Lassiter

“Mr. Ziegler?” I prompted. “Did you ever tell Mr. Castiel that Krista was alive?”

“No. I told him the opposite.”

“That Krista was dead?”

Ziegler hesitated. Once he started down that road, there was no turning back.

“Mr. Ziegler,” the judge said. “Do you understand the question?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked at Castiel head-on, and suddenly, I knew he could do it. “I told Mr. Castiel that I’d buried Krista in the ’Glades.”

I shot a look toward the jury box. No one was sleeping. Number three, the colon hydrotherapist, had one hand fluttering over her heart.

“Did you tell anyone else?”

“Max Perlow. Told them both that I’d finished off Krista by suffocating her, then burying her out by Shark Valley.”

This time the murmurs in the gallery became a drone, and the judge banged her gavel. At the defense table, Amy sat paralyzed, tears tracking down her cheeks.

“That sounds like the tail end of a story,” I said. “Please tell the jury what happened that night that would cause you to concoct such a terrible lie.”

Ziegler’s face seemed to draw itself tight. He looked old and tired and beaten. I tried another way to get it out of him.

“Mr. Ziegler, have you achieved redemption?”

“What?”

“That’s what you talked about when I came over to your house one rainy night. But you can’t buy redemption. You have to earn it. Mr. Ziegler, why not begin by telling your part in all of this?”

He looked toward Krista, whose eyes were wet. She nodded at him, and he began to speak. “There was a party a long time ago to celebrate a win in court. I’d been charged with obscenity up in the sticks. Suwannee County. We’d shipped maybe half a dozen videos into the county and some ambitious D.A. up there indicted me. I asked Alex Castiel for a favor and he helped me get the case dismissed.”

“How’d he do that? Wasn’t Mr. Castiel a prosecutor in Miami at the time?”

“Alex drove up to East Jesus and talked to the D.A.”

“Talked to him?”

“And left him a briefcase with fifty thousand dollars of my money.”

“Objection!” Castiel bounded out of his chair and took a step in front of me, as if blocking me out for a rebound. “Move to strike. This is a blatant attempt to smear my reputation and has nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of the defendant.”

I leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Relax, Alex. I haven’t even begun to smear your reputation.”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard the witness’ last statement. Mr. Lassiter, I’m allowing you leeway to inquire into events concerning the party, but if you stray afield again, I’m cutting you short.”

“I understand, Your Honor. Now, Mr. Ziegler, please tell the jury what happened at your victory party.”

“It was Max Perlow’s idea. He said we had to do something for Alex, and that’s how the whole godforsaken thing started.”

“Alex has a hard-on for your new girl,” Perlow said.

“Fuck him.” Ziegler saw where this was going and wanted no part of it.

They were standing on the pool deck. Porn videos were being projected on a screen anchored to a pair of royal palms in the yard. On the speakers, Color Me Badd was singing “I Wanna Sex You Up.”

“C’mon, Charlie,” Perlow said. “One night. Let him get it out of his system.”

“He plays too rough.”

“Alex promises he’ll behave.”

“I gave him that girl from Alabama. She couldn’t work for a week. Kid’s a freak, Max.”

“He comes from good stock. Your little girl will be fine.”

Ziegler knew it was more than a request. You didn’t say no to Max Perlow. Krista had shown up early in a silver mini and high-heeled sandals with straps that tied at mid-calf. Sunburned and mellowed from smoking weed at the beach. Ziegler told her what she had to do, and she got all pouty and whiny. She’d heard stories about Castiel from the other girls. He liked pain. Inflicting it, not suffering it.

“Why you doing this to me? He’s a sick fuck, Charlie.”

“One little favor. I’ll make it up to you.”

“How?”

“Paradise Island. We’ll laze around the Ocean Club, eat stone crabs and drink pina coladas all weekend. Whadaya say?”

She smiled, pecked him on the cheek, and pranced away on long colts’ legs.

An hour later, the place was mobbed. The usual night crawlers, SoBe scuzzballs, club-hoppers, and wannabe players. He’d caught sight of Castiel, scoring some ludes from Rodney Gifford on the pool deck. Then Castiel took Krista to the cabana, the Fuck Palace. Ziegler had a momentary thought of intercepting them, stopping the whole thing. But he didn’t do it.

It would be nearly dawn when he next saw Krista. Naked, legs splayed across the bed at an unnatural angle. Unconscious. Face caved in. Blood leaking from an eye. A gym bag of toys spilled across the floor. Handcuffs and whips and dildos. Castiel sat on his haunches in a corner of the cabana, a sheet wrapped around him, muttering gibberish, sucking on his swollen knuckles.

Ziegler dropped to his knees and vomited. He shouted for help.

Perlow hurried in and began barking instructions. He would clean up Castiel and drive him home. One of Perlow’s men would get rid of Krista’s car.

“She was never here tonight, Charlie. You got that?”

“Jesus, Max. You can’t sweep this under the rug.”

“Shut up, you pussy! Bury her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Bury her, now!”

“She’s still breathing, for Christ’s sake.”

“Alex is important to us,” Perlow said.

“Not to me, he isn’t. Jesus, Max, look what he’s done.”

“She’s nobody. Who’ll even miss her?”

Ziegler was frozen in place, paralyzed.

“It’s not just his cock on the chopping block, Charlie. You been fucking an underage girl, using her in porn, giving her drugs, pimping her to your friends. Maybe you and Alex can get adjoining cells.”

Ziegler didn’t move, didn’t speak. Perlow slapped him across the face. “Goddammit, Charlie! Finish her off. Bury her in the ’Glades. And let’s get on with our lives.”

Perlow helped Castiel out of the cabana, and Ziegler sat there for several minutes looking at the girl, listening to her moan. Then he took a washcloth and tried to clean her face.

Ziegler told the story softly and sadly, stopping twice to dab at his eyes and once to blow his nose. Not a person in the courtroom thought he was lying.

As he spoke, something was happening I’d never seen before. No one was watching the person asking the questions, me. Or the person answering, Ziegler. Everyone-judge, jurors, clerks, bailiff, defendant, every spectator and journalist-was watching Castiel. Looks of shock, horror, and disgust.

Castiel sat stiffly at the prosecution table, hands clenched in front of him. His face frozen. Maybe he’d found the time machine that would let him hang out with Meyer Lansky in Havana.

I turned toward the gallery and discovered I had been wrong. Not everyone was staring at Castiel. In the front row of the gallery, Krista Larkin kept her eyes on Charlie Ziegler, tears streaming