Lisa Scottoline - Running From The Law

The third book in the Rosato and Associates series

Any good poker player will tell you the secret to a winning bluff is believing it yourself. I know this, so by the time I cross-examined the last witness, I believed. I was in deep, albeit fraudulent, mourning. Now all I had to do was convince the jury.

Would you examine this document for me, sir? I said, my voice hoarse with fake grief. I did the bereavement shuffle to the witness stand and handed an exhibit to Frankie Costello, a lump of a plant manager with a pencil-thin mustache.

You want I should read it? Costello asked.

No, I want you should make a paper airplane. Yes, read it, please.

Costello bent over the document, and I snuck a glance at the jury through my imaginary black veil. A few returned my gaze with mounting sympathy. The trial had been postponed last week because of the death of counsels mother, but the jury wasnt told which lawyers mother had died. It was defense counsels mother whod just passed on, not mine, but dont split hairs, okay? You hand me an ace, Im gonna use it.

Im done, Costello said, after the first page.

Please examine the attachments, sir.

Attachments? he asked, cranky as a student on the vocational track.

Yes, sir. I leaned heavily on the burled edge of the witness stand and looked down with a mournful sigh. I was wearing black all over: black suit, black pumps, black hair pulled back with a black grosgrain ribbon. My eyes were raccoony, too, but from weeks of lost sleep over this trial, which had been slipping through my manicured fingers until somebody choked on her last chicken bone.

Give me a minute, Costello said, tracing a graph with a stubby finger.

Take all the time you need, sir.

He labored over the chart as the courtroom fell silent. The only sound was the death rattle of an ancient air conditioner that proved no match for a Philadelphia summer. It strained to cool the large Victorian courtroom, one of the most ornate in City Hall. The courtroom was surrounded by rose marble wain-scotting and its high ceiling was painted robins-egg blue with gold crown molding. A mahogany rail contained the jury, and I stole another glance at them. The old woman and the pregnant mother in the front row were with me all the way. But I couldnt read the grim-faced engineer whod been peering at me all morning. Was he sympathetic or suspicious?

Im done, Costello said, and thrust the exhibit at me in a Speedy Gonzales fit of pique. We dont need no steenking badges.

Thank you, I said, meaning it. It was a mistake not to keep the exhibit. Youll see why. Mr. Costello, have you had an adequate opportunity to read Joint Exhibit 121?

Yeh.

This isnt the first time youve seen these documents, is it, sir? My voice echoed in the empty courtroom. There were no spectators in the pews, not even the homeless. The Free Library was cooler, and this trial was boring even me until today.

Nah, Costello said. I seen it before.

You prepared the memorandum yourself, didnt you?

Yeh. Costello shifted in the direction of his lawyer, George W. Vandivoort IV, the stiff-necked fellow at the defense table. Vandivoort wore a pin-striped suit, horn-rimmed glasses, and a bright-eyed expression. He manifested none of the grief of a man who had buried his own mother only days ago, which was fine with me. I had rehearsed enough grief for both of us.

Mr. Costello, did you send Exhibit 121 to Bob Brown, director of operations at Northfolk Paper, with a copy to Mr. Saltzman?

Costello paused, at a loss without the memo in front of him. Who can remember what they just read? Nobody. Who would ask for the memo back? Everybody except an Italian male. I think so, he said slowly.

And you sent Mr. Rizzo a blind copy, isnt that correct, sir?

He tried to remember. Yeh.

Just so Im clear on this, a blind copy is when you send a memo or letter to someone, but the memo doesnt show that you did, isnt that right? A point with no legal significance, but juries hate blind copies.

Yeh. Its standard procedure to Mr. Rizzo, Mr. DellOrefice, and Mr. Facelli.

Even better, it sounded like the Mafia. I glanced at one of the black jurors, who was frowning deeply. He lived in Southeast Philly on the ragged fringe of the Italian neighborhood, and had undoubtedly taken his share of abuse. His frown meant I had collected six jurors so far. But what about the engineer? I tried to look sadder.

Suddenly an authoritative cough issued from the direction of the judges paneled dais. Ms. Morrone, I dont appreciate what youre doing, snapped the Honorable Gordon H. Kroungold, a sharp Democrat who was elevated to the bench from an estates practice, where nobody would ever dream of exploiting someones death. At least not in open court. I dont appreciate what youre doing at all.

Im proceeding as quickly as I can, Your Honor, I said, looking innocently up at the dais. It towered above my head, having been built in a time when we thought judges belonged on pedestals.

Thats not what I meant, Ms. Morrone. Judge Kroungold smoothed down a triangle of frizzy hair with an open hand. He wetted his hair down with water every morning, but after the second witness it would reattain its loft. Its your demeanor Im having a problem with, counsel.

Stay calm. Your mothers not even cold, poor baby. Im afraid I dont understand, Your Honor.

Judge Kroungolds dark eyes glowered. Approach the bench, Ms. Morrone. You, too, Mr. Vandivoort.

Of course, Your Honor, Vandivoort said, jumping up and hustling over. His mothers death had put such a spring into his step that he almost beat me to the dais. An inheritance, no doubt.

Ms. Morrone, what the hell do you think youre doing? Judge Kroungold asked, stretching down over his desk. Is this some kind of stunt?

Gulp. I beg your pardon?

Dont act like you dont know what Im talking about.

Your Honor?

Please. Judge Kroungold looked around for his court reporter and waved him over irritably. Wesley, I want this on the record.

The court reporter, an older black man with oddly grayish skin, picked up the stenography machine by its steel tripod and huddled with us at the front of the dais. A sidebar conversation is out of the jurys hearing, but not the appellate courts. The word disbarment flitted across my mind, but I shooed it away.

Ms. Morrone, Judge Kroungold said, please tell me, on the record, that Im not seeing what I think Im seeing.

I dont understand what you mean, Your Honor. What is it youre seeing?

No, Ms. Morrone. No, no, no. Nuh-uh. You tell me exactly what youre doing. Judge Kroungold leaned so far over that I experienced a fine spray of judicial saliva. You tell me. Right now.

Im conducting my cross-examination of this final witness, Your Honor.

The judges liver-colored lips set in a determined line. So it would appear. But let me state for the record that you seem very tired today, Ms. Morrone. Very lethargic. One would even say that you seem depressed.

Ididnt know he cared. Your Honor, I am tired. Its been a long trial and Ive worked this case myself. I dont have the associates Mr. Vandivoort does, from Webster amp; Dunne, I said, loud enough for the jury to hear.

Judge Kroungolds eyes slipped toward the jury, then bored down into me. Lower your voice, counsel. Now.

Win some, lose some. Yes, sir.

I would never have expected to see something like this in my courtroom. For Gods sake, youre even wearing a black suit!