Chapter Ten
“He’s not letting her out,” Marsha Russo told me when I showed up at the office.
“What do you mean, he’s not letting her out?”
I flopped down onto my chair and took a deep breath.
“Judge Hiller,” Marsha continued. “He set bail at ten million dollars, which the family can’t come up with.”
“What did he do that for?”
“Opinion?”
“If need be.”
“I think he wanted to stick it to Murray Kornbluth.”
“Because?”
“Because somewhere there’s a scorecard. A balance sheet. Kornbluth knows it. The D.A. knows it. And it serves to influence the judge.”
“So her imprisonment was dictated by a three-legged scorecard?”
“I never said that.”
“But you implied it.”
“I did. But I never said it.”
“Aren’t we the semanticist?”
“Whatever that means.”
“So, where is she?”
“Still in a County Courthouse holding cell.”
“Jesus.”
“What did you learn at the school?” she asked.
“That seldom is heard a discouraging word.”
“Meaning?”
“Everyone thinks he was a saint.”
“Everyone?”
“Except for the widow.”
“Who thinks…?”
“He wasn’t the man she married.”
“So, now what?”
“The investigation continues.”
“And?”
“Murray Kornbluth appeals.”
“And?”
“I don’t know, Marsha. This murder has given me a roaring headache.”
“Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.”
She was the only occupant. The other seven cells were empty. It was a depressing place, having been hastily constructed in the basement of the County Courthouse as a makeshift holding facility for prisoners in transit.
She was lying on a metal-framed cot that was, along with a metal chair, the cell’s only furniture. And there was a sink and a toilet.
She looked up when I entered. “Is it you who’s responsible for my being here?”
“Not hardly.”
“Why, then? I can’t get a reasonable answer from Mr. Kornbluth.”
She was still dressed in the jeans and hoodie she wore on the flight back to Los Angeles. She was disheveled and dismayed.
“Didn’t anyone bring you fresh clothing?”
“Does it look like I’m wearing fresh clothing?”
She was doing her best to remain calm and under control, but it was clear that beneath the surface, she was seething. Unkempt and uncertain, her world had turned upside-down and she was shaken by it.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“I don’t really know. I’m surprised he wasn’t able to get you out. Or why bail was set so high. I’ll make it my business to look into it.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because I believe you.”
“That I didn’t do it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s nice to know someone believes me.”
I smiled. “Sometimes the ways and means of a small town get in the way of justice.”
“Which means?”
“Politics.”
She didn’t speak.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Clothing. Supplies. What do you need?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ll arrange to get them for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
“Why would you?”
“I don’t know, Kimber. But I will.”
“And you’ll speak to Murray Kornbluth?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t say anything for a while. I watched as a whole panoply of emotions flashed in her hazel eyes. Then she turned to me. “It’s nice.”
“What is?”
“That you’re kind to me. You’re the only one.”
“We’ll get through this.”
“We?”
“A figure of speech.”