by Parnell Hall
I shook my head. “Yeah, but—”
“And I actually got something.”
“Huh?”
“Believe it or not, I got something you can use.”
“What?”
“That’s right. I got a lead and traced it down.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Well, why not?”
“Why not? Alice, this is not a game. This is someone who kills people.”
“Yes, of course.”
“What do you mean, yes, of course? You could have been killed.”
Alice had hung up her hat and coat and taken off her boots. Now she turned, patted me on the shoulder. “Stanley, you sound like a Jewish grandmother. Nothing happened. Everything’s fine. I mean, look, here I am.”
Yes, she was. And I have a confession to make. When my wife gets a new hair style, it turns me on. In this instance, that reaction was late kicking in, due to the anxiety factor. But, as she said, nothing had happened. And with her hair curly and in her Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, she sure looked good.
I suppressed the thought. “Yeah, fine,” I said. “As it happened, you didn’t get hurt. The point is, you could have. Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“We know more now.”
“Huh?”
“You wanna hear what I got, or you wanna keep carrying on? And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know like what. Like you like my new hair.” Alice smiled. “Look, I know you. You’re overprotective and you’re horny. Fine. I know that. You know that. So why don’t you just calm down, sit on those impulses, and let me tell you what I got.”
48
RICKY POMERANTZ LOOKED LIKE A PEEVISH BULLFROG. A hunched little man with a bald head and no neck, he sat in a wing chair as if on a lily pad, and regarded me with cranky eyes. “I was wondering when you’d get around to me.”
“I almost didn’t,” I told him. “You willing to talk?”
“Of course I’m willing to talk.”
“How come you didn’t come forward?”
“I wasn’t coming forward, but I wasn’t hanging back, either. Tell me, how’d you find me?”
“You were the only Ricky Pomerantz in the book.”
“I mean, how’d you know?”
“Phil Janson told me. Way back when. First time I questioned him. I asked him to name the players in the game. He named you, then looked like a golfer just shanked an iron. At the time, I put it down to nerves.”
“It was nerves.”
“I know. I mean, rather than a lie.”
“And you didn’t suspect?”
“You gotta understand, this was two months ago, when we all thought Anson was in the game.”
“Right. And what a great idea that was.”
“I take it you didn’t approve?”
“No kidding. I told them not to do it.”
“But they didn’t listen?”
“Obviously. And Phil told you I was in the game?”
“Right.”
“And then said he was mistaken?”
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t get to me till now?”
“At the time, there was no reason to doubt him. When it turned out Anson wasn’t in the game, I finally asked myself who was.”
“Too little, too late,” Ricky Pomerantz said. “A month ago I could have saved you some trouble. But you don’t need me anymore. The alibi’s blown.”
“I still want to hear your story.”
“Why? My story’s the same as theirs. At least, the one they’re telling now. Anson Carbinder wasn’t at the game.”
“I know. I’d still like to ask some questions.”
“Go ahead, for all the good it’s gonna do.”
“Were you there when he called?”
“Huh?”
“When Anson Carbinder called to say his wife was dead and to ask you guys for an alibi—were you there then?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What time was that?”
“Two in the morning.”
“That’s when the game broke up?”
“You think we played after that?”
“No, I don’t imagine you did.”
“Good thinking. Anson called, dropped the bombshell, broke up the game.”
“And what happened then?”
Pomerantz eyed me suspiciously. “You setting me up for something?”
“What do you mean?”
“These other guys are making deals, getting immunity. I’m not. I suppose there’s some statute I violated, not reporting what I knew.”
“I’m not a cop.”
“You say you work for Anson?”
“For his attorney.”
“What’s the difference?”
“No real difference. The attorney is his agent. I work for his agent, therefore I work for him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anyway, I’m not about to get you in trouble. Talking to me obligates you to nothing. Consider we’re just chatting here.”
“Oh, sure. Tell me another one.”
“Anytime you don’t like my questions, you don’t have to answer. Let’s see how far we can go. The point is, you were there at two o’clock when the call came through?”
“That’s right.”
“Which is when the other guys concocted the alibi?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Whose idea was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who came up with the idea of you saying Anson was there?”
“Anson, of course. He called and asked us to do it.”
“Who answered the phone?”
“Sam. It was his house.”
“Did you hear the call?”
“Huh?”
“When Anson called—did you hear the call? Were you there when Sam answered the phone? Did you hear what he said?”
“Not at first.”
“What do you mean?”
“We were playing in the dining room. The phone was in the kitchen. Sam went in the kitchen to answer the phone. He answers the phone, he talks a bit, then he says, Oh, my god! He comes walking into the dining room with the phone. It’s a wall phone on a long cord. He comes walking up to the table, tells us Anson just got home and his wife got killed.”
“What happens then?”
“Well, we’re all stunned, we can’t believe it. We all start talking at once. Sammy shuts us up and tells Anson what to do. He tells him to call his lawyer, call the cops, and clam up on ’em till his lawyer gets there. He says don’t tell the cops a thing, but tell his lawyer he was playing cards.”
“He told him you guys would give him an alibi?”
“He sure did,” Pomerantz said. “Without even asking us. He tells him that and hangs up.”
“How’d you feel about that?”
“I told him how I felt about that. I gave him a good piece of my mind.”
“And what happened?”
“You know what happened. Sammy’s a good talker. Very persuasive. He lays this whole trip on us about Anson needing our support, and damned if he doesn’t sell it.”
“Even to you?”
Pomerantz looked at me. “You gotta understand something. I still don’t think the guy killed his wife.”
“Okay. So what happened then?”
“We all agreed to tell the story. Anson was there at the poker game. Okay, fine. Except for one thing. You don’t have a poker game with eight people. There’s not enough cards. Very few games you can play. So if Anson was there, one of us wasn’t.” He shrugged. “They picked me.”
That was not surprising. Ricky Pomerantz was an obstinate, opinionated son of a bitch. Even if he’d been willing to go along, he’d have driven the rest of them nuts.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So you went home?”
“Not right away. I wasn’t going to leave until I knew exactly what was going on.”
&nbs
p; “So you were there when this was planned out?”
“You sure you’re not trying to implicate me in something?”
“Word of honor.”
“Yeah. I was there. I know what was agreed to.”
“And what was that?”
“You know. To tell the story. That Anson was there.”
“And were there any other specifics?”
“What do you mean?”
Under Ricky Pomerantz’s gaze, I began to feel like a fly. I shuddered involuntarily. Put up my hands. “Okay,” I said. “This was two in the morning. So Tim Hendricks had gone home, right? So there were only six of you there.”
“Yeah, so?”
“No one else had left, had they? Just him?”
“Yeah. Just Timmy. The rest of us were there.”
“Right. Excluding you, that left five others. Sam Kestin. Marvin Wainwright. Phil Janson. Ollie Pruett and Barry Brown. Is that right?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“And the five of them agreed to tell that story—that Anson Carbinder had been there all night, that he never left until two o’clock, and that he was there instead of you?”
“Yeah. So?”
“They also agreed that Tim Hendricks went home at twelve o’clock, but, aside from him, everybody else was there all night. Is that right?”
“Yeah. That’s right. So?’
I took a breath. The phrase, an elephant never forgets, came to mind.
I couldn’t recall anything about frogs.
I shrugged.
“Is it true?”
49
“BRING IN THE JURY.”
Thank god. We were finally getting on with it. But it had been a long haul and taken half the morning.
First off, the matter of Phil Janson’s testimony had to be resolved. The ruling Judge Blank finally came up with—that the testimony be stricken from the record as if the man had never testified—wasn’t really satisfactory, but, then again, what could be? At any rate, at least it was done.
Then there was the matter of the other witnesses. It was Richard’s contention that, in the light of what had happened, there was no longer any reason to keep them under the rule and they should be allowed to sit in court. The readiness with which ADA Wellington agreed told the story—obviously, Richard’s witnesses were in Wellington’s pocket, and it didn’t matter what they heard. At any rate, the request was granted, the ban lifted, and the witnesses allowed in.
From my usual spot behind the press, I had watched as Sam Kestin, Marvin Wainwright, Ollie Pruett, Barry Brown, and Tim Hendricks filed in and sat down.
Sergeant MacAullif, also no longer banned, had clomped in and joined them.
And now, at long last, the jury was returning. They filed in and took their seats. They looked curious, yes, but also somewhat miffed. After all, it had been two days. What the hell was going on?
When the jury was seated, Judge Blank said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I must apologize for the delay, but we’ve been dealing with certain matters of procedure. I regret that this has taken some time, but we are ready to proceed now. Before we do, I should explain that the testimony of the last witness that you heard, the witness Phil Janson, has been stricken from the record. You will recall, you heard only his direct examination. His cross-examination was yet to come. That will not happen. Instead, his direct examination has been stricken. You are to put it from your minds, give it no weight. For all intents and purposes, it is as if the man had never testified. As far as you are concerned, that witness did not appear.
“If we are all clear on that point, we may proceed. Mr. Rosenberg. Call your next witness.”
As Richard stood up, the attention of the courtroom shifted. No, not to him. To her. Because, aside from the jury, everyone in the courtroom knew what had happened here. Anson Carbinder’s alibi had blown up. The poker players were no longer witnesses. Richard had to call someone else.
And there was only one other person.
The mistress.
The model.
The pinup.
The mystery woman.
As I watched, every head in the press row in front of me turned to where Connie Maynard sat in the second row behind the defense table, knowing that she was the witness he was going to call.
He didn’t.
He rose to his feet and said, “Call Stanley Hastings.”
As I walked to the witness stand, ADA Wellington lunged to his feet. “Objection!” he roared. “This is outrageous! He can’t do that! He—”
The gavel cut him off.
“That will do,” Judge Blank said. He glowered at both attorneys, then pointed. “Bailiff. Show the jury out.”
The jurors couldn’t believe it. Having waited that long to get into court, they were going to be sent out without hearing a single question? Not possible. There was considerable grumbling as they stomped out.
As the door closed behind them, Judge Blank said, “Now, Mr. Wellington, what is your objection?”
ADA Wellington’s face was bright red. “Your Honor, Your Honor,” he said. He wheeled around, pointed to where I stood next to the witness stand. “This man is a detective in the defense’s employ. He’s the one who was present when the body was found. Phil Janson, I mean.”
“Yes?” Judge Blank said. “And what is your objection?”
“Your Honor,” Wellington said. “We just got through striking Phil Janson’s testimony from the record. It was agreed that this be done without explanation and without alluding to his death. And I must say that I, for one, consider that a considerable concession to the defense.”
Wellington turned, hunched his shoulders, spread his arms. “And now he’s going to present the whole thing from the point of view of his own investigator. And put whatever slant he wants on it. I consider it sharp practice, bordering on misconduct.”
Judge Blank pursed his lips. “What do you have to say to that, Mr. Rosenberg?”
“It’s a moot point, Your Honor. I have no intention of asking the witness anything of the kind.”
“You’re not going to have him testify to finding the body of Phil Janson?”
“Absolutely not, Your Honor. What purpose would that serve? We’re trying the murder of Barbara Carbinder, not the murder of Phil Janson.”
“That’s not the point,” Wellington said. “The point is the way in which a clever attorney can prejudice the jury by the method in which these other matters are presented.”
“But counsel says he isn’t going into these matters,” Judge Blank said.
“And you believe him?”
“That will do,” Judge Blank snapped. “Mr. Wellington, I understand you are somewhat upset. But try to control your tongue. That remark was not only rude but bordered on contempt. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Wellington said. “I take it you’re denying my motion?”
“What’s to deny?” Judge Blank said dryly. “You’re objecting to questions that have not yet been asked and which defense counsel states he has no intention of asking. The point is, indeed, moot.”
“I further object on the grounds of prior notice. This man is not on any witness list, and never has been. I was given no notice as to his appearance, and I am therefore not prepared. Indeed, I had no idea this man was even a witness.
“Your Honor,” Richard said. “As the prosecutor himself stated, Mr. Hastings is a detective in my employ. He has been with me since the onset of the trial. His job, of course, was to investigate any matters that came up. I’m calling him, not as a witness to what he saw, but merely to report on what he’s found.”
“Same objection,” Wellington said. “No prior notice.”
Judge Blank exhaled noisily. “This case is rapidly assuming a trend I do not like. Mr. Rosenberg, you have called this witness to testify to matters he investigated during the trial?”
“That’s right, Your Honor.”
“Might I ask if the things you intend to have him test
ify to were known to you at the conclusion of court yesterday?”
“They were not, Your Honor.”
“You had no knowledge of these matters when court adjourned?”
Richard smiled. “That’s a little broad, Your Honor. I would not wish to profess to be utterly ignorant. But the majority of Mr. Hastings’s testimony will cover matters unknown to me and only discovered after court adjourned.”
Judge Blank nodded. “On that assurance, I’ll allow it. The objection is overruled. Bring in the jury and let the witness be sworn.”
There was actually a considerable delay before the jury came clomping in again. Doubtless, one of the jurors was merely in the bathroom, or some other such simple explanation. Still, I couldn’t help envisioning the court officer telling the jurors the judge was ready for them, and them digging in their heels and telling him huffily he could damn well wait.
When the jurors had been seated, and I had sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing else but the truth, I was finally allowed to sit down, for which I was grateful. I had been standing there for some time.
Richard rose, approached the witness stand.
“Your name is Stanley Hastings?”
“That’s right.”
“Mr. Hastings, what is your occupation?”
That question always throws me. I still think of myself as an actor and a writer, and the detective work is just what I do between gigs. And I’ve never thought of myself as a real private detective, in any case. But I wasn’t going to get into that now.
“I’m a private detective,” I said.
“By whom are you employed?”
“Actually, I’m self-employed. But my agency is employed by you.”
“And you personally have been assisting the defense throughout the trial?”
“That’s correct.”
“Might I ask if you made any investigations yesterday after court had adjourned?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What were you attempting to find?”
“Evidence that would prove the defendant, Anson Carbinder, was not guilty.”
“And did you find it?”
“Objection, Your Honor. That’s a conclusion on his part. Let him testify to what he found, not what he thinks it proves.”