No wonder Judge Howard had leapfrogged Judge Jillian in court show ratings. Even Judge Sheila and Judge Tommy were nipping at her heels.
Finally Judge Jillian had a case to regain her rightful place atop the ratings. She nodded at her bailiff, Chuck, who’d spent thirty years in Court Services, unlike the empty-headed actor who played a bailiff on Judge Howard’s show and didn’t know the difference between a legal robe and a bathrobe.
Chuck sucked in his belly like he always did when the camera was about to turn his way. “Your Honor, this is case number 422, Gobalt versus Clay.”
When the show aired, the voiceover would elaborate: “Ben Gobalt is suing his neighbor, Morton Clay, for vandalizing his lawn ornaments. He’s seeking twenty-five-hundred dollars in damages.”
Judge Jillian looked over the bridge of her glasses at the two men behind their stands, holding the stapled papers the producer gave disputants as props to make it look like they came prepared.
Chuck placed a blown-up photo on the easel. Two kissing Dutch children statuettes had cigarettes glued to their mouths.
Judge Jillian got things started. “Mr. Clay, did you glue cigarettes in the mouths of Mr. Gobalt’s Dutch children?”
Morton Clay slouched like the entire world was created for his amusement. He half-turned to the studio audience. “Not me. But I salute the person who did.”
Ben Gobalt slammed his hand on the stand. “You lie. He lies, Your Honor.”
Ben was pale and skinny, with a horseshoe of red hair. He’d probably been picked on from the day he emerged from the womb.
Chuck replaced the kissing Dutch children photo with one of lawn gnomes playing cards around a mushroom table.
Ben Gobalt’s voice screeched like fingers on a chalkboard. “See for yourself, Your Honor. He painted their beards purple.”
Judge Jillian gave the laughing studio audience the first of what she knew would be many reminders this was a court of law, not the Comedy Castle. Judge Howard would have been whooping it up along with them. He presided over a freak show and all the other judges kowtowed to him. Judge Jillian heard through the grapevine that Judge Dana and Judge Arnie told people she needed to lighten up, “have some fun out there, like Judge Howard.”
“It wasn’t me,” Morton Clay said.
Ben Gobalt struggled to speak. “All the time and money I put into my garden, this snake, he dares…”
Chuck took a step closer, just in case. This wasn’t Jerry Springer. Judge Jillian put her foot down when her producer floated the idea of encouraging physical confrontations. Still, they’d had tussles during tapings a few times, and Chuck had to break up post-show altercations outside the studio at least once a month.
“You take a lot of pride in your garden, don’t you, Mr. Gobalt?”
“Nothing’s there by accident. I plan it all out beforehand.”
Judge Tina would feign empathy at this point, praising his design skill, sympathizing with the destruction of his treasured ornaments. Judge Jillian had no time for bogus playacting. She wanted the facts.
“Please correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Clay, but aren’t you known in your neighborhood for ridiculing Mr. Gobalt’s lawn ornaments?”
“You’re not wrong, Your Honor. His ornaments are hideous.”
“Is it true that last Thanksgiving you placed a fully cooked turkey on King Neptune’s prongs?”
The studio audience howled. A baritone voice called out, “My name is Neptune. I’ll be your server tonight.”
Judge Jillian broke into a quick but unmistakable smile. That was funny and she wasn’t humorless. She just refused to laugh indiscriminately for the sole reason of creating a festive atmosphere. Not that Judge Dana and Judge Arnie could comprehend the distinction, which was no doubt why they languished at the bottom of the ratings.
Morton Clay gave the studio audience an arched eyebrow shrug. “Guilty as charged.”
“And did you place a sign next to a retriever with a basket planter that said, ‘My fellow ornaments and I apologize for driving your property values down?’
“I’ve never denied it,” Morton Clay said.
“Yet you claim you didn’t vandalize the ornaments this time?”
“I’m not the only one on the street who hates those things.”
Ben Gobalt jabbed his finger in the air at Morton Clay. “Liar. He did it. Just like he put the turkey on Neptune.”
“He did it last time, so you assume he did it this time?”
“I know he did it. But I wanted another witness. So I called the Astro Man.”
“The Astro Man?”
They’d reviewed the list of witnesses beforehand so Judge Jillian knew about the Astro Man. She never would have feigned surprise like this back in the days when she presided over the Santa Monica Municipal Court. But the producer thought the name “Astro Man” added entertainment value, and Judge Jillian liked to throw the producer a bone every now and then.
“That’s what I call the neighbor across the street,” Ben Gobalt said. “Because he drives an Astro Van. So, yeah, I called and told him to look out his window.”
The Astro Man came down from the studio audience and stood beside Ben Gobalt.
“It was late, a little after nine,” said Astro Man. “Ben called and sounded upset, so I didn’t bitch about the time. He told me to look in his yard. I saw Morton bent over doing something to one of the ornaments.”
“You saw Morton Clay? Saw his face?”
The Astro Man shook his head. “He had his back to me and he was wearing that gray hoodie he always wears.”
Ben Gobalt shouted, “But I saw him. He had a can of paint and he was painting the gnomes’ beards. He looked up at my window and waved and gave me that big slick grin of his.”
“My question was for the Astro Man,” Judge Jillian said. “We take turns here, just like when you were a child, Mr. Gobalt.”
The Astro Man finished up. “Yeah, I saw Morton waving at Ben. The next day Ben asked me to sign a statement about what I saw, so I did. I even lent him my camera so he could take pictures of the ornaments as evidence.”
“Now it’s your turn, Mr. Gobalt. You say you watched from your upstairs window as Mr. Clay painted the gnomes’ beards. He looked up at you and waved. Why not go down and stop him?”
“I wanted to let him finish so I could sue him.”
Judge Jillian took off her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose, put the glasses back on.
“Well, Mr. Clay, Mr. Gobalt and the Astro Man both saw you painting the card-playing lawn gnomes. It seems I have no choice but to award the damages Mr. Gobalt seeks. But we still have ten minutes left in the show and our sponsors wouldn’t like it if we finished early. So after the break we’ll consider some additional evidence.”
Two grips wheeled a big-screen TV into the courtroom, angling it to face Ben Gobalt, Morton Clay, and the studio audience behind them. Ben stood with his back to Morton, looking down at the ground. Morton rubbed his finger over his lips as he watched one of the PAs test the remote to make sure it turned on the TV then hand the remote to Chuck.
The producer called out, “We’re back in five, four…”
The studio audience chanted along with him: “three, two, one.”
Judge Jillian gave Morton and Ben her trademark glasses-on-the-bridge-of-the-nose stare. “I said before the break we’d consider additional evidence before I give my verdict….Chuck?”
Chuck aimed his remote at the TV and the monitor blinked on. A Channel 7 reporter stood in front of a house at night lit up by rotating police lights. “I’m outside a Pacific Palisades house where, a few hours ago, the owner was stabbed in his driveway as he got out of his car.”
The video cut to a montage of the same reporter outside the same house at different times. “The murder victim is a developer named Evan Oils. Apparen
tly, Mr. Oils was named in several lawsuits for extorting money from investors. The most recent lawsuit, last August, was thrown out.…The police still have no leads in the murder of Evan Oils.”
Chuck clicked off the monitor.
Half the audience applauded wildly, maybe out of habit, maybe because of the drama of the unexpected video, while the other half shushed them for cheering a tragedy.
Judge Jillian leaned forward. “Mr. Gobalt, that murder took place the same night at roughly the same time that you saw Mr. Clay vandalizing your lawn ornaments.”
Ben Gobalt stared at her blankly.
“Mr. Clay was one of the investors who sued Mr. Oils. Why don’t you tell us about that lawsuit, Mr. Clay?”
Morton Clay was gripping the sides of his stand to steady his shaking hands. His grin failed him. “You want me…the lawsuit?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Sure. Nothing to do with anything, but sure. Evan Oils told me he was developing a parking lot. He promised a return of twenty percent a year. He showed me plans and everything. I invested fifty thousand dollars. But there was no parking lot. The whole thing was a scam.”
“How did you feel when the lawsuit was thrown out?”
“It was thrown out on a technicality. I wanted to try again. But then someone killed Evan Oils.”
“Mr. Gobalt, maybe you followed my line of questioning. Morton Clay had a reason to stab Evan Oils. You’re Mr. Clay’s alibi.”
Ben Gobalt’s eyes opened wide. The “ah hah” moment took a while to get there, but when it did, Ben slammed his open hands on the stand. “That snake’s not getting out of it this way.”
“Getting out of it? I think Mr. Clay would rather pay damages for vandalizing your lawn ornaments than be accused of murder. Isn’t that right, Mr. Clay?”
Morton Clay shook his head hard like he had water stuck in his ear. “This isn’t right. I’m calling my lawyer. I’m going to sue this show for slander.”
Judge Jillian lowered her hand to silence the booing of the studio audience.
“Mr. Gobalt, Mr. Clay couldn’t ask for a better alibi than you. One from a friend would be useless. But who would question an alibi from a bitter enemy?”
“I don’t know about all that. The news report said there were other investors. And how do you know it was one them, anyway? The snake’s going to pay for what he did to my ornaments.”
“My producers did a little digging. According to the lawsuit against Mr. Oils, thirty investors put money into that bogus parking lot project. Twenty-nine of those investors joined the lawsuit. Any idea who that thirtieth investor was, Mr. Gobalt?”
Ben Gobalt shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”
“Mr. Clay, how did you meet Evan Oils?”
“He used to live near me.”
“He used to live near both of you. I still have some friends at the West LA Community Police Station. I asked them to find out if a man named Ben Gobalt wrote a fifty thousand-dollar check to a man named Evan Oils. You did, Mr. Gobalt. You were the one investor who didn’t join the lawsuit. You had a different form of justice in mind, didn’t you?”
Judge Jillian had to raise her voice to be heard above the screeching sound coming from Ben Gobalt.
“I’m ready to announce my verdict.”
Judge Jillian leaned forward, giving the cameraman time to zoom in for the close-up. Judge Kim—the former Judge Kim—had the nerve to crack jokes about a spray-on tan. Judge Jillian thought about sending her a Happy Cancellation card, but she was above that.
“Morton Clay has a history of ridiculing Ben Gobalt’s lawn ornaments. He put a turkey on King Neptune’s trident and an insulting sign near the retriever with the basket planter. Mr. Gobalt hated Mr. Clay for this. But something happened to unite these two enemies. They were both ripped off by a con artist named Evan Oils. They plotted their revenge. Mr. Clay was the one with enough nerve to commit murder, but he’d joined the lawsuit against Evan Oils so the police could easily discover his motive. He needed an unshakable alibi. Who better than the neighbor he taunted and ridiculed, a man nobody would suspect of helping Mr. Clay by giving him a phony alibi?
“On to the night of the murder. My guess is Mr. Clay hid outside Evan Oils’ house and waited for him to come home. When he saw the car approach, he called Mr. Gobalt, and Mr. Gobalt went out to his yard, wearing the gray hoodie neighbors always saw Mr. Clay wearing. He stuck cigarettes in the mouths of the Dutch children. He crouched down and painted the beards of the card-playing gnomes. That’s when he made a phone call to the Astro Man across the street telling him to look at his front yard. He waved at his own upstairs window so the Astro Man would think he was inside watching.
“Morton Clay and Ben Gobalt had the audacity to come on this show. Maybe Mr. Clay thought his willingness to deny his own alibi in such a public way would strengthen it. Mr. Gobalt, since I believe Morton Clay murdered Evan Oils, he couldn’t have vandalized your lawn ornaments. Therefore, I will not award the damages you seek.”
As the audience stomped and cheered their approval, Judge Jillian turned away so the camera didn’t catch her saying, “Let’s see you and your freak show top that, Judge Howard.”
Clear Knights
J.C. Lane
I joined the Poisoned Pen posse in the early 2000s, with my debut mystery, Till the Cows Come Home. One of my favorite memories is from the 2005 Malice Domestic Convention, when Cows was nominated for Best First Mystery. Our illustrious Editor-in-Chief Barbara Peters introduced me to Barbara Mertz, aka Elizabeth Peters, one of my favorite authors of all time. I admit to a major fan-girl moment, and fortunately have a photo of this meeting, so I know it was not just a dream.
—J.C. Lane
***
“You think he was alive when he called?”
Trevor stared at Shaun, who even now was living up to his reputation as the densest accounting major the university had ever seen. “Yes, Shaun,” Trevor said, enunciating Very Clearly. “I believe he must have been.”
They straddled their motorized scooters and peered into the driver’s-side window of the car parked under the streetlight. A man lay slumped over the steering wheel, his face angled toward them, unrecognizable in the darkness.
Shaun ran his fingers through his bleached blond hair. “Claire called me, said this guy was way drunk, but he remembered our ad.
COST OF DUI CONVICTION: $20,000
COST OF CLEAR KNIGHTS: $25
CALL 1-800-GET-HOME
“I grabbed the scooter from my last guy’s trunk—pain in the ass, yanking this thing out of a Fit—and rode over.”
Trevor took in the surroundings: a curve around the city park, a few houses across the street, dim streetlights offering the only illumination.
A police car coasted around the bend and stopped a short distance away. The front doors opened, and two cops hustled toward the Clear Knights.
“Trevor, Shaun,” Gills, the male one, said. “You called?”
Shaun stared at the second officer with undisguised adoration, and Trevor swallowed his irritation. “About a half hour ago Shaun received the order to drive this guy home. He texted me, and when I saw this…”
“So you’re the one who called it in?” Officer Shelley Torre pulled out her notebook.
Trevor nodded. “Knew he wasn’t going to.”
The three of them regarded Shaun, who still gaped at Torre.
“At least he called you,” Gills said.
Trevor sighed. “At least.”
“You’d think he was the jock,” Torre teased.
Gills’ radio spewed some police jargon. “Crew’s on the way,” he said. “We’ll need you guys to stick around. I know it’s a busy night, but the detective will have questions.”
Trevor smacked Shaun on the arm. “Let’s back it up so the cops can do their work. Shaun.
”
They pushed their scooters across the street, parking them in the grass. Trevor gestured for Shaun to stay put, and speed-dialed number one.
“Clear Knights,” said a cheerful voice. “Can we drive you home?”
“It’s me, Claire. We have a problem.” He explained what had happened. “You remember this guy’s call?”
“He didn’t give me a name. Said he’d started home from the fundraiser—”
“The fundraiser?” Trevor stared across the park. He’d hated missing the dinner, but there was no way he could afford a five-hundred-dollar ticket. Bobby Crandall, the town’s very own professional football player, had come home to raise money for the university’s new fitness center, and only those well-connected or wealthy would be lucky enough to see him. Trevor’s advisor and baseball coach, Dr. Wenger, had offered Trevor a job waiting tables—Wenger had that clout, since he’d been in charge of the event—but Trevor would make more money shuttling drunks from place to place, so he’d reluctantly turned it down. He needed every penny he could scrape up if he was going to make next semester’s tuition payment.
“I was expecting him to say he’d had too much to drink,” Claire continued, “but he said he thought he might’ve drunk something. He left the fundraiser feeling sick, and got too dizzy to drive.”
“The cops will want to hear about that, and anything else you can remember.” Trevor heard a hiccup. “Claire?”
“It’s just so awful. I mean, a dead guy.”
“I know. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Trevor hung up. He was lucky to be dating Claire, a nursing student also working her way through college.
More vehicles arrived, and crime scene techs took pictures and searched the area. A commotion broke out at the car, and Trevor strained to hear what was being said. Nothing coherent reached him.
It wasn’t long before a man made his way across the street. Anxiety etched deep lines on his broad face, and veins stood out in his neck. “Detective Barker,” he said. “You guys report this?”
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