Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Where are we?” she asked.

“At the end of a long day and a longer week,” Mason said, glancing at his calendar. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t waste your humor on me, Mr. Mason. I asked where we are.”

Mason let out a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that the story would be on the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper. “Charles Rockley is dead. Someone killed him, chopped off his head and his hands, and dumped the body in the trunk of a car owned by a client of mine named Avery Fish.”

“I’m aware of Mr. Fish’s case. It’s been all over the news. There’s been no mention of the identity of the victim.”

“You can read about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

Judge Carter didn’t respond. Mason heard her breathing softly and steadily. In judicial parlance, she had taken his information under advisement before issuing a ruling or, in his case, another ultimatum. He knew better than to interrupt.

“Charles Rockley wasn’t the one,” she finally said.

Mason realized that she was avoiding any mention of blackmail. Having once been burned by having her phone conversation recorded, she was not taking any chances.

“How do you know?”

“I just received another call.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He asked why I hadn’t issued a ruling. I reminded him that I had until March tenth, which is thirty days from the end of the hearing. He said they wanted the decision not later than a week from today, the twenty-first. I told him that wasn’t possible, that I had other cases besides this one. He said that this case was the only one that should matter to me and that they wouldn’t hesitate to convince me of that.”

“Where are you?” Mason asked.

“At home.”

“Is there someplace else you can go until this is over?”

“I will not be run out of my home and I will not have my life ruined again, Mr. Mason. Do your job. Make this go away.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s your tangled web, Counselor. Do whatever you have to do or I will,” she said and hung up.

Mason put the phone down as Blues opened the door to his office.

“What?” Mason asked, exasperated by the new deadline.

“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m only the piano player.” Blues handed Mason prints of the digital photographs he’d taken. “The light was bad and the angle wasn’t great, but at least I got their faces.”

Mason studied the photographs. Blues had caught them in an unguarded moment, their faces screwed up in surprise. He didn’t recognize the two men in the car Mark Hill had struck. All three were wearing heavy jackets over jeans or khakis. Nothing with FBI stenciled on the back.

Mason dropped the photographs on his desk and pointed to the phone. “That was Judge Carter. She got another call and a new deadline for her ruling. A week from today or the tape makes the top forty.”

“I guess that rules out Rockley as the blackmailer.”

“Not necessarily. The way she described the call, it sounds like more than one person is involved. The caller kept referring to ‘they,’ not just to himself. Rockley could have been one of them. On top of that, I got a message from Rachel. Someone leaked the news that Rockley was the guy in Fish’s trunk.”

“Only the FBI and the killer knew Rockley’s identity and the killer sure as hell isn’t going to call the Star. Why would the Bureau leak it before they told the cops?” Blues asked. “Why go out of their way to make them look bad?”

“Beats me. Plus, I also had a message from Vince Bongiovanni to call him as soon as possible. Even left me his cell phone number.”

“What time was that call?”

Mason checked the log of calls stored in his phone. “Seven p.m.”

“We left Hill at close to seven. Brewer and his buddies didn’t look like they were in the mood to let him call his lawyer so it’s probably not about that.”

“I never told Hill who I was and I doubt he recognized me,” Mason said. “Brewer could have told him, but he wouldn’t have had any reason to. I think Vince got the same tip Rachel did. Makes me wonder why.”

“When did Rachel call?”

“Seven-oh-five.”

“That fits and it explains one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Bongiovanni is waiting for you downstairs. He’s in the back booth.”

Juries like different kinds of lawyers. Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, was a rumpled everyman, the kind of lawyer jurors imagined going bowling with or having over for chili. Mason was a street fighter, ready with a killer cross-examination or a devastating one-liner, but always ready. He was the lawyer jurors wanted to represent them if their life was on the line.

Vince Bongiovanni had the chiseled chin, penetrating eyes, and smoky cool that made women want to take him home and men want to be his pal, hoping some of what he had would rub off on them. He was tall, sandy-haired, and trim and dressed like the million bucks he routinely racked up in fees. One local magazine did a feature on eligible bachelors and labeled him the total package.

“Hey, Lou,” he said, as Mason slid into the booth opposite him. “Buy you a drink?”

“I’ll pass. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier. I just got your message.”

“Don’t worry about it. I figured I might catch you here. Nice place.”

Mason looked around. Myles Cartwright’s trio was playing mellow sounds on the small stage, the drummer and bass player taking their lead from Cartwright’s piano. The music complemented the soft buzz of conversation. Some people came to hear the music, others just to be near it.

“Your message said it was important.”

Bongiovanni nodded. “It is important. I understand you represent Avery Fish.”

“It’s been in the papers.”

Bongiovanni grinned. “You kill me, man. You get more ink than I do.”

“Ah, but you get the big bucks.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

Bongiovanni delivered the practiced punch line, grinning again. Mason didn’t envy Bongiovanni’s success. He’d learned the hard way to stick to the cases that suited him best. He dabbled occasionally in representing plaintiffs, always coming back to the higher stakes of life and death.

“Might as well be you,” Mason said.

“Might as well. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in your client’s car has been identified.”

Mason could understand a newspaper getting an anonymous tip. The tipster got off on seeing his story in print. Feeding the news to the lawyer who was suing the victim smacked of inside baseball. He wondered who would gain by leaking to Bongiovanni.

Mason saw no reason to deny something that would be reported in the morning paper. He’d only look foolish if he did. However, that was no reason to tell Bongiovanni anything else. Bongiovanni would eventually find out what had happened between Mason and Mark Hill, but that would be a tap dance for another day. This was the time to listen.

“I heard that too.”

“Guy named Charles Rockley. You know him?”

“Never met,” Mason said.

“You didn’t miss anything. He worked at the Galaxy Casino. In his spare time, he sexually harassed a client of mine, a woman named Carol Hill. I sued him and the Galaxy. The case was arbitrated last week in front of Judge Carter. We’re waiting for a ruling.”

“That’s good to know. The cops think Fish had something to do with Rockley’s death. I’d like to talk with Carol about Rockley.”

Bongiovanni leaned forward in the booth. “I already talked to her. She had nothing to do with it.”

Mason figured it had been little more than an hour since Bongiovanni was tipped off about Rockley. That wasn’t much time to cross-examine Carol Hill about the murder and hustle down to Blues on Broadway to wait for him. The timing made him wonder if Bongiovanni had known Rockley had been murdered before he got the tip.