Dante's Dilemma Page 12

  “No. If anything, she was downplaying them.”

  “Inconsistencies in her story?”

  “None.”

  “What about her mood?”

  “Somber and serious, but that’s exactly what I would expect given the circumstances.”

  “Any signs of disordered thinking?”

  “No. She seemed well-grounded in reality—if showing all the signs of clinical depression. Honestly, I would never have guessed in a million years she was lying.”

  Sep leaned back in his chair and was quiet for a moment. I visualized his characteristic pose when he was presented with a problem, steepled fingers against pursed lips, eyes fixed absently on some distant object.

  “Well, then,” he said finally, “it sounds to me like you should trust your judgment. Or resign. There’s no shame in backing out. Let someone else take your place.”

  I considered telling him about Jonathan’s implied threat but decided against it. It would only send Sep into a rage, and I couldn’t prove anything—Jonathan had been too careful. “It’s too late for that. And if I don’t speak up for Lazarus, who will? But you see the predicament it puts me in?”

  “Yes, that’s obvious. You’ll have to state your disagreement with Stephens for the record.”

  “And I can’t very well say Brad’s opinion is ‘poppycock,’ to use your phrase. Our entire system rests on the idea that the average man or woman can spot a liar at a glance. That’s the whole reason we have juries, so they can decide—”

  I stopped in midsentence, remembering something Hallie once told me.

  A strategy had just suggested itself.

  The only question was—could I make it work?

  FIFTEEN

  Ten days later, I was seated on one of the scarred benches at Twenty-Sixth and Cal, waiting to be called as a witness in the Lazarus trial.

  When I arrived at the courthouse that morning, the television crews were out in droves, crowding the entrance like an impromptu carnival. Boris dropped me off next to one of the vans idling on the street, and I used the sound of the motor to find my way around the front bumper and to the curb. Even wrapped in my burka-like winter garb, the cane was a dead giveaway, and I hadn’t gotten more than a few yards before I was stampeded by a posse of over-caffeinated journalists. “Doctor, can you tell our viewers anything about your testimony today? Was Lazarus insane when she murdered her husband? Did she fear for her life?” I managed to push all of them off except for a WGN anchorwoman who clung to me all the way up the walk to the door. “Have you been blind your whole life?” she asked just as I was about to escape inside. “Not yet,” I answered, leaving her to figure that one out.

  As Di Marco had predicted, the trial was moving along at a brisk pace. After a mere forty-eight hours, it looked like the proceedings would be over in a week. Most of the first day was taken up with opening arguments, followed by Lazarus’s videotaped confession. Lazarus didn’t dispute that it was freely given, so there was nothing for the defense team to do but sit by in silence while the tape was admitted into evidence and played for the jury. The second day was devoted to the forensic findings, and again saw few objections from the defense. Lazarus’s fingerprints were undeniably present on the poker that killed Westlake, along with the knife used to mutilate his corpse. Though Hallie performed brief cross-examinations of the State’s witnesses, it was clear she had little to work with.

  Di Marco too was maintaining a relatively low profile. He didn’t raise a ruckus when Hallie asked that I be excluded from the proceedings until I took the stand, a purely symbolic gesture since there was no danger my testimony would be unfairly influenced. I’d already listened to the tape of Lazarus’s confession and the blood, fingerprint, and DNA analysis were beyond the scope of my expertise. Barring me from the courtroom served only to reinforce the idea that Hallie and I were on opposite sides of a legal Maginot Line.

  If anything surprised me, it was that Di Marco had spent so little time on my preparation, leaving the lion’s share of the work to Michelle Rogers. She and I had met for several days in a “war room” at the State’s Attorney’s office, a minefield (for me) of computer cables, stacked paper and half-empty coffee cups. With each meeting, Michelle seemed to grow more comfortable around me, my blindness receding into the background like flowery but forgettable wallpaper. Michelle was grass green but eager to improve her skills. Beneath her diffidence and insecurity, I detected a kernel of ambition, and I gave her as much help as I could, showing her how to frame questions to score the most points with the jury and recover from minor stumbles.

  “How did you learn all this?” she’d asked as we were nearing the end of our third day together.

  I thought of Hallie with a pang of longing. “I had a great teacher. And to give credit where credit is due, from your boss.”

  She seemed utterly surprised. “Tony?”

  “Sure. There’s no better training for a witness than being cut to shreds by a master cross-examiner. You can learn a lot just from watching him.”

  “I’m not sure I want to know everything he could teach me.”

  I thought this was an opening I should seize on. “Once before, you mentioned feeling uncomfortable working here. Is there any particular reason?”

  Michelle laughed nervously. “Well, for starters, the glass ceiling in this place is as thick as the ice on Lake Michigan.”

  “Even with someone like O’Malley at the top?”

  “Especially with her there. Oh, I don’t blame her. For a woman to get anywhere in this world, she has to be as ruthless as all the guys. The stories I could tell you. Don’t let all that so-called sympathy for abused women fool you. It was just a campaign slogan, to get herself elected. She’s treated me fairly, but . . .”

  “But?” I prompted.

  Michelle lowered her voice to a near whisper. “You shouldn’t trust her. You shouldn’t trust anyone around here.”

  “Even you?” I joked.

  Michelle gave a hollow laugh. “I don’t matter enough to worry about. I’m just saying be careful.”

  My thoughts immediately flashed on the contradictions in Brad Stephens’s report. What if . . . ?

  “Michelle,” I said in all seriousness, “how much work did you do with Dr. Stephens before he was killed?”

  “A lot. I was his main contact here, helping him get everything he needed and organizing the files for him. He was so nice. Like you, a super person to work with. Why?”

  “Did he ever let on to you how he was leaning—I mean, in his report?”

  “Oh, no. I was completely in the dark—same as everyone else. Dr. Stephens agreed with State’s Attorney O’Malley that secrecy was very important. He was worried about how the publicity would affect the trial.”

  “Because of what he planned on saying about Lazarus?”

  “I don’t know. Just that he wanted to be sure she got a fair shake.”

  “And his report. Do you know how it got from him to State’s Attorney O’Malley?”

  “That I can tell you all about. He called me from his home a few days before his accident to say it was ready and how did we want him to get it to us. We’re not usually supposed to use messengers—no money for it in the state budget—but I asked and was told it was OK this one time. I signed the requisition form, and the report was waiting on my desk when I got back from lunch.”

  “Sealed?”

  “Just as you saw it when Linda gave it to you . . . Oh shit, I’m sorry.”

  I gave her a mildly exasperated look. “I thought we’d gotten past that. But listen to me. This is important. Are you sure the envelope stayed sealed from the time you got it until it was passed on to me?”

  “Absolutely. I put it in the bottom of my desk drawer and locked it.”

  “And no one else knew where to find it?”

  “I didn’t tell anyone where it was, if that’s what you want to know.”

  Just then, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Lind
a O’Malley thumped in, accompanied by Di Marco. They were expected but early.

  “Well, look who have we here, Tony,” O’Malley bellowed. “It’s the good doctor. And looking very well, I might add. Is that the jacket you’ll be wearing to court? I like it. And navy is a good color on you.” She paused to take further stock of my appearance. “The neckwear will have to go, however.”

  I held up the end of my Jerry Garcia “Crossroads” tie. “Why, is it too eye-catching?”

  O’Malley chortled. “Did I say how much I like this guy? Yes, a less blinding color, if you please. And if you can find it in your closet, something that looks like you didn’t pay more than fifty dollars for it. We want you looking fed, but not too well fed—if you see my point.”

  “Is it OK if I continue to part my hair on the left?”

  “As long as it’s combed.”

  O’Malley eased herself with difficulty into the seat across the table from me while Di Marco took the one next to it. “God, this pregnancy is killing me. Be careful what you wish for, I always say. My ankles feel like ripe honeydews. You have kids?”

  “One,” I said.

  “Nice,” O’Malley said like the good politician she was, though it was plain the subject held zero interest for her. “How’s the prep going, Michelle?”

  “He—I mean, Dr. Angelotti—is great,” Michelle gushed. “He could give courses on how to be a witness.”

  Di Marco snickered. “Isn’t that cute. You have a fan club.” He turned his attention to Michelle: “Watch yourself, doll. The dottore doesn’t sign your paychecks.”

  Michelle seemed to wilt under the attack. “I’m just saying he doesn’t need very much direction, is all.”

  “Tony,” O’Malley reprimanded good-naturedly. “Stop being an asshole. Ignore him, Michelle. You’re doing a fine job. And lest Tony needs to be reminded, I’m the one signing the paychecks. You see what I have to put up with?” she said to me. “Running this office is like herding cats.”

  That bit of personnel management out of the way, she turned to the reason they were there. “So, I’m on pins and needles. What have you got for me?”

  “A Band-Aid?” I said.

  “Ha! I guess I had that one coming. But in all seriousness, the time has come for you to cough up your opinion about Lazarus. I’ve held back from asking up until now to allow you as much time as you needed. But I’ll have to have a press release ready well before you climb into the witness stand.”

  “I understand and I’m ready. In fact, Michelle and I were going over my findings just before you walked in.” I winked over at her.

  “Excellent,” O’Malley said. “Tony, listen up good because whatever he says, I expect you to be behind it a hundred percent.”

  “Sure, boss,” Di Marco said, sounding like he was anything but on board with the program. Not for the first time, I wondered how much control O’Malley had over him—paycheck or not.

  I folded my arms and leaned back, in a pose I hoped made me seem both calm and confident. “It’s not complicated. I believe Ms. Lazarus was suffering from a significant psychological disturbance at the time of the offense brought on by the recurrent stress associated with her marriage, as well as a childhood marked by repeated physical and emotional abuse. I could go into more detail, but that’s it in a nutshell.”

  It fell on the room like a boulder dropped into a swimming pool.

  A moment of uneasy silence followed. Di Marco was too good a poker player to react in any way I could tell, though I was sure his face registered frank disgust. And O’Malley? Even now, I can’t say exactly how she felt, only that she seemed untroubled by the news and halfway expecting it.

  O’Malley broke the air by clearing her throat. “And your predecessor, Dr. Stephens. Was that his professional opinion too?”

  Even though I was ready for this, my pulse quickened.

  “No,” I said striving for a neutral tone.

  “What did he think?”

  “Dr. Stephens believed that Lazarus wasn’t . . . telling the truth. That she was fabricating symptoms of PTSD.”

  I waited for O’Malley to seek more detail, but she simply sighed and said, “All right. Not as clear-cut as I would like, but that’s the jury’s job—to decide who’s right. As I said from the start, I intend to let the chips fall where they may. You’ll tell the jurors about the conflict with Dr. Stephens, though? It’s only fair that they hear from both experts the State’s paid for.”

  “I’ll answer whatever questions the court allows,” I said, fingers crossed.

  “Good. Well then, I’ll leave it to the three of you to carry on. I have an appointment with my obstetrician in half an hour. Tony, is there anything you’d like to say while I’m still here?”

  “Can’t think of anything,” Di Marco answered insouciantly. “Except maybe in bocca al lupo?”

  In bocca al lupo. “In the mouth of the wolf.” The traditional Italian phrase for wishing someone good luck. Roughly translated, it expresses the wish that you will safely get through whatever ordeal is ahead of you. The time-honored reply, crepi il lupo!—or “may the wolf drop dead”—fairly described how I was feeling while I waited in the courthouse corridor to be summoned inside. I was sure Di Marco had meant the colloquialism as a warning. Now, during the interminable wait in the corridor outside the Lazarus trial, I couldn’t help wondering who would outfox whom.

  As frequently happened when I was stuck somewhere with nothing to do, I felt my attention wandering. All my old ways of biding idle time—examining my fingernails, counting ceiling tiles, studying unusual faces—were lost to me, and after listening to my inbox a dozen or more times and finding nothing new besides a solicitation for Viagra, I fell to daydreaming. Something about the hallway, perhaps the scent of the cleaning fluid used on the floors, brought back a potent memory of my youth. Before long, I was back in the office of Father Charles, my high-school guidance counselor, where I had been summoned one day in my junior year, ostensibly so I could be chewed out for cutting gym.

  “Sit down, Angelotti,” he said in a not unfriendly way as I entered his office. “And close the door behind you.” New to the school, Father Chuck—as we were encouraged to call him—had a degree in psychology and had been hired precisely to deal with disciplinary problems like me. Now, in addition to whacking us over the head with rulers, our teachers were supposed to try to reach us.

  I did as I was told, glancing around the small room, whose walls were decorated with a felt banner proclaiming “Love Is All We Need” and framed photographs of Father Chuck’s days as a missionary in Africa. Typical of the post–Vatican II generation of priests, Father Chuck eschewed a Roman collar and wore a necklace with a peace symbol over his short-sleeved shirt. His hair was almost as long as mine. He removed a pack of Newports from his breast pocket. “Cigarette?” he asked, shaking one out and offering it to me.

  I assumed this was meant to show what pals we were. Also, that I was in for a heavy lecture. I accepted the smoke, along with the chrome lighter he passed across his desk to me. We lit up and sat quietly for a few moments, puffing and regarding each other like circling hyenas.

  “Great photos,” I said when the silence finally got to me, gesturing toward them with the tip of my cigarette. “Did you meet any lepers while you were over there? It’s supposed to be an act of grace to hang out with them.”

  Father Chuck pretended this was a serious question. “As a matter of fact, I did. It’s a terrible disease, a living hell for those unfortunate enough to be afflicted by it. All of them are pushed out of their communities, left to die without food, clothing, or shelter. Maybe you’ll have an interest in helping folks like them someday.”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. People without noses are a drag.”

  Father Chuck looked at me the way you’d look at a puppy who’s just soiled the carpet. “You’re a disappointment, Angelotti,” he said. “I heard you were funny. What you just said wasn’t funny. It was stupid. And I don�
�t think you’re a stupid young man.”

  I shrugged my shoulders like I didn’t care.

  “Shall we start over?” Father Chuck asked.

  I took the last drag from my cigarette and stubbed it out. “Do I have a choice?”

  “We always have a choice. Right now, yours is talking to me or spending the next hour in detention with Father Ignatius.”

  Father Ignatius was as old as a fossil and had a punitive urge that would have been right at home in the Spanish Inquisition. “I guess I’ll stay where I am, then.”

  “All right. So, why do you think I asked you in here today?”

  “Got me. I’m passing all my subjects.”

  “But only barely. Why is that, do you think?”

  “Maybe I don’t have the aptitude.”

  Father Chuck rolled his eyes.

  I tried a different tack. “I’m sick of school. It’s just a waste of time.”

  “Unless you want to have a real job someday. What are your plans after graduation?”

  “Dunno. Have fun for a change. Can I smoke some more?”

  “Be my guest.” He pushed the ashtray over to me and sat back, studying me with a serious expression. After a while he said, “You think you’re a unique case, but you’re not. I’ve met kids like you before.”

  “Shorter than average?”

  Father Chuck smiled in spite of himself. “No, I meant smart kids who play the clown. The ones with IQs off the charts who get Cs in all their classes. There’s always a reason for it.”

  “Could be because they’re bored.”

  “Could be, but it’s never the whole story. Nine times out of ten, there’s also something happening to them outside of school. Something that’s making them miserable that they’re too proud to tell anyone about. Am I right?”

  I lit one of my own cigarettes and blew a smoke ring in his direction. “You’re the psychologist.”

  “That’s right. I’m also a kind of detective. If I were one of those guys you see on TV—Columbo, for example—I’d say your issue has something to do with that shiner over your eye.”