Line of Vision Read online

  “Did you work closely with the defendant?”

  Vic nods reluctantly. “Marty was on the fund-raising committee. He did things like mail solicitations, speaking lunches, organizing some of the bigger events. I was on that committee too, at least in a nominal sense. In a way, everyone was on that committee.”

  The outreach people kind of looked down their noses at people like me, who didn’t do real time, as they called it, spending time with the kids. They saw us as people who did the few hours a week to soothe our consciences, and mingling with pretty deep pockets in the process. There was always kind of a rift in the foundation between the money people and the “true” volunteers.

  “Did you work closely with the defendant?”

  “We ran around in the same circle of friends at the foundation.”

  “You mentioned the fund-raising committee. Did you also work with the defendant at some of these outreach programs?”

  “Yeah. Marty did some of that work.”

  “Do you recall a fund-raiser in the spring of last year at the Pierce Museum?”

  “Sure. It was probably the biggest thing we had ever put on.”

  “You attended that fund-raiser?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the defendant attend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mrs. Reinardt attend?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Did Dr. Reinardt?”

  The jurors, already attentive, light up at the sound of the victim’s name. This is the first time they have heard him mentioned as a living, breathing person, and they no doubt are expecting this testimony to hold some relevance.

  “Yes. He was there, too.”

  “Do you recall what time the party broke up?”

  “People began to filter out at around ten-thirty. By eleven, pretty much the only people left were foundation members.”

  “Did that include you and the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mrs. Reinardt still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was her husband, Dr. Reinardt, still there?”

  “No. He had left. He said he had been called away to surgery.”

  Okay, the jurors are thinking. Now we’re getting somewhere. This is not the hard-evidence sort of stuff—time, place, opportunity. This is the juicy, gossipy stuff. Let’s see what a slimeball Marty Kalish was.

  “Was there any particular reason the foundation members were still there?”

  Vic adjusts his glasses. “We had to clean up.”

  “What did that include?”

  “Well, the theme was Vegas night, a casino. There was money all over the place, and pledge cards. Our job was to gather all the money and pledges and count them up.”

  “Was that a big chore?”

  “Oh, yeah. We raised almost a quarter of a million dollars that night.”

  “Can you estimate how many foundation members stayed around that evening to record the money?”

  Vic sighs. “I’d say about fifteen of us. The junior people got stuck with the job.”

  “Do you recall what time Dr. Reinardt left the party to perform his surgery?”

  “Oh, I’d have to say around ten.”

  “What time did the junior volunteers start counting up the money?”

  “About eleven.”

  “And the defendant was one of those people?”

  “Yeah, Marty helped.”

  “How late did you stay, Mr. Silas?”

  “It took us just past one in the morning.”

  “So, a little over two hours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall what time the defendant left?”

  Vic pauses and clears his throat. “I couldn’t say for certain.”

  “About what time?”

  “I’d say about eleven-thirty.”

  Ogren pauses, watching some of the jurors write this down. “An hour and a half before you. How did you know he left?”

  “I saw him.”

  “Can you describe what you saw?”

  Vic scratches his cheek. “I—a couple of us were talking to Rachel.”

  “Rachel Reinardt?”

  “Yeah. She was thanking us for our work, that sort of thing.”

  “Where was this?”

  “In the room where we were all working.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, we were just talking a little bit. Then Rachel kind of looked off behind us.”

  “Did you turn around to see what she was looking at?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what was it?”

  “Well, Marty was standing back away from us.”

  “The defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he walk up and join your little group?”

  “No. He sort of hung back.”

  Ogren sits back a moment, as the jury watches Vic.

  “He hung back. Did he say anything at all?”

  “No.”

  “Did it seem strange that he would hang back like that?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Okay, what happened next?”

  “Mrs. Reinardt excused herself, and she walked over to Marty.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then they left.”

  “Together?”

  “Yes.”

  “This was around eleven-thirty.”

  “Right.”

  “Was the defendant what you would call a junior member of the group, like you?”

  “Marty joined after I did. Yes.”

  “You would have expected him to stick around and help count the money.”

  “Objection,” Paul says. “Number one, lack of foundation. Number two, Mr. Ogren is leading the witness. Number three, it is irrelevant.”

  Judge Potluck shakes his head. “The question will stand. Sir, please answer the question.”

  “Well, there was no set rule or anything. We were all just volunteers. But I guess I thought he would have stuck around.”

  Ogren does that little nod he does and brings a fist to his chin. “Now, Mr. Silas, did you ever have occasion to speak with the defendant about that evening’s fund-raiser?”

  “I spoke with him.”

  “Can you tell us when, and where, this took place?”

  “It was at a Chinese restaurant downtown, the following Monday. For lunch.”

  “Who was there?”

  “Two other guys from the foundation, and Marty and I.”

  “Did you discuss the fact that the defendant had left the party with Mrs. Reinardt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us what was said?”

  “Well, it was like we were sort of kidding around with him. You know, he had left the party with Rachel. I mean, it was pretty childish stuff. We were making sort of crude suggestions to him about what happened after he and Rachel left the party. You know, like they”—he waves his hands a little, searching for the words—“we were just suggesting that maybe something had happened between them. But we were just kidding around.”

  “What did the defendant say had happened between Mrs. Reinardt and him that night, after they left the party?”

  “Well—I mean, he didn’t—”

  “Mr. Silas. Was one of the people at your table a man named Jerry Lazarus?”

  “Yeah, Jerry was there.”

  “Did Jerry Lazarus say that he had tried to call—”

  “Objection!” Paul says, interrupting Ogren. “May we approach?”

  Paul and Roger Ogren walk up to the bench.

  When I called your house, Laz had said to me at that lunch with his patented smirk, and no one answered, I thought maybe you had car trouble or something.

  This is the statement Ogren was about to recite, establishing that I was not at home several hours after I had left with Rachel. The prosecutors questioned Laz about this after Silas told them about the conversation. Laz lied, said he had no memory of that. Nate Hornsby sa
id the same thing. We might have to call one or both of these people to rebut Silas.

  But still, I don’t catch the drift here. Ogren has already told the jury, as has Cummings, that Rachel and I didn’t have an affair. So why suggest that I was away from home for hours? Why suggest that I was at Rachel’s?

  I look over at Vic as the lawyers confer. He is looking at me as I turn to him, but then he breaks eye contact and plays with his glasses.

  I think of how this case has affected my friends. I put words into Deb’s mouth that came back to haunt her. Laz and Nate Hornsby flat-out lied to the police. Three people have been tarnished by this. Three decent people have gone against their better judgment and stood up for me out of some sense of friendship. None of them, I’m quite sure, believes that I am innocent of this crime. Jerry knows that I admitted to my lawyers that I did it. Deb and Nate, at the very least, are not sure. Part of them wonders whether I did it, whether I had it in me. But that hasn’t stopped any of them from coming through for me. I wonder if I will ever be friends again with Nate and Deb. Whether this will always be a barrier. The sad thing is, that’s the least of my concerns.

  Paul walks back to his seat. Ogren returns to the lectern.

  “The objection is sustained. The jury should disregard the question.”

  “Mr. Silas,” Ogren continues, “I realize you say that everyone was kidding around at the table. But understanding that, did anyone ask the defendant what had happened between Mrs. Reinardt and him after the party?”

  “I don’t know if it was directly asked. It was a very sarcastic conversation.”

  Ogren is struggling with this. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “At that lunch, did the defendant give any explanation for what had happened later that night, after he had left the party with Mrs. Reinardt?”

  “Well—well, he—he wasn’t serious.”

  “What did he say?” asks Roger Ogren.

  Vic wears a troubled look now. “He said he had car trouble that night.”

  “He said he had car trouble?”

  “Well—yes.”

  That statement, in isolation, might be confusing to the jury. They don’t know what question I was answering. But I imagine they can guess. I was making an excuse for why I got home so late.

  “Following that evening at the fund-raiser, did you continue to work in some of the foundation’s outreach programs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the defendant also work at these programs with you?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did you notice anything different about the way he conducted himself at these activities?”

  Paul objects. “The question is vague. If Mr. Ogren has a direct question, let him ask it.”

  “All right,” says Ogren, “I’ll ask it. Mr. Silas, did you observe any differences in the defendant’s interaction with Mrs. Reinardt at these activities?”

  “I guess you could say so. I mean, who can really say?”

  Vic, buddy, I appreciate your hesitancy. But it’s a little late. If you were going to hold back, you should have done that when Ogren first interviewed you.

  “Please tell us what you observed, Mr. Silas.”

  “I guess I would say Marty was more attentive to Rachel.”

  “Attentive?”

  “Well, he spent more time around her. He—seemed like he was trying to be around her more, I guess.”

  “Would you say he followed her around?”

  “Objection. Leading the witness.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Well, Mr. Silas, can you explain what you mean when you say he tried to be around her more?”

  Vic shrugs his shoulders. “I guess you could say he followed her around a lot.”

  “Can you give us any examples of how he followed her around a lot?”

  “Well”—Vic sighs—“like we had this basketball league we sponsored. We would load the kids into a couple of vans and drive them to the gym. Marty wanted to drive in the same van as Rachel. Rachel sat in the back with the kids, and Marty volunteered to drive the van. He wasn’t supposed to, because he wasn’t insured as the driver. But he sort of insisted.”

  “He was told at first that he couldn’t drive it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he react to that?”

  “He got mad. He said something like—well, he just wanted to drive that van.”

  Ogren adjusts his glasses. “Did you ever notice any reaction from Mrs. Reinardt when the defendant, as you put it, followed her around?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe sometimes.”

  “Can you tell about those times?”

  Vic thinks about this. “Like one time, we were doing this play—I can’t remember which one—but we were doing a play with a bunch of the kids. And we were setting up, you know. And Rachel, she’s in charge, of course, and she was walking around, just supervising. Not necessarily doing anything, just walking around checking on other people. And Marty was following her, talking to her.”

  “How did Mrs. Reinardt appear to react?”

  “She—I mean, I can’t say for sure. But she looked like she was annoyed. She gave him kind of a mean look. And she said we didn’t need two supervisors. That maybe he should try helping out, and not just following her around.”

  “Did examples like the one you just gave happen often?”

  “I don’t know. A few times, I would say.”

  “I see. Now, after that casino fund-raiser, was there anything different about the extent of the defendant’s participation in these foundation activities?”

  Vic swallows hard. He seems to be lost in thought, lost in guilt, maybe? Is he wishing he could turn back? “Could you repeat that?” he asks.

  “Would you say that the defendant’s involvement in the foundation increased, decreased, or stayed the same after the casino fund-raiser?”

  “Oh. It seemed like Marty started attending more functions. He pretty much had stuck to fund-raising before. But after that big casino night, he started going to pretty much everything.”

  “Did you ever ask him why he started attending more functions?”

  “No.”

  “Did it ever come up in conversation?”

  Vic grimaces a little. “We may have teased him about it a little bit.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, just making comments about him and Rachel.”

  “What kind of comments?”

  Paul stands and objects. “The witness has testified that whatever comments were made were made in jest. I fail to see the relevancy of their content.”

  “The relevancy is in their effect on the defendant, his reaction to them,” Ogren says.

  The judge overrules. Ogren repeats the question to Victor.

  “I don’t know. We said things like, ‘Doesn’t Rachel look good today? How’s Rachel doing?’ Stuff like that.”

  “And how did the defendant”—Ogren opens up toward me—“respond?”

  “Usually with silence. He wouldn’t say anything at all. Sometimes he would get mad at us a little. But it was no big deal. I don’t want to overstate it or anything.”

  Roger Ogren flips his notepad closed as Vic gives this answer. This was his last question, but he stops at Victor’s last statements. He’s clearly not satisfied with the way Vic qualified his answer. Finally, though, he thanks Vic and sits down.

  Paul doesn’t have much to ask Vic Silas. No, Vic admits, Marty never said anything about being romantically involved with Rachel. No, Marty never even said that he found her attractive. No, Vic didn’t know me all that well; he was more friends with Nate Hornsby, who was my friend. We didn’t talk very often, Vic and I.

  I only half listen to Paul’s examination. He’s not going to get much out of Vic that is helpful. The jury must believe by now that I at least had some sort of crush on Rachel.

  The court recesses for lunch. Mandy asks me, are we at least going to eat lunch together? I nod, yes. I’m n
ot going to eat, anyway. My thoughts are not on lunch, or on Victor Silas. I can think only of what will come after lunch, when the prosecution in the People v. Kalish will call its next, and perhaps final, witness.

  73

  THE BAILIFF CALLS TO THE GUARD BY THE DOOR. “Rachel Reinardt.”

  I don’t turn to look. I will let her fade into my peripheral vision as she approaches the witness stand. I will let the smell of her cologne reach me, will listen to the sound of her voice, before I actually look at her. This must happen in increments. I have to keep a grip on my emotions.

  Rachel’s shoes tap along the floor of the courtroom, virtually the only sound, certainly the only sound I hear. Her blue leather flats, sounds like. Good for walking a tightrope.

  She told them I followed her around. The jury already knows this from Vic Silas. She said I seemed infatuated with her. That’s subjective, something I can deny. She said I was outside her house sometimes. That hurts a little, but I can be the trusted friend who was worried about the spousal abuse.

  It’s her usual perfume. Nothing overpowering, just a light, springlike scent. My hands begin to tremble. I very casually place them facedown on the table. I nod my head a little to seem very casual; the jury probably notices I have not looked up. I turn to my left, to Mandy, who instinctively leans into me. She knows I have nothing to say, so she whispers, “No problem.”

  “Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.” It’s her voice, but not the one I’m accustomed to hearing. She is quiet, guarded. God, this must be so difficult for her. She has had to fight off a murder charge, find a middle road to cut a deal without really hurting me. And now she will walk an even thinner line.

  Oh, she’s so beautiful. Her eyes shine, her hair so delicate and luscious, cut into a bob with the ends curling onto her cheeks. Her thin, even eyebrows quiver slightly.

  “Will you please state your name for the record?” Roger Ogren asks.

  She brushes a hair off her face. “Rachel Ann Reinardt,” she says quietly.

  Rachel tells Ogren where she lives, what she does for a living, where she grew up. She talks about her husband very generally. They married just over five years ago, flew to Italy for their honeymoon, moved from downtown to Highland Woods three years ago and started the foundation.