“Makes sense. But wouldn’t LaBelle be smarter to lead with a strong fact witness?”
“The truth is, LaBelle doesn’t have that many fact witnesses. He’s got a strong case, but it’s mostly made up of circumstantial evidence and evidence collected after the fact. What few eyewitnesses he has, he’ll save for a big finish. That’s what I would do, anyway.” He paused. As long as Christina was being nice to him, he might as well return the favor. “By the way, I thought your opening was terrific.”
Christina looked away, almost blushing. “Oh, you’re just being nice.”
“Christina, you know me well enough to know that I’m never just being nice.”
“Oh right. I forgot.” Her face turned an even deeper red. This was a reaction Ben had never observed on the normally ultraconfident Christina, but it was a charming change. “You heard that opening so many times before the trial, you must be sick to death of it.”
“Not at all. And you improvised several additions, I noticed.”
“Was that all right?”
“I thought it was brilliant.”
“I didn’t come off too strident?”
Ben almost laughed. To hear this from Christina was amazing. She was normally so strong and unruffled it was easy to forget she was as likely to be nervous during her first trial as anyone else. “I thought you were perfect.”
Ben could see she was pleased. Which was good. She had put an enormous amount of work into this case, and all too often he forgot to appreciate what an invaluable associate she was.
He turned toward Loving. “Speaking of cases, do we have one yet?”
Loving heaved his enormous shoulders. “Sorry, Skipper. No news on my front.”
“No more information from your pal Barry?”
“I don’t think he knows nothin’ more to tell. And all my other police contacts have clammed up. I know this Blue Squeeze thing is real, and I know they want Keri—and you—bad. But that’s about it.”
“We know Matthews is involved, right? Maybe if you followed him around …”
“Tail a cop?” Loving shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”
“Agreed. And if we get any real proof that he’s behind all the … problems we’ve had in this office of late, I could use that against him on cross-examination.”
“I’m on it, Skipper.”
“What about Catrona? Have you found anything on him? I still think he was hinting to me about some kind of involvement with Joe McNaughton. I just don’t know what it was.”
“ ’Fraid I’ve been a bust there, too. No one’s talkin’. The Omerta, you know.”
Ben did know. The Omerta was the mob code of silence. Penalties for those who violated the Omerta were extreme. And lethal.
“The thing is,” Ben said, “the man didn’t have to tell me anything. I had nothing over him. But there he was, blabbing away between races. It was almost as if he wanted me to find something out. But what?”
“Sorry, Skipper, I don’t know. And I don’t know how you’re ever gonna find out, neither.”
Ben fell silent for a moment, his finger tapping his temple. “What about … a subpoena?”
“Against some mob guy?”
“Against Catrona himself.”
Christina stepped between them. “Ben, are you kidding? You’re talking about a major mob chieftain!”
“Mob chieftains have to obey subpoenae just like everyone else.”
“Skipper,” Loving said, “you’re playin’ with dynamite here.”
“Why? He’s an American citizen, isn’t he? If he knows something, he should tell us.”
“Ben,” Christina said, “this is suicide.”
“Maybe so. But if we don’t win this case, it’s death for Keri Dalcanton.”
“Ben—”
“We tried being nice guys, and it didn’t get us anywhere. He won’t talk, the cops won’t talk. All these people know something, maybe many things. But they’re not talking. They’re playing games, and Keri’s life is on the line.” He pounded his fist on the table. “Catrona’s going to talk to us, one way or another.”
“Ben, listen to reason—”
He didn’t. “Does anyone know if Paula discovered anything? I mean, before the … the …” He didn’t need to say more. A pallor fell over the assemblage, just from the mention of her name.
“Jones thought she had something,” Christina explained. “Apparently, she called him earlier, very excited. But she didn’t tell him what it was. And now …”
“Did you look through her papers?”
“Extensively. There was a huge pile of stuff on the floor, near her body when she fell. A lot of it was soaked in … in …” Christina looked away, batting her eyes. It must be hard to remain professional, Ben thought, when the mere thought of something brought tears. “… in her blood. But I still read it all. There were no surprises, though. Whatever she discovered, it’s locked up in her head.”
“Which we can’t get into, at the moment. What are the doctors saying?”
Christina frowned. “They’re not… optimistic. She hasn’t regained consciousness and … well, she’s just barely hanging on.”
“Damn. Have the police got any leads on Paula’s attacker?”
“They’ve got nada,” Loving said. His voice seemed a little hoarser than usual. “They say they’re working on it, but given how they feel about this office … who knows?”
“Damn, damn, damn.” Ben pressed his hand against his forehead. “How’s Jones holding up?”
“He’s doing okay, all things considered,” Christina said. “But he won’t leave her side. Not that I blame him. But it leaves a big gap in our trial team. I’m doing the work of two, basically.”
“Christina, you always do the work of two. This time, you’re probably doing the work of a regiment. But we can’t let up. Once LaBelle starts putting on his witnesses, it’s going to be war in that courtroom. LaBelle and the police will stop at nothing—absolutely nothing—to see that Keri Dalcanton is convicted. The only thing, the absolute only thing in the world that stands between her and a lethal injection—is us.”
The stale, artificial smell of Styrofoam pervaded the small car. Steam rose from the cup and fogged the closed windows. Actually, Frank, better known as The Hulk, didn’t think of Styrofoam as having a smell, most of the time. But tonight it did. Tonight it was all around him, inescapable, perhaps because there was no competition. The coffee was stale and tasteless; it was hot, but nothing else. Matthews’s car was so old it bore no scent at all, unless you pressed your nose up against the vinyl. Frank suspected his clothes probably did have a scent, this late in the day, but he preferred not to dwell on that.
Matthews was staring straight ahead, his eyes locked on the lights in the offices on the seventh floor. His eyes never seemed to wander; he barely blinked.
Frank checked his watch. Well past the time he’d told his wife he’d be home. He was going to have to have that talk with Matthews—the one he’d been putting off for far too long.
“Arlen, did you ever think maybe … just maybe … we’ve pushed this thing about as far as it needs to go?”
Matthews’s eyes didn’t waver. “What kinda crap is this?”
“I just think maybe … maybe we’ve about reached the limit.”
Matthews grunted. “Don’t think, Frank. You’re not used to it, and you’re not good at it.”
Frank pursed his lips together. Yeah, that was the standard line. Frank, the force’s likeable lump. The gentle giant. The amiable lummox. Except, Frank did think, on occasion, and he’d been thinking a lot of late.
“Arlen, you know I feel the same as you. About Joe and all. I want to see justice done. But it’s back in the courts, where it ought to be. Why are we still out here? “
“It ain’t over till it’s over. I don’t like leaving a job half done.”