Death on a High Floor (32 page)

I glanced at Jenna. She looked like she was about to witness the cat coughing up the just eaten canary, alive and well. I waited for what was clearly going to be a revelation.

“I learned,” Uncle Freddie said, “that the arresting officer at the time was Detective Spritz.”

He and Jenna waited for me to react.

I was momentarily speechless. Finally, I said, “Really. And where has
that
led you?”

“Nowhere as yet,” Uncle Freddie said. “We have just come into possession of that information. But the coincidences seem too stark to be a product of mere chance. I may have to place Detective Spritz himself on the truncated list of those to be scrutinized more carefully.”

Truncated list? Did he mean short list? I could finally stand it no longer. Freddie had a flat, Midwestern accent, but his formal, polysyllabic way of speaking seemed almost a parody of an English don.

“Where did you go to school?” I just blurted it out.

He did not look put off by the question. “I went to a British-run private high school in Singapore. I acquired an excellent education, but was fortunate not to acquire the plummy accent along with it.”

I felt horribly embarrassed. I had simply assumed that his use of language suggested academic origins at some erudite college or graduate school.

Uncle Freddie let me promptly off the hook. “Don’t fear, my good man. People often mistake my use of language, so forcefully beaten into me by my British schoolmasters, as an
indicium
that I have an elaborate higher education. But in truth, Mr. Tarza . . . May I call you Robert?”

“Of course.”

“In truth, Robert, I am just a simple former detective of uncertain talent who ventured into business for himself. It was my brother, the late Senator James, who went on to higher academic achievement.”

“Okay.” I had no idea what business he was talking about or what Senator James had achieved academically. Maybe I’d ask later. But I still felt embarrassed at having put the question to him. There seemed nothing left but to ask if he had learned anything interesting about Stewart.

“May I call you Freddie?” I asked.

“I prefer Frederick, actually. I permit Jenna to call me Uncle Freddie as a relic from her childhood.”

“I understand perfectly,” I said. “Frederick, did you find out anything of interest about Stewart?”

“Only a small thing.”

“Which was?”

“Something I haven’t as yet informed Jenna about, since it was only discovered in the early hours of this morning. To wit, inside what you and Jenna refer to as the secret compartment in Stewart’s office, a dagger was concealed.”

“I don’t see how I could have missed that,” Jenna said.

“The dagger was taped to the upper surface of the compartment. An amateur peering inside with a torch might well have missed it. Particularly if she were looking in with only a small torch rather than a large one.”

I was curiously unflabbergasted. Who knew what was coming next. “Does it look like the dagger used to kill Simon?”

“It is not dissimilar,” he said. “The photo taken of it is being digitally enhanced for better detail. You will be able to examine it later in the day. The dagger was also dusted for prints, but comparative results on that are not in our hands as yet.”

Jenna was, apparently, flabbergasted. “Are you sure of all this, Uncle Freddie?”

“Yes, I most certainly am, since I examined the dagger myself before returning it to the place in which I had found it.”

“You did it yourself?”

“Well, yes. I was perhaps a bit rusty, but it was certainly not the most difficult surreptitious entry to a building and office suite that I’ve performed.”

Uncle Freddie had finished his tea. Jenna picked up the empty cup and moved it to the sink. Over her shoulder, she asked, “How did you get into the building?”

Uncle Freddie smiled, for the first time really. “The security in that building, to use the vernacular, sucks.” He laughed uproariously. I remarked to myself that when we went out for that martini, I’d have to ask exactly how he got in and why he found it all so humorous.

Jenna was standing by the door to the garage. “We have to go,” she said. “We don’t want to be late and screw up the arrangements I’ve made to get you into the courthouse in a way that avoids the Blob.”

I didn’t know exactly what those arrangements were, but I certainly didn’t want to screw them up. I got up to leave. Uncle Freddie was still sitting at the table. It was odd, leaving a near-stranger in my house. But a lot of things had been odd lately. As we reached the door that led to the garage, I realized I had another question. “Frederick, have you told any of this to Oscar?”

“Not as yet. We learned of Harry’s peculiar
histoire
only late yesterday afternoon, and I undertook the surreptitious entry mere hours ago.”

We left my garage in Jenna’s Land Cruiser. I grumpily sat in the third row of seats, as requested. Humiliating as that was. I nixed the blanket idea, but it appeared that the tinted windows did an adequate job. I could see some of the Blob through the front windshield, but not much of it, and I doubted they could see much of me through the tinted side windows. I mainly knew the Blob was there from the bright television lights that went on as we drove out, plus the shouting of questions, apparently aimed at me even though no one could see me.

“Jenna,” I asked as we cleared the bottom of the driveway, “did any of those idiots really think I was going to lower my window to answer their questions?”

“Probably not,” she said. “The third row window doesn’t even open.”

I ignored her sarcasm. “Why hasn’t the Blob been moved back? Wasn’t that part of your deal with the DA?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I think you should do something about it.”

“I have more important things to think about right now,” she said.

“I think that’s very important,” I said. “Keeping deals is very important.”

“Robert?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you just relax and try to be less of an asshole?”

I shut up.

The rest of the drive to court was uneventful. No news vans followed us. Benitez had kept his promise and arranged with the Sheriff’s Department that we be permitted to enter the Criminal Court Building through the underground garage. We didn’t have to penetrate the thick Blob outside, and we were permitted to use a private elevator to reach the Seventh Floor.

I walked into the courtroom with Jenna shortly before eight. I looked around and felt immediately uncomfortable. Maybe it was because every seat in the courtroom was filled, even the chairs in the jury box—filled by a combination of Blob members and the fifteen trial junkies who had won the daily lottery for the public seats.

Or maybe it was because I felt so out of control as a defendant. As a lawyer in courtrooms, I had always had a sense of control. Even if the judges liked to pretend that
they
were in control. But as we sat down at the defense table, I felt instead a sense of disorientation that approached vertigo.

Jenna put her hand on my shoulder. I recognized the gesture as the intuitive laying on of hands to soothe a nervous client. I took a deep breath.

I looked over to the prosecution table. At first, it was empty. Then Benitez arrived. He was slim, tall, good looking, and impeccably dressed in a well-tailored, blue pinstripe suit. Even nicer than Serappo’s. I remarked to myself that if I survived all this, I’d have to ask him where he bought his suits. His jet black hair was almost down to his shoulders. He was at least in his late forties. If his hair wasn’t dyed, I don’t live in Los Angeles. He put a white cardboard file box on the table and took his seat.

Benitez had two assistants with him. Jenna was by herself. After much discussion, some of it heated, we had decided that in the prelim it would look better for me to have a lone defender, and that it should be Jenna. Oscar would do the trial.

Actually, it was Jenna and Oscar who had decided on that strategy, over my initial objection. First, they had pushed the baseball analogy—Oscar was like the pitcher, witnesses were like batters, the trial would be a new ballgame, and batters didn’t do well against a good pitcher they’d never faced before. That hadn’t persuaded me. I’ve always been deeply suspicious of baseball analogies. Too many improbable things happen in baseball games every day.

Then they had pointed out that Johnnie Cochran hadn’t been the lead in the O. J. Simpson prelim. Just in the trial. And look how well that had worked out! Finally, I yielded. Or maybe just gave up. Jenna would start, and Oscar would come later in the morning and slip quietly into the back of the courtroom, where a seat had been reserved for him. That way, he could watch the press watching us.

So there I sat with just Jenna, waiting for the hearing to begin. Which is not to say that I was totally okay with the choice. I was still uneasy about it. Perhaps because, with the exception of her brief stint with the U.S. Attorney’s Office, almost everything Jenna knew about trial lawyering she had learned from me. It was going to be a kind of self-test.

But it was what it was, and there we were.

The Honorable Tassy Gilmore entered the courtroom at 8:00 a.m. on the dot, and we all rose. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Tassy in more than twenty-five years. Not since
Marbury Marfan
had failed to offer her a job when she graduated from law school. She had been at the very top of her law school class, but from a local school not then well regarded by my brothers at M&M—most of whom were indeed of the brotherly persuasion at the time.

I recalled my interview with her like it had been yesterday. We had sat in my office and discussed a hot copyright case the Supreme Court had just handed down. I was impressed with her. She was clearly smart and even good-looking, in that slim, almost bony, tallish-blonde kind of way. I also remembered her nail polish. Most women law students back then didn’t go out of their way to emphasize their femininity. Tassy, by contrast, had long nails painted blood red. When the Hiring Committee had discussed her and decided to ding her, to use the language of the time, her nail polish occasioned almost as much comment as the generally low opinion of her law school. Had it been left to me, I would have hired her. But I hadn’t felt strongly about it and elected to spend no marbles on her. Now Tassy Gilmore—
Judge
Gilmore to me—had all the marbles.

My brief reverie was interrupted by Judge Gilmore.

“We are here in the matter of People of the State of California versus Robert Tarza. Mr. Benitez, are the People ready to proceed?”

He remained seated. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Ms. James, is the defense ready to proceed?”

Jenna stood up. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Benitez, how long do you estimate your case is going to be?”

“Maybe two days, Your Honor.”

“Ms. James?”

“It depends on what the People put on. I’m guessing an hour or two at most.”

“Okay. We’ll run till 10:00 each morning, with a fifteen minute break, then till 12:15. Lunch is an hour. So back here at 1:15, afternoon break at 3:00, then out of here at 4:30. And Counsel . . .”

Jenna and Benitez tipped their heads, waiting for whatever the judge was about to say.

“I run a very tight ship, and my schedule means something. If you’re in the middle of a question when it’s time for a break, I don’t care. We break. There’s no jury here. And don’t be late coming back.” She pointed a finger in their general direction. Her nail polish was as blood red as ever. “If you’re late, I’ll start without you.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” The two of them said it almost in unison.

“Mr. Benitez, do you have any preliminary matters you need to take up with the Court before we begin?”

Benitez finally stood up. “Only, Your Honor, that Ms. James and I have stipulated to the entry into evidence of a number of items. I’d like to present the Court with a set of copies.”

“Let’s get to each of those as we go along. That will be most efficient. Ms. James, do you have anything of a preliminary nature?”

“Thank you. No, I don’t.” Jenna sat back down.

“Let’s get started then. Mr. Benitez, call your first witness.”

Benitez moved to the lectern, speaking as he went. “The People call Henrietta Krepliak.”

A woman who looked to be in her late fifties rose from the front row of seats, passed through the little swinging door that separates the onlookers from the court—the bar, as we lawyers call it—and took her seat on the witness stand. She looked quite harmless. As she was being sworn to tell the truth, she also looked quite nervous. I guessed that, unlike cops or other professional witnesses, she hadn’t done this a hundred times before. Maybe never.

Benitez looked down at his notes, as we all waited. Then he began.

“Could you state your full name for the record?”

“Henrietta Morton Krepliak.”

“What is your profession?”

“I’m a 911 operator employed by the County of Los Angeles.”

“How long have you been so employed?”

“Fifteen years.”

“On the morning of Monday, December 6, did you receive an emergency call concerning a murder?”

I nudged Jenna and whispered in her ear,
“
He’s leading her. Object
!”
She whispered back,
“
He’s not and doesn’t matter. We’re here to learn
.”
She shot me a glance.
“
Try to be a client.
”

Henrietta Krepliak was meanwhile in the process of answering Benitez’s question.

“. . . the caller said that someone had been murdered.”

“Did he identify himself?”

“Yes, he said his name was Robert Tarza.”

“Did Mr. Tarza use the word ‘murdered’ or some other word?”

“He said, ‘Someone has been
murdered
.’”

“Did he seem upset?”

I could see immediately where this was going. So could Jenna, who was on her feet with something to get in the way.

“Objection, Your Honor. Ms. Krepliak’s testimony is not the best evidence of how my client
seemed
. The tape of the call is.”

The objection was, in fact, enormously thin. While the tape might be the best evidence of what was actually said, someone who had participated in the conversation could certainly testify about her own impressions of that conversation and first present her recollection of the actual words said in order to do that.

“Mr. Benitez, what about that?”

I was surprised. Judge Gilmore wasn’t going to overrule the objection out of hand? Perhaps Judge Gilmore knew we’d not gotten our hands on the tape, despite our repeated requests for it. Or so my lawyers had told me the night before.

Benitez looked down at the podium as if he were consulting his notes. Not exactly charismatic. “Your Honor, as counsel well knows, the tape
is
missing. So Ms. Krepliak’s testimony
is
currently the best evidence of what was said.”

Judge Gilmore’s eyebrows shot up. “Missing? What happened to it?”

“We don’t know, Your Honor. It was checked into the police evidence locker and is now gone. We suspect someone checked it out but forgot to sign for it. We’re investigating.”

Jenna was still standing. “Mr. Benitez has indeed informed me that the tape is missing, Your Honor. Just yesterday, of course. But there should also be a digital copy of the call on the 911 computer.”

Benitez was still looking at his notes. “Um, that’s right. But it’s missing, too.”

Judge Gilmore was looking ever more interested. “Did someone check that out, too?”

“No, Your Honor, it was either never recorded or subsequently erased.”

As I listened to this exchange, I thought to myself: How important can a recording of my 911 call be? I’m not denying that I called.

“Well,” Judge Gilmore said, “this is certainly an inauspicious start to your case, Mr. Benitez. But it’s a rather minor piece of evidence. Since this is just a preliminary hearing, which of course has no jury, I’ll rule for now that Ms. Krepliak’s recollections of the call are the best evidence. Please repeat your question.”

Benitez finally looked up from his papers. “Ms. Krepliak, did the caller,” and he nodded in my direction, “seem upset?”

“No.”

“How many calls have you heard in your career where someone reported a death?”

She smiled. “Well, sometimes the people who get reported dead aren’t dead.”

Benitez looked surprised at the momentary bump in his no-doubt well-planned direct examination of his witness. “Yes, of course. But if we include those, too, how many?”

“Maybe a thousand.”

“Of those thousand callers, how many sounded upset when they told you someone was dead?”

Jenna stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. No foundation has been laid for the expertise of this witness in assessing the psychological mindset of someone who calls 911. She has not been qualified as a psychologist, and . . .”

Benitez interrupted her. “I’m not asking Ms. Krepliak to assess the psychological significance of anything. I’m just asking her what she’s used to hearing. A lay person can certainly testify if they think someone sounded upset or not.” He looked annoyed. The objection was, in fact, something of a bullshit objection, at least at this point in Krepliak’s testimony.

Now it was Jenna who looked upset, agitated even. “Maybe so, Your Honor, but I can see where this is going . . .”

Tassy Gilmore shrugged. “I can, too, Ms. James. But let’s let it go there and stop wasting all of our time. I’m not your grandmother’s pumpkin, you know. I’ll weigh this evidence appropriately as it comes in.”

Judge Gilmore looked at Benitez. “Go ahead, Mr. Benitez, but I hope you’re ultimately going to have something more impressive than this.”

“Oh, we will, Your Honor. We will.” He looked back down at his notes. “Okay, Ms. Krepliak, I think the question was: Of the thousand callers who called someone in as dead, how many sounded upset?”

“Almost all of them.”

“How did Mr. Tarza sound?”

“Calm as flat water. Like he was calling in a downed tree limb.”

Jenna made her objection sitting down. “I renew my objection. No foundation.”

“Overruled.”

As the ruling came, I pushed a note toward Jenna:
Why give a shit
? She scribbled something on the note and pushed it back:
BLOB
!! I suddenly realized that all the action in the courtroom had come to a halt as everyone watched our exchange. Despite our best efforts to be invisible about it.