Danse Macabre

by Gerald Elias

  Cy Rosenthal, the unlikely lead attorney on BTower’s defense team, was neither a criminal nor a trial lawyer, either by training or inclination. A longtime junior partner of the firm of Palmese, Leibowitz, and O’Neil in Uniondale, Long Island, Rosenthal’s strengths were litigation and labor law, where he had garnered a well-earned reputation hammering out collective-bargaining agreements for unions in the beer and toy-making industries. It was only when, on the eve of the Two Maestros trial, a late-night drunk driver on the Belt Parkway put senior partner Carmine Palmese in traction from the neck down for six months, that Rosenthal was thrust into the unaccustomed role he graciously but uncomfortably accepted.

  Not many other lawyers would have had Rosenthal’s courage to carry the flag under such circumstances, especially in this case. The Two Maestros appeared to be an open-and-shut case, and public sentiment against his client was at least ninety-nine to one. Rosenthal just happened to be that one. Though the hallmark of American justice is the presumption of innocence, he knew in this trial that innocence was exactly what he would have to prove.

  Rosenthal concocted the story that BTower had rushed to the Bonderman Building to apologize to Allard after their heated exchange at Carnegie Hall, that he was rebuffed by Allard in the lobby of the building, and that he made one final effort at reconciliation by running up the stairs, knowing that Allard would be leaving permanently for France the next morning. When he arrived at the fourth floor, he found Allard already on the ground. He knelt to assist him (in the process accumulating the blood on his hands and clothes) and promptly ascertained that Allard was dead. The defendant, immediately realizing the portentous ramifications of his presence at the scene, and being unable to assist Allard in any way, panicked and fled. Mistake—yes. Murder—no.

  Rosenthal, short, balding, and not nearly as kempt as Michelle Brown, using extravagant language and gestures, attempted to make the case that the absence of a weapon and the astounding fact that the medical examiner was unable to determine a specific cause of death precluded a conviction on a first-degree murder charge. All the medical examiner could conclude was that Allard’s neck had been violently crushed by some powerful external force, and that death followed “about thirty seconds later, one minute, tops.” Without even a hypothesized weapon, let alone an actual one, he contended, how could a reasonable jury convict? This was Rosenthal’s strongest card—actually, his only card—but throughout the course of the trial he harped upon it so aggressively that he ended up overplaying his hand. After he repeated this line of reasoning once too often, the judge admonished him, “Counsel, I think you’ve made your point. Now if you please, move on.” But there was nowhere to move. By the end of the trial the New York Daily News would tag the flustered Rosenthal “the counsel for the indefensible.”

  The next day the chain of witnesses began. Sigmund Gottfried was the first called. Under questioning from Brown, he reluctantly admitted that BTower had indeed been at Allard’s side when Allard entered the elevator that fatal Halloween night, and that, yes, BTower had seemed nervous. But Gottfried testified that he could not believe BTower would do such a terrible thing. He had seen BTower come and go to the Bonderman Building for many years and he was always such a nice boy. It was impossible for him to kill anyone, especially another musician like Maestro Allard.

  “Would it have been possible for an athletic young man like the defendant to run up to the fourth floor in the time it took the elevator?” Brown asked.

  “It would have been very difficult,” said Gottfried.

  “Is it not true, Mr. Gottfried, that the elevator in the Bonderman Building is one of the last constructed by the Otis Elevator Company before the advent of the gearless traction elevator?”

  “That is true.”

  “And isn’t it also true that the maximum safe speed for such a museum piece is approximately one hundred feet per minute?” asked Pit Bull Brown.

  “Ja.”

  “And that modern elevators now effortlessly accelerate to twelve hundred feet per second?”

  “I wouldn’t know that.”

  “Would you ever exceed a safe speed for your passengers, Mr. Gottfried, especially one as important as René Allard?”

  “Not for nobody! I would never go too fast for safety.”

  “So, Mr. Gottfried, I repeat my question. Would it have been possible for an athletic young man like the defendant to run up to the fourth floor in the time it took your dinosaur of an elevator?”

  Gottfried stammered, “But he couldn’t have done it.”

  “Would it have been possible is the question. Please answer.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” whispered Gottfried.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mr. Gottfried, because I myself tested that hypothesis and I didn’t even break a sweat. Thank you. No further questions.”

  Next was Alonzo Fuente, the building manager of the Bonderman Building, who fidgeted.

  “Mr. Fuente, tell us what you saw when René Allard entered the elevator the night he was killed.”

  “Well, I was taking down the Halloween decorations from the lobby—that’s why I knew it was around midnight, because that’s when I always take down the Halloween decorations—when Maestro Allard came in.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes. He was alone. He pressed the button for the elevator and as he was waiting, Mr. BTower runs into the lobby and up to Maestro as the doors opened. Maestro just kind of ignored him and he went into the elevator.”

  “Then what did the defendant do?”

  “When the doors closed, he ran up the stairs. I thought maybe he forgot to give him something, or something. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Next called to the stand was Daniel Jacobus, a character witness for Allard. He cut an imposing if not handsome figure: sallow cheeked and unshaven, with springy unkempt gray hair and of course his dark glasses. He was a bit of a gamble for Brown because of his penchant to be a combative loose cannon, and his discomfort being in the public limelight, primped up in clothes other than a flannel shirt and corduroy pants. But the jury tended to sympathize with the wizened Jacobus precisely for his unease, his disdain for protocol, and of course his blindness: And with his credentials as a respected violin teacher, they appeared to believe his blunt candor. Jacobus testified he had taught BTower briefly after his defection from Allard. Though Jacobus idolized Allard’s musicianship—as much as crusty Jacobus could idolize anything—he had his own idiosyncratic methods of teaching and so hoped he might be able provide something with the young violinist that Allard might not have tried. However, after a short time they too had locked horns. BTower had to do it his own way.

  “Mr. Jacobus, do you think the defendant, in a fit of rage, could have been capable of killing René Allard?”

  “Yes,” Jacobus muttered.

  “Can you repeat that a bit louder so we can all hear, Mr. Jacobus?”

  “Yes,” Jacobus hollered. His distaste at being the focus of attention was exceeded only by his desire to see the murderer of René Allard behind bars.

  “And why are you so certain of that Mr. Jacobus?”

  “Because anyone who would play ‘Variations on “I Feel Good” ’ at a serious concert is capable of anything.” The courtroom erupted in laughter, but Jacobus didn’t see the humor.

  It was Rosenthal’s turn to question Jacobus.

  “You say you and the defendant didn’t get along so well when you taught him. That he had to do things his way. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yet he went on to become a great star.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Well, Mr. Jacobus, if, as you’ve admitted, you weren’t able to teach the defendant effectively, and yet, after leaving you, he quickly became one of the most famous musicians in history, isn’t it possible you bear the defendant a serious grudge?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Aha!”

  “Becaus
e I would bear a grudge against anyone who murdered another human, especially if that human was René Allard!”

  The gavel came down immediately and forcefully, again and again, until the uproar was extinguished. Jacobus was admonished by the judge from making any further incendiary remarks and was ordered to answer the question, addressing the valid point raised by counsel, which was: Do you, Daniel Jacobus, bear a grudge against the defendant, BTower, for his success after your inability to be an effective teacher?”

  Jacobus suddenly felt as if he were on trial, as if he had to justify his existence. Why should he have to account for a lifetime of dedication to an art and a profession in which success, however it was defined, was anything but guaranteed? That no matter how hard one worked, how much one understood or felt about music, talent in the vast majority of cases took one only so far—and not far enough—and luck often became the determining wild card? How could he say in a few short sentences what would take a lifetime to understand?

  “Yes, I do bear a grudge, Counselor,” he began quietly. “But not for his success in itself. I bear a grudge because of the shortcuts he took to get there. Disguising music as something else—mere entertainment—and covering up his own shortcomings as a serious musician.

  “When you hear Bach, Counselor, as it should be heard, there is no greater life-changing experience imaginable. But when Bach is thrust into a dog-and-pony show, and that comes to be defined as great art by an unwitting society, that’s when I take exception. When I go to hear Bach I want to hear music. I don’t need the Flying Wallendas. So yes, I do bear a grudge against the defendant, but it’s not for his stardom. It’s for having cheapened something that is far more precious than you, or he, is aware.”

  The courtroom was silent. Rosenthal had no further questions.

  When Virgil Lavender, blue eyed and ruddy cheeked in a stylish but somewhat worn beige and white seersucker suit, was called to the stand to take the oath, he politely corrected the bailiff’s pronunciation of his last name.

  “Accent’s on the end. Like in pretender,” he said with a smile as he took his seat.

  “Mr. Lavender, you had been René Allard’s exclusive pianist for twenty years?” Pit Bull Brown began.

  “Actually, thirty.”

  “Thirty years. And when we say ‘exclusive,’ what does that mean?”

  “It means that during that time I was the only accompanist he played with.”

  “That’s quite an honor. So did you play with him only at concerts?”

  “Of course not! We had endless rehearsals—René was a slave driver for rehearsing. And I was also his studio pianist. That means I accompanied his students—he didn’t have that many actually, he was so busy performing—at their lessons.”

  “And in the thirty years that you spent all this time with René Allard, did you ever see him get angry?”

  “Never. He was the most amiable person I’ve ever met. I remember one time—”

  “Did you ever see the defendant get angry, specifically at René Allard?”

  “Holy moly, did I? Almost every lesson he would argue. He felt his time was being wasted because he considered René too methodical. I would just sit there and try to be invisible. I never heard anyone talk to René like that, not even—”

  “And the night of the murder?”

  “Ah, yes. The night of the murder, BTower came backstage at Carnegie Hall after the recital. It was a madhouse. René and I had just finished ‘Danse Macabre.’ René was putting his violin back in its case and I was on the other side of the room making out a check for Miles . . . he was my page turner. A piano student from the Mannes School. Very talented, but somewhat—”

  “Please stick to the subject, Mr. Lavender.”

  “Yes. Sorry. Out of the corner of my eye I saw BTower go up to René. They chatted. There must have been a misunderstanding. I didn’t hear specific words because everybody was talking, but BTower got very heated and then just stormed off. René shrugged but didn’t mention anything about it. I just thought it was BTower being BTower, having a hissy fit.”

  “And why would BTower have a ‘hissy fit’?”

  “Envy, I suppose.”

  “Tell us about the concert at Carnegie Hall. It was a special event, was it not?”

  “It was the end of an era.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “This was his last concert. His farewell. He was leaving the next day to return to France. Forever. Ms. Brown, there are no more musicians like René Allard anymore. Music will never be the same. And to think that after thirty years of collaboration this was the last time for us.”

  There was silence in the courtroom.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lavender.”

  No one moved.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lavender. That will be all.”

  Next was elderly Mabel Bidwell, René Allard’s next-door neighbor. For the occasion she had had her hair blued and permed, and had taken her mink stole out of mothballs.

  “Mrs. Mabel Bidwell, what happened moments after twelve o’clock midnight on October thirty-first?”

  “I was in my apartment, Apartment 4C, where I’ve lived for forty-four years.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bidwell. We appreciate your endurance. Please just tell us what happened.”

  “So I hear a thud from the corridor, which is very unusual for that time of night, though maybe since it’s Halloween, who knows? You know what I’m saying? So I crack open the door—I keep the chain on, of course—to see what’s all the malarkey.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “I saw that man there”—she pointed dramatically at BTower—“bending over somebody. I didn’t know who it was at the time—I mean the body, but it was him all right who was bending over it. Then he gets up. He looks around, all scared—his hands looking all bloody—and runs away down the stairs.”

  The defense objected to the witness making assumptions.

  “Why didn’t you call the police right away, Mrs. Bidwell?” asked Brown.

  “Because that’s when Hennie came out of 4B, and when she saw who the body was, I’m telling you, I had to take care of her first, police or no police.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bidwell.”

  Finally was Detective Al Malachi.

  “Detective Malachi, did you find anything at the defendant’s apartment when you went to arrest him that might corroborate prior testimony?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you find?”

  “On the wall of his study, where he kept all his music and CDs and things like that, was a part of a review of one of his recitals, from April 12, 1988. It was written by Martin Lilburn, music critic of the New York Times. It had been enlarged and certain passages were underlined in red and it was framed. It was clearly not an artwork.”

  “Please refrain from editorial comments, Detective. Do you have a copy of that review?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you please read it to the court?”

  Malachi cleared his throat.

  “ ‘When BTower performed the Paganini Twenty-fourth Caprice and the Wieniawski D-Major Polonaise, one forgave him his lack of musical insight, because the sheer power of his mechanical execution combined with his obvious visual stage appeal made for a compelling show. However, when he tried his hand at the profound Bach A-Minor Sonata for Unaccompanied Violin and the ostensibly straightforward Mozart G-Major Sonata, K. 379, his lack of artistic presence became woefully evident, particularly in the insouciant charm of the second movement variations. René Allard, on his worst night, would have brought more reflective intelligence and good taste to the table. And that goes without mentioning the gaping disparity of their sounds—Allard’s with his legendary vocal and lustrous warmth, like a vintage Burgundy; and BTower’s, strong but cold and colorless as cheap beer.’ ”

  “Thank you, Detective. Was there anything else of relevance you found on the defendant’s person?”

  “Yes.”

  “And
what was that?”

  “Blood was found on the clothing the defendant was wearing at the time of his arrest. It was also found under his fingernails. He apparently tried to wash it off his hands.”

  “Was it the defendant’s own blood found under his fingernails and on his clothing, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “Whose blood was it?”

  Malachi leaned forward in his chair as if to emphasize his response. He looked, unflinching, at the jury.

  “The blood of René Allard.”

  “Is there any doubt about the blood, Detective Malachi? If there is any doubt, it is your obligation to tell us. We do not want to convict the wrong man based upon questionable evidence.”

  “There is no doubt.”

  When she addressed the jury in her closing statement, attorney Brown rubbed it in. “Now, the defense will try to have you believe that the simple absence of a murder weapon is sufficient to render a verdict of not guilty. They will try to have you believe that between approximately midnight and the time of his arrest, a period of more than two hours, the defendant was unable to dispose of a weapon in a city of eight million inhabitants. They will strain any reasonable level of credulity and have you believe that in the approximately one minute between the time Mr. Allard exited the elevator on the fourth floor of the Bonderman Building and the time that the defendant claims to have discovered the body while on a mission of reconciliation, that during those sixty seconds, the real killer—a phantom who no one saw, who no one can account for—magically appeared, brutally killed René Allard—a heroic and kindly eighty-one-year-old man, the most beloved violinist in the world—and evaporated into thin air. All in sixty seconds. And that the defendant—an athletic, headstrong young man, obsessed with the greater legacy of his elder rival—seeing himself in the predicament of being spotted alongside the body, with the victim’s blood literally on his hands, suddenly panicked because he was worried he would be wrongly accused.