The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  “Some?” Sharon raised her eyebrows. She referred to her list. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Ross Versace?”

  Nussbaum’s gaze went stone cold. He didn’t answer.

  “Leonard Prinz?” Sharon went on. “Douglas Barnett? Do you know these gentlemen?”

  Nussbaum offered what Sharon assumed was his most disarming smile. “Yes. Seems I do.”

  “‘Are these men employees of Las Vegas casinos?”

  “I believe they are.” Nussbaum kept up the front, but there was resignation in his tone. “Are they credit managers?”

  “I think so. They work in the hotels.”

  “I see.” Sharon went back to the list. “Mr. Versace with the Circus-Circus, Mr. Prinz with Caesar’s Palace, and Mr. Barnett with the Golden Nugget?” She pretended to think. “The Golden Nugget is downtown, isn’t it?”

  “If you know that,” Nussbaum said, “then you’ve been there more than I have. I don’t keep up with these places.”

  “Oh? They keep up with you, sir.”

  Fratemo shot up. “Objection. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained,” Rudin barked. “Latitude, Council, doesn’t mean you can take off in any direction at all.” The objection was proper; so was the judge’s ruling.

  Sharon accepted the hit, nodding, then asked, “Mr. Nussbaum, as of two weeks ago, what was your debt to those three casinos?”

  Nussbaum played to the audience. “Not that much. I don’t really keep up.”

  Sharon kept her voice low, her expression matter­of-fact. “Is four hundred thousand dollars your definition of ‘not that much,’ sir?”

  Nussbaum feigned surprise. “Was it that high?”

  Sharon didn’t bat an eye. “Yes. Isn’t it a fact that your debt to those casinos has reached that figure not once, but several times over the past three years?”

  Nussbaumspread his hands. “It might have. What’s—?”

  “How much do you owe these casinos today, Mr. Nussbaum?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d have to check.”

  “Have to check? Isn’t your current balance zero, sir, paid in full? I’d think you’d be proud of your credit rating.”

  Nussbaum waved a hand. “A man owes, a man pays,” he said.

  Sharon kept her gaze riveted on the witness. “I’ve heard that’s the code.” She retreated purposefully to stand in front of the defense table, leaned over and rummaged through the stack of papers. Darla’s expression was one of pure terror. Sharon winked at her. She briefly wondered if Holtzen had clued Nussbaum in this morning, even as the banker ran printouts of the agent’s trust accounts. She doubted it; Holtzen would have been in a hurry, and Nussbaum had likely breakfasted with the prosecutors. She hauled the pile of computer paper back to the podium. “Mr. Nussbaum,” she said, “did you once represent Natalie Thorn?”

  Nussbaum froze in place, like a man about to take his first step onto the gallows.

  “Come on, sir,” Sharon said calmly. “Surely you’ve heard of her. The Illusion? Step in Time? She costarred with—”

  “She used to be my client,” Nussbaum choked out.

  Sharon found the printout she was looking for, and held the pages at eye level. “Two years ago, did she make a change?”

  Nussbaum assumed a look of innocence. “She thought she could do better elsewhere.”

  “Oh? Wasn’t there some money missing from her bank account?” Sharon tilted her head. The nine a.m. hassle with Natalie Thorn’s lawyers over providing this information had been a nerve warper. “Ms. Thorn was short over two hundred thousand dollars, wasn’t she?”

  Nussbaum grimaced. “I settled that out. Natalie wasn’t supposed to…” He trailed off, looking as if he was surrounded by pygmies with blowdarts.

  “Yes, sir,” Sharon said. “Part of your settlement agreement was, she wasn’t to reveal the shortage. Under subpoena of her records, however, Ms. Thorn has no choice but to do so.” Sharon told a little white lie. Actually, she’d only threatened the subpoena, and the actress’s attorneys had caved in. “But you did repay the money, didn’t you?”

  “Of course,” Nussbaum rationalized. “Was nothing but a bookkeeping error.”

  Sharon whipped out another printout. “Oh? On September 12, 1994, you placed two hundred and eleven thousand dollars in Natalie Thorn’s account, didn’t you? After which she closed the account and transferred her money to another bank?”

  Nussbaum squeezed his knuckles. “Her new agent did business elsewhere.”

  “Yes. But her old agent continued to do business at the same location. Mr. Nussbaum, on the same date as the deposit to Natalie Thorn’s account, did you remove one hundred and eight thousand dollars from David Spencer’s account, and one hundred and three thousand dollars from Taylor Noble’s account, for a total of two hundred and eleven thousand dollars, the same amount as you deposited? Quite a coincidence, sir.”

  Nussbaum gaped like a fish out of water.

  Sharon couldn’t resist a little smirk. She watched Fratemo from the comer of her eye. Kathleen was as shocked as everyone else in the courtroom. So hell­bent for leather had Texas been in rushing to judgement against Darla Cowan, when Nussbaum had come forward they hadn’t even investigated the guy. Sharon said to the witness, “Perhaps you’re having trouble remembering Taylor Noble. Would it refresh your memory to go over Mr. Noble’s screen credits, sir?”

  Nussbaum lost it completely. He showed a look of pure hatred. “No, hell, I know who he is. I’ve represented that boy for years.”

  Sharon blinked. “That relationship could be in its waning stages.” She paused. The question was pure badgery, giving Fratemo a legitimate cause to object, and Sharon damn well knew it. Kathleen didn’t stir. Sharon went on. “Let’s fast-forward a year.” Back to the table she went, grinning openly at Darla, and hefted the book manuscript. God, the freaking thing weighed a ton. She carried the manuscript back to the podium and dropped it with a thump heard in living rooms throughout the country. The jury box cameraman fiddled with something on his minicam, and Sharon suspected that he was zooming in on the book. Sharon zeroed in on Curtis Nussbaum. “Let’s talk about Dead On, sir.”

  Nussbaum stirred nervously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs.

  Sharon feigned surprise, straight from acting class. “That was a big deal, Mr. Nussbaum. Surely you haven’t forgotten.”

  Nussbaum wheezed out, “That writer…”

  “Messed up everything, didn’t he? Mr. Nussbaum, did you accept a two-million-dollar payment from Mammoth Pictures in David Spencer’s behalf, as an advance for his agreeing to act in Dead On?” Sharon was conscious of a rustling noise, reporters snatching up notepads.

  “They paid an advance,” Nussbaum said. “Whatever it was, it came to me.”

  “Such an insignificant sum that you don’t recall.” Sharon rattled the printouts. “Could you tell me the date, possibly, when that advance went into David Spencer’s account?”

  Nussbaum sucked in air.

  “There is one deposit here,” Sharon said, brandishing the shaded pages, “in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars. Was that a part payment to David Spencer?”

  Nussbaum touched his fingertips together. “My bookkeeper…”

  “Had a hard time getting things straight, didn’t she?” Sharon gave the witness a crooked grin, and couldn’t resist saying, “Perhaps you should jump her, sir.”

  “Objection.” Fraterno rose only halfway to her feet, and spoke in a less than forceful tone.

  “I’ll withdraw that,” Sharon said before Rudin could sustain. The judge looked miffed, as if she’d stolen his line in the climax scene. She reached underneath the stack of printouts and pulled out Mrs. Welton’s survey of the casino people. “On the same date as Mr. Spencer’s deposit, sir, did you make three four­hundred-thousand-dollar payments in Las Vegas?
”

  “I could have,” Nussbaum snarled. “I’d have to check.”

  Sharon inhaled, pretending to gather herself as she glanced at her watch. Quarter to eleven. Rob should be dragging his fanny into the courthouse shortly. Having set Nussbaum up, establishing that he’d been playing fast and loose with his clients’ money, she wanted to back off from the bank-account questions until she could get Rob’s testimony on record. She needed a fifteen-minute filibuster. She’d planned her knockout punch for some time after Rob took the stand, but…She looked at the pistol, still in its baggie on the court clerk’s counter. She looked at the bench. “Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  Rudin looked from Nussbaum to the podium and back again. “Do you think that’s safe, Counsel?” the judge said. Titters and guffaws erupted throughout the courtroom.

  As the laughter subsided, Sharon gave Rudin a frozen smile. Anyone who’d thought they could keep this judge from Jay Leno-ing a bit was sadly mistaken. Formally there was silence. Sharon said again, “Approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “Permission granted, Counsel,” Rudin said, grinning. Making her walk brisk and professional, Sharon went to the clerk’s station. She lifted the baggie by one corner. The pistol dangled heavily. She carried the gun up and laid it in front of the witness. “Mr. Nussbaum, you’ve previously testified that this is the pistol which you gave David Spencer, and which he carried with him to Dallas in his luggage, haven’t you?”

  Nussbaum seemed relieved to change the subject. “Yes.”

  “To be absolutely certain, sir, would you please identify the weapon one more time.”

  Nussbaum regarded the .38 as if it might suddenly explode.

  One corner of Sharon’s mouth curved upward. “This isn’t a David Copperfield disappearing trick, sir. It’s the same gun that’s been laying there all along.”

  “Then it’s the same gun I gave David, for protection.”

  “Good.” Sharon left the weapon on the rail and went back to the defense table. The only remaining documents were L.A. County lab reports on Harlon Swain and Chuck Hager, their corpses at the morgue. She picked. these up and returned to stand at the podium. “Once more for the record, Mr. Nussbaum. What time did David Spencer and Darla Cowan board this plane for Dallas?”

  Nussbaum shrugged warily. “Not sure exactly. Mid­morning sometime.”

  “Before noon?”

  “Way before that. They had an appearance in Texas, at Planet Hollywood.”

  “Right.” Sharon lifted the lab report on Harlon Swain. “Mr. Nussbaum, you are aware, aren’t you, that ballistics reports show that’s the weapon which killed David Spencer?”

  “So I’m told.”

  “Would that indicate to you that someone in his hotel room took his own gun and killed him with it?”

  “Wouldn’t indicate anything to me. That’s for the police.”

  “Right. But by, say, two in the afternoon, four Dallas time, that pistol would have had to have been in Texas, wouldn’t it?”

  Nussbaum showed faint bravado. “Beats me. Whenever the plane landed.”

  Her trap sprung, the mouse firmly inside, Sharon now slowly lifted the lab report to eye level. Keeping her gaze firmly on the witness, dangling the report by its corner, she said, “Well, can you explain, sir, how the same weapon was used to shoot a man in East Los Angeles at four o’clock on that same Friday afternoon? A Mr. Harton Swain?”

  There was a frozen-in-time moment as pin-drop silence reigned, Sharon at the podium, Nussbaum staring at the paper hanging from her fingers, all rustling of pen and paper in the courtroom ceasing as if a switch had been thrown, the minicam in the jury box recording the scene for posterity.

  “A writer, wasn’t he?” Sharon said. “Harton Swain?” Nussbaum managed to say, “I…”

  Sharon’s’ gaze darted to the bench. “Conference, Your Honor?”

  Rudin gestured to both sides, obviously tickled to death to get in on the act. Sharon went quickly up to the bench. Fraterno held back for an instant, then Milton Breyer joined her as both prosecutors approached. Harold Cuellar made it a foursome, the L.A. assistant district attorney evidently unable to keep his curiosity in check. Conscious of Nussbaum seated only feet away in the witness box, Sharon lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “I want to keep this guy, Judge,” Sharon said. “But I have another witness to present.” She checked her watch. Five to. If Rob was late, she was going to wring his neck. “What I propose is a ten-minute recess, with Mr. Nussbaum held for recall after the interim witness testifies. I think I’ll be wound up before lunch, Your Honor.” She jerked her head toward the witness box. “Or he will be.”

  Rudin slowly massaged his forehead. “Interesting development.”

  Milton Breyer stuck his head in between Sharon and Fratemo. “What’s going on here, Sharon? Are you somehow pointing fingers at our witness?”

  Sharon favored Breyer with a long sideways look. “Fingers and toes.” she said.

  Breyer turned to Fratemo. “What is this, Kathleen? Have we somehow charged the wrong party?” His eyes were innocently wide.

  Sharon snorted through her nose. She looked at the defense table, where Darla sat alongside Preston Trigg with an empty seat in between. She turned back to Milton Breyer. “You’ve made a career out of that sort of thing, Milt,” Sharon said. “Haven’t you, now?”

  Rudin called the break, and told Nussbaum sternly not to leave the building. As the hubbub built to a crescendo, spectators rising, stretching, talking back and forth, Nussbaum climbed down from the witness stand. He was practically staggering. He said something to Kathleen Fratemo. She ignored him. Nussbaum went through the gate and up the aisle, turning away from hostile looks aimed at him from all sides.

  Sharon turned in her chair, took both of Darla’s hands in hers, and squeezed. “He set you up, babe, from the beginning.”

  Darla’s look was anguished. “When can I go home, Sharon?”

  Sharon stood, still holding Darla’s hands as then guards approached to take the actress to the holding cell. Sharon beamed at Darla. “How does tonight sound?” Sharon said.

  The guards took Darla away, and Sharon made a beeline for the corridor. Damn Rob all to hell, if he wasn’t … She dodged spectators right and left on her way up the aisle. She hustled out into the jam-packed hallway, ignored a minicam as its operator swiveled the lens in her direction, and looked around for Rob. He was nowhere in sight, which didn’t particularly surprise her. Rob had likely sent advance scouts to survey the lay of the courtroom floor, and would plan his arrival accordingly. When the hallway was the most crowded he would saunter casually from the elevator, feigning surprise at the recognition he’d receive. If he recived none, Sharon thought, he might fall down kicking and screaming like a two-year-old. She pictured his grand entry at the restaurant in Malibu, wherein he’d shot her with an imaginary bullet as he’d strolled across the floor. She hoped, God, that she could get through his stint on the witness stand without barfing in front of the judge and national viewing audience.

  Sharon’s forehead tightened as she spotted Curtis Nussbaum, the agent moving jerkily along toward the men’s room across the corridor. Nussbaum’s expression was drawn, panic piled on fear. She placed her hand over her mouth to hide a grim smile. Grillings on the witness stand affected the guilty in odd ways; she recalled one Dallas criminal suspect who, out on bail in the middle of his trial, had plunged to his death from a third-floor railing in the Crowley Building. As Sharon watched, Nussbaum neared the entry to the men’s. He paused in mid-stride, did a sudden column­right, and walked in the direction of the elevators. He passed a knot of reporters, none of whom paid him any heed. His pace quickened.

  Sharon’s throat tightened. Nussbaum had seen the writing on the wall and had made up his mind. No way was he going to hang around for more exposure on the stand t
o this tenacious female lawyer. The s.o.b. was making a run for it.

  She looked quickly up and down the hall. Strung out on a corridor bench were Gray and Yadaka along with Detectives Leeds and White of the L.A.P.D. The four men sat in relaxed postures, likely swapping lies. Sharon’s heels clicked on tile as she hurried over and tapped Leeds firmly on the shoulder. Leeds regarded her with quizzically lifted brows.

  Sharon pointed after the fleeing agent. Nussbaum had it in gear now, practically trotting as he neared the corner leading to the elevators. He rounded the comer and vanished from view. Sharon said, “This is only intuition, and there’s no warrant for the guy. But Mr. Nussbaum is leaving us. If you don’t want to have to organize a manhunt, I’d think up a line of questioning for him pronto.”

  Leeds followed her direction as Gray climbed to his feet. Leeds muttered, “Jesus, David, go after the guy.”

  Detective White showed reluctance. “What’s my probable cause?”

  Leeds shook his head. “Probable cause, hell. We just want to question him.” He took off at a gallop, dodging men and women as they snapped their heads around and gaped at him, his feet thudding heavily on corridor tile. He disappeared around the same comer where Nussbaum had gone just seconds ago.

  White followed suit, charging in pursuit of his partner, as Sharon walked quickly after the young detective. Gray and Yadaka fell in step on either side of her. The trio rounded the corner. The bank of elevators came into view. There was quite a crowd in the foyer, including a baseball star and an actress who’d been in court every day, and who now were holding hands. Sharon was barely conscious of the minicam operator who trailed a couple of paces to the rear.

  Detective Leeds had Nussbaum by the arm in front of the nearest of the three cars. The cop had his nose just a few inches from the agent’s face, the policeman’s jaw working, his features set in the cop’s standard just-a-few-questions-to-clear-this-up, we’re-here­to-help expression. Sharon advised all her criminal clients to avoid such confrontations like the plague, but now hoped that Nussbaum fell for the ploy. She desperately needed for the agent to remain in the courthouse. As Leeds spoke in a soothing tone, Detective White stood off to the side with his arms folded. Nussbaum shook his head and tried to pull away from the policeman’s grasp; Leeds tightened his grip on the agent’s arm.