if I did, it was cracked when I borrowed it.
In Chrissy's case, I wanted to prove that she had been programmed to kill. My Manchurian Candidate defense, Kip called it. Chrissy was the guided missile, programmed by the manipulative shrink, launched by the avaricious half brother. At least, that's how I imagined my closing argument, if only I had the evidence.
At the same time, there were the fainting spells. Instead of a hypnotized zombie, Chrissy was an ill young woman who had been semiconscious, and hence without criminal intent, when she shot her father. Not as sexy a theory, maybe, but probably easier for the jury to swallow. In my lawyerly fashion, however, I tried to have it both ways.
Dr. Robert Rosen was my first witness. He smiled warmly at Chrissy and turned to the jury with professional ease and a bit of charm. Doctors are the best witnesses and the worst. When I had prepared Rosen's testimony, Kip was with me in the conference room. The doctor had been blathering on about "classic neuro-cardiogenic syncope."