by Lia Matera
It was bewildering enough to recast Jay Bartoli as a scorned lover. It was nauseating to think of him as something much worse: a cop willing to hire a killer.
I lay down, adjusting my ripped-tie dress as well as I could. I shivered the night away on my bench of cold vinyl. I told myself my uncle had been foiled only by the late hour. In the morning, he’d ride to my rescue. And Sandy would arrive shortly afterward.
The phone number would turn out to be a dead end. The magistrate who’d issued the arrest warrant would cringe over the flimsiness of Gold’s “evidence.” I’d be released by afternoon.
The alternative—that the phone number was relevant, that the gunman had stayed at the Southbay—would mean Jay Bartoli was a killer.
That would mean trouble. That would be hard to prove.
I slept fitfully, praying to be released in the morning. If I was, I’d walk straight into the hornet’s nest of reporters. For once, I’d be straight with them.
I’d tell them a sheriff’s investigator planted evidence on me and roughed me up. I’d tell them the DA was so slipshod and vengeful she arrested first and inquired later.
Bartoli and Gold could go ahead and deny everything. I didn’t care. They wouldn’t sue me for slander because the accusations were true. They’d have to live with the media’s depredation.
Gold was used to thinking of show-biz as her cash cow. It was about time she saw its other side.
Bartoli had hoped to put me into his debt tonight. But he’d find me to be a more devoted enemy than I’d ever been a friend.
34
My initial appearance and bail hearing were at four-thirty the next day. I doubted there was enough on Hillsdale’s criminal calendar to justify the delay. More likely, the deputy DA had claimed to be short-handed, trying to stall into—maybe even through—the weekend.
A lawyer friend of Uncle Henry’s sat beside me at the defendant’s table. I’d guided him through the process step by step. He was a damp-faced business attorney whose hands trembled at the prospect of appearing in criminal court. But he’d been vetted by my uncle as someone who got it done “your way.” Later I’d find myself a criminal lawyer in San Francisco, where I knew the players.
“Your honor,” he said to the judge, “I know this isn’t the time or place for trying the merits of this case, but you must realize that the evidence against Ms. Di Palma is of the flimsiest nature, and it’s questionable even whether it was sufficient for an arrest warrant.”
“You’re right,” the codgery old judge snapped, “this isn’t the time or place to discuss the merits of the case or the basis for the arrest. We’re here to talk about whether or not your client is a good bail risk. So you can sit back down, Miss Leiden.”
Leiden, the deputy DA who’d presided over my arrest, had leapt to her feet. She smiled as sank into her chair.
But my lawyer was well-coached. “I realize that, Your Honor. I’m simply stating that the motivation for the arrest appears to be an irrational vendetta on the part of the District Attorney. There is virtually no evidence connecting—”
“Objection!” Leiden was back on her feet. She didn’t bother stating the basis for the objection. It was identical to the previous unstated one.
“Your Honor …” My poor attorney was sweating profusely now. “Although I’m not familiar with criminal practice, this level of evidence—a scrap of paper with a motel phone number—would be considered paltry, even ludicrous, in a civil matter. And the burden of proof in a criminal case—”
“Objection sustained. That’s enough in this vein, Mr. Huddleston. You can voice those concerns at the arraignment and preliminary hearing.”
Huddleston looked relieved. I’d browbeaten him into harping on this until he was forced into silence. Though the judge ruled it irrelevant, the information might still influence his decision, might cause him to err on the side of lower bail, might save me thousands of dollars. If nothing else, the media—and there were a dozen out-of-town reporters in the court pews—would hear my side of the story.
I tried to relax. I whispered to the lawyer. There was one other thing I wanted him to say.
He didn’t look happy about it. “But Your Honor,” he said. “There’s no evidence whatsoever that a false registrant at the Southbay Motel shot at Ms. Di Palma and Ms. Gold. So using that phone number as—”
“Now you look here.” The judge motioned for Leiden to remain seated. “I know you don’t usually appear in this court, Mr. Huddleston, but that doesn’t exempt you from following its rules. I’m not going to cite you for contempt—yet! But one more reference to the merits of this case, and I will. Do you understand that?”
My lawyer said yes, glancing at me to make sure I got the point. I’d guessed he could get away with blurting out information that a criminal lawyer, knowing better, could not. He’d agreed to try, but his trepidation had been evident. Luckily, he owed my Uncle Henry many favors.
And the main thing on my agenda was to tell the world I’d been railroaded.
I wanted it on tonight’s news. I wanted it in tomorrow’s papers.
I heard a faint snicker behind me: Sandy, recognizing that my plan had worked. I didn’t turn to look. I didn’t want to be ogled by hungry reporters.
“Your Honor,” my lawyer said, “Ms. Di Palma was born and raised in this town. Her uncle is its mayor. Together they own a home at thirty-six Clarke Street. She is an important and outstanding member of the bar, and she certainly understands the ramifications of being released under bond. She, um”—a quick glance at the cue-card notes I’d prepared up for him—“poses no risk of flight, none whatsoever. We would like to petition the court to release her today on her own recognizance.”
“Miss Leiden?”
The deputy DA rose. “Your Honor, Ms. Di Palma, for all her family connections and string-pulling ability, is accused of ordering the assassination of a public servant. This is just about as serious a crime as a person in a free society can commit. Obviously our whole system of justice would fall apart if defense lawyers went around hiring assassins to kill district attorneys. The state feels strongly that this court would be sending out a highly inappropriate message if it released this defendant at all. But if Ms. Di Palma is to be released, we would certainly ask, given the gravity of the charges and the potential for further actions of this kind on her part once she’s at large, that bail be set at least at two million dollars.”
That caused murmurs in the courtroom. But my lawyer had a response. It was on the cue-card beneath the notation, “After she asks for bail in the millions:”
“Your Honor?” My lawyer stood. “I know we have to pretend at this point that there is a basis for these charges even though there isn’t. I understand that for purposes of setting bail, the court must ignore the ‘innocent till proven guilty’ rule. But”—he spoke quickly to forestall another reprimand—“bail in the millions? For an admired and respected attorney with a sterling reputation? A woman who is a blood relation and periodically resides with the mayor of our city? This is not someone who is going to flee from prosecution, flee the jurisdiction. There is no possible justification for such an absurd bail. Laura Di Palma is not going anywhere, except to the house she co-owns with her uncle, who has been the mayor of Hillsdale for thirty-two years. If we can’t trust her to remain, we can’t trust anybody.”
I’d asked the lawyer to bring up my uncle constantly, if we happened to appear before this judge. There were others on the bench who might penalize me for the relationship. My uncle had made a lot of enemies as well as a lot of friends.
Leiden restated her overblown and phony fears. My lawyer mentioned Uncle Henry again. In the next ten minutes, nothing new was added to the debate.
When it came time for the judge to rule, I felt a comforting hand on my shoulder. I knew it had to be Uncle Henry, behind me reaching over the rail. The bailiff would have i
ntervened had anyone else in the pews tried to touch me.
I covered my uncle’s hand with mine. It was so familiar—short-fingered, tough-skinned, with the faintest scent of alcohol. I noticed the judge watching us, his eyes misting over. I held my breath.
“I don’t believe we have much reason for concern, Miss Leiden,” the judge said at last. “I think if there was ever a defendant who fit the criteria for minimal bail, we have one here today.”
I felt my uncle’s hand tighten its grip on my shoulder.
“Let’s set bail at a nominal amount. Let’s say ten thousand.”
“Your Honor—”
“Ten thousand, Miss Leiden.” He rapped his gavel.
“That’s an insult to Ms. Gold,” Leiden protested. To speak now, after the judge had ruled, was a huge impropriety. Either she truly thought I was guilty, or she needed to demonstrate her devotion to her boss.
Since she’d broken with convention, I did, too. “It’s no insult. I didn’t hire anyone to shoot Connie Gold. That gun was aimed at me, not her.”
The gavel rapped repeatedly. “Bailiff, you will please return Miss Di Palma to her cell until bail is posted. And Miss Leiden, you know better than that.”
I managed a quick turn, hugging my uncle over the rail and making eye-contact with Sandy. I wanted to convey some part of my feeling, but there was sudden commotion in the courtroom, reporters rushing out to file stories, others trying to question Leiden, question me, question my lawyer. Again the judge rapped his gavel, calling for order.
The bailiff pulled me out of my uncle’s embrace, marching me out of the courtroom as if the disruption were my fault.
It would only be a matter of hours, I told myself, maybe minutes, until my uncle wrote a check and got me out of here.
But it was all I could do to leave dry-eyed. On the other side of the oak door, on my way to the prisoners’ elevator, stress and weariness got the upper hand. The bailiff gave me his handkerchief and told me I could keep it. I later learned he was a friend of Uncle Henry’s, too.
35
I walked out of the courthouse and into a fierce rainstorm. It had been twenty-four hours since I’d glimpsed the outdoors. Yesterday’s gloom was locked into my memory. I was shocked to see it had erupted into a tempest.
My uncle and Sandy hovered protectively, trying to run me between them to the waiting car. We’d done our embracing inside. Now they wanted to hurry me home. But this was the night I’d been waiting for, a night wild enough to match my confusion, overwhelming enough to simplify life to the elemental.
For one thing, it had kept the reporters away. The county building was closed to the public after five-thirty, so they’d been evicted from the lobby. Apparently none had been willing to wait outside in a brutal storm.
I enjoyed the walk to the car far more than my companions, judging by their comments.
As we climbed into Sandy’s car—he’d driven up, after all, hadn’t waited for the morning plane—my uncle remarked, “Good old Huddleston.” Then solicitously, “You were happy with him?”
“I thought he did a great job. Especially since he was so nervous about it.” I luxuriated in the soft velour of the bucket seat. I hadn’t sat on anything accommodating for an entire day. “I’ll hold off on hiring another lawyer. I think they’ll have to drop the charges. I don’t think they’ve got enough evidence to get them through the arraignment.”
“Unless they find the gunman through the motel,” Sandy pointed out. He didn’t start the car. He shifted in the driver’s seat to face me.
He looked as if he had a lot to say. But not with my uncle in the back.
He stuck to business. “Whoever put the paper in your pocket was trying to frame you. That’s probably the person who did the hiring. They’d know where their killer had bunked.”
“But they wouldn’t lead the cops to him—that’s too risky. He could roll over on them.” I hadn’t had a chance to explain about Bartoli. “Jay Bartoli came to my cell right after I got arrested, supposedly to tell me what evidence they had.” I held up a hand to silence Sandy. He could express outrage later. “I was pissed off, too. But here’s what I think: I gave him my jacket so he could stop Gold’s bleeding. And he put the piece of paper in my pocket later—not to frame me, but to connect me with the shooting. Get me into jail long enough to come to my cell and be my hero.”
“Why the hell would he want to do that?” Sandy always sounded dangerous when his voice got quiet. Dangerous and maybe jealous.
I hadn’t bothered telling him about my long-ago night with Jay. Nor did I want to discuss it in front of my uncle. I kept it simple: “Bartoli’s got a thing for me.”
In the dark car interior, I couldn’t read Sandy’s face. I heard my uncle stir in the back seat, probably ill at ease with the conversation’s direction.
Sandy started the car, setting the wipers to fast. Even so, we could barely see out. The vent brought in a slightly fetid scent, a hint of distant mud. It was all I could do, after a claustrophobic day, not to roll down my window and stick my head out.
At the first stoplight, Sandy grumbled, “It doesn’t work for me.”
“Bartoli setting me up so he could be my hero?” It sounded foolish, but he hadn’t seen Jay. He didn’t know our history. “He acted like it, Sandy. Obsessed, almost.” It was embarrassing to say so in front of my uncle. “He definitely wanted to … to earn my gratitude.”
“Obsessed or not.” He continued driving. “It’s too backhanded. Not something you’d think of if you were in that position.”
I didn’t want to describe what happened in my cell. My rage was too close to the surface. I was too tired to reexperience it.
“I don’t know where else the paper could have come from. It wasn’t in my pocket when I left the house.”
“You’re sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Though I hadn’t actually checked my pockets. “As far as I know.” I hoped he wasn’t suggesting my uncle had put it there.
“What about before you left San Francisco, Laura? You wear the jacket anywhere?”
“To Perry Verhoeven’s plant. But if he put something in my pocket he was very damn subtle about it. I don’t think we were ever even on the same side of his desk.”
He asked my uncle, “You always keep your doors locked?”
“No.” Uncle Henry sounded startled. “At night, yes. But during the day? I don’t give it a thought.”
“Okay,” Sandy continued. “So either someone walked in and stuck it in your pocket, or Bartoli did it when you gave him your jacket, or Verhoeven when you visited him, or—”
“Gold during our appointment.” It wasn’t a promising list. “I think it was Bartoli.”
“I wouldn’t rule out someone walking into your house.”
“How would they know which jacket I’d wear to the courthouse?”
“Doesn’t matter. They’d have found the number in your jacket at home.”
He was right. Gold could have gotten a warrant to search. “Have they been through my things yet?”
“Through everything,” my uncle confirmed. “But how can this be? Who would put a paper into Laura’s pocket? Who would know this man with a gun would miss her completely? If she was shot,” shock muffled his voice, “who would care what was in her pocket?”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “Unless the gunman was aiming for Gold all along, the phone number was an afterthought. Bartoli—or okay, somebody—put it in my pocket later.”
“Not if—” Sandy stopped. Not trusting my uncle?
I turned to face Uncle Henry. His eyes welled, glinting reflections of the dashboard lights. He ran a shaking hand over his sleek hair. He’d been through a lot since my father’s death.
“How can you discuss this like it’s the grocery list?” His tone was strangled. “People shooting at yo
u and framing you! My god!”
“If we sound cavalier, it’s because we’re confident we’ll figure it out. Bring the sky down on whoever’s doing it,” I lied. “Remember, this is what Sandy does for a living. He’s a professional.”
“Kids, don’t try this at home,” Sandy muttered.
He turned onto Clarke Street. There were six news vans in front of the Victorian, some large, some mini, one barely as big as a station wagon. Inside them, reporters must be feeling cold and cramped and tired of listening to the storm.
“No wonder they’ve got an attitude,” Sandy commented.
I recalled my resolution to march straight into their midst and denounce Jay Bartoli, impugn Connie Gold. But I found I didn’t want to.
I told myself it was the rain. I didn’t relish standing in a torrent to make my speech. Nor could I invite reporters into my uncle’s home, not tonight.
I told myself I was exhausted and hungry and needed a breather. I told myself I needed to think about Brad Rommel, about how my arrest affected him; whether I should counsel him to find a new lawyer or wait for charges against me to be dropped. I needed to prepare a change of venue motion. Gold’s animosity toward me would certainly taint his trial.
I told myself Brad’s business came first. I told myself it was always wise to sleep on major denunciations.
But there was more to it than that. In some recess of my mind, I’d begun to understand what this was truly about.
36
The phone rang almost as soon as we walked inside. I stood in front of the answering machine, expecting to hear the voice of an ignored reporter. But surprisingly, it was Deputy District Attorney Leiden. I picked up the receiver as she began her message.
“Ms. Di Palma,” she said coolly, “you’re screening your calls. This is in regard to Bradley Rommel. I’m not certain what arrangement he’s made in terms of new counsel?” I let her question hang in the air. “But since you were his attorney of record prior to your arrest …”