Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

The two attorneys bounced slightly on their toes as they conferred with the judge. At the defendant’s table, Marshall Fox’s mood seemed inappropriately spry, considering the circumstances. He was bantering with his various attorneys, at least one of whom, it was generally acknowledged, had been included on the team for the sole purpose of providing the defendant with a fawning sycophant, a ready-made audience for the entertainer’s fabled need for attention. His name was Zachary Riddick, and he was known in courthouse circles-and beyond, for that matter-as a headline grabber, one of those self-satisfied bottom-feeders in the profession who’ve determined that being provocative and noisy can go a long way toward covering over a basic lack of legal expertise or skill. He had boyish good looks-a trifle too boyish, in Margo’s view-and had learned how to get his name on some of the various A-lists around town, popping up at celebrity bashes or high-profile fund-raisers, usually with a fresh piece of arm candy. Riddick and Fox had been acquainted even before Fox’s arrest, and when rumors began growing of Marshall Fox’s imminent arrest in the two Central Park murders, Riddick had bobbed immediately to the surface, offering vigorous denouncements of the district attorney, the New York City Police Department, Marshall Fox’s competition in the late-night wars, you name it. Professionally speaking, his presence on Fox’s defense team was considered a joke. But as I say, it seemed to amuse Marshall Fox to have him around.

A burst of laughter erupted from the defendant’s table. Marshall Fox was pantomiming trussing up Zachary Riddick like a rodeo steer. Judge Deveraux’s molten gaze cleared the heads of the two attorneys in front of him as he took in the defendant’s table, and the little party broke up.

“Jesus Christ.”

A man seated near me in the rear pew gave an exasperated sigh and pushed himself to his feet. Fiftyish. Thinning brown hair. A pleasant face except for its currently being creased in irritation. He was wearing an eight-hundred-dollar suit and looked like a million bucks. I recognized the face. Alan Ross, director of programming at KBS Television. Ross was the man responsible for plucking Marshall Fox from a dude ranch in South Dakota and bringing him east to make him a star. Margo had interviewed Ross for an article in New York magazine soon after Fox’s fuse had hit the powder. Intelligent man. Very candid about his ambivalence concerning his role in “creating” Marshall Fox. New York had titled the article “My Fair Fox,” cuing off Ross’s comments comparing his machinations to the egomaniacal meddlings of Professor Henry Higgins in the musical redo of the Pygmalion story. I’d met him-I’d swung by the restaurant where Margo was conducting the interview. He’d been polite, almost courtly, and extremely complimentary of Margo. Since Fox’s arrest on multiple murder charges, Ross had been a frequent presence in the media, soberly but firmly defending his protégé and somewhat famously conducting public hand-wringing for having brought the former ranch hand into the limelight in the first place.

Ross grunted an acknowledgment as he moved past me out of the pew. He made his way to the banister separating the courtroom seating from the defendant’s table. The executive was too far away for me to hear his exchange with Riddick and Fox, but from the expressions on both men’s faces, it appeared that Ross’s message was a duplicate of Judge Deveraux’s. Shut your stupid traps !

The conference at the bench broke up, and the two attorneys returned to their corners. The judge waved a clerk over. Lewis Gottlieb huddled with Peter Elliott, and from where I was sitting, I wasn’t seeing a terribly pleased expression on either face. Alan Ross returned to the pew. As I scooted back to let him pass, he gave me a game smile.

“Welcome to the tawdry follies.” He sat down heavily next to me. “ Franklin, isn’t it?”

“Fritz,” I corrected him. “Fritz Malone.”

“Right, right. Alan Ross.” He offered his hand, and we shook. Ross leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I used to be legendary for my low blood pressure. Amazing what a little celebrity murder trial can do to you, isn’t it?”

“I try to steer clear of them as often as I can,” I said.

“Oh? Did you take a wrong turn on your way to traffic court?”

“I was down the hall on business.”

“Private investigation. Do I recall correctly?”

“You do.”

“Just couldn’t pass on the train wreck, eh?”

I shrugged. “Guilty.”

Judge Deveraux dismissed the clerk. He looked out over the packed courtroom, taking his time, sweeping his head slowly, like a lighthouse beam throttled down to a slow crawl. Taking hold of his mallet, he lifted it with both a solemnity and a certain degree of weariness, as if its weight over the course of the trial had been increasing daily and it had now, at this moment, reached the absolute maximum poundage that the judge would be capable of lifting.

“Give my best to Ms. Burke, will you?” Ross said.

I nodded. “Will do.”

The judge’s mallet fell, making, as it always did, a sound like that of a large bone being snapped in two.

“Order!”

THE SLICING TOOK PLACE in Robin Burrell’s bedroom. The crimson of her pillows alone was testament to that much. Her radio alarm clock was among the numerous items found strewn on the floor next to the upturned bedside table. The clock had come unplugged from the wall: 6:48 was frozen on its face.

Was she dead already or still dying when her body was dragged along the short hallway into the front room? I have to hope she was already dead, that’s all I’ll say about it. She was placed under the huge Christmas tree, cuffed and bent backward, the large wedge of mirror glass protruding from her throat. And then, just as in the case of the two murders for which the star of Midnight with Marshall Fox was currently on trial, Robin Burrell’s right hand had been placed palm down against her breast, inches above the newly stilled heart, and, as with the second of the Central Park victim’s, affixed there with a simple four-inch nail driven all the way in to its head.

THE JUDGE ASKED that the courtroom be cleared of members of the press as well as any onlookers who did not have a direct role in the trial. A collective grumble rose from the ranks of the reporters as they made their way out of the room. Ross excused himself and squeezed past me. I was starting out of the pew when I heard my name being called above the low din.

“Fritz!”

It was Peter Elliott. He waved me over. “Can you stick around?”

“You heard the judge.”

Peter swatted the air. “Forget that. We had you on payroll. You can stay. I’m not sure how this is all going to go. If this jury disintegrates, you might have to keep me from killing myself.”

I took a seat in the now empty front row. Across the aisle from me sat Rosemary Fox. Her extraordinary beauty was as placid and hard-edged in person as it appeared in photographs. As I watched, her husband turned from the defense table and mouthed something to her. Then he gave his trademark gesture, the one with which he had been signing off after his hour and a half on the air for three years, five nights a week, right up until the day of his arrest. He brought the fingers of his right hand to his lips for a kiss, then placed the hand softly over his heart.

Rosemary Fox remained as still as a steel statue. I can’t even characterize the look that was likewise frozen on her face. Molten? All I can say is that it wiped Marshall Fox’s famous smirk right off his face. You’d have thought he’d just rounded the corner into the path of an oncoming train.