by Joel Goldman
"Of course. You'll drop by, talk about old times, and she'll spill her guts."
"Something like that."
"This I've got to see."
"Sorry. No press. Don't pout. You'll still get your exclusive when it's all over. There is just one thing you may want to think about."
"What's that?"
"If Fiora saw Beth and me on videotape, he saw you too. I'd be very careful."
"Happy New Year to me," Rachel said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mason didn't know whether Beth Harrell would see him, but he liked his chances when the doorman at her building turned out to be named Jim and not Margaret.
He hadn't slept, too jazzed by his near-death experience. Unshaven and carrying bags under his eyes that been packed for a long trip, he didn't look like someone on the guest list for a New Year's Day breakfast. And it was seven a.m., too early for company. Jim squinted at him, ready to tell him that they didn't have a public restroom.
"Would you tell Beth Harrell that Lou Mason is here to see her?" Jim hesitated. "It's okay. We were together last night and I've got something I promised I'd return this morning on my way home."
Jim's raised eyebrows said he didn't believe a word of it, but he called Beth on the house phone, telling her she had a guest. "I'll send him right up, Ms. Harrell."
Riding the elevator, Mason wondered if she would tell him the truth and whether he'd recognize it if she did. She was a witness and suspect in Jack Cullan's murder and a possible conspirator in the attempt to kill him. She was also beautiful, troubled, and borderline irresistible, a combination that made him want to hold her close and keep her at arm's length at the same time. Rachel would have told him to leave his penis in the car.
She answered the door wearing a long white robe, tied loosely at the waist, and nothing else, finger combing her tousled hair.
"It's a beautiful morning." Mason said.
"The best so far this year."
She stepped aside, inviting him in, closing the door after him. She leaned against the door, letting her robe fall open for an instant before gathering it around her.
"If you've changed your mind about last night, I'm afraid I have too," she said. "I behaved very poorly. I hope you're not too disappointed in me."
It was the most contradictory rejection and apology Mason had ever received. The more he learned about Beth, the less he understood her. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted her.
"We need to talk. You should get dressed first."
Beth waited a fraction of a minute, letting him reconsider, nodding when he didn't. "Of course. I'll only be a minute." She left a renewed chill behind as she disappeared down a hallway.
The minute she promised turned into thirty. While he waited, Mason explored her apartment. There was a portrait in the living room of a brooding young girl set in shadow, her long blond hair hanging loosely over a thin white gown, open at the neck. The girl's fingers were wrapped in strands of her hair, her lips half open with wistful longing. Her features were soft, her eyes both dreamy and sad. The artist had captured an ache that reverberated throughout the girl, as if she'd seen her future and wished she could turn from it. He realized that the girl was Beth.
"I was fifteen. My mother was the artist," Beth said from behind him. "She painted portraits while my father took his secretary on business trips. She told me how he had cheated on her since before I was born but that she couldn't afford to leave him. Then one day, he left her. She said she wanted to paint me while I was still young and no one had crushed my heart like he had crushed hers."
She was dressed and had brushed the kinks out of her hair but wasn't wearing any makeup. She still looked beautiful, but for the first time, she also looked brittle, as if one more jolt would fracture her. The girl in the painting had seen her future.
"You said we needed to talk," she reminded him. "What about?"
"Why did Ed Fiora send you to find me last night?"
"Why do you think?"
"Then he did send you?"
"You won't consider the possibility that I was there alone, that I saw you and wanted to be with you?"
Mason hesitated, choosing his words. "I did consider that. It may even be true, but it's not the entire truth."
"A concession to your ego and my weakness, Lou?" He didn't answer. "It would be less humiliating if it weren't true at all. Then I'd just be a victim instead of a fool and you might be willing to help me."
"I can't help you if I don't know the truth, and I may not be able to help you even then."
She walked over to the painting. "My mother wasn't a prize either. She was cold and aloof, even toward me. She put her feelings in her paintings, stroking her brushes instead of my father and me. My father needed constant reassurance that he was wonderful and wanted. They made each other's weaknesses worse."
"It's a little late in life to be blaming dear old Mom and Dad, isn't it?"
Beth folded her arms over her chest. "You bet it is. I just got some of the worst from both of them, and I ended up looking for love in all the wrong places."
"That song has been covered by a lot of people."
"Listen, this isn't easy. I was so determined not to screw up like they did. I put everything into school and my career. I graduated first in my class, got a job with a top firm, went back to teach law school, got appointed to the gaming commission. I did everything right in public, but I made some bad choices in private."
"Including taking a bribe to approve the license for the Dream Casino?"
She shook her head. "No. I really thought Fiora's application was the best one. The key to it was the lease with the city for the location at the landing. It was the best deal for the taxpayers."
"What about Fiora's background?"
"We checked him out every way possible. He's rough around the edges, but we found no compelling evidence that he was dirty."
"Then why the scandal?"
Beth looked at Mason, her lips pursed, then made her decision. "Fiora bribed the mayor. Jack Cullan set it up through a secret ownership in the Dream Casino."
"Can you prove that?"
"I heard enough whispers that I was going to have the gaming commission investigate it. I think we could have made the case."
"Why didn't you?"
"I didn't have time. Jack invited me to dinner. I assumed he wanted to ply me with liquor to find out where our investigation stood. I agreed to go because I thought I might learn something."
"Did you?"
"Yes. I learned what it was like to be offered a bribe. He let me know that I would be well taken care of if the investigation just went away."
"You turned him down?"
"I told him that we couldn't discuss commission business and he let it drop until we got to Blues on Broadway. Then he brought it up again. Only this time he threatened me."
"With what?"
Beth sat down on a sofa, sinking into the cushions. "I told you that I had made some bad choices. One of my husbands was the worst. I let him take some photographs of me." She dipped her head, bit her lip, and looked away. "Doing some things." She rubbed her palms across her eyes. "Jack said that he'd bought the pictures from my ex and had given them to Ed Fiora. He promised to get them back from Fiora if I played ball. That's when I threw my drink in his face."
Mason didn't know whether he should drop to one knee, take her hand in his, and promise to avenge her honor, or twist her arm until she agreed to take a polygraph test.
"That doesn't explain last night."
Beth took another deep breath and sat up straighter. "No, it doesn't. I was at the grocery and this huge man comes walking down the aisle and dropped an envelope in my cart. I thought it was an accident. Then I saw my name on the envelope. There was an invitation to the party inside and a copy of one of the pictures and a note that said Mr. Fiora looks forward to seeing me at the party. So I went."
"Did you keep the invitation and the picture?"
"No.
I almost got sick right there in the grocery store. I burned them when I got home."
"What happened when you got to the party?"
"Fiora's moose found me. God only knows how in that crowd. Fiora told me where to find you."
"And the rest?"
Beth rose from the sofa and walked to the floor-length windows at the front of the room, her hands balled into fists. She banged them against the glass, pressed harder, and turned to face Mason.
"The little prick told me that since I liked being in pictures so much, he wanted to get some of you and me together. He told me to go find you and use my imagination. He said he'd be watching."
Mason thought about their embrace, her kiss, and his rejection of her. "What did you do after you left me out on the prow?"
"I got out of there as fast as I could, came home, and got drunk."
He stared at her, hoping to peel through the layers she was wrapped in and find something or someone he could believe.
"Right after you left, someone tried to shoot me. I had to jump into the river to get away. I got shot anyway and nearly drowned."
Beth's hands fluttered to her mouth and she let out a long, low moan as she slid into a heap on the floor. He reached for her and she pulled him toward her.
"Lou, you've got to believe me. I didn't know. It wasn't me. I'm begging you to help me. Get those pictures for me. I want my life back."
They stayed that way for a time, neither of them saying anything. Mason left without making a promise he didn't know whether he could keep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
On Wednesday morning Leonard Campbell swept into Judge Pistone's courtroom for the start of the preliminary hearing as if it were the Oscars, stopping every few feet so that the press could take his picture, giving each reporter and photographer a hearty smile and a thumbs-up. He plopped his briefcase on the prosecutor's counsel table, pulled out an empty legal pad, and surveyed the courtroom like a commanding general, shooting his cuffs and snapping off a crisp nod to the press corps.
Patrick Ortiz arrived a few moments later, along with two assistants, one of whom pushed a two-wheel handcart loaded with bankers' boxes. The other assistant carried two-foot-by-three-foot enlargements of photographs of the murder scene and the victim, the autopsy report, and the results of the tests conducted by the forensics lab. They ignored Campbell and the media, emptying their boxes and setting up the files and exhibits they would use throughout the preliminary hearing.
Court was scheduled to begin at nine o'clock. Mason spent the previous hour locked in a cramped, windowless witness room, little bigger than a walk-in closet, telling Blues about Tony Manzerio, Ed Fiora, and his New Year's Eve swim. Blues was wearing the one suit he owned. Brown, worn at the elbows, and too tight across his shoulders, it was still a step up from a jailhouse jumpsuit.
"I should have told you about Fiora sooner, but I was afraid you'd try and break out of jail just so you could kick his ass," Mason told him.
"I might have done that. I think you were more worried that I'd take the deal to save your bony white butt."
Mason scribbled a bad sketch of the prow of the Dream Casino and laughed. "Yeah, I suppose that's right."
"Well, guess what? I'm not taking a fall for you or anybody else, and you know that. So why are you telling me now?"
"You understand street-war strategy better than I do. That's what this is. The trial may only be a side skirmish. I need your help tying all this together. I can't do my job if I keep you in the dark."
"In that case, get me bailed out of here. I can't do either one of us any good inside."
Mason said, "Pistone is going to bind you over and deny bail again. Our best chance is with the circuit court judge we draw for the trial. In the meantime, I'll try to find you a new suit."
Mason opened the door, and two beefy deputies on the Dunkin' Donuts diet plan approached Blues to escort him to the courtroom. Blues dropped his right shoulder and gave them a head fake like a running back looking for a seam, cackling when they grabbed for their guns and then blushed like schoolkids when they realized he was pimping them.
"Careful, now, boys. I'm a dangerous man," Blues said, sticking the needle in a little deeper.
One deputy cursed under his breath and the other nodded in vigorous agreement. A third officer joined them, and the three of them huddled outside the room while Mason and Blues waited. The largest of the three deputies stepped into the room, flanked by his comrades.
"We're gonna let your little joke go this time, big man. Don't fuck with us again or it's gonna be a rough ride back up in the elevator. Got me?"
"Lighten up, Deputy," Mason said. "He was yanking your chain and you just threatened him in front of his lawyer. That elevator gets stuck and you'll be on the other end of a civil rights charge faster than you can sing 'We Shall Overcome.' Got me?"
The deputy turned on Mason, his hand on his nightstick. "You tell your client we don't play games here."
Mason looked at Blues. "No games or they'll put you in time-out."
The deputies shepherded Blues through a side door into the courtroom. Mason followed, glad to have avoided the press. Blues took a seat at the defendant's table, the deputies occupying the row of chairs directly behind him.
Mason sat next to Blues, his chair covered in worn vinyl and thin padding. It swiveled and rocked, but Mason couldn't get comfortable.
The judge's bailiff, a stern-faced, middle-aged black woman, entered the courtroom through the door to the judge's chambers.
"Judge Pistone says that if he sees a camera in the courtroom, he'll add it to his collection. Pregame festivities are over. All rise! Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! The Associate Circuit Court of the Sixteenth Judicial District is now in session before the Honorable Joseph Pistone. All persons having business before this court draw nigh and pay attention. Court is now in session."
Everyone stood as Judge Pistone shuffled up the two steps to his seat behind the bench, elevated above the masses to remind them of the power of the court. They all waited for his permission to sit down. Without looking up, he offered a dismissive wave.
"Be seated."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Mason glanced around the courtroom as the door opened from the hallway. Harry Ryman and Carl Zimmerman slipped inside and leaned against the rear wall. Harry and Lou looked at each other, both trying not to reveal anything. Harry tipped his head at Lou, who responded with the same sparse gesture.
Mason found Rachel standing in the corner on the opposite side of the back wall from Harry and Zimmerman. They exchanged winks and smiles, comforting gestures, while the judge recited the name of the case and his instruction for the attorneys to state their appearances.
Leonard Campbell rose from his chair, buttoned his suit coat, and stepped to the podium in the center of the courtroom.
"The people of the state of Missouri are represented by Leonard Campbell, prosecuting attorney, and Patrick Ortiz, deputy chief prosecuting attorney. We are ready to proceed at the court's pleasure, Your Honor."
Campbell turned on one heel, struck a confident, serious pose for the crowd, and resumed his seat. Patrick Ortiz hated showboats and adopted Judge Pistone's head-down posture, pleased that the next time Campbell got up it would be to go to the bathroom.
Judge Pistone raised his eyes at Mason, who stood.
"Lou Mason for the defendant. We're ready. I've got a preliminary matter that I'd like to take up before we get started."
"Proceed."
"There are a lot of people in the courtroom, Your Honor. Some of them may be witnesses. I recognize Detectives Ryman and Zimmerman, who investigated this murder, and there may be some others. I'd like to invoke the rule that prohibits a witness from being in the courtroom prior to testifying."
"Mr. Campbell?" Judge Pistone asked.
Patrick Ortiz rose in Campbell's place. "We've got all our witnesses sequestered except for Detective Zimmerman. He's our first witness, and I guess he's just a
little anxious to get started."
Ortiz's explanation drew soft laughter from the packed house, establishing his usual easygoing connection to his audience. There was no jury in a preliminary hearing. Only the judge would make the decision whether to bind Blues over for trial. Ortiz didn't need all the boxes or the blowups to make his case for Judge Pistone. He understood that the reporters in the courtroom would tell everyone who read a paper, listened to the radio, or watched television how overwhelming the state's evidence was. That message would reverberate with the people who would become the jurors who would decide this case. He also knew that Mason would pay close attention, gauging the gamble between trial and plea bargain, between a crapshoot for freedom and a date with a deadly needle.
"What about Detective Ryman?" the judge asked.
"We don't intend to call Detective Ryman to testify. I don't know what Mr. Mason's plans are."
Mason was surprised at Ortiz's decision to keep Harry off the stand. He wondered if Harry had asked to take a pass to avoid a confrontation with him, or whether it had been Ortiz's idea. Either way, Mason knew Harry wouldn't help his defense of Blues.
Mason said, "I don't intend to call Detective Ryman and I have no objection to his presence in the courtroom."
"Very well, Counsel. The rule is hereby invoked. No witness will be permitted in the courtroom until after he or she has testified. I expect the lawyers to enforce the rule by keeping a close eye on who comes and goes. Don't expect me to take roll. If you let somebody slip in, it's on you. Any opening statement, Mr. Ortiz?"
"Yes, Your Honor. Even though this is a pretty cut-and-dried case, I'd like to put the evidence in context for the court and let you know who you are going to be hearing from."
Mason was glad that the state had the burden to prove its case. He understood that was why the prosecutor got to go first at every stage of the preliminary hearing and trial-first to make an opening statement, first to put on witnesses, first to make a closing argument. But Mason couldn't stand going second. Sitting on his hands while Patrick Ortiz did his this-defendant-is-so-guilty-why-bother-with-the-trial routine was worse than having a tooth pulled slowly.