Steve Martini - The Judge

“You’re missing a golden opportunity,” she tells him. “Or can you reach the governor’s ass with your lips from here?”

I’m thinking that the crowd, those kibitzing for a fight, may have left too soon.

“This is not a good situation,” says Kline.

I agree with him, and try to maneuver Lenore toward the door.

“I’d hoped that we’d put this behind us when you were removed from the case,” he tells her.

“Had you?” she says.

“Yes. But it’s obvious that you’re unable to discuss things rationally,” he tells her.

“Now is not the time or the place,” I tell them.

“I see. The hysterical woman,” she says.

“If you like.”

“I don’t like,” she says. Holding it by the tail, she flails the shrimp like a bullwhip toward the front of Kline’s tux. Suddenly he is cocktail sauce from cummerbund to collar, as though somebody peppered him with bird shot.

“Damn it,” he says.

“Would you like something to wash it down with?” she asks him. She reaches back, arm cocked like a catapult, loaded with Dom Perignon, when I grab her wrist. She looks at me, pleading eyes, like just one more. I shake my head, and finally she relaxes.

Kline is himself angry at this moment, wiping the front of his shirt with a napkin.

“She has a hot head,” he says. “Now I remember why I fired her.”

One of his friends helps him mop up a spot on his pants.

Kline is still talking. “I hope it doesn’t spill over between us,” he tells me. “It’s important that you and I maintain a professional tone, at least until the end of the trial.”

“You think anyone would notice?” I ask him.

“Your client might,” he tells me.

“You make it sound like a threat.”

“Hardly,” he says. “A prosecutor’s duty is to pursue justice. It’s not about winning. My job is to look for the truth.”

“Coming from you, that sounds like a four-letter word,” says Lenore.

“It is more difficult in some cases than others,” he says. “In this case made much more difficult by present company.”

Before she can reply Kline moves to come between us. It is clear that my relationship with Lenore has created difficulties for him. He motions with one hand toward a waiter who is circling.

“I think the lady would like a drink,” he says. “Hydrochloric acid, with a cyanide chaser,” he tells the guy. The waiter stands in the middle of the crowd with an expression like he’s missed something.

It is the thing that a client can never understand: how lawyers locked in mortal courtroom combat can stand around together downing caviar and swilling champagne, pissing on each other and debating their relative abilities, while the client rots in jail.

In the meantime Kline’s got his arm on my shoulder, walking me away from the group, so that they cannot hear what he is saying.

“Tell me,” he says. “How do you think the case is going? Your honest opinion?”

Like I’m going to tell him. “Honest opinion?”

He nods.

“I think we’re kicking your ass,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s honest,” he says. There’s a moment of mirth in his eyes, before he speaks-bullshit for bullshit.

“So you think we ought to dismiss?” he says.

“I’d do it tomorrow if I were you,” I tell him.

He laughs.

“You know it’s going to get a lot tougher,” he says.

“That’s the thing about life,” I tell him. “It usually does. Is there something I should know?”

“We started with our light guns.”

“Ah. The coroner and the chief investigator,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yes. Well, the physical evidence points the way,” he says. “But the motive. That’s the crusher.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. My client was sweating blood over the Keystone Kops’ prostitution case. By the way, which one of them forgot to turn on the mike?”

He laughs at this.

“Of course your client is prepared to take the stand? To deny all of this?” Now he’s fishing.

“I’ll let you know if and when we decide.”

“What kind of witness do you think he will make?” he says. “Honestly?”

“That’s the kind,” I say. “Honest.”

He smiles, comes up empty. He expected no more. This has the feel of small talk, leading to something bigger.

“You don’t really believe this stuff about the cops?” he says.

I give him my best expression of disbelief. “No. Gus Lano’s an archangel.”

“Well, I grant you the union,” he says. “I’m no defender of organized labor.”

I can believe that.

“But you’re reaching,” he says.

“At least you hope I am,” I tell him.

I get a quizzical look from him.

“Do you know something you haven’t told us?” He stops walking and looks at me dead in the eye.

Now he wants to know what we are thinking.

“If you do, you should tell me,” he says. “It might make a difference.”

Yeah. He would take the information, put a point on it like a pike, and jam it up my ass.

Before I can respond he looks over his shoulder at Lenore.

“Does she know something?” he says. “I know she was there that night. Her fingerprint on the door,” he says. “I’m not interested in making trouble for her. I know she doesn’t believe that. But you should. If she knows something. .”

He leaves the thought dangling and gives me what I can only describe as the big eye, waiting for a reply. When it doesn’t come, he tries another tack.

“We could handle it in private,” he says. “No need for any trouble,” he tells me. For a moment I think perhaps he actually believes Lenore had something to do with Hall’s death.

“You just want the truth,” I tell him.

“Just the truth.” He seems to lean toward me as he says this.

I make a face, but say nothing.

“If she’s withholding something.” He pauses for an instant, as if perhaps he is waiting to see if I get his drift, but he’s a cipher. He can tell by my expression that I don’t have a clue as to what he’s talking about.

“She hasn’t said anything to you?”

I shake my head.

This seems to be a major letdown for him.

“She may have gotten information from Hall,” he says. “It is possible that if she knows something we don’t, that we could have made a mistake.”

As if somebody freeze-dried my blood, I am stunned by this admission. I begin to laugh, the best I can do, a mocking effort at humor.

“You’re telling me you made a mistake? What kind of mistake?” I ask him.

His arm is back to my shoulder, a tight grip, and we are walking again. He’s shushing me with a finger to his lips. Drawing me farther away, toward the quiet corner.

“I didn’t say we made a mistake. I said it was possible to make a mistake if we don’t have all the facts. I just need to know if there is something she’s hiding.”

A prosecutor, trying my client for his life, halfway through his case, telling me that maybe he’s made a mistake, and I’m supposed to whisper.

I stop and turn, unhook his arm from my shoulder.

“You talked to Hall,” I tell him. “You tell me. What did she say?”

“What you heard in court,” he says.

“Your witness Frost?”

He nods.

I laugh at this.

“That’s the problem,” he says. “Perhaps Hall was willing to be more candid with a woman,” he says. “Talk to her.” He wags his head toward Lenore. “She’ll tell you if she knows something. No matter what you think, I’m not looking for political points on this one.”

He is the soul of sincerity. I might trust him from here to the punch bowl.

“It’s possible that we can deal on this,” he says. “Just talk to me.” There is an earnestness in his voice, his final word almost pleading, as he turns, bids a bitter farewell to Lenore from a safe distance, beyond the flinging range of cocktail sauce. Then Kline strides off to join his wife on the other side of the room.