William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

Touché. “We probably shouldn’t be conferring, Moltke. The reporters will assume you’re offering me a deal.”

“Actually, son, I am.” He whipped his arm around Ben’s neck and steered him away from the gallery. “I’m proposing an offer that will save us both considerable trouble.”

Ben looked at him suspiciously. “Are you proposing a plea bargain?”

“No, son, this isn’t a plea bargain. The press would hang my carcass out to dry if I did that. I’m just suggesting that we…simplify this proceeding.”

“Simplify?”

“Tell you what. You promise me you won’t move to dismiss after we put on our evidence, and I’ll spare your client the ordeal of hearing a litany of nasty testimony against her.”

Tiny wrinkles appeared around Ben’s eyes. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“It’s like this. If we think you’re going to try for a demurrer after we put on our evidence, we’re going to have to haul out everything we’ve got. No reason your client should be put through that. We’re here to search for the truth, not to put on a show. Just agree not to make the motion, and we’ll save your little lady a lot of unnecessary hell. It’s the humane approach. What do you think?”

“I think,” Ben said, removing Moltke’s arm, “I’m not nearly as green as you think.”

Moltke seemed taken aback. “What’s that?”

“That’s my way of saying, take your offer and get the hell out of my face. Nicely.”

“I thought it was a fair proposition—”

“You thought you could con me into being incredibly stupid. If I accepted your soft-soap appeal to my better nature, not only would I forfeit my chances of getting the charges dismissed today, I would also lose the opportunity to learn about your case—because you wouldn’t put forward your best evidence. Given the lack of cooperation from your office so far, this may be the only discovery I get. I’m not going to throw that away.”

“I was just trying to spare your client—”

“I know exactly what you were trying, Moltke, and it had nothing to do with the search for truth or any of your other sanctimonious twaddle.”

Moltke’s face became grave. “You’re making a mistake, son. Our case is stronger than you think.”

“We’ll see. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to review my notes.”

Moltke walked away solemnly, shaking his head.

A few moments later, the bailiff cracked open the door. “All rise.”

Magistrate Gould stepped into the courtroom. He was a relatively young man, probably in his mid-thirties. Ben had never been before him; Gould had only been appointed about eight months earlier, to work in conjunction with Judge Derek. Word on the street was that he had a case of judgeitis—carrying himself ponderously, pushing people around at hearings, wielding sanctions like a whipping stick. If true, Ben knew Gould wouldn’t be the first person who had trouble adjusting to the immense power of his new position.

Gould hushed the bailiff before she could read the case file. “Where’s the defendant?”

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Ben said, fingering his collar. “Any minute.”

“This hearing was scheduled to begin ten minutes ago. She’s late.”

Ben decided not to mention that His Eminence was also late. “I’m sure you’ve had parties arrive late before, sir.”

Gould drummed his fingers on the bench. “True. The defendant at a detention hearing I held yesterday was ten minutes late.”

“Well, there you go.”

“I revoked his bail and sanctioned his attorney.”

Ben craned his neck and adjusted his tie.

Suddenly, Gould leaned forward across the bench and boomed, “What is that you’re wearing?”

Ben looked back over his shoulder, then front and forward. “Who, me?”

“Yes, of course, you .”

What was it? His shirt, his shoes, his fly? Ben quickly checked himself out. Everything seemed to be in order.

“I’m referring to your tie, counselor,” Gould explained. “Is that…pink?”

Ben had to look. “Well, yes, sir. With little blue squiggles—”

“This is a courtroom, counselor. Not a discotheque.”

“Of course it is, sir.”

“I guess you think that because I’m just a magistrate rather than a full federal judge you can dress in this disrespectful manner?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“I don’t want to see that tie in my courtroom ever again, counsel. Do you understand me?”

“But my mother gave me this tie.…”

Gould pointed a finger at Ben. “You’re—” He seemed to be hauling a memory out of some faraway corner of his brain. “You’re the one who filed this pleading.” He held up several stapled sheets of paper.

“Yes, your honor. That’s our pretrial motion to—”

“It’s on legal-size paper.”

“Uh, yes, your honor. So it is.”

“That’s eight-by-fourteen-inch paper.”

“I believe that’s correct.”

“This is federal court, counselor. We file our pleadings on eight-by-eleven-inch paper.”

“I’m sorry, your honor, my secretary must’ve—”

“That’s no excuse, counsel.”

“No, of course not. I hope your honor will permit the pleading to be considered despite this grievous error.…”

“Of course I will.” Gould reached into a drawer and withdrew a pair of scissors. In two quick snips, he cut off the bottom three inches of Ben’s motion. “There. Now it can be considered by the court. I hope we didn’t lose anything important.”

“Me too, sir.” Why did he have the feeling he was losing this hearing before it had begun?

Gould reached for his gavel. “Under the circumstances, with no defendant present—”

Ben heard a shuffling of feet behind him. It was Christina. Thank God. “Magistrate, may I have a minute to talk with my client before we begin?”

Gould glanced at his watch. “One minute.”

Ben met Christina in the gallery.

“Did I miss anything?” Christina whispered.

“Nothing worth mentioning. Where have you been?”

“The police showed up this morning for a follow-up investigation of the break-in.”

“Did they find any indication of who tore the place up?”

“Not as of half an hour ago. I had to leave them to get here. Is that all right? Mike was with them.”

“If Mike was there, I’m sure it will be fine. Take a seat at defendant’s table.”

Christina walked briskly to the table, giving Ben a chance to inspect her more closely. She was wearing a thin V-necked dress with purple flowers. Her high-heeled sandals were laced up to her knees.

“Christina,” he whispered, “I specifically told you to dress normal!”

“What’s wrong with this?” she asked, astonished. “It has padded shoulders.”

“I know. You look like Herman Munster.”

“You told me to wear what I would wear to church. This is it.”

Ben sighed. If this case went to trial, he would have to choose her clothes himself.

“Can you still get the charges dismissed?” Christina asked.

“There’s a chance. As far as we know, all they’ve got is your presence in Lombardi’s penthouse when the FBI found the body. That might look good in the papers, but Magistrate Gould is going to require something more concrete.”

Ben heard a pronounced throat clearing from the bench. “Are we ready to proceed yet, counsel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let’s begin.” Gould rushed efficiently through the preliminary rigamarole. “Call your first witness.”

Moltke rose to his feet. “The United States calls James Abshire.”

Abshire was sworn in. He gave a bit of personal background information, then described his activities the night of the murder. He’d rushed into Lombardi’s suite expecting to find a drug deal in progress, but instead, he found Christina hovering over Lombardi’s body. He’d searched her, then cuffed her.