Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 01 - TRIAL - a Legal Thriller (30 page)

Warren said, "Let her have her way. She has good instincts."

For this trial Bob Altschuler had chosen to work with two young assistant district attorneys, one man and one woman, whom he was grooming for other courts. Both had close-cropped hair and wore glasses, and neither one ever smiled except at each other. "They look mean," Johnnie Faye whispered.

"They
are
mean," Rick said. "It's a prerequisite for the job."

Maria Hahn recorded the proceedings. Whenever she caught Warren's eye, she smiled decorously.

The jury was chosen by two o'clock the next afternoon, and Judge Bingham then called chief counsel to the bench. On the shelf just below the judge's fingertips, Warren could glimpse stacks of various court documents, a book on how to enlarge your vocabulary, a copy of Fowler's
Modern English Usage,
and a slim pamphlet on the care and growing of zinnias.

The judge said, "We can begin now if you like. Get through the opening statements. Or do it tomorrow morning. You two gentlemen decide."

Altschuler shrugged. "The state is ready."

"The defense is ready," Warren said.

===OO=OOO=OO===

That evening he and Maria drove in her car to Tranquility Park. Some homeless men were camped there, sleeping or cooking meager meals under the magnolia trees. Some were gaunt, some seemed well fed. Most had beards and looked like unwashed loggers. Shopping carts were parked under several trees.

None of them wore any of Dan Ho Trunh's clothing. Warren talked to each man: none had been in the Wesleyan Terrace parking lot in late May when a shot was fired, or at least none admitted to it. Warren watched their eyes carefully as they responded, and he also held a folded ten-dollar bill between two fingers.

"Let's try Hermann Park," he suggested.

In the car, Maria said, "You made a good opening speech today. Short and sweet."

"Did I? I just stated the facts and what we intend to prove."

"That's what an opening's meant to be. Bob went on forever, nearly put the jury to sleep. He sounded more like he was giving final argument."

"He's Harris County's answer to the neutron bomb," Warren said. "All the buildings remain standing, but all the people succumb to his commentary."

"Why didn't you Object?"

"Our case will speak for itself." He thought for a while. "Which reminds me — what ever happened between you and Bob?"

"I shouldn't tell you."

"Then don't."

"But I will."

Bob Altschuler had been assigned as chief prosecutor in Judge Bingham's court three years ago, when Maria's son Randy was five. Randy's father was a Dallas homicide detective who had come to Houston to testify in some case. "I hopped into the sack with him a few times," she said, "and woke up pregnant. I was really pissed off. I didn't want this guy as a husband — he was a hunk, nothing more. But I decided I wanted to have the baby. I was thirty-one years old, the timing was right. I'd gone through an awful abortion when I was nineteen. So I had Randy. No regrets. I love that kid."

With Bob Altschuler it was a sweet affair because it was dangerous; he was top gun in the 342nd and he was married. She was in love with his mind, he with her body.

Warren could easily understand that.

"The thing is, he wanted to leave his wife and kids and marry me. He has three daughters, teenagers, very difficult young ladies. Apparently it's hell at home — Hysteria City, rock and roll, locked bathrooms. And the wife's in and out of therapy. I was tempted, because Bob was crazy about me and he really liked Randy. I kept telling him that Randy would get to be a teenager too, but he said boys are different. Anyway, in the end, I wouldn't do it. An affair is one thing, but I didn't really love him and it was breaking up a home. I believe in that stuff. You can't keep trading off. So we broke up. He took it a little hard."

"That's apparent."

"Yeah, I guess so. I still like him. He's a terrific lawyer, tough to beat in trial. Now you tell me what happened with you and your wife."

As best he could, Warren told her.

Maria said, "I don't get it. She must be nuts. You're a wonderful man."

"Thank you. Most of the time I don't get it either. Maybe I wasn't always so wonderful."

"Well, shit happens."

Was that it? Warren wondered. Lately Charm had invaded his mind only at random moments. He wasn't getting over the hurt of her abandonment, but scar tissue was beginning to form. Knowing Maria had certainly helped. He had spent every other night with her after the night she had cooked the lasagna. They had hunted together for the man who wasn't there. When it had grown too boring or discouraging, he had made a U-turn and driven her home to bed. Once they had gone to a movie, bought popcorn, held hands. Her hands were slender and unusually cool. So shit happens. A simple view of events. Maybe, in the long run, wise. He saw Maria as a simple person, not extraordinary, as he had once seen Charm to be extraordinary. But maybe extraordinary people are too difficult to deal with, certainly to mate with. Too much drama and anxiety along with the stimulation. He didn't view himself as extraordinary; he was just a hardworking lawyer. One day he would have kids, new walls on which to hang his photographs, a new lawn to mow. Maybe he needed an ordinary woman who wanted to please him and whom he could please without doing emotional headstands. He wanted harmony, ease. In court he had his full share of drama, worry, self-torture. Maybe simplicity was the answer.

He pulled the car into a parking space near the stables in Hermann Park, where he had found and lost Pedro. It was a warm evening but not warm enough to sweat. The lights of the city glimmered through the trees, and he could see the glow of Johnnie Faye's high-rise, the lit windows spaced out at this distance like instrument panels of a jet.

"You see anyone?" Maria asked.

"No, but we'll poke around."

"Speaking of poke, have you ever done it on the grass under a tree at night?"

"Are you serious?"

"That's a subject I never joke about. Well, rarely."

"Have you?"

"No, but I always wanted to. I've got a beach blanket in the trunk."

"Can we look for my man first? So I won't be thinking of other things?"

Maria sighed. "Okay."

The shed behind the stables was empty, but Warren, using his flashlight, noticed some empty beer bottles and a rolled-up bundle of dirty clothing. The door to the stables was locked. He heard hoofs moving about in straw. Following the beam of the light, he walked across the springy dark grass toward the dressage ring.

Maria touched his arm. "Someone's there. Two guys, it looks like."

Warren raised the beam until it outlined two men leaning in repose against the wooden fence surrounding the ring. They were smoking and talking softly. Smoking a joint, he realized, from the sucking sound. As he and Maria drew closer, the tiny red tip vanished behind one of the men's backs.

A voice said, "
Qué pasó
?"

He shone the beam into one of the faces. A Mexican. Then into the other face.

"Pedro?"

"Quién es?"

"Me. The lawyer! The lawyer you ran away from, you bastard! Hector's lawyer! I gave you forty bucks, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Pedro turned to his companion.
"Es el pinche abogado de Hector. Me queria ir al juez para ayudarle, recuerdes?"

—Hector's fucking lawyer, who wanted me to go to court to help him.

"This is your friend Armando?" Warren asked, trying to be a little friendlier now.

"This is Armando. He don't speak English."

"So what happened to you, Pedro? I came back to look for you and you were gone."

"Lost my job, man. Had to go. They feed you at the mission. But I doan like the mission. I come back."

"Let's get out of here," Warren said. "I'll buy you both a beer."

He drove them all to a nearby bar and bought a pitcher of Michelob on tap. "Listen, Pedro, and you too, Armando. I need you guys. More important, Hector needs you. His trial's still on. Next week I get to put on my witnesses. My turn, you understand? I get a chance to try and save your friend's life. I need you to get up there and swear that Hector didn't own a pistol. Will you do it? And don't bullshit me. Yes or no."

They kept looking calmly at Maria's breasts. She was drinking a beer with one arm wrapped around Warren's shoulder. It was chilly in the bar and her nipples were prominent under her white T-shirt.

"We get in trouble," Pedro said finally.

Warren said, "You'll get in trouble if you don't stop eyeballing my girlfriend's tits."

They stopped immediately.

Warren thought it over. "You mean trouble because you have no papers."

"That's it."

"I told you before, they can't ask you about that. I'll protect you. You swear that Hector had no pistol, then you go."

For a while the two men talked rapidly in Spanish, arguing. Warren waited impatiently.

"Okay," Pedro said. He nodded at Armando: "But he doan speak English so good as me."

"If he testifies, the court will provide an interpreter. Where are you guys sleeping these days?"

Pedro shrugged. "Where we can."

"If you know a cheap hotel, I'll put you up there for a week. Or, wait — I've got a better idea. You can stay at my place. A nice apartment. Food, beer, all on me. Free. All you have to do is take care of my dog."

Again they talked rapidly together for a minute. Pedro turned back to Warren.

"You got a TV?"

"With cable. Movies day and night. Two Spanish-speaking channels."

"VCR?"

"That too. You can rent
Viva Zapata,
triple-X rated movies just down the block. Whatever you like. I pay."

"And we doan get arrested? Doan get kick out?"

"You have my word.
Mi palabra de honor
."

Armando spoke again. Pedro said, "He wants to know if your dog bites."

"Not unless I tell her to," Warren said.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Back at his apartment in Ravendale, he said, "Don't use the telephone to call Mexico, I can't afford that." He figured they might do it anyway, but this way they would keep the calls to under ten minutes. And they would probably enjoy getting away with something that hadn't been offered.

"Hey, you bein' good to us," Pedro said. "We doan fuck with you now."

He sounded sincere, and Warren changed his mind. "You can call once a day."

"No telephone where we come from," Pedro explained.

Maria looked up from her nail-filing. "Why don't you ask them if they've seen the guy you're looking for?"

Warren gave a description of the man.

"Lotta guys look like that," Pedro said.

Warren described the clothes that had been taken from the dry cleaners. Pedro turned to Armando and chattered in his musical Spanish. Armando chattered back. Pedro said, "We know him. We seen him at the mission. Green sweater, gray suit. Sure. He's a fuckin' wino. Name is Jim something. Everyone laugh when he tell his whole name, but I doan get it. Few nights ago he get drunk and somebody steal all his new clothes."

"When did you see Jim last?" Warren said excitedly, leaning forward across the kitchen table. "Is he there now? Is he at the mission?"

"No, he come and go. He there one night, then he gone for a long time. Then he come back. Then he go. He sleep all over town. I see him maybe two nights ago."

"But you know him? You could recognize him?"

Pedro nodded.

"Listen," Warren said, "I've got a job for you guys. I'm in court all day on another trial, another case. At night I have to work on it too. I'll pay you to look for this Jim. You find him, you bring him to me — or you hold him and call me and I'll come get him." He stopped for a moment to consider: incentive was the key. "You find him by the weekend I'll give you a hundred bucks each. Find him in the next few days, I'll give you more."

Above the crash of gunfire and squealing of tires that came from the TV, Pedro spoke to Armando. Looking immensely pleased with herself, Maria went into the little kitchen to mix a drink.

"Okay," Pedro said.

They shook hands. The Mexicans' palms were hard, but they shook hands softly, unaggressively, in their fashion.

A little while later, Pedro asked, "Where we sleep here? You got only one bed."

"It's a big bed. You can share it, or one of you can bunk down on the couch."

"Where you sleep?"

"Don't worry about me," Warren said.

"Pinche cabrón,"
Pedro said, winking. He was calling Warren a fucking billygoat. Warren wanted to protest, but it hardly seemed worth it.

In the car on the way back to her house, Maria hugged his arm. "See? Shit happens. But sometimes good things happen."

He laughed happily. The sound seemed to echo in her car, or perhaps in his mind. A long time since he had heard it.

The next day he started the second trial.

Reporters and television cameramen thronged the
corridor outside Judge Bingham's courtroom. The state was ready to present its case against Johnnie Faye Boudreau for the murder of Dr. Clyde Ott.

"Are you satisfied with the jury, Mr. Blackburn?… Do you still anticipate a verdict of not guilty? … Will Ms. Boudreau testify on her own behalf?"

The questions came from all directions. Warren thought, a year ago I would have given blood for this kind of attention.

"Neither I nor my client have anything to say at this early stage of the trial. But I'm sure you can manage to squeeze a few words out of the prosecutor."

Bob Altschuler, in a stylish blue blazer and regimental tie, stepped forward to the microphones. Warren pulled Johnnie Faye into the courtroom.

===OO=OOO=OO===

The prosecution began its case in the usual manner, with the Harris County chief medical examiner establishing the cause of death: one .22-caliber bullet entering through the superciliar arch of the frontal lobe and exiting via the occipital lobe of the brain; a second bullet lodging in the middle lobe of the right lung. Death was instantaneous. The shots appeared to have been fired from a position directly in front of the complainant at a distance of approximately four to six feet.