Death on a High Floor (49 page)

“Objection!” Benitez said. “There is no good-faith basis to support that question, not to mention that it assumes facts not in evidence and is compound.”

Judge Gilmore was staring, quite openly, at Stewart, with a frown on her face. I hoped she was thinking he was a lying shit. She turned to Oscar.

“Mr. Benitez is certainly correct that you’ve posed two questions, Mr. Quesana, not one. But before I deal with that objection, what’s your good-faith basis for asking the first part of the question?”

“Detective Spritz is the basis. He has represented that there was drug dealing going on on the eighty-fifth floor of
Marbury Marfan
.”

I heard the sound of more Blob hurrying out. Then I noticed that the judge had locked her gaze on the back row of the courtroom. When I turned to see at whom she might be gazing, there was Boone, sitting in the back row, not far from Spritz. His face was impassive. He was casually dressed now—khakis and a sport shirt. Like he was at a sporting event. Maybe he had gone and changed out of his frontier outfit in the restroom to try to look more normal. Just then, as if on cue, Uncle Freddie walked through the courtroom doors, carrying a manila folder.

Judge Gilmore took her eyes off the rear of the courtroom and looked back down at Oscar.

“I do think that question is a bridge too far, Mr. Quesana. At least for the moment. I’m going to sustain the objection. After Mr. Benitez finishes his redirect, we’re going to have a conference in chambers, and you can explain your good-faith basis for these questions. I hope it’s good. Do you have anything else?”

As the judge was talking, Uncle Freddie came up to the bar. As if expecting him, Jenna got up, went over, and took the manila folder from him. She was studying the top page inside it as she made her way back to our table. Then she walked over to the podium and handed the open folder to Oscar, pointing to something.

Oscar looked at it and said, “I do have something further, Your Honor.”

“Go ahead then.”

“Mr. Broder, did you ever take karate lessons?” As he asked it, he was looking down at the contents of the folder. It was an old trick, of course. It suggested to the witness that he might have papers to back up his question. Or it might just be the daily racing sheet.

Stewart focused on Oscar’s manila folder for a few seconds. Then he looked up and said, “
Yes
, I did. A
few
years ago. Everybody in the firm
was
doing it.”

“Did you get pretty good at it?” Oscar was running his finger down one of the pieces of paper in the folder as he asked the question.

“
Look
at me, Mr. Quesana.” He gestured to his fat body with the open fingers of both hands. “Do
you
think I was good at it?”

It was disarming enough that it brought a small group chuckle from the Blob. Oscar laughed, too, of course. He had to. Then he asked, “Well, how much proficiency
did
you achieve?”

“I
was
only okay at it. That’s how I’d
put
it.”

“Did you learn how to bring somebody down by kicking them in the front of the ankle?”

Stewart’s eyes moved again to the folder. He hesitated. Then he said, “Yes.”

“Did Simon Rafer take karate lessons with you?”

“Yes.”

“So as far as you know, he could have struck back at an attacker with, say, a palm strike, right?”

“Objection!” Benitez said. “That question calls for rank speculation. There’s no basis whatever for this witness to know what the victim was capable or not capable of doing.”

“The question I asked him was ‘as far as he knew,’” Oscar said. “If he doesn’t know enough to answer, he can say so. He’s a smart cookie, you know.”

“Overruled,” Judge Gilmore said. “Go ahead and answer, Mr. Broder.”

Stewart chose a very careful answer. “He might
have
been able
to
.”

Oscar gripped the podium with both hands, leaned forward, and said, very slowly, “Do you have any bruises on
your
body, Mr. Broder?”

“Ob—” Benitez started to say. But Stewart was too quick with his answer, which cut off Benitez’s objection.

“No,” Stewart said.

Benitez was apparently satisfied with Stewart’s answer, because he didn’t move to strike the answer. For my part, I was annoyed that Stewart had answered in only one word. I couldn’t detect if he was lying in one-word answers.

“Your Honor,” Oscar said, “I request that the court conduct an in-chambers proceeding in which Mr. Broder is required to remove his shirt.”

Benitez got up, presumably ready to launch some furious objection. The judge made it unnecessary. “I think not, Mr. Quesana,” she said. “We’ll just add that request to our list for our chambers discussion. Do you have anything else?”

“Let me look at my notes a moment, Your Honor.”

As Oscar paged through his notes, taking his time, I was overcome with a feeling of utter hopelessness. Oscar had done a great job. He had opened up a lot of things. It would all make great press. But by the standards of evidence, it had gone nowhere persuasive. When Benitez got around to putting into evidence the e-mails between me and Simon about the coin, the elevator access records, and the blood analysis, I was going to be bound over to be tried for first degree murder.

I assumed Jenna had been thinking the same thing, because she’d been very quiet. Suddenly, I heard her say, under her breath, “Tea bag. Bruises. Shit.” I turned toward her and watched her begin to rummage in her giant purse again.

After a moment of rummaging, Jenna pulled out the coin book we had found in the secret compartment in Stewart’s office. Jenna put the book down on the table, went back into her purse, and appeared to manipulate something that was hidden inside. Then she pulled her hands back out and stuffed a lump of some kind into her jacket pocket. I couldn’t see what it was.

Jenna stood up, walked over to the podium, and whispered something in Oscar’s ear.

“Your Honor,” Oscar said, “there is one more thing, possibly. But I need to consult with Ms. James about it. If I could be permitted just a moment to do that, I think it would save us a lot of time.”

“Okay,” Judge Gilmore said.

Oscar and Jenna walked back to our table, stood there, and whispered to each other. I couldn’t hear what they said, although Oscar seemed to shake his head in the negative a lot. Finally, he shrugged in what seemed a gesture of acquiescence and walked back to the podium.

“Your Honor, there is one more thing. It’s very brief, but it’s something Ms. James is much more familiar with than I am. I would appreciate it if the court would permit Ms. James to question the witness about this one small area. It will save time.”

“Any objection, Mr. Benitez?” the judge asked.

“No, not at all,” Benitez said, with the cheery air of someone deigning to grant a last request by the condemned for an extra scoop of ice cream.

Jenna picked the book up and made her way to the podium.

“Your Honor, I would like to have marked as Defendant’s next exhibit in order—I think it’s number 99—a book titled
Coins of the Roman Republic in the British Museum
,
Volume III
., by H.A. Grueber.”

“Can you spell the proper name?” the court reporter asked.

“Of course,” Jenna said, “it’s G-R-U-E-B-E-R.” She walked over to the prosecution table and, as is customary, handed the book to Benitez, who looked at it without much curiosity and handed it back to her.

“Your Honor, may I approach the clerk to have it marked?”

“Yes, you may,” the judge said.

Jenna walked up to the clerk’s desk, where the clerk duly marked it and handed it up to the judge to look at, saying, “It will be Defendant’s 99.” Judge Gilmore looked at it briefly, then handed it back down to the clerk, who handed it back to Jenna.

“Your Honor, if I might stay here to question the witness? It will be easier, since I have some things in the book to point out to him. I apologize for not having made advance copies of the page I’m going to refer to. We’ll make copies of the relevant page for distribution after the hearing.”

“That will be fine,” the judge said.

“If Mr. Benitez wants to,” Jenna said, “he can come and look over my shoulder at the page while I question the witness about it.”

“That’s okay,” Benitez said. “I’ll see it later.” He put his hands behind his head and stretched and yawned, like a baseball team manager waiting for the last strike of the last out at the bottom of the ninth, with his team ahead twenty to two.

Jenna walked over, stood directly beside the witness stand, and handed the book to Stewart. “The record should reflect that I have handed the witness a copy of Defendant’s Exhibit 99. Mr. Broder, are you familiar with that book?”

“Yes,” Stewart said, “I
am
.”

“How did you become familiar with it?”

“I collect
ancient
coins, and it’s a
standard
work in the field.”

“Is this your personal copy?”

“I don’t
think
so.”

“After Simon Rafer bought the
Ides
from Mr. Tarza, did you go over to Mr. Rafer’s condo to look at it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Let me point out a particular coin entry in this book to you, Mr. Broder,” Jenna said, and moved to the side of the witness stand. She leafed through some pages until she got to the one she wanted. “I’ve now opened the book to a page in the back labeled Plate 72 and placed it in front of the witness. Do you see entry Number 21 there, Mr. Broder?”

“Yes.”

“Does that appear to be a photo of the exact same coin you examined at Mr. Rafer’s condo?”

Stewart bent over the book to get a better look at the postage stamp-sized image on the page. Then he turned toward her, head still bent, with a quizzical look on his face. “It doesn’t look anything like it.”

“Are you still sure you don’t have any bruises on you?” Jenna said.

“Objection!” Benitez dropped his arms from behind his head and was on his feet.

“Ms. James! I ruled this out of bounds!” Judge Gilmore said it almost simultaneously with Benitez.

As they were objecting, Jenna pulled the lump from her jacket pocket, which I could finally see was a wad of tissue soaked with some kind of lotion. She grabbed the back of Stewart’s head with her left hand, and with her right, wiped the tissue hard across his left eye socket and cheek. Then did it again.

Stewart clamped his hand over the left side of his face. I heard a distinct click in the back of the courtroom and turned to see Deputy Green, standing, gun drawn. The click I had heard was the safety coming off.

“What is the meaning of this, Counsel?” Judge Gilmore asked.

“Your Honor, I request that Mr. Broder be instructed to take his hand away from his face. Then the meaning will be clear. If it’s not, you can jail me for contempt.”

I waited for an objection from Benitez, but it never came. When I looked over to his table, he seemed as riveted on the drama as everyone else. He was still standing.

Judge Gilmore smiled the broadest smile I’d ever seen her smile. “You’ve got it, Counsel. Deputy Green, you can stand down. Mr. Broder, please take your hand away.”

Stewart had by then straightened back up, his hand still pressed tightly against the left side of his face. He looked slowly around the courtroom, one-eyed, as if seeking some escape from his predicament. Finally, he took his hand away.

“Voila!” Jenna said.

And there it was. A large bruise, now in the late yellowing stage, long faded from its no doubt original black and blue.

“How did you get that bruise, Stewart?” Jenna asked.

As the question hung there, momentarily unanswered, the remaining Blob began to buzz and stir. More members got up, no doubt headed for the door, their chair bottoms banging as they rose.

Judge Gilmore looked out at the courtroom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a court of law, not a sporting event where you can go out to buy peanuts and come back whenever you feel like it. The Court requires both decorum and silence. If you need to leave, leave now. But you will not be permitted back in until after our next break.”

There was a moment of quiet as the members of the Blob made their choices. I turned around to look. Every one of them sat back down, trading the phoned-in scoop for what might come next. Silence returned to the room.

“Deputy Green,” the judge said, “seal the courtroom. Absolutely no one is to leave or enter until I say so. No one.”

Green moved to the right side of the courtroom doors and stood next to them, gun holstered, but with the holster rather plainly unbuckled. He folded his arms over his chest.

“Now, Mr. Broder,” the judge said, “I think the question was, ‘How did you get that bruise?’”

“I don’t really remember,” Stewart said. “I think maybe I ran into a door or something last month.”

Jenna was still standing next to the witness box. She bent in closer to Stewart. “Come off it, Stewart. Didn’t you get that bruise when Simon Rafer hit you in the eye socket with a palm strike as you were about to stab him? And didn’t you then trip him with an ankle blow, stand over him, and stab him in the back when he was down? Holding the blade in both hands and driving it in with the tip angled towards his feet?”

I waited for an objection from Benitez, but it didn’t come.

Stewart didn’t answer at first. Then his eyes began to fill with tears, washing away more layers of makeup, exposing even more of the bruise, which covered much of the left side of his face. He finally turned to Jenna.

“It wasn’t just
me
.” He raised his hand and pointed towards the very back.

As I started to rotate my body to follow his pointing finger I heard a sudden scuffling noise at the back of the courtroom, followed almost instantly by the crack of a gunshot. I finished turning just in time to see Spritz slide slowly down the courtroom doors, coming to rest in a sitting position, clutching his right shoulder. Deputy Green towered over him, smoking gun literally in hand.

“You asshole,” Spritz said through a groan, “You didn’t have to do that.”

I would have expected Judge Gilmore to look at least startled. Instead, she just raised her eyebrows and said, “Deputy Green, was that absolutely required?”

Green frowned. And then looked around the crowd for possible support. Finding only blank faces, he said, “You told me nobody was to leave, Your Honor. You said it twice.” He gestured toward Spritz. “He tried to.”

Judge Gilmore seemed to be pondering Deputy Green’s literalist logic when Daniel Boone suddenly jumped up from his seat, shouted, “I’m a doctor! Let me through!” and rushed toward Spritz as the people in his row of seats rose to let him pass.

As Boone reached Spritz, Deputy Green just stood there. Perhaps he had learned something about Boone down in the lockup that we had missed. Or perhaps he felt a newfound need to think carefully before shooting again.

Boone bent down and, using two hands, ripped open Spritz’s now blood-soaked sport shirt, popping the buttons. Spritz wasn’t wearing an undershirt, and I could immediately see a gaping exit wound on the front of his right shoulder. The bullet had apparently entered from behind, the force of the impact spinning him around to face us.

I could also see a large, yellowing bruise on the left side of his chest, just above the nipple. Which was odd, because Boone hadn’t said anything about Spritz even being there. Maybe he had been lurking in the reception area, unseen by Boone as he rushed out. In any case, it must have hurt like hell when whoever it was—Simon probably—landed that blow on Spritz’s chest.

Boone tore off a piece of Spritz’s shirt and pushed it into the wound to staunch the bleeding. Deputy Green stood beside him, gun still raised, alert.

Judge Gilmore looked around, surveying her courtroom with remarkable aplomb. She turned to her clerk. “Call 911 and get an ambulance for Detective Spritz. Deputy Green, you can holster your weapon.”

I saw Deputy Green frisking Spritz as Boone worked on him, then handcuffing him despite his wound, painful as that must have been.

Then she turned to Stewart. “Mr. Broder, it appears you lied, at the very least, about not having any bruises.”

She looked out at Spritz. “And it appears that you, too, Detective Spritz, have some explaining to do.”

“I’m not saying anything until I have a lawyer,” Spritz said, still propped up with his back against the doors, “Doctor” Boone still working on him.

“No problem, Detective,” Judge Gilmore said. “Deputy, before they take the detective off to the hospital, read him his rights. After he’s treated and booked into the jail ward, he can use his phone call to get himself a lawyer.”

Green was already reading Spritz his rights as the judge spoke.

She turned again to Stewart. “Mr. Broder, I think you’ll be wanting a lawyer, too. You’re under arrest for perjury.” She gestured to Green, who, having finished with Spritz, was heading towards Stewart, holding another pair of handcuffs ready.

She stood up. “We’re adjourned.” Then she looked out at the Blob. “You’re free to go now. Please try not to bump Detective Spritz on your way out.” She turned to leave the bench, and her clerk and court reporter quickly followed. Some members of the Blob rushed out, stepping around Spritz, who by then had slid to a prone position on the floor.

A few minutes later, a paramedic crew showed up, hooked Spritz up to an IV, and placed him on a gurney. Boone hovered around him, giving orders to the paramedics, while the part of the Blob that had stayed surged around them, shouting questions. Stewart continued to sit awkwardly on the witness stand, his hands cuffed behind him, frozen in place.

Jenna was packing up her stuff. None of us had said anything at all. I think we were all in shock. Finally, Jenna spoke.

“Looks like there was a Christmas ham in the bathtub after all,” she said.

“Yeah,” Oscar said, “I guess so. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Oscar.”

“Want to join my law firm?” he asked her.

“We can talk about it,” Jenna said. “But maybe you should join
mine
.”

I was not up to banter. All I could manage was, “Let’s get out of here.”

We got up and headed out. At the back of the courtroom, I had to sidestep Spritz’s gurney to get through the doors. As I stepped around the gurney, I heard Spritz mutter something to me. I couldn’t make out what he said. I didn’t ask him to repeat it, and I didn’t look back.