Hostile Witness Part 50

It stopped just that fast. There was a peculiar silence, like the whole court had been caught at something, and in the silence I remembered that just three weeks before, when Morris first appeared in court and there had been a snicker, I had turned away in embarra.s.sment.

"Take your minute, Mr. Carl," said the judge.

I motioned for Morris to come forward, and he did. I leaned over and he stood on his tiptoes and whispered in my ear, "I have for you a witness."

"Who?" I asked.

"Your friend, Miss Beth, she gave me a paper and I showed it to the man."

"A subpoena?"

"Because of such paper he agreed to come with me, but I fear, Victor, that if you don't use him now he won't be back tomorrow."

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Gardner, a very nice man, actually, though he pretends to be not so nice. You should maybe, Victor, I'm no lawyer, but maybe you should call this man before he decides he doesn't want to be here anymore."

"What is this about?"

"You ask this Mr. Gardner some questions, Victor."

He handed me four pieces of paper, a yellow original and three copies.

"Miss Beth said you would be needing more than one. I'll be charging, of course, for the copies. A quarter they cost in this building. Gonifs, and our own government too." Then he turned and went to the back of the courtroom and sat down again.

I looked over the original doc.u.ment briefly. Still puzzled, I said, "Your Honor, on behalf of Chester Concannon I call Mr. Leonard Gardner to the stand."

He was a tall, middle-aged man with a fine suit and shiny black loafers. His hair was curly and very tightly trimmed. There was something hard about him, something defiant and angry. He had been put upon for too long and was not going to take it anymore, dammit. But even so he was walking up the courtroom aisle and slipping into the witness stand.

He answered the usual questions, checking his nails, letting out the arrogant sigh of a man whose time was being wasted. He was Leonard Gardner, G-A-R-D-N-E-R, he lived at 408 North 3rd Street, he was a businessman, primarily in fashion, importing certain fabrics from Pakistan.

"Now, Mr. Gardner, on the night of May ninth of this year, did you by chance rent a limousine from the Cherry Hill Limousine Company in Cherry Hill, New Jersey?"

"I don't know specific dates," he said. His voice was a near sneer. "How am I supposed to know what night May ninth was?"

"It was the night Bissonette's nightclub burned down. Does that help?"

"No." His shoulders hiccuped in a snort and his gaze rose, as if he were required to inspect the ceiling for cracks.

"Well, maybe this will refresh your recollection."

I marked the original doc.u.ment into evidence and tossed a copy each to Prescott and Eggert. Then I handed the marked doc.u.ment to the witness. "Do you know what that is, Mr. Gardner?"

"It looks like an invoice for the rental of a limousine."

"On May ninth of this year, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever seen this invoice before?"

"This afternoon. The man in the back with the funny hat showed it to me."

"You mean Mr. Kapustin."

"That's his name, right. Kapustin."

"Does this doc.u.ment refresh your recollection as to whether or not you rented a limousine on May ninth of this year?"

"Well, my signature's on it, so I guess I did."

"And you signed for the limousine."

"That's what I said."

"And though you live in Philadelphia, you went all the way to New Jersey for a limousine?"

"That's where I went, yeah. What about it?"

"Where did you go that night, Mr. Gardner?"

"We went out to dinner and then drove around. I had just closed a large deal for a shipment from Karachi and we were celebrating. That against the law?"

"Where did you have dinner?"

"I don't remember. The Garden maybe, or someplace. I do remember that the veal was overdone and the wine a little too impertinent, if that's what you want to know. A definite two forks only, no more than that."

"And after dinner where did you go?"

"I don't know. I possibly celebrated a bit too hard that night. I seem to recollect I fell asleep in the car. I spilled champagne on my suit, too. A nasty stain. Ruined it. Twelve hundred dollars."

At that moment Eggert stood up. "Your Honor, I object. There is testimony of a limousine rental on the night of the fire. I will stipulate that limousines were rented on the night of the fire. Beyond that, however, I don't see how Mr. Gardner's testimony is relevant."

"Mr. Carl," said the judge, "are you going to link this up any further?"

"I hope so," I said.

"The law doesn't traffic in hopes, Mr. Carl," said the judge. "Either tell me you can link it up or the testimony will be stricken."

I turned around and gave a shrug to Morris.

From his seat, he shook his head with sadness. Slowly he stood up and started the long walk toward me. The whole courtroom was watching him now. He had planned it this way, I thought, and I didn't know whether to hug him or wring his neck. When he reached me I leaned over to him and he again stood on his tiptoes.

"Don't be a goyishe kopf, Victor. Ask him who the person he was with that night was."

Morris shook his head some more, shook it at all the goyishe kopfs in the world, turned around, and slowly walked again to the back of the courtroom.

"I'll link up the testimony with just a few more questions, Your Honor."

"Get to it, Mr. Carl."

"Who were you with that night in your limousine, Mr. Gardner?"

"I had a date."

"Who?"

"None of your business," he said.

"I'm afraid it is, Mr. Gardner."

He turned to the judge and in an aggrieved voice said, "Must I go into personal matters? Is that necessary?"

"Is it necessary, Mr. Carl?" asked the judge.

I turned to find Morris sitting in the back of the courtroom. His eyes rose in exasperation and with a series of flicks from his hand he urged me on.

"I'm afraid so," I said.

"You must answer the question, Mr. Gardner," said the judge.

"And it doesn't matter who it hurts? It doesn't matter if my date has been happily married to another for twenty years, that doesn't matter, I am still required to tell it all to the tabloids?"

"Answer the question, Mr. Gardner," said the judge.

"So tell us, Mr. Gardner," I said as he turned back to me and dared me with his eyes to ask the question again. "Who were you with in the limousine that night?"

"This is personal," he said. "I don't believe in all this so-called outing going on, angry young men invading other people's lives. I don't care, really, but others do and it's not right. The Const.i.tution applies to us, too. We might as well be living in Colorado."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Gardner," I said. "But please answer the question. Who was with you in the limousine that night?"

There was a long pause and a sigh and a shake of the head. He laughed to himself and then shrugged. "All right, then."

"Who, Mr. Gardner?"

"Michael," he said. "I was with Michael that night."

"Michael who?"

"Michael Ruffing."

There was a gasp just then. It wasn't loud, it didn't last long, but I heard it in all its sharpness and pain. And I didn't have to look to see who it came from. It hadn't come from any member of the jury, or from Prescott, or from Jimmy or Chester or the judge. It had come from the long pale throat of Marshall Eggert, who had just seen his arson claims against Concannon and Moore disappear and had just seen the credibility of Michael Ruffing, his star witness, who on the night of the fire at Bissonette's had been in a limousine much like the one seen leaving after the arson and who had used the insurance proceeds to pay his tax bill and stay out of jail, the credibility of that Michael Ruffing be crushed to sc.r.a.p by the aggrieved voice of Leonard Gardner.

52.

ON MY WAY OUT of the courtroom Prescott stopped me by grabbing hold of my arm. I looked down at his hand reaching around my biceps, but he held it steady there with a tight grip despite the force of my gaze. I could have said something sharp and clever just then if I had thought of it as he gripped my arm, but nothing sprang to mind, so I stayed quiet.

"Nice bit of investigation, pulling out that Gardner fellow," he said finally. "You're a constant source of surprise."

"I'm just shocked that with all the resources of Talbott, Kittredge and Chase you didn't find it yourself."

"Maybe we did."

"But why blame Ruffing when it was so much more convenient to put the arson off on Chester?"

"You subpoenaed Veronica Ashland," he said in a low, dangerous voice.

"That's right."

"My advice, for what it's worth..."

"Not much anymore," I said.

"My advice, Victor, is not to call her. You know, of course, if you do call her to testify I'll have no option but to bring out your sordid affair with her." I had figured they had known, but I looked away from him anyway. On the other side of the courtroom, through a watery blur, I could see Jimmy Moore talking with a small group of supporters but staring at me as hard as a hypnotist. "The jury will think that rather strange," Prescott continued, "calling your lover as a witness."

"Our relationship is in the past. It ended the instant I realized she had information relevant to this case. But whatever the jury thinks, they'll think she's telling the truth."

"Her testimony is not going to be all you expect."

"I think we'll give her a shot."

"She doesn't want to testify."

"That's why G.o.d invented the subpoena."

"Jimmy doesn't want her to testify."

"I'm sure of that," I said.

"We seem to have the d.a.m.nedest time communicating, Victor. I apologize if I'm not being clear. Jimmy has told me that he is worried about the pressure of testifying on her fragile physical condition. He believes that forcing her to testify at this most difficult time in her life could be dangerous to her health."

"That sounds like a threat."

"Don't be silly. But Jimmy wanted you to be aware of all the possible consequences of putting that girl on the stand."

"Because if that's a threat," I went on, "that would be obstruction of justice."

"I was just voicing a concern that had been explained to me by my client."

"Maybe I should call Eggert over here, and Special Agent Stemkowski. Maybe you could voice Jimmy's concern to them."

He smiled at me. "That won't be necessary," he said, then he turned around and walked over to his client. It would have been a small moment of triumph for me, except for that smile. It wasn't a nervous smile, there was no tension in it, no worry. It was a chess player's smile, as if he had opened with P-Q4, I had countered with P-Q4 and he had replied with P-QB4, offering his queenside bishop's p.a.w.n for capture. I had played enough chess in the geekdom of my youth to know the price of accepting that p.a.w.n. His smile was the smile that invariably accompanies a gambit and I didn't like it one bit.