Joseph Teller - The Tenth Case

He should have known better.

There was a lot of rustling in the room as other inmates rose to leave, and other lawyers gathered their papers and snapped their briefcases shut.

"Tell me about the month or so before Barry's death," he said.

"What about it?"

"What was going on? Any new arguments? Anything out of the ordinary?"

Samara seemed to think back for a moment. "Not really," she said. "Barry was sick, and-"

"Sick?"

"He had the flu. " The way she spat out the word sug gested that she'd had little sympathy for him. "He thought I should be around more. You know, to take care of him. I told him that's what doctors are for, and hospitals. I mean, it's not like he couldn't afford it. Still, I did see a little more of him than usual."

"Where?"

"His place, mostly. Mine, once or twice. Out, a couple of times. I don't know."

"And how did the two of you get along on those occa sions?"

Two shrugs.

"What does that mean?" Jaywalker asked.

"We got along the same as always," she said. "When we were apart, fine. When we were together, Barry always found a way to pick a fight."

"A fight?"

"An argument. Jesus, you're as bad as the cops."

"Sorry," said Jaywalker. "Tell me about the evening before you found out Barry had been killed. Your statement says you first denied seeing him, then admitted you'd gone to his place. Is that true?"

"Is what true?"

Objection sustained. Jaywalker gave Samara a smile, then broke it down to a series of single questions. "Did you go there?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Did you deny it to the detectives at first?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I didn't think it was any of their goddamned business."

That was a pretty good answer, actually, if you took away the goddamned part. If believed, it showed that Samara hadn't known about Barry's murder. If believed. He made a note of it on his yellow pad.

"What caused you to change your story," he asked, "and admit you'd been there?"

"They said they already knew. The old bat next door heard us arguing."

"Were you?"

"Yeah."

"What about?"

"Who remembers? Barry was still pissed off that I'd walked out of some opera a few nights earlier, leaving him sitting there. Maybe that was it."

"Why had you done that?"

"Why? Why? Have you ever sat through five hours of some three-hundred-pound woman wearing a helmet, sweating like a pig and singing in German? Next to some one with the flu?"

"No," Jaywalker had to admit.

"Try it sometime."

"Tell me everything you remember about that last evening at Barry's," said Jaywalker. "What prompted you to go there in the first place?"

"Barry asked me to," Samara said. "Otherwise I wouldn't have. He said he wanted to talk to me about something, but it turned out to be some bullshit, something about how much I'd spent at Bloomingdale's or something like that. Who remembers?"

"What else?"

"Nothing much. He'd ordered Chinese food, and we ate. I ate, anyway. He said he couldn't taste anything, on account of being all clogged up, so he barely touched it. I remember that, 'cause I asked him if he was poisoning me."

Jaywalker raised an eyebrow.

"It was a joke," said Samara. "You know, like if I pour us each a glass of wine and tell you to drink up, but mean while I don't touch mine?"

"What did Barry say to that?"

"He laughed. He knew it was a joke."

"What else happened?"

"I don't know," Samara said. "He asked me if I wanted to make love. It was his expression for fucking. I said no, I didn't want to catch whatever he had, thank you very much. I said I was tired and was leaving. He said, 'Just like the other night at the opera?'And that did it. I told him what he could with his fucking opera, and he told me I was a dumb something-or-other, and we went at it pretty good."

"But just words?"

"Yeah, just words. Loud ones, but just words."

"And then?"

"And then I left."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"What time was it?"

"Who knows?" said Samara. "Eight? Eight-thirty?"

"Where'd you go?"

"Home."

"Straight home?"

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Cab."

Jaywalker made a note to subpoena the Taxi and Limou sine Commission records, see if they could come up with the cabdriver. If they found him and he remembered the fare, he might be able to remember whether Samara had seemed agitated or acted normally.

"Did anyone see you?" he asked. "Other than the doorman and the cabby?"

"Not that I know of."

"What did you do when you got home?"

"You really want to know?"

Jaywalker nodded. His guess would've been that she'd run a load of laundry and taken a shower. You stabbed somebody in the heart, chances were you were going to get some blood on you.

"I really need to know," he said.

"Fine," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "I jerked off."

Okay, not exactly what he'd expected to hear. Then again, the literature was full of accounts of serial killers de scribing how their crimes aroused them sexually and prompted them to masturbate, either right there at the scene or at home, shortly afterward. True, all of them were men, as far as Jaywalker could recall. But, hey, this was the twenty-first century, and having long held himself out as a supporter of equal rights for women, who was he to renege now?

"Do you have any idea," he asked Samara, "who killed your husband?"

"No."

"Can you think of anyone who might've wanted him out of the way?" As soon as he'd said the words, he regretted them. They sounded like something out of an old blackand-white movie from the forties.

"You don't make billions of dollars," said Samara, "without making enemies along the way."

Come to think of it, she belonged in an old black-and white movie from the forties.

"I only know one thing," she added.

"What's that?"

"I didn't do it. You gotta believe me."

"I do," Jaywalker lied.

That had been ten months ago, that first sit-down in which Samara had protested her innocence and Jaywalker had mumbled his "I do" with all the conviction of a shotgun groom. It had been two weeks before his appearance before the judges of the disciplinary committee, when he'd learned of his three-year suspension and begged to be per mitted to complete work on his pending cases. He'd coun tered their offer to let him "dispose of " five with a list of seventeen, which they'd then pared down to ten.

Now, in June, with nine of those ten disposed of, Jay walker found himself in the strangest of all positions, a criminal defense lawyer with only one criminal left to defend.

Why had he included Samara Tannenbaum in his mustkeep list, when her case was barely two weeks old at that point and he had dozens of others in which he'd invested far more time, effort and emotion? To put it into the ver nacular of modern mallspeak, it had been a no-brainer. First off, Samara's was a murder case. Jaywalker had once heard a colleague refer to a murder charge as nothing but an assault case in which you knew the complainant wasn't going to show up in court to testify against your client. Either the lawyer was joking, or he was a total jerk. Murder was like no other crime. There were longer trials, to be sure, and more complicated ones, and ones with lots more witnesses and paper and hearings and tape recordings and exhibits. There were crimes that carried equally severe sentences. Arson, for example, or kidnapping, or selling a couple of ounces of heroin or cocaine. Still, murder stood apart. Judges knew that, juries knew that and Jaywalker knew that. A life had been taken, the most important of the holy commandments had been broken, and the passion play that followed was almost biblical in its proportions. If for no other reason than that it was a murder charge, Samara's case deserved to be on Jaywalker's short list.