“And …?”
He sighed. “Gonna say I couldn’t see who fired the shot.”
Worry clouded her face. “Are you going to tell Castiel you’re changing your testimony?”
“The opposite. I’ll tell him I’m on board.”
“Are you sure that’s the way to do it?”
Her concern had dug little creases in her forehead. Ziegler loved that look, a mixture of vulnerability and caring.
“I’ll let Castiel tell the jury I’m his star witness, then sandbag the fucker.”
“How do you think he’ll react?”
“Shit his pants in the courtroom, I’m hoping.”
“Just be careful, Charlie.”
“No worries, Mel.”
Ziegler lifted the sheet and buried his head between her breasts. He didn’t want to talk about Castiel. Even years ago, when the prick came around sniffing after pussy, he always acted superior, like he was slumming. Ziegler blamed Perlow for spoiling Castiel when he was a kid, telling him he was so damn special. What a crock.
“What are you thinking about, Charlie?”
“It’s winter in Rio, hon,” Ziegler whispered. “Buenos Aries, too. I love winter.”
Nestor Tejada, bodyguard of the late Max Perlow, took the Copans Road exit and headed east toward the town of Lighthouse Point. Nearing the harbor, he parked in the scant shade of a stubby palm tree, got out of the car, and walked to the pink condominium building.
Once Tejada had threatened to reveal what he’d seen-Ziegler finishing off poor old Perlow-the weasel had changed his tune. All of a sudden, the reality show idea, “Gangbangers,” was a high-concept, dead-solid hit. Ziegler had agreed to terms. But ever since, he’d been stringing Tejada along. Refusing to put anything in writing, saying that’s how deals were done in television.
Bullshit, Ziegler. You’ve got a pay-or-die deal.
It was time to let Ziegler know that. Saturday morning. A man of habit, Ziegler would be curled up with his honey. Always best to catch a man with his pants down.
Tejada took the elevator to the fourth floor and headed toward the corner apartment. He hadn’t decided whether to ring the bell or kick in the door. When he got to the apartment, the decision was made for him. The door was open. He walked inside. The smell of fresh paint was in the air.
No furniture.
No nobody.
“You’re so tense, baby,” Melody said.
His back oiled, Ziegler was facedown on the bed, Melody straddling him. She dug her thumbs into the muscles along the shoulder blades.
“Relax, baby,” she said. “Let the tension drain out.”
“Give me five minutes, I got something that’ll shoot out.”
He could see the bay through the floor-to-ceiling glass. He’d bought the apartment for Melody after realizing Tejada had followed him to the Lighthouse Point condo. So here they were on the seventeenth floor of a Brickell Key high-rise just south of the Miami Avenue bridge. This part of his life had to be kept away from Tejada and Castiel and anyone else who could do them harm.
Her hands felt warm, and his eyes fluttered shut. As he drifted off, he thought again of Rio, and the “The Girl from Ipanema” floated through his dreams.
54 An Army of Assassins
“Oye, oye, oye. The 11th Judicial Circuit is now in session. Judge Melvia Duckworth presiding.”
Everyone scrambled up, and Her Honor breezed through a back door, robes flying like an untrimmed sail. Judge Melvia Duckworth was an African-American woman in her fifties who had been an army captain, handling court-martials as a JAG lawyer. I liked her, mainly because she let lawyers try their cases without too much interference, and she hadn’t yet said the magic words: “Mr. Lassiter, you are hereby held in contempt.…”
The judge wore a white, filagreed rabat at her neck, giving her the appearance of a member of the clergy. She wished everyone good morning and instructed the bailiff to bring in the jurors.
Next to me, Amy had the pallor common to inmates and barflies but did not seem nervous or agitated. Going on trial for murder apparently agreed with her. She wore a prim little business suit. Charcoal gray. White blouse with a little bow. The outfit shouted “innocent.” I always want my clients well dressed and well groomed. I could have walked Charles Manson if he’d had a haircut and a Band-Aid covering the swastika on his forehead.
Sometimes I use props. Bibles and rosary beads are my old reliables. I’ll put a wedding band on a male client to create the impression that
It was time for opening statements. The lawyers’ first speech is a window into the way two officers of the court can take the same facts and draw opposite conclusions. If Castiel were trying Goldilocks for burglary, he might tell the jury: “The defendant, with callous disregard for the property rights of others, sneaked into a private home, and, like the gluttonous hooligan she is, ate all the porridge, leaving the rightful owners to go hungry.”
Whereas I might say: “A desperate and hungry little girl, intending no harm, sought refuge and sustenance in an open and inviting house.”
It had taken four days to pick a jury, a dozen citizens, good and true. Castiel gave them his trial smile and intoned, “First, I want to thank all of you for coming down here and devoting your time and effort to your community.”
He spent three or four precious minutes waving the flag and telling the jurors how wonderful they were. True blue Americans and all of that.
“What I’m about to say to you is not evidence,” Castiel continued.
A lot of lawyers start that way. I don’t know why. It’s like telling the jurors they don’t have to listen. I wondered if Castiel might be a little rusty. These days, he only prosecuted a couple cases a year, attaching himself to high-publicity trials like a lamprey to a shark.
“The evidence that you will consider,” Castiel was saying, “will come to you from the witness stand and in demonstrative exhibits from the crime scene. What I’m doing now, and what Mr. Lassiter will do when I sit down, is give you a preview of each of our cases.”
What’s a theme? Lawyers used to say it’s a telegram, the short, punchy summary of your case. No one uses telegrams anymore, so I suppose it’s a twitter, or a tweet, or whatever you call it. To construct your theme, you deconstruct your case. Pull it apart brick by brick until you’re left with the barest structure. The marketing whizzes who write movie taglines know how to do this.
Or …
Castiel stood three feet in front of the jury box. Close enough to demand their attention without spraying the front row with spittle. “This case involves an obsessed woman who stalked a man she wrongly believed had harmed her sister, then in an attempt to kill him, shot and murdered another man.”
“Obsessed.” “Stalked.” “Shot.” The thematic words Castiel would hammer throughout the trial.
I patted Amy on the arm just to let her know nothing Castiel said concerned me. To let the jury know, too. In
