Private Vegas (23 page)

“I’ll withdraw my question, Your Honor. My apologies. Mr. Del Rio, what did you and Ms. Carmody fight about?”

“Huh?”

“You said that you and Vicky fought. What were your fights about?”

“Nothing. Like most people. We both forgot about the fight the next day.”

“You see, Mr. Del Rio, I’m asking because Ms. Carmody told Sergeant Degano in the ambulance that she had been in a fight. Now, I’d say that a fight between you and Ms. Carmody would be something like an eighteen-wheeler rolling over a Mini Cooper—”

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Lewis is badgering the defendant, smearing him with innuendo in a transparent attempt to bias the jury against him.”

Judge Johnson admonished Lewis, said, “You surprise me, Mr. Lewis. There are remedies available to me if you continue in this vein.”

Lewis dipped his head, appeared somewhat remorseful, then asked, “Mr. Del Rio, could you give us an example of a fight you had with Ms. Carmody?”

“Fights come in all sizes,” Del Rio said. “For instance, there are arguments like what we’re having, because I don’t agree with your questions. And I don’t like your tone of voice.”

Lewis mimicked Del Rio: “I don’t like your tone of voice.”

Del Rio was on his feet. His blood was up, and his hands were clenched into fists. “You want to fight with
me
, Lewis? Is that what you want?”

Bingo. That was
exactly
what Lewis wanted, but Del Rio didn’t get a chance to lift a hand. The bailiff saw a brawl in the making, barreled into Del Rio, and forced him down into his seat in the witness box.

Caine hollered for a mistrial and the judge hollered back, “Not on your life, Mr. Caine. The defendant wanted to testify. And now he’s done it.”

I SWEAR TO God, I couldn’t believe what was happening. The judge slammed the gavel until the courtroom came to something resembling order, but she was clearly losing control of the proceedings.

When the opposing attorneys were back behind their respective tables, when the roar in the gallery had subsided into a stunned silence, the judge put her pooch in her lap and said, “Mr. Del Rio, you are one split second from being removed from this court.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

“Can you control yourself? Or would you like to watch your trial on closed-circuit from a holding cell?”

“I’ve got myself under control, Your Honor. I apologize to you and everyone else. But that dirtbag—”

“Stop right there!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Del Rio stared bullets at Dexter Lewis, and the jurors looked back and forth between them. Caine asked for a sidebar, and he and Lewis approached the bench.

I knew Caine was requesting a mistrial again, because there was no chance the jurors could ignore Rick’s violent reaction to Lewis, even if they were instructed to do so.

There was inaudible chatter at the bench, then the attorneys stepped away, Dexter Lewis showing a twitchy smile, which told me that he was doing his best to keep a victory lap in check.

The judge asked, “Mr. Lewis, do you have any further questions for Mr. Del Rio?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Caine, would you like to reexamine Mr. Del Rio?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I would.”

“Go ahead.”

“Rick. Did you beat up Vicky Carmody?”

“No.”

“Thank you. That’s all I have. The defense rests.”

The judge told Del Rio to stand down, and then she addressed the jury, telling them that she was adjourning court for the weekend, that they were prohibited from discussing the case, and that the attorneys would give their closing arguments on Monday.

The courtroom emptied and people filled in the space between Rick and me. I took an elevator to the ground floor, trusting that Caine was taking Del Rio out the back way.

I cut through the crowds in the lobby and went out the front and around to the parking lot, where a mob stampeded past me, heading to the rear of the lot, over by the ramp.

I went along with the herd and then I heard grunting and a sharp scream of pain, followed by Dexter Lewis shouting:
“You puke. You ass-wipe. You think I’m afraid of you, you fucking goon?”

I saw through a break in the crowd. Del Rio had snapped.

Caine and assorted bystanders had pulled him off Dexter Lewis, who was holding his hands to his nose, blood running through his fingers, splashing on his white shirt and pale gray suit.

I read shock on Lewis’s face, the realization that there was another kind of hardball played
outside
the courtroom and that he’d just taken the brunt of it.

But Lewis wasn’t going to let Del Rio get the last word.

Rick had punched out the ADA, and there would be a price to pay.

I EDGED INTO the thickest part of the crowd, got within shouting distance of Rick and the howling, bleeding, cursing Dexter Lewis. I called out to Caine and he yelled back, “Can you give me a hand, Jack?”

He and I bundled Rick into the backseat of Caine’s car as cameras in a circle around us fired off shots. The raccoons reveled in the unexpected opportunity to have me and Rick in the same frame, and they peppered me with questions: “Jack, a few words, please, for Fox News?” “Morgan, d’you still believe Rick Del Rio is innocent?”

I leaned into the car, put a hand on Del Rio’s shoulder, made eye contact, and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Don’t worry, Jack. The jury didn’t see anything.”

“Might have been better if they had, Rick. This whole trial would have been scratched. That would be a good thing.”

“Jack, I like this jury. They like me. I’ll be fine, my friend. Just fine.”

Caine didn’t look fine. He looked like he thought he was about to lose Rick to the penal system. We exchanged a few pat assurances, then I swam against the tide until I reached my loaner car.

I was trying to ease the Mercedes around the mob when there was a sharp rap on my window and I turned to see my mirror image staring at me. Tommy was making the universal gesture to roll down the glass.

I did it.

He said, “Ten million, Jack. I’m slashing my offer for Private from twenty to ten. You’re going to lose your clients, Jacko. They won’t want to be associated with that slime bucket.”

“What do you want, Junior?”

“What’s rightfully mine.”

“Don’t move your feet,” I said.

There was an opening in front of me and I stepped hard on the gas, cut out of the lot, and headed to the office. I was livid. My brother saying that Private was rightfully his was the crock-of-shit delusion that drove him.

Tommy was Dad’s favorite, sure. But Dad had given Private to me and I’d built it up from an empty wreck of a company to a profitable and respected global operation—despite my father’s conviction and then, some time later, his death by shiv in the showers at Corcoran.

I wondered if Tommy was even sane.

The Mercedes seemed to drive itself downtown to Figueroa. I turned into the lot under our building and took the lower-level entrance through the lab.

I passed Mo-bot’s incense-perfumed cave of an office on my way to see Sci. All of Mo’s computer monitors were glowing, and she was doing a funky-chicken dance with her back to the door. Acting like a little kid.

“What are we celebrating?” I said.

She screamed, startled. Then she said, “Oh, Jack. I’ve got something you’ll want to see. This is Barbie Summers. She’s Tule Archer’s former roommate.”

A photo filled the screen: a leggy blond showgirl wearing a feathered corset, a pair of ten-inch stilettos, and not much else.

“Show me everything,” I said.

“I knew you’d say that,” said Mo-bot.

MO-BOT WAS DOING her best for Hal Archer. He was obnoxious, but he was also a client who was under arrest for murdering his wife. Archer claimed he’d killed his wife in self-defense, but when the jury saw the pictures of the innumerable knife wounds on Tule’s small body, Hal wouldn’t stand a chance.

Mo-bot offered her chair and I sat down, clicked through the files she had set up, and scanned Barbie Summers’s bio.

She’d grown up in central Florida, dropped out of college, moved to Las Vegas, and had had assorted hand-to-mouth jobs. Her arrest record was a star field of infractions: assault, prostitution, obstruction. And then there was a charge for insurance fraud that hadn’t stuck.

Somehow she cleaned up her act enough to waitress at the Black Diamond Hotel and Casino. She learned to dance with a pole and moved up to the Madagascar Salon as a VIP cocktail waitress. I put her age at about twenty-three.

Mo said, “She’s a piece of work. All kinds of high jinks out in Vegas. But she married well, same sort of deal Tule got.”

Mo clicked on another set of documents, and I scanned them quickly as they opened in a luminous array of virtual pages that followed the movements of my eyes.

I read that a year ago, Barbie Summers had married a very prominent businessman: Bryce Cooper of Aspen. Cooper was eighty years old, a fifty-million-dollar-a-year executive in the corporate-jet manufacturing business. Another wealthy dude marrying a Vegas dolly.

Mo had annotated the document to say that Cooper paid off his four kids so that they wouldn’t complain about his new bride and try to ruin his happy marriage.

Then Mo brought up the photos of Mr. Cooper. The first batch were corporate shots: Cooper shaking hands with Dick Cheney and various industrialists and movie stars. Mo showed me candid shots of Bryce Cooper competing in a statewide motorbike race, playing football with grandkids on the lawn of his enormous beam-and-glass-construction home. Then, in the past year and a half, there were a lot of pictures of Cooper on the ski slopes with a busty pink-and-platinum-haired former hoofer I recognized as Barbie Summers.

Cooper had a boyish quality—flyaway eyebrows and a wide smile. I thought I would like him.

“What do you think about all this?” I asked Mo.

“Two dolly girls, two rich old men, two marriages with the much older, very rich men within weeks of each other. I see a pattern. Don’t you?”

I saw it.

If Hal Archer’s story that Tule had threatened to kill him was true, her motive had to be money. If so, it wasn’t a stretch to think that Tule’s former roommate Barbie Summers Cooper might have the same idea.

I stood up, gave Mo a hug, and said, “You. Are. Fantastic.”

“I know,” she said, grinning up at me. “Here’s Mr. Cooper’s phone number.”

I said, “There’s going to be a little extra dough in your paycheck, you know.”

“Yeah?”

She cupped her hands together, went into a crouch, blew on imaginary dice, and rolled them out onto an invisible craps table. “Baby needs new shoes.”

“Baby can get as many shoes as she wants.”

“Awww,” she said. “Thanks, Jack.”

I punched in Cooper’s phone number, listened to the line connecting with his lodge on Red Ridge in Aspen. When Cooper answered the phone, I said my name and told him that I was the owner of a private investigation firm in LA.

“Do you have a couple of moments, Mr. Cooper? There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”