Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (ebook reader web .txt) 📕

a buzz cut and a black silk shirt decorated with mermaids. Fiore had recognized Harry Bernhardt from the lobby bar of the Delano, where he'd been a regular, and they chatted this last night while Harry drank. Harry had asked him the time twice, even while checking and double-checking his Rolex.

"Did Mr. Bernhardt appear to be waiting for someone?" Socolow asked.

"Objection!" I was on my feet. "Mr. Bernhardt might have been waiting for the eleven o'clock news. He could have been late for an appointment elsewhere. He could have needed to know when to take his heart medicine."

"Mr. Lassiter!" The judge shot me a look that could have left bruises. Chrissy passed me a note saying that her daddy had never taken heart medication, but I knew that. "Please refrain from speaking objections," the judge ordered. " 'Objection, leading' will do nicely. 'Objection, calls for speculation' wouldn't be bad either."

"That's the one," I agreed.

"Granted."

I was pleased with my clever, lawyerly self for planting the notion that old Harry had heart trouble. So pleased that something didn't occur to me until I sank back into my chair. "Your Honor, I withdraw the objection."

"What?"

"Mr. Fiore has worked several years as a bartender. It is within his area of expertise to determine when a patron appears to be waiting for someone."

Socolow looked at me in true amazement. The judge just shook his head. "Mr. Fiore, you may answer the question."

"Yeah, I suppose he did. I mean, he kept asking the time and looking toward the door."

"And did there come a time when someone did appear and approach Mr. Bernhardt?" Socolow asked, without thanking me for my assistance.

"There sure did," Fiore said, looking toward my client.

"And who was that?"

"A tall lady in a black dress. The lady sitting right there." He nodded in Chrissy's direction, and Socolow pointed a bony finger at her. "For the record, the witness has identified the defendant. Now, please describe what happened next."

Fiore took about three minutes to tell his story. He had been clearing empty glasses from the bar and hadn't actually seen the defendant pull a gun, his view being partially blocked by the patrons at the bar. But he had heard the first shot, looked up and saw her pointing the gun at Bernhardt, heard the second shot and the third, and heard the man gasp, then slump against the bar. No, Bernhardt never fell from the barstool. Just leaned back into the bar, sort of pinned there, blood dripping down his guayabera.

There wasn't much to do on cross-examination. Oh, I had done my homework. I had sent Cindy, my multitalented secretary, to South Beach in her tightest T-shirt, the one that reads I'D

LIKE TO FUCK YOUR BRAINS OUT, BUT SOMEBODY BEAT ME TO IT. Cindy learned that Fiore had been fired from the Delano for drinking on the job. I could have asked whether he'd been sipping the Scotch that night. I could have asked how many women in black dresses had been at Paranoia that night. I could have asked if he'd seen a muzzle flash, and if not, I could have implied that someone else had shot Bernhardt. The problem, of course, was that Chrissy had shot him, and a hundred witnesses, both eyeball and forensic, could say so.

"No questions," I said pleasantly, as if nothing could dent my confidence.

The witnesses strolled up, told their stories, and left quietly. Jacques Briere had been sitting at a table twenty feet from the bar. He was a free-lance talent scout playing host to a dozen models, photographers, hangers-on, and wannabees. He heard the first shot and turned around in time to see Chrissy squeeze off two more. One of his guests, the famous Italian photographer Anastasio, had watched Chrissy walk in from the front door and head for the bar. Socolow used Anastasio to demonstrate, at least implicitly, that Chrissy knew what she was doing, had planned it, and had walked a straight line, literally, to get the job done.

Anastasio hadn't actually seen Chrissy pull the gun. He was admiring her Charles Jourdan shoes and didn't notice anything amiss until after he heard the second shot, having mistaken the first for a champagne cork.

Several others testified, a blur of South Beach's party crowd. At night, in their club duds, they're a flashy group. Today, under the fluorescent lights, they looked pale and out of place. If they'd taken blood tests the night of the shooting, I'd bet none of them could have operated heavy machinery. Abe had discarded the worst of the Ecstasy-popping, cocaine-sniffing, heroin-smoking folks who thought they'd seen a chorus line of dancing hippos. He barely managed to haul in half a dozen citizens who could simultaneously put one hand on the Bible, another in the air, and say, "I do."

My old antagonist was piling it on thick, and I objected once on the grounds of cumulative testimony, but Judge Stanger overruled me. Abe was clever enough to draw one new fact from each witness. No, the woman didn't seem hysterical. Calm. Just shot the man, pop-pop-pop.

I kept my cross-examinations brief. Michelle Schiff, a makeup artist, had commented on Chrissy's placid demeanor as well as her tasteful use of eyeliner.

"On direct examination, you testified that Christina Bernhardt had no expression on her face when she apparently shot Mr. Bernhardt?" I said.

"That's right."

"I wonder if you could be more precise."

"I don't understand."

"Well, we always have some expression on our face, don't we?"

Socolow bounded out of his chair. "Objection, argumentative." It was a silly objection to a silly question, and I figured Abe just wanted to stretch his legs.

"Overruled," Judge Stanger said. "You may answer the question, if you can."

"I don't think I understand."

"Let's try it this way," I said. "Ms. Bernhardt didn't look excited, did she?"

"No."

"And she didn't look agitated?

"No."

"Or angry?"

"No."

"Happy?"

"No."

One of the trial lawyer's tricks is to eliminate every snippet of evidence that could be harmful, in order to leave the impression that what is left is favorable. Sometimes it is a