“And what is it, exactly?”

“It is a photograph,” he said, and then he pointed his long, bony finger at François. “Of him. What I found clenched in the murder victim’s hand was a photograph of the defendant, François Dubé.”

There were gasps in the courtroom. Dalton had cleverly not mentioned the photograph in her opening and it was a surprise to the jury and some of the spectators, and so there were gasps. And at that very moment, along with the jury, I gasped, too.

But not at the photograph.

And that was not the last of the surprises for me at that trial. Let me tell you, the hits just kept on coming.

54

Mia Dalton stood at the lectern and gave me a sly smile. It wasn’t overt, and because the prosecution always sits closest to the jury box, and because she was turned from the jurors when she gave it, it wasn’t discernible by the twelve and two alternates who really mattered, but there it was, clear as the sun on a clear, sunny day.

Son of a bitch.

“Please state your name for the record,” she said to the witness.

“Geoffrey Sunshine,” said Geoffrey Sunshine, who proceeded to spell his name as if we all were second-graders who needed the help.

“Is that your real name?”

“That’s my business name. My real name is Gerald Sonenshein. But it doesn’t have quite the same sparkle.”

Little Jerry Sonenshein, being called as a prosecution witness. This was bad, very, very bad. I had of course objected. “He is nowhere on the prosecution’s witness list,” I had loudly proclaimed, with a tone of righteous indignation. But when Dalton pointed out that Sonenshein was on my witness list, along with a few dozen other names put on there just to confuse the apparently unconfused Dalton, the judge simply shook his head and denied my objection. For some reason Dalton thought Sonenshein was a witness who could help her case, which was problematic for me, since I had thought this witness was the very heart of my defense.

One of us was wrong.

“And your job, Mr. Sonenshein?” said Mia Dalton.

“I own a supper club,” he said. “Marrakech. It’s pretty well known in the city.”

“Did Leesa Dubé ever go to your restaurant?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Before her marriage, I’m talking about now. She was a regular. The downstairs is the restaurant proper. Upstairs we have a club. She wasn’t much of an eater, but she was upstairs at the club all the time before she married him.” He pointed at François. “She would go there with her friend, Velma Wykowski.”

“And how do you know she was a customer?”

“Hey, two girls that pretty and that easy who hang out at your club, you get to know them fairly well.”

And then, in response to Dalton’s careful and measured questions, little Jerry Sonenshein detailed the exploits of the famous Wykowski sisters. It was everything he had told us in that first meeting in the smoking room at his upstairs club. I would have objected, would have stood up and pounded the table and raised every ground I could have manufactured to keep it out, and my objections would have been upheld, too, except it was the very testimony I had intended to elicit when I called him to the stand. So I looked at François, who seemed strangely worried, and at Beth, who shrugged with puzzlement, and let it go on, and so it did. The whole before-marriage scene, the famous Wykowski sisters, the coming of François into their lives.

“And you were aware, Mr. Sonenshein, when Leesa Dubé married the defendant.”

“Of course.”

“Did she ever come to your club after the marriage?”

“Once or twice with François.”

“Ever alone or with friends?”

“No.”

“Were you aware when they were separated?”

“François had his own restaurant then. In this business we all gossip about one another, so yes, I heard.”

“Did Leesa ever come into your club after the separation?”

“No.”

Like a slap.

“Never met any man at your club after the separation?”

“Not that I ever knew of, no.”

Like a crisp slap about my head.

“Did you ever tell anyone any different?”

“Yes. I told-”

“Objection,” I said, none too calmly.

“Grounds, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

Because he’s lying, Judge. Because he’s crapping in my hat out of high-school spite. Because Dalton is playing dirty. Because the whole thing is pissing me off. Because I feel like I’ve been slapped. This is what I wanted to say, but a trial is run on the rules of evidence, and none of those extraordinarily valid reasons fit within the rules. So instead I sort of croaked out some boilerplate nonsense about relevance and hearsay and such.

“Your Honor,” said Dalton, with the calm of a woman who had figured this all out the night before, as opposed to yours truly, who was winging it badly, “Mr. Carl, in his opening, introduced the possibility of Leesa’s having met another man. Mr. Carl claimed that this man is the true murderer, and he has continued implying such in his examinations. We are entitled, in our case in chief, to refute the proposition that Mrs. Dubé was ever involved with another man during her separation. Mr. Sonenshein is testifying that Leesa Dubé didn’t meet any such man at his club, the place where she had gallivanted as a single woman and where she had met the defendant. Mr. Sonenshein made a statement inconsistent to his current testimony. In the interest of full disclosure, and so that the jury won’t think we are hiding something, we are allowed, by the rules of evidence, to let him testify about that prior inconsistent statement.”

“I think she is allowed that, Mr. Carl. Objection overruled.”

“But, Judge,” I stammered.

“Overruled.

“Exception.”

“Noted. Now sit down, Mr. Carl, so Ms. Dalton can finish this.”

I sat. Dalton slipped me that sly smile once more, and then she continued.

“Did you ever tell anyone, Mr. Sonenshein,” said Dalton, “that Leesa Dubé actually did meet a man at your club after her separation, some violent motorcycle rider named Clem?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Whom did you tell?”

“Mr. Carl and Ms. Derringer over at the defense table.”

“And was what you told them the truth?”

“No. It was a lie.”

“There is no Clem?”

“No.”

“He’s completely make-believe?”

“Like Mickey Mouse, without the ears.”

“Why would you do that? Why would you lie to Mr. Carl and Ms. Derringer?”

“Other than for the fun of it?” said Sonenshein. “I did it as a favor for a friend of Leesa’s.”

“What friend?”

“Velma. That Velma Wykowski I mentioned before, who is married and now called Velma Takahashi.”

“She asked you to lie.”

“Yes.”

“And so you did.”

“Right.”

“But you’re not lying now.”

“Now I’m under oath.”

“One more thing, Mr. Sonenshein,” said Dalton. “You are currently under criminal investigation by our office, is that right?”

“So I’ve been told.”

“For fraud and embezzlement and tax evasion, all involving your restaurant, is that right?”

“I’m not admitting to anything, but that’s what I’ve been told.”

“And the purchase of certain illegal narcotics.”

“So you guys say.”

“And you volunteered this information why?”

“I hope it helps resolve my situation.”

“Any promises from our office?”

“None, even though I tried to get them. But I’m a hopeful guy, and so I’m hoping.”

“Hoping what, Mr. Sonenshein?”

“That the truth will keep me free.”

“No further questions,” said Dalton. “I pass the witness.”

She passed the witness, sort of like a soldier passing a live grenade. Hold this a minute, will you, pal? François looked sick at the end of the table. Beth was furious. I leaned over and asked her what she thought.

“He’s lying,” she said. “He’s full of crap and he’s lying. Lying through his teeth.”