William Bernhardt - Blind Justice

“I’m serious,” Moltke insisted. “What does it matter who else might’ve been in Lombardi’s apartment? We know for a fact that the defendant was, and she’s the one who’s on trial.”

Ben stared at Derek. “Do I even need to respond to this lame motion?”

Derek frowned. “Regrettably, no. The motion is overruled. Call your next witness, Mr. Kincaid.”

Ben scanned the rows of spectators, all waiting for his next sentence. He saw DeCarlo look away, apparently hoping Ben wouldn’t notice him. Reynolds and Langdell also seemed to be avoiding his glance. And at counsel table, he again saw Christina correct her posture. Pardonnez, mon cheri. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.

“Get on with it,” Derek said.

“Yes, your honor. The defense calls…” He peered into the gallery. “Margot Lombardi.”

40

BEN HEARD THE SUDDEN silence, the suspension of breath, the tangible surprise. Half the gallery turned to scrutinize Margot.

Her lips parted slightly; her eyes widened. She obviously was not prepared for this development.

“I object, your honor,” Moltke said.

“Again?” Ben replied, an eyebrow arched.

“Your honor, we’ve had no advance notice.”

“How could he?” Ben asked. “I didn’t know I needed to call her until this morning.”

“Your honor, this court should not make excuses for counsel’s sloppy preparation and eleventh-hour discovery.”

Ben stepped closer to the bench. “Judge, my client is on trial for her life. I ask for the widest possible latitude.”

Derek’s lips were pursed. “You are pressing this court’s patience to the outermost limit, counsel. The days of trial by ambush are long past.”

Ben stepped even closer to the bench and said in a soft voice the reporters couldn’t hear: “If you don’t let this witness testify, I’ll make an offer of proof on the record indicating that this witness could have exonerated my client. You’ll not only be reversed; the Tenth Circuit opinion will make you look like an idiot.”

Ben felt Derek’s eyes burning down on him. If he had any recourse against Ben whatsoever, Ben knew he’d take it. But he didn’t have any choice. “I’ll allow you to call this witness, counsel, subject to a subsequent ruling on the relevance of her testimony. But the court is mindful of the fact that this witness is the victim’s widow. You will proceed quickly to the point, and it had better be a relevant point at that. Furthermore, if you harass or mistreat this witness in any way, you will find yourself in a federal jail cell for a period of time longer than your entire previous legal career!”

“I understand, your honor.”

Derek cast his eyes into the gallery. “The defense has called Margot Lombardi.”

“As a hostile witness,” Ben added.

“Whatever.” Derek waved her to the front of the courtroom.

She rose slowly, like a wobbly pony just learning to walk. She hovered for a moment, apparently confused. The men on the end of the row slid out, allowing her to pass. She pressed past them and walked to the witness stand.

After she was sworn, Ben said, “Mrs. Lombardi, please excuse my bluntness, but the judge has instructed me to get straight to the point. What was the state of your relationship with your husband at the time of his death?”

“We…were separated.”

“In the process of becoming divorced?”

“Y-yes.”

“How did your husband treat you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Well, Mrs. Lombardi, I’m referring to what you and I talked about when I visited your home. Your husband was very cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“In…in some ways.”

“Both mentally and physically.”

Her voice became quiet, almost infinitesimal. “I suppose.”

“Did you know he was seeing other women?”

“Yes. Lennie—Tony’s assistant—told me.”

“What did you think about that?”

She considered her answer for an extended period of time. “Not very much,” she said finally.

Ben closed his trial notebook and took a step away from the podium. His notes couldn’t help him now. “Mrs. Lombardi, what were you doing the night your husband was killed?”

“I was at home.”

“Was anyone else there?”

“No, I was alone. I told you that before.”

“So you have no witnesses?”

Her fingers were locked together; her arms were pressed tightly to her body. “I suppose not.”

“Mrs. Lombardi, you weren’t home all night, were you?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s something that’s been nagging at the back of my brain, Mrs. Lombardi, but I didn’t fully realize what it was until this morning. When I first talked to Spud about you, the day after your husband died, he described you as a blonde. But now, as the jury can see, your hair is black—just like Mr. DeCarlo’s. Have you dyed it?”

“That’s…rather personal.”

“Mrs. Lombardi, don’t make me yank out a strand and show the jury the roots.”

Her lips twitched ever so slightly. “So I dyed my hair. It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her hair color.”

“And, I imagine, her hairstyle as well,” Ben said. “Tell me, Mrs. Lombardi, have you ever worn your hair in a ponytail?”

Ben felt the activity behind him, the furious notetaking, the quiet whispers.

“I guess. Once or twice.”

“And I know you have a pair of dark sunglasses. I saw you wearing them in the courtroom yesterday.”

“I hardly see how that proves—”

“And how about a black muffler, Mrs. Lombardi? And a white overcoat. Do you have those, too?”

Her face was becoming blotchy, even more so than before. “Let me ask you again, Mrs. Lombardi. You didn’t stay home the entire night your husband was killed, did you?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Isn’t it true you went to your husband’s apartment that night, after altering your appearance sufficiently to fool a nearsighted, blurry-eyed, drunken doorman?”

Tears welled up in her eyes. She moved her mouth wordlessly.

“Isn’t it true the doorman let you up to your husband’s apartment?”

More movement, no words. The tears streamed down her face.

Ben looked away. He couldn’t let it get to him. He had to press forward. “Isn’t it true you let yourself in and found another woman, Christina McCall, in the apartment with your husband?”

“I-I—oh God, no …”

Ben heard the sound of an objection somewhere in the background, and some sharp words from the judge. It didn’t matter.

“Isn’t it true , Mrs. Lombardi?” Ben shouted. “Isn’t that exactly what you did?”

“I— no , I—”

“Mrs. Lombardi, isn’t it true you took your husband’s gun and shot him in the head?”

“Oh God, God !” she wailed. Her voice was a shriek, a sick, desperate cry.

“Isn’t it true , Mrs. Lombardi? That you shot your husband?”

“Oh my God,” she cried. Her voice was hoarse, broken. “Oh God— yes …It’s true.”

41

DEREK BANGED HIS GAVEL, futilely attempting to reassert his control. Almost as one body, the front rows of the gallery raced toward the back door, each reporter hoping to be the first to call in the story. The running, yelling, talking, and crying drowned out the impotent banging of Derek’s gavel.

Margot’s head drooped forward, her face in her hands.

“I repeat, objection , your honor!” It was Moltke, running up to the bench where he could be heard.

“A bit late for that now, isn’t it?” Ben asked.

“Your honor, I see no reason to put this poor widow through further ordeal—”