“Can you believe that he would make such an admission?” he says. “What a fool. What a glorious fool!”
Then, in the next breath, a dark look. In sober tones: “Do you think the jury understood?”
The fact that Arguillo did not want to repeat it, I tell him, was the clincher. I think the perceptive ones among them will get the message: that Tony was now claiming the date with Hall he’d denied having all along; he now was saying it had been canceled. The same fiction he had told Lenore.
Armando, like every client I have ever defended in trial, is a manic-depressive. Each piece of good fortune requires his lawyer’s confirmation. Acosta no longer trusts his own judgment.
We are in the lockup of the courthouse and the guards are telling us to hurry. It is late and they are anxious to return Acosta to his cell in the jail three blocks away before they are finished serving dinner.
“Leave us,” says Acosta. His most imperious tone. He orders the guards out so that he can consult in privacy with his lawyer.
One of them looks at the other, uncertain whether they should comply.
“Did you hear me?” Acosta’s booming voice.
They leave and close the door behind them, tails between their legs.
“Once in command, always. .” He allows the thought to trail off, and winks at me. If they convict him, Acosta will no doubt direct the guards at his own execution.
“Do you think he killed her?” he asks. He pulls up a chair at the table, sits, and steeples his hands, rubbing them together as if excitement of Tony’s admission has made him cold.
“I think he knows more than he is saying.” For some time now I have believed that Tony played a significant part in the drama at Hall’s apartment that night.
“His presence could explain one thing,” I add.
“What is that?” he asks.
“Why the body was moved.”
“You think he did that?” Acosta’s eyes light up. “We should put him back on the stand.”
“No. No. Let’s not tempt fate.”
We are better off to allow the imagination of the jurors to run free-form over the evidence that is now before them.
“We have blood, hair, and fibers in his car,” I say.
“Let them dwell on it. Besides, given a second chance, Tony may come up with a better explanation than he has thus far.”
“Why would he move the body?” he asks. Acosta’s eyes are animated.
“Piece together what we know,” I tell him. “The note on the calendar, their date, Tony and Hall.”
He nods as if he is following.
“It was for seven-thirty that night. From what we know.”
“Correct,” he says.
“Let’s say you come to a woman’s apartment, someone you have been dating. Her door is open, or you have a key. You let yourself in, and what do you find?”
He looks at me, clueless.
“Her body on the living room floor. Blood all over.”
“That would put a crimp in your evening’s plans,” says Acosta.
“It might do more than that, depending on the nature of your relationship. Suppose this was a very active woman. Suppose there were things, items in the apartment that could cause embarrassment. Perhaps links to the victim that you would prefer others not know about.”
“Like what?” he says.
“Like entries in the woman’s telephone directory. Private notes. Remember this was a woman with a penchant for notes.”
“Ah.” He gives me a thoughtful nod.
“Now plug in another piece to the puzzle,” I tell him. “Suppose you were busy in the bedroom, removing these little bits of embarrassment: your name, the names of some of your friends. Doing your part to tone down the postmortem gossip, tearing pages from her phone directory.”
“You’re assuming that this was a very busy lady,” he says.
“She entertained Vice in more ways than one.”
There is a sparkle in his eyes, a sly smile at the double meaning.
“And suppose you heard a sound.”
“What sound?”
“Like someone shouting,” I say.
“Who?”
“Remember the testimony,” I tell him. “The neighbor upstairs said she heard a noise sometime after seven-thirty. Like someone shouting.”
An expression of comprehension on his face.
“The little girl Kimberly also heard a loud shout. Remember? Remember the medical examiner’s testimony?”
“The death rattle,” he says.
“Right.”
“Suppose you are Tony in a back room and you hear this from the living room. You might think. .”
“That she’s not dead,” he says.
“Precisely,” I tell him. “You might panic, grab a blanket for shock, wrap the head wound in whatever is handy. Try to get the victim to a hospital.”
“And on the way, you discover your mistake.”
This is my guess. That Tony, once in the car, driving, discovered that she was, after all, dead. He couldn’t return to the apartment with the body. There was too much risk in this. So he dumped it.
“I see why you would not wish to call him back to the stand,” he says. “This might well be his explanation,” says Acosta. “Whether the jury would believe it. .” he says.
“Why take the risk?” I tell him.
“Exactly.”
We talk about a few other items, some last-minute business before the weekend, and Harry joins us. He has been wrapping up loose ends, some chores before we head into a week’s break in the trial.
Lano did his own four-minute mile when Harry cut him free with less than a half hour to spare before his flight to Bali. He grabbed his bags at the clerk’s office downstairs and was last seen sprinting toward a car with one of his union minnows as driver.
“Almost kissed me on the way out the door,” says Harry.
“As long as he’s back in a week,” I say.
“He’ll be back before then,” says Harry.
I give him an inquisitive look.
Harry can be a man of mysterious thoughts. Before I can inquire, he tells me that Lenore is waiting outside.
I have called her and asked her to meet me here tonight. Something I had seen in court has triggered a thought, caused me to lose sleep for several nights running. I am thinking that perhaps Lenore has the answer to this puzzle.
“I thank you, my friend.” Acosta rises from his chair and bids me good night. He takes my hand, his other on my elbow, and gives it an enthusiastic shake. “I must say, that I have had my share of dark thoughts over the past months. Let’s hope for more days like this.”
“You bet,” I tell him. “If we could only resolve a few of the other issues so easily.”
He gives me a look, his own form of question.
“The glasses at the scene and the note with your name on her calendar,” I tell him.
“You handled those magnificently.”
“Perhaps. Still it would help to know how they got there.”
He gives me a big blustery face, incredulous, what passes for surprise among those who deal in bullshit for a living. “But we already know. They were planted by the cops,” he tells me.
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. No doubt about it.”
“The note in her own hand?”
“Forged,” he tells me. “You know as well as I that they have access to people who can do such things.”
He thinks this is so, especially now with the implication of Arguillo. “I would stake my life.” His expression is stone serious.
“Well, that’s good,” I tell him, “because that’s exactly what we’re doing, staking your life on it.”
Outside the lockup the courtroom is already dark. The public entrance at the back is secured, and Radovich’s bailiff has to use a key to let us out. We are the last to leave.
The evidence cart, with its collection of objects, has already been removed to the clerk’s office for the night and only a handful of photographs on poster board remain propped against the railing of the jury box.
The bailiff bids us good night, I hear the bolt on the door lock behind us.
Out in the public corridor, Harry and I walk toward the elevator. There are a few people milling, court attachés hustling between offices, some last-minute chores before leaving for home. It is after seven. I have made arrangements. Sarah is at a friend’s house for the night.