“Over there,” she said, pointing to a dark and isolated corner. “Meet you there.”
He nodded in agreement, then headed for the corner. Rebecca stepped up to the bar. “The crazy-man’s usual,” she told the bartender. “Margarita, just salt.” The bartender smirked and handed her a glass filled only with margarita salt, moistened with a squirt of lemon juice. “Thanks,” she said, then strutted toward the darkest corner of the bar.
“I missed you,” he said when she returned.
Rebecca put the glass on the table, threw her shoulders back, and placed her hands on her hips. “Don’t talk shit,” she barked like a drill sergeant.
“You’re right,” he said in a husky whisper. “I’ve been bad.”
“Just as I thought,” she spat, her voice growing menacing. “You know what happens when you’re bad.”
He nodded hungrily.
She raised her index finger, stuck it in her mouth, and sucked it sensually, from base to tip. She immersed it in the glass of lemony margarita salt and stirred, then removed it and held it before his eyes. The crystals stuck to her moistened finger. “How bad were you?” she demanded.
He got down on his knees and looked up sheepishly. “Very bad,” he assured her.
Slowly, she lowered her coated finger and rubbed the salt deep into his eye. He cringed and moaned, his head rolling back with perverse pleasure. His intermittent cries of pain were drowned out by the loud music. She knew he liked her to remain tough, but she had to fight to keep a look of fear from crossing her face. She’d seen men approach ecstasy in the bar before, usually the creeps who got tossed out for masturbating. But he was beyond ecstasy. This was utter rapture.
He regained his composure, still on his knees. He looked up at her through his one good eye. The other was puffy and closed. Lemon and salty tears streamed down his cheek. For a hundred sixty bucks, he knew he’d have her for at least another song. “Put the salt away,” he said. “I’ve been very, very bad.”
Rebecca sighed; she knew what that meant. She lit up another cigarette. “What did you do?”
He took a deep breath, then with his left hand he reached deep inside his pocket and discreetly squeezed a handkerchief that contained two bloody nipples. “Nothing I haven’t done before,” he whispered, a thin smile coming to his face. Then his body jerked and his head rolled back in another fit of ecstasy, as Rebecca crushed out the glowing end of her cigarette in the burn-scarred palm of his right hand.
Chapter 41
Jack and Manny arrived in the crowded courtroom just before nine that morning. Jack was a bit worried that he hadn’t been able to spot Gina in the court-house lobby earlier, but he told himself that she must have been delayed. She’d show up, he was sure. Something in her eyes the night before convinced him that she determined to set the record straight.
Quite quickly though he sensed something was wrong. McCue, who normally arrived early, was conspicuously absent from the courtroom, and the bailiff seemed to have disappeared as well.
Ten minutes passed. The murmur of the spectators built as there was still no sign of the prosecutor. Finally the bailiff appeared, showing no expression as he stepped up to the defense table. “Mr. Cardenal,” he said politely, “Judge Tate would like to see you and Mr. Swyteck in her chambers.”
Jack’s heart sank as he and Manny exchanged glances. This was not standard procedure. Something had to be wrong. “All right,” said Manny, and they followed the bailiff to a side exit.
The judge’s chambers had the air of a funeral parlor. Judge Tate sat in the leather chair behind her imposing desk, framed by the state and American flags. Wilson McCue sat in an armchair to her left, before a wall of law books. Their expressions were somber.
“Good morning,” said Manny as he entered the room.
“Please sit down,” the judge said formally, her tone suggesting that this was
Jack and Manny sat in the Naugahyde chairs facing McCue. Jack swallowed hard, fearing the worst-perhaps some wild accusation that he had threatened Gina. The judge folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward to speak.
“Mr. McCue has just informed me that Gina Terisi is dead,” she said.
“What?” Manny uttered with disbelief.
“She was murdered,” said the prosecutor.
“That can’t be,” Jack said, stunned.
“Mr. Swyteck,” said the judge, “you would be advised to remain silent.”
He sat back in his chair. The judge was right.
Judge Tate glanced at Manny, then at McCue. “I am not trying to be cold or unsympathetic, gentlemen, but I didn’t assemble this group to discuss the how and why of Ms. Terisi’s murder. The purpose of this meeting is to decide what impact the murder will have on Mr. Swyteck’s trial. Fortunately, we have a sequestered jury, so they won’t hear anything about it.”
“But, Your Honor,” said Manny, “the jury has already heard the witness’s testimony, and now I won’t have an opportunity to cross-examine her. My client can’t get a fair trial under these circumstances. The court has no choice but to declare a mistrial. We have to start all over again-without Gina Terisi.”
McCue slid to the edge of his chair, unable to contain himself. “Judge,” he implored. “I knew They’d try to pull this. You
“That’s an outrageous suggestion!” said Manny.
“The hell it is!” McCue fired back. “Swyteck’s car was spotted at Gina Terisi’s last night.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Now wait just a minute-”
“Gentlemen!” the judge barked. “That’s enough.”
There was silence. The prosecution and defense exchanged glares. Jack glanced at the judge, then looked away. Judge Tate was no easy read, but her suspicious eyes had revealed a glimpse of her feelings. And Jack didn’t like what he saw.
“I will not declare a mistrial,” she announced, shaking her head. “Mr. Swtyeck’s trial will proceed. However, Miss Terisi’s testimony will be stricken. I will instruct the jury that it must disregard her testimony, and I will further instruct them that they are to draw no inferences whatever from the fact that she has not returned to the courtroom.”
“Judge,” Manny argued, “a curative instruction isn’t going to help anything. The jury has already heard her testimony. You can’t tell them to ignore it. That’s like telling a shark to ignore the blood.”
“Mr. Cardenal,” she said sternly, “I’ve made my decision.”
McCue’s face was aglow. “It may go without saying, Judge,” he said in his folksy manner, “but I presume that Ms. Terisi’s disappearance would be fair game on cross-examination, assumin’ Mr. Swyteck were to take the witness stand in his own defense. The court’s instruction will not curtail my ability to question him about that, will it?”
The judge leaned back in her chair, thinking. “I hadn’t thought about that. But I would have to agree with you, Mr. McCue. If Mr. Swyteck takes the witness stand, the door is open. You’re free to question him.”
Manny shook his head incredulously. Even the judge, it seemed, had concluded that Jack was guilty. “Your Honor, you have just made it impossible for Mr. Swyteck to testify on his own behalf. I can’t put him on the stand if you’re going to allow the prosecutor to suggest that my client murdered the government’s star witness. Your ruling is a death sentence. I strenuously object and urge you to reconsider-”
“That’s all,” said the judge, heading off any further argument. “You understand my position. Now, I’m giving both the prosecution and defense twenty-four hours to regroup. We shall reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Mr. McCue, be prepared to call your next witness. Thank you, gentlemen,” she said with finality.
“Thank
