The Ghost and the Dead Deb

book—”

“Cover to cover,” Fiona said with the Cheshire cat grin of a motivated attorney.

“Great idea, Pen,” said Brainert. “Fiona, no doubt, will be dogged. However, I must correct you before the jury.”

“Correct me?” I asked. “For what?”

“Evoking the name Charles Manson, as you did when you mentioned Los Angeles prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi, can be construed as prejudicial.”

For a moment I thought perhaps I’d made a mistake in my choice of judge.

Nah, doll, said Jack in my head. He’s as pompous an ass as most judges I’ve dealt with. Maybe the attitude comes with the robes.

“Brainert’s not wearing any robes,” I silently noted.

Judge Parker cleared his throat. “Since we have a prosecutor, we need a defense attorney as well,” he declared. “Someone who can press Johnny’s case, and stand up to the prosecution.”

Not even her husband could stand up to Fiona Finch. But one of our number did go toe-to-toe with her on a regular basis. Brainert sent his glance across the room. “Someone like . . .” His gaze stopped on Seymour.

“Why me?” whined Seymour.

“Brainert ignored the plea and pounded on the podium with his hand. “Order! Order!” he cried. “Consider yourself appointed, Tarnish. Now take you seat next to the defendant and we’ll get this procedure underway.”

“Goodness,” said Sadie. “Brainert is certainly taking his judge role seriously.”

As Seymour unfolded his new chair, I took a seat among the jurists. Though I still had doubts about how the rest of the evening would go, I felt a little better now that Jack was looking on over my shoulder—or wherever the heck he was looking on from. Suddenly, I was shaken from my thoughts by Brainert pounding on the podium with a hammer he’d dug out of the desk in the storage room.

“This court is now in session,” he cried. “Judge J. Brainert Parker—that’s me—presiding.”

CHAPTER 18

And the Verdict Is . . .

No, Charlotte, I’m the jury now, and the judge, and I have a promise to keep. Beautiful as you are, as much as I almost loved you, I sentence you to death.

—Detective Mike Hammer in I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane, 1947

“THE NIGHT BEFORE Angel Stark was found dead, you approached her right after the hit-and-run incident. Describe what happened in your own words . . .”

Fiona Finch paced back and forth in front of the accused. Clearly, she’d missed her calling as a hard-line prosecutor.

Seated in a metal chair on the right side of the podium, Johnny Napoli squirmed under the scorching gaze of the assembly. His haunted eyes shot a look at Seymour, who nodded silently, signaling that Johnny should answer the question.

“Well, I was standing in this store, near the front door, when I heard Angel scream,” Johnny began in a halting voice. “I ran outside. Then I saw the car—a black Jag—practically drag her down the street. Angel hit the pavement and I rushed over to see if she was all right.”

“You called her Angel just now. How well did you two know one another prior to that evening?”

Waiting for an answer, Fiona paced back and forth in front of Johnny, who followed her with nervous eyes.

“I knew Angel. From that time I worked for a catering company in Newport.”

“The same time that Bethany Banks was murdered?”

Johnny nodded.

“So at your reunion the other night, what did you talk about?”

“Well, at first Angel was pretty rattled about the accident and all. She kept cursing, calling the driver a bitch and stuff—”

“Not son of a bitch?” Seymour asked.

“I object,” Fiona cried. “We’re pursuing my line of questioning. Mr. Tarnish will have an opportunity to cross-examine.”

“The defendant may answer the question. It may be pertinent to the case,” Judge J. Brainert Parker declared.

Johnny shrugged. “She could have said son of a bitch, I guess. But I thought it was just bitch . . . but guys are called bitches just as much as girls, it doesn’t matter . . .”

“That’s right,” eighteen-year-old Joyce Koh blurted out. “It’s like calling a guy a girlie-man.”

Mr. Koh shifted in his seat, glanced uncomfortably at his daughter. Joyce hardly noticed. The teenager’s full attention was on the drama unfolding on the podium—and on Johnny. Because of the summer heat, the strapping youth had left his denim workshirt in my office. His black T-shirt outlined a muscular chest and bulging biceps. A barb-wire tattoo circled one of his sculpted arms.

“Let’s move past the profanity. Get back to Fiona’s subject,” I suggested.

“Prosecution, please continue with your original line of questioning.”

“After Angel Stark settled down, when you and she were finally alone, what did you discuss?”

“Well, she thanked me for coming to her aid, retrieving her shoe, which she’d lost in the scuffle. Then Angel told me she didn’t know I was out of jail or she would have looked me up. I thanked her for saying the things she said in the reading, about me being innocent of Bethany’s murder and all . . .”

Fiona swooped in on Johnny’s admission like the bird of prey on her lapel. “If you were an innocent victim as you claim, why did you serve time in prison, Mr. Napoli?”

“I don’t like her tone,” huffed Bud.

I leaned toward Bud. “It’s not personal,” I reminded him softly. “Fiona’s just trying to get to the truth.”

Johnny shifted nervously on the folding chair, trying to find the words. “I . . . I went to jail for possession of drugs. Possession. But . . .” His voice faded.

“But, Mr. Napoli?”

“But I was selling them, too. To that rich crowd in Newport. I was catering this party, one of my first ones, and I’d taken a break out back to smoke a joint. One of the rich kids came out to smoke a cigarette and he bought one of my joints off me for ten times what I’d paid. He said I could make a mint supplying his friends.”

“So you started selling drugs for profit?”

“I really needed the money to go to culinary school. And I knew the streets, so I could buy the stuff cheap in Providence or Massachusetts, then turn it around at these parties for ten times what I paid because these kids had tons of cash and really didn’t care how much it cost.”

Johnny hung his head. “I’m not proud of it, but yeah. It wasn’t just the money, though. Having drugs on hand . . . it made me popular with that crowd . . . important, you know? They liked having me around. Pretty soon, after the formal party I catered ended, the real partying began, and I was partying just as hard as they were. In the end I used all the cash I made selling to take care of my own habit.”

I watched Bud’s face completely fall. I knew he believed his nephew had been railroaded from the start, that the drug conviction was just part of an elaborate frame-up. But it was obviously hard for him to hear the truth, right out of Johnny’s own mouth.

“Listen, Bud,” I whispered, leaning close once more. “You said yourself that Johnny got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Being around money can lead you to rationalize all sorts of behavior—believe me, I know. But at least he’s telling the truth now. And it can’t be easy to do that, so hang in there.”

Bud nodded, but he still looked stricken. Then my aunt put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “I’m here for you, Bud.” He patted it gently and looked at her with something like gratefulness.