Blind Justice by William Bernhardt Page A

visitors?”
    “Recognized all of them.”
    “Who were they?”
    “Well,” Spud said, a bit awkwardly, “first of all, there was that cute redhead you’re representin’.”
    Right. Wouldn’t want to leave her out. “You saw Christina McCall come in?”
    “Oh, yeah,” Spud answered. “Couldn’t have missed her. She seemed kinda angry.” He leaned closer to Ben and whispered. “I think she was mad at Mr. Lombardi about something.”
    That’s wonderful. Just feed them a motive, why don’t you? “Who else?”
    “There was Mr. Lombardi’s lawyer, Quinn Reynolds.”
    Ben’s eyebrows rose. “Is that a fact? Any idea why he was here?”
    “Sorry. Can’t help you there. T’wern’t unusual, though. He came to see Mr. Lombardi all the time.”
    “Who else was here last night?”
    “That animal nut, Clayton Langdell.”
    The name was familiar. “Doesn’t he run some kind of society for animals?”
    “That’s the guy.”
    “What would he be doing with Lombardi?”
    “He came callin’ from time to time. Don’t know what about. Don’t think they were particularly friendly.”
    Ben made a notation on his legal pad. “And the other visitor to see Lombardi?”
    Spud seemed to be prolonging the moment. Must be something good coming, Ben realized.
    “Albert DeCarlo.”
    If Spud was waiting for a reaction (and he was), he must have been disappointed. Mike had already prepared Ben for this revelation. “How did you know it was DeCarlo?”
    “Seen him here before. Seen him several times. Always the same. Dark sunglasses. Dark muffler. Big white overcoat. I’d recognize him a mile away.”
    “Any idea what business DeCarlo would have with Lombardi?”
    Spud cleared his throat. “Well,” he said sotto voce , “I wouldn’t want to speculate.…”
    What a perfect security guard. The soul of discretion, even about mob kingpins.
    “Did DeCarlo say anything to you?”
    “Heck, no. I just waved him through. You don’t mess around with someone like Albert DeCarlo.”
    “How much do you know about Lombardi’s…business activities?”
    “Next to nothing. Some kind of import business, so I’ve heard. Every now and then Lennie will say a little something about it.”
    “Lennie?”
    “Lombardi’s assistant. Thin, wiry guy. Does the work Lombardi doesn’t—excuse me —didn’t want to do. You know, detail stuff. Making deliveries. Paying the bills. Taking the missus her money.”
    Ben looked up. “The missus ’?”
    “Oh yeah. Lombardi was married. Thin, blonde-haired lady. You didn’t know that?”
    Ben felt his heart sink into the vicinity of his intestinal tract. “No. Did she come here often?”
    “No way. Last time I let her in, Lombardi showed up with some floozy he’d picked up on Eleventh Street. Mrs. Lombardi went nuts. She started screaming and crying, calling names, slapping the woman around, making a major-league scene. She was like a madwoman. Crazy jealous. Ever since then, I’ve had strict instructions from Mr. Lombardi not to admit her under any circumstances.”
    “But they were still married?”
    “Oh, yeah. They’ve been apart for several months now. I don’t think they’re divorced—just separated or something. I’ve heard Lennie gripe about having to take money over to her. I guess she could be pretty unpleasant about it.”
    A wife. Christina had a date with a married man. Ben’s eyes started to glaze over; the hollow feeling inside him increased a thousandfold. Ben expected the prosecution to try to paint Christina as some sort of tramp—the unmarried consort (wink, wink) of the perverted druglord. But this was worse. Now they would be talking (in hushed tones) about… adultery. Now they would take every opportunity to remind the jury she went to that penthouse apartment for a (dramatic pause) liaison with a married man.
    What would the jury think? Ben knew all too well. They would loathe her. Before the government had even finished its opening statement.
    The