Charlie nodded his approval. "Let's take inventory," he said while spooning minced onions into a mixture that now included chili sauce, hot peppers, plus a secret ingredient I hoped didn't come from the building with walk-in coolers on Bob Hope Road. "You proved your client really is a victim, first of her brother, then her psychiatrist. That'll win sympathy from the jury, but where are you legally?"
"Simple. The evidence is that that Chrissy was defrauded into forming an intent to kill her father. She killed someone who didn't exist."
"Sounds like manslaughter to me," Charlie said.
I drained the Grolsch and looked in the fridge for one of its brothers. "Socolow thinks so, too. On my way out of the courtroom, he offered me a plea. Eight years. Says he'll go below double digits 'cause we're such old friends."
"Which means she'd be out in six years and a few months with gain time," Charlie said, dipping a finger into his cocktail sauce, then tasting it. "Mmmm. So much better than tired old catsup and horseradish."
"I turned it down."
Charlie raised his bushy eyebrows.
"I can win, Charlie. I can win this case."
"Manslaughter's a win. You said it yourself. She killed a man. Regardless whether she was tricked into believing he had raped her, she killed him. The jury will have to find her guilty of something, and manslaughter's a lot better than first- or second-degree murder."
"They like her, Charlie. I can feel it. You're getting too hung up on the law, on technicalities. They're looking for a reason to acquit. I can feel their emotion."
"Theirs," Charlie asked, "or yours?"
This time, Dr. Lawrence Schein was ready. Pale, baggy-eyed, and haggard, but ready. He had brought a lawyer, who sat in the first row of the gallery. I liked that. This isn't Los Angeles, where everybody from Rosa Lopez to Kato Kaelin (whose English isn't as good as Rosa's) brings a lawyer, an agent, and a publicist to court. Jurors, blessed with common sense, distrust anyone who needs a mouthpiece. I planned to hang a neon sign on the lawyer at the first opportunity.
Schein took long pauses, weighing each question before answering, his eyes flicking to Jonas Blackwell, an aging medical malpractice defense lawyer who knew his way around a courtroom.
"You understand that my client has repudiated your conclusion that she was sexually abused by her father?" I asked.
"It was not my conclusion, it was hers," Schein said smugly.
"Under drug-induced hypnosis?"
"If you want to call it that."
"And suggestive questioning by you, Doctor?"
"I wouldn't characterize it that way. But I will concede this. Recovered-memory therapy is as much an art as a science. I quite correctly diagnosed your client as having been raped as a child."
"Unfortunately, you nailed the wrong perpetrator."
"Had I been right, we'd likely be here to discuss the murder of Guy Bernhardt," Schein fired back.
Ouch. A finely scripted answer, the handiwork of Jonas Blackwell, I was sure. I could have objected and moved to strike the nonresponsive answer, but that would have simply underlined it. Instead, I plowed ahead.
"Prior to yesterday's testimony, did you have any idea that Guy Bernhardt was the person guilty of raping Chrissy?"
"No, of course not."
"You find it hard to believe, even now, that your friend Guy is a rapist, don't you?"
"I believe the testimony is credible, but yes, it comes as a complete shock."
"Whereas you had no trouble believing that Harry Bernhardt, a man you hated, was guilty?"
"I thought he was guilty. Apparently I was wrong."
"When Chrissy was in your care, did Guy Bernhardt ever tell you he suspected his father of abusing Chrissy?"
He hesitated. "No."
Of course not. He'd already testified he hadn't discussed the therapy with Guy. He couldn't contradict that lie by telling the truth now.
"Who's that you're looking at?" I said, my voice just a notch below a holler.
"What?" Startled now.
"There, in the front row, the man in the suit taking notes." I pointed toward Jonas Blackwell as if he were a purse snatcher.
"That's my lawyer," he said softly.
"A law-yer!" Making it sound like a loathsome disease. "If you've sworn to tell the truth, why do you need a lawyer?"
"Objection, argumentative," Socolow said.
"Sustained," the judge said. "Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that." He turned toward the jury. "A witness is entitled to have a lawyer present in court, and you are not to infer anything regarding the witness's credibility from the fact that he does have a lawyer."
No problem. I'd already made my point.
"At any rate, Doctor, you now acknowledge that Chrissy Bernhardt was not raped by her father?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"But last June, you believed he was the worst kind of criminal, a man who would rape his own child."
"Yes, I believed that."
"Just as you believed he was responsible for the death of his wife, Emily, the woman you loved?"
Schein blinked. "Yes, he destroyed her life. Your client would agree with that."
"So as you drove to the hospital on June sixteenth, you were convinced that Harry Bernhardt deserved to die?"
"Objection, irrelevant," Socolow said. "The doctor's not on trial."
Not yet.
"I'll tie it up, Your Honor," I responded.
"Then I'll overrule for now."
"I'm not God," Schein said. "I don't determine who should live and who should die."
"Let's back up a bit, Doctor. At eleven-oh-five P.M. on June sixteenth, you left the Hotel Astor, rushing to get to the hospital, correct?"
"Yes, I believe I testified to that."
"And you arrived at the ICU at eleven-forty P.M., where you encountered Nurse Gettis?"
"That sounds about right."
"You drove up Alton Road to get to the hospital?"
"Yes."
"And it took thirty-five minutes to get there?"
"It was a Friday night. Traffic was heavy."
"If I told you a test drive we've done the last four Friday nights, never exceeding the speed limit, averaged twelve minutes, what would you say?"
He didn't say anything and neither did I. If I really had time to do test drives, all my exhibits would probably be in color-coded binders, too.
"Where did you stop on your way to the hospital, Dr. Schein?"
"Nowhere!" The answer was too quick and too loud. It surprised even me, but I was beginning to discover that the doctor was a bad liar. Most basically honest people are.
"I'm going to ask you again, Doctor, and if you want to consult with your lawyer before answering, I have no objection."
In other words, if you're going to lie, at least do it right.
"I don't need to consult anyone," he said, eyes flashing toward Jonas Blackwell, seeking support.
At the prosecution table, Abe Socolow watched intently. He loved to win, but deep down, he was a lot like me. He loved the truth even more.
Chrissy sat at the defense table, dressed in a short mint-green jacket with silver buttons over a matching A-line dress, her hands folded together in front of her. She chewed at her lower lip. Scared, confused, trusting me with her life. She didn't know where I was going. I hadn't told her. Early this morning, she had asked what I was doing as Cindy and I pored over a stack of prescription forms just delivered to my house from three pharmacies. Playing lawyer, I had told her. Now Cindy sat in the row of straight-backed chairs between the defense table and the bar separating the lions from the Christians. Her fingernails were painted black and embedded with silver stars like the nighttime sky. Toenails, too, judging from the planetarium view of a big toe sticking out of a straw sandal.
Thanks to Cindy, I had the ammunition, and it was time to start throwing hand grenades.