Филипп Марголин - The Perfect Alibi

“I take it that things did not go well,” Nylander said.

“They went as badly as they could possibly go.”

“As you predicted.”

“I didn’t predict that Hastings would go ballistic in court.” Armstrong shook his head. “He made a complete ass of himself, and Judge Redding revoked his bail.”

Nylander shrugged. “As ye sow so shall ye reap.”

“The only good news is that Blaine Hastings is not my problem anymore. His father fired me.”

“Is that why you look upset?”

“No. Actually, I’ve never been so glad to be fired. Hastings Senior and Junior were some of the most unpleasant clients I’ve ever represented.”

“Then what’s got you in a lather?” Nylander asked.

“Junior threatened me during the trial.”

“You’re not worried he’ll get out, are you?”

“No. There are some arguments that can be made in an appeal, but I don’t see them winning.”

“Then relax. Hastings is locked up, and he’ll have a lot more to worry about than getting revenge on you. A pretty boy like that in prison. I’ve heard that cons don’t like child molesters and rapists.”

“Anything he gets he deserves,” Armstrong agreed.

Nylander studied his friend. “You look like shit, Doug. Slap some water on your face, comb what’s left of your hair, and I’ll take you out for a stiff drink.”

“I should get home to Marsha.”

“She’ll be a lot happier to see you if you’re not in a state. Come on. That’s what friends and law partners are for.”

Armstrong hesitated. Then he smiled. “You are a friend, Frank, a good friend. Let me call Marsha and get myself together. I can definitely use that drink.”

Ivar Gorski sat in the front seat of his rental car and took a sip from his thermos. Just a sip, because he did not want to have to relieve himself, thus creating the possibility that he would miss his subject.

Ivar was whip-thin with wiry muscles kept hard by hours in a Manhattan dojo. He began his study of the martial arts in the Ukraine, where he had served in the army, and he had continued his training after emigrating to the United States, where his job occasionally required violence.

Ivar focused his dark, deep-set eyes on a house halfway down the street. Those eyes were on either side of a narrow nose that bent like a hawk’s beak. Ivar’s wide, flat forehead, close-cropped blond hair, high cheekbones, and pale skin made his head look vaguely like a skull.

The door to the house opened and Ivar sat up. A woman in jeans and a Windbreaker pushed Leonard Voss’s wheelchair outside before locking the door. Voss’s head canted to one side and he slumped in the chair: a stroke victim, just as it said in the medical report Norcross Pharmaceuticals had received.

Ivar wrote down his observations in a notebook. He had been following Voss for a week, and he’d seen nothing to indicate that Voss was faking, which was bad news for his employer.

The woman pushing the wheelchair was Rita, Voss’s wife. She opened the door of their van and helped her husband inside. They were probably on their way to a doctor’s appointment. Mrs. Voss started to walk to the driver’s door. Then she stopped and looked down the street at Ivar. After a moment’s hesitation, she started walking toward his car. Ivar turned the car away from the Voss’s van and sped away. He thought he’d been careful, but he’d been spotted. It didn’t really matter. He had all the information he needed, but his pride as a professional was wounded.

Rita Voss got her husband in the van. Then she got in the driver’s seat and locked the doors. She thought she had seen the red Honda Accord following them to two of Leonard’s hospital appointments. Now that the driver had driven off so quickly, she was certain that Norcross was having Leonard followed.

Rita hesitated. Was she being paranoid? No, she was sure that someone was following them. She pulled out her phone and dialed 911.

“What’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

“It’s not an emergency, but I think my husband is being followed.”

“Are you in immediate danger?”

“No. The… the person drove away.”

“Nine-one-one is for emergencies, but if you’ll hold on for a moment, I’ll give you the number for the nearest police station and you can ask how you can file a complaint.”

Rita pulled a pen out of her pocket and wrote down the number. She felt a little foolish, but she wouldn’t put anything past Norcross. She decided to drive Leonard to his appointment and call the police while he was being examined.

The door to the coffee shop opened, and Robin looked up from the case she’d been reading. Jeff Hodges paused in the doorway. When Robin saw Jeff, she waved.

Jeff limped over to her table and uncapped the latte she’d ordered for him. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Great. I found a case from Florida that’s on point concerning that jury instruction Kellerman wants.”

“Kellerman is grasping at straws,” Jeff said as he sat down.

“Remember what Regina says,” Robin warned. “No case is over until it’s over.”

Jeff smiled. “Speaking of Regina, we got a postcard from Justice Cloud. They’re in Venice, and he says Regina is having the time of her life.”

“I’m so glad,” Robin said, but she didn’t look happy.

“Hey, cheer up. It’s a beautiful thing they’re doing.”

“I know. It’s just so sad.”

“And out of anyone’s control.”

“I guess,” Robin sighed.

“Think about how happy Regina must be and how happy you’re going to be when you kick Kellerman’s ass.”

Robin smiled. “There is that. And no one deserves it more.”

“Are you referring to your mentor or Mr. Unethical?”

“Both, I guess.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jeff said as he took a sip of the latte. “Now, let’s head to court.”

Rex Kellerman’s case was a mess. The testimony of the police officers and lab techs who’d responded to the crime scene had not made a dent in Everett Henderson’s claim of self-defense. Under cross-examination, the three men who’d been drinking with Greg Schaefer admitted that they and the dead off-duty policeman were heavily intoxicated. They also admitted that they never saw how the fight started and came around the bar only when Henderson and Schaefer were squaring off.

Robin had called her client to the stand—a risky move given Henderson’s lengthy criminal record. But the defendant had been great. Henderson’s girlfriend and drinking companions all swore that Henderson had been attacked from behind by the dead man. The bottle Schaefer used in the fight had been taken into evidence, and Robin was able to show it to the jury. The jagged edges were intimidating, and Henderson had shown the jurors the stitches in his skull. Some of them had grimaced when they saw photographs of the gaping, bleeding head wound before the gash had been stitched up.

On Wednesday afternoon, the defense rested its case, and the judge asked the prosecutor if he had any rebuttal witnesses. Kellerman had looked the judge in the eye and swore that he did not.

When Robin walked into Judge Harold Wright’s courtroom on Thursday morning, the bailiff told her that she was wanted in chambers. Jeff and Robin found the judge in shirtsleeves. He did not look happy.

Kellerman was leaning back in a chair. When he saw Robin, he turned his head so the judge couldn’t see him and smirked.

“Have a seat,” the judge said.

“What’s up?” Robin asked.