by A. W. Gray
Nussbaum raised his chin, a pleading look. “You know already, the insurance …”
“You told me, yeah, the insurance. But guess what? While I’ve been waiting to take my sister to the airport, after she ditched your gutless ass, guess what I’ve been doing. I’ve been at your desk upstairs, going over a couple of things.”
Nussbaum tried to appear angry. “Those things are private.”
“Damn right,” Yadaka said. “Private between you and me. I tell you something, Curtis. I didn’t come to you, you came to me. Had my baby sister look me up, you’re wanting to off this actor, and you’re looking for someone with the cods to pull it off. It wasn’t me pissed off all that money in Vegas, got to pulling bread from bank accounts I didn’t own to cover my ass. Everything here, Curtis, you brung it down on your head. So don’t be telling me anything’s private, not between you and me.”
Nussbaum bent forward, hugging his belly. “I need some time.”
“Which you have none of, you lying fuck. You tell me you buy this policy on the actor to safe your bet, you buying some book about which I know nothing, and you need this money to make things right with some movie studio, protect your reputation in the business. Don’t ask me how you got any reputation to protect, because I don’t know. I’m assuming in Hollywood there are a lot of bogus assholes like you running around talking about these reputations they got, I care?
“So you hook me up with your own security man, this Chuck Hager, who is as dumb as any post on the road. I formulate a plan a genius might not consider. I have you bring me this gun you have, haul the gun all the way to Texas to shoot the guy, bring it back here in this private airplane to plant in the actress’s kitchen, I do all this shit perfectly even as far as tipping the FBI. And then what do I get for money? I get a story, that’s what. A fucking story, Curt, which I do not need.”
“It will come,” Nussbaum said.
“You are right it will come. You collected the insurance already, Curtis. That’s in your records up there, only instead of paying who you’re supposed to pay, you ship two million dollars off to some movie studio and then load up all these bank accounts so these actors won’t know you been stealing from them. Problem is, you’re robbing Peter to pay Paul. Only this time Peter is not holding still for it. So tell me something, Curtis. How badly do you want to stay alive?” Yadaka produced a buck knife and cleaned the blade with a handkerchief.
Nussbaum watched the blade, a ray of light glinting from the handle of the knife. “Christ.”
“Aside from you now paying me there are other little glitches here, Curtis. This should have worked perfectly. The actress and the actor got into it in Dallas, outside Planet Hollywood, the perfect setup, only your dumbass security man has to stand around posing and gets his picture took. Jesus Christ, where you come up with this guy?
“You meet me at LAX and bring me this gun at five in the afternoon. By ten p.m. I’m in a Dallas hotel waiting for the opportunity. So what happens? We wait, the actress comes and goes, the actor beats the shit out of her to make things even better for our side. Only your Einstein of a security man busts in and starts stabbing the fucking guy. Dribbles blood all over everywhere, which makes shooting the guy not look so routine to the police and everyone else. This is a major glich, but there are more. For example, how come you don’t tell me this lawyer Sharon Hays is someone you’ve been stiffing for child support?”
“It was a coincidence,” Nussbaum said.
“Which will also make it a coincidence when you are not walking around no more.”
Nussbaum began a desperate whine. “I have a house in Mexico.”
“Good idea.” Yadaka finished cleaning the knife and leaned back. “Great idea, it will only take about fifteen minutes for someone to find you there. Disappearing before tomorrow is the worst thing you can do. After tomorrow you might disappear permanently, but not before. You have got to climb back up on that witness stand and continue to help the prosecutors by lying your ass off. Getting the actress convicted is the only way out for you. If you can do that, then the very next thing you will do is rob some more bank accounts and pay me, Benny Yadaka. After you do that, I don’t give a shit what happens to you.”
Nussbaum rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Christ, that woman, the questions she asks.”
“Sharon Hays?” Yadaka laughed. “Yeah, she is pretty smart and you are pretty stupid, which I confess puts you at a disadvantage. But dumb as you are, even you can stick to a story. You gave the actor the gun. He hauled it to Texas. He turned up shot down there, all of which is enough to get the actress convicted, which gets you off the hook. So, what’s so fucking hard?”
“I just don’t know if I can face her,” Nussbaum said.
“Well, you are going to try, Curtis. Look at it this way. If you pull it off, the testimony, that is a chance you have to keep walking around. The only chance you got, Curtis. Remember that. Without a sterling performance in court tomorrow, you have absolutely no chance at all.”
27
Sharon’s eyelids felt as if she might need a couple of toothpicks in order to prop them open. As she cracked the door an inch to peer from the witness room out into the corridor, she nearly went to sleep standing on her feet. As she watched in a daze, Milton Breyer and Kathleen Fraterno ushered Curtis Nussbaum down the hall and into the courtroom. The theatrical agent wore a blue suit. His head was freshly shaved, and his shoes were polished like mirrors. Following the trio were a pack of reporters along with several minicams. Sharon closed the door, turned her back, and sagged against the jamb. “They’re inside,” she announced wearily.
The witness room was wall to wall. Detective Leeds had showered and shaved and seemed none the worse for wear, though Sharon suspected that with his puffy, bent nose and thick lips, Leeds would appear exhausted no matter how much sleep he’d had. He was seated on a padded bench beside Vernon Tupelow, the Dallas County AME, and a man from the L.A. County Coroner’s office whose name Sharon couldn’t remember. Sharon had rousted Tupelow at his hotel at four in the morning, and wondered if the AME would ever forgive her. At the moment Tupelow had his head together with the coroner from L.A., and Tupelow’s expression said that his skepticism was fading fast. Leeds caught Sharon’s eye, nodded and winked. Sharon walked over, put a hand on the detective’s broad shoulder, and leaned on him.
Leeds continued to grin. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Sharon said. She pointed at the papers which lay in the L.A. coroner’s lap as he and Tupelow looked them over and talked in whispers. “I’ll need those now,” she said. “They’re about to crank up.” She gestured in the direction of the courtroom.
Tupelow leaned back and removed his glasses. “I never would have believed this.”
Sharon arched an eyebrow. “But you do now?”
Tupelow picked up the pages and straightened them on his knee. “This kind of evidence doesn’t lie.”
“You’d testify to it?”
Tupelow waved his glasses around, holding the frames by an earpiece. “Hell’s bells, Miss Hays, I’m Milton Breyer’s witness, not yours. But, yeah, put me under oath and I’ll have to.”
Sharon plucked the pages from Tupelow’s hand and grinned at him. “I don’t think it will come to that. If it does, don’t worry about guff from the district attorney. I’ve got more than enough on old Milton to keep him in line.”
Tupelow laughed. The rifts between Sharon and Milton Breyer during her last days as a prosecutor were legend, constant grist for the Dallas County gossip mill. “I’ve heard that you do,” he said.
“You’ve heard correctly,” Sharon said, then walked over to where Lyndon Gray and Mrs. Welton sat. Gray’s cheeks were a bit puffy, and Mrs. Welton had dark circles under her eyes. Yadaka sat off by himself in the corner, his expression a mask. Sharon said to Lyndon Gray, “Wrote a doorstop, didn’t he?”
Gray hefted a manuscript which was easily four inches thick. “Seven hundred and twenty-six pages. A bit prolific, wot?” The pages were held together with four thick rubber bands.
“And the contracts and letters?” Sharon asked.
Gray thumped the manuscript. “Top twelve sheets here, miss.”
“Good. I hate to ask for one last favor, Mr. Gray, but I don’t know if I could lug all that into court without falling on my tush. Would you mind terribly, taking those in and setting them on the defense table? It’s where Darla will be sitting. She’s officially in custody and not supposed to converse, but if you gave her an encouraging pat on the arm, I’m sure the guard wouldn’t mind.”
“My pleasure, miss.” Gray stood, hefted his load, and left the room. Sharon noted that the Englishman’s shoulders slumped a bit. Been a long night for everybody, she thought.
She turned to Mrs. Welton. “I hope all this hasn’t left you too pooped to cavort with your grandkids,” Sharon said.
I may have to rest some first.” Mrs. Welton showed a tired smile and handed over her own stack of papers. “The hotels, the amounts, the people I spoke with. They’re all in there, mum.”
Sharon added the papers to the stack in her hand.
“I think these will be my first shot out of the barrel,” she said. “You’ve done yeoman’s service.”
Mrs. Welton brushed her sleeve. “All part of it,” she said.
Sharon nodded and moved on down the row. She yawned. God, if she could only stay awake for a few hours more …
If anything, Holtzen the banker looked even more conservative than when Sharon had stolen Rob’s checking-account figures from his office computer. His glasses were perched just so on the bridge of his nose. His suit was blue. He wore a matching tie with tiny white check marks. His cuffs were white. He held a stack of shaded printouts clutched against his chest.
Sharon extended a hand, palm up. “In spite of your resistance I’ll say thank you, Mr. Holtzen.”
Holtzen’s expression had been one of shock when Sharon served her subpoena at eight a.m., when the bank first opened its doors. At nine Holtzen had still been in conference with his lawyers. Reluctantly, he now handed over the printouts. “Everything your subpoena called for,” he said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
Sharon didn’t think she could learn to like this guy, never in a million years. She added the printouts to her stack. “All I’d expect from you,” she said, nodding curtly. “Appreciate your business, sir.”
She had now everything she needed. She took a deep breath and marched toward the exit. Yadaka stood and opened the door for her. As she stepped over the threshold, Detective Leeds stopped her.
Sharon sighed and smiled, wearily. “Yes, officer?”
“None of my business, but a thought. Why wouldn’t you save all that for trial? An acquittal’s final. Even if you make your point in an extradition hearing, they could still indict your client later on.”
Sharon liked the detective, even thought he was sexy in an offbeat way. As they’d worked together through the night, she’d caught him watching her. She hadn’t minded at all. She leaned conspiratorially close. “Let you in on a secret, copper. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred you’re right. But those”—she pointed at the minicams, two of which were aimed in her direction, grinding away—“change the rules. You had a small local case out here, O.J. He’s acquitted, but how’s his lifestyle?
“Darla’s been accused in the media, and that’s where she has to win acquittal, here and now. If she goes to trial and we vindicate her through suppression of evidence, smoke and mirrors and such, the rest of her life people are going to believe she committed murder. That’s unacceptable, both from my standpoint and hers. With these”—she rattled the papers in her hand—“we’re not going to leave a question in anyone’s mind as to who did what. Darla deserves a hell of a lot more than reasonable doubt, Detective. She deserves to live.” Sharon left Leeds standing in the doorway, took three firm strides in the direction of the courtroom, then stopped and turned. “I know it’s bad law, Detective Leeds,” she said, winking. “But what the hell, it’s dandy P.R.”
Sharon sat in between Darla and Preston Trigg at the defense table, and allowed Kathleen Fraterno to get away with murder for a good half hour or more. Whereas in yesterday’s session she’d objected vehemently whenever Fraterno tried to bring up the pistol, now she acted as if Kathleen could ask any question her heart desired. On a couple of occasions Preston Trigg made as if to pop up from his seat, but each time he did, Sharon grabbed her co-counsel’s sleeve and yanked him down. Even Fraterno was puzzled. Twice she paused in midquestion, casting sideways glances at the defense table as though certain an objection was coming. Each time she did, Sharon flashed Kathleen a happy smile.
Nearing the end of her direct, Fraterno leaned over the podium. “Are you certain, Mr. Nussbaum, that the pistol you just identified is the same pistol you watched David Spencer pack in preparation for his trip to Dallas?”
Nussbaum was emphatic. “Absolutely.”
The gun lay on the court clerk’s table, inside a plastic bag with an evidence sticker attached. Fifteen minutes earlier Judge Rudin had admitted the .38, and the defense hadn’t uttered a peep in protest. Rudin, obviously expecting to strut and swagger as he ruled on Sharon’s objection, had thrown an unguarded frown in her direction. Sharon had sat unmoving with folded hands. Preston Trigg had bowed his head and massaged his eyelids.
Now Fraterno continued her barrage. “The same gun which you gave David Spencer as a gift?”
Nussbaum’s jaw thrust out. “I’d know it anywhere.”
Fraterno thumbed through her notes, giving Sharon a long sideways look. Preston Trigg could stand it no longer. He leaned near Sharon and hissed, “What in hell are you doing? Any objection at all, Rudin wouldn’t have admitted the damned thing. Are you out of your mind?”
Darla looked at Sharon as well, and for the first time since the hearing had begun there was doubt in the actress’s expression. It was, after all, Darla’s ass on the line.
Sharon gave Darla’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. Then she looked Preston Trigg eye to eye. She smiled at him. “How’s your book deal going, Pres?” she whispered.
Fraterno completed her direct examination and sat. She exchanged whispers with Milton Breyer. He shook his head in bewilderment. The pistol continued to rest on the counter, admitted once and for all into evidence.
Rudin said from the bench, “Cross?” His gaze was toward the gallery. Seated in the second row, Karen Warren, the 20/20 reporter, waggled her fingers at him. Rudin snapped his head toward the defense table and said more forcefully, “Cross, Counsel?”
Oh, you bet, Sharon thought. She stood, selected three pieces of paper from the stack on the table, and approached the podium, feeling Darla’s doubtful gaze on her.
She took a second to scan Mrs. Welton’s list, then lifted her chin and looked at the witness. Nussbaum sat relaxed, elbows on armrests. Sharon nodded. “Morning, sir. Do you gamble?”
There was a cacophony of whispers throughout the courtroom as Nussbaum’s features sagged. He straightened and said in puzzlement, “Do I…?”
“Gamble. Seven come eleven. Dance with Lady Luck.”
Kathleen Fraterno started to rise, but Milton Breyer beat her to the punch. He said from his seat, “Your Honor,” and then stood and said, “come on.”
Sharon turned a deadpan gaze toward the prosecution side. “Is that an objection?”
Breyer sat down. “Of course it is.”
“I wasn’t sure,” Sharon said. She looked at the bench. “Your Honor, this witness has testified that a firearm found in the defendant’s home under a federal search warrant is the same gun which left California on an airplane with the defendant and the victim. The Dallas County medical examiner has testified that it’s the sa
me caliber weapon used in the crime. I suspect that the M.E. will return to testify that ballistics tests have found it to be the same identical .38 as the murder weapon. Under that set of circumstances, I’ll respectfully direct the court to Wainscott v. Massachussetts, inform the witness that it’s my intent to show that he hasn’t been truthful in his prior statements, and ask for latitude here.” She swallowed. “The court will soon see where I’m headed, and if I fail to comply with the spirit of the Wainscott decision, I’m sure the court will intervene.”
Rudin pursed his lips. Out came the pocket watch. He wound the stem. Oh, boy, Sharon thought, is this ever up this joke of a judge’s alley, cameras grinding and the viewing audience on the edges of their seats. She pictured Russell Black, back in Dallas watching in his office, and even considered winking at the camera and tugging on her ear like Carol Burnett signaling her mother. Conducting cross-examination using Wainscott v. Massachusetts was one of Russ’s favorite ploys. Just as you taught me, old boss, Sharon thought.
Rudin stopped winding and dropped the watch into his pocket. “I’ll allow it up to a point, Counsel.”
Fratemo uttered an audible sigh. Her hands were now tied except for the standard badgering-the-witness and asked-and-answered objections. With the witness advised that his veracity was in question, Sharon was free to slash away until the judge called her off.
She returned her attention to Curtis Nussbaum. “I asked if you gambled, sir.”
Nussbaum shifted his weight. “Oh, a little. Yeah, I have, some.”