Turning The Witness Part 2

"There was some kind of tension between them. Friction. You could almost see it jumping off their bodies whenever they were together."

"s.e.xual tension?"

"As I said, distasteful business." A snort. "I'd guess possibly, but I never saw or heard anything that would confirm such a thing. Rick was married at the time, but I take it you already know that."

I nodded. "Any sense that one of them was being jilted?"

"No."

Oldham's reply brooked no further discussion. "How about Gina Ferro?"

"Ah, Gina. Wholly different person."

"From Kinsour?"

"From both of them." Oldham seemed to warm up a little. "Rick was always a bit too... positive for his own good. Arrogant, even. I don't mean just ego, either. Ego you need in this business, along with nerve and judgment. Rick had all those, but his arrogance kept him from reconsidering his own decisions over time, and over time that failure can pummel a portfolio, simply pummel it."

"And Claire Kinsour?"

"Awfully aware of her good looks. And more than a bit too deferential. Waited for others to move before she would. Insufficient initiative, I'd have said. But Claire didn't stay long enough to gauge that for certain."

"Bla.s.singale have anything to do with her leaving?"

"No. At least, I don't believe so. Claire simply moved on to another house. I couldn't say if she's still there or not."

"And Gina Ferro?'

"Would have made a fine broker, but she didn't really enjoy It. The thrill of the game just wasn't there for her. Pity, too. Fine mind, excellent at a.n.a.lysis, projections-ah, but you hate to lose the best of the younger ones."

"You have any idea where Ms. Ferro is now?"

"She left the industry entirely. Married, settled down. A pity, but..." " Oldham shrugged.

"Would you happen to have an address on her?"

"Home address, you mean?'

"Or any way I could get in touch with her."

The frown. "Don't know that I would have her married name, but... wait a minute." Oldham brought up one of the screens, clacked away a minute, then traced his middle finger down the screen. "Yes. Yes, Gina sent me an announcement when she had her baby, and I made a note of the address. Day Boulevard. All the way over in Southie, I'm afraid."

It had been a while since my last visit. "Not a problem."

I wouldn't have thought they'd still have tulips, this time of the year.

I looked down at her headstone, Elizabeth Mary Devlin Cuddy. "Mrs. Feeney said they weren't from Holland, but that was all she knew."

Well, they're beautiful, John. Special occasion?

"I've never needed one before."

I just stood there for a while, watching a boat from the Boston Police harbor unit rise and slap against the chop as it patrolled the water below her hillside.

What's bothering you?

"A case. Husband accused of killing his wife, maybe abusing her, too. Some possible hanky-panky at the office when both sides weren't willing. And I don't know who to believe out of it."

Would the case be any easier if you did?

I smiled. "Not necessarily."

Maybe you just haven't found the right person yet.

"The right person?"

The one you can believe.

We talked about other things for a while after that. Old friends and older times, back when we were together and the world seemed easy.

Then I noticed the police boat's running lights were on, and I figured it was time to say good-bye.

The address Michael Oldham gave me turned out to be an expansive two-decker just west of the L Street Bath-house on Day Boulevard. The woman who answered the bell was holding a little boy between the ages of one and two. Her eyes were chocolate brown, as was her hair, in a pageboy flip, like she took care of it. About the same height as Claire Kinsour, she was a little bigger all around, as though she might not yet have shed the extra pounds childbearing had imposed on her.

"Yes?"

"Gina Ferro?"

A smile. "Not anymore." Then a cautious look. "Wait a minute. How did you get this address?'

"I'm helping Rick Bla.s.singale's lawyer, and I was able to track you down."

Still cautious. "You have some identification?"

I showed her my ID. After reading it, she pointed to the name laminated under the buzzer I'd pushed. "I'm Gina Shukas now. My husband's folks are from Lithuania."

"It would be a help if I could have a few minutes of your time."

"Sure, I guess. Come on up."

The second floor was sun-filled, even on a December afternoon. s.p.a.cious living room, modestly furnished but beautifully kept, despite the time burdens the child must have created. Gina Shukas took the couch, allowing the little boy to crawl off her lap onto the cus.h.i.+on. I sat across from her in a rocking chair.

Mother patted son's rear end, causing him to giggle. "Arthur Junior."

"Fine-looking boy."

"He has his daddy's eyes but his mommy's hair." A different tone. "Now, what do you need to know?"

"Whatever you can tell me about Rick Bla.s.singale and Claire Kinsour."

"If you're helping Rick's lawyer, why do you need to know about Claire?"

Neutrally, I said, "She might be a witness at the trial."

"Oh. Well, I haven't really followed the case, so I don't know what to tell you. When we all worked together at Goff Searle, I know Claire thought he was kind of cute."

"She did."

"Yeah, but I don't know if It went anywhere. I mean... you know what I mean. When I saw in the paper that he was accused of killing his wife, I thought about calling her back-Claire, I mean-but I just never got around to it."

"Calling her back?"

"About his wife getting killed that same night. Like I said, I haven't really followed the case and all, but how many people do you know have ever been charged with murder?"

When I didn't say anything, Shukas said, "Oh, right. For a minute there, I forgot who you...well, never mind. I didn't get a chance to call her after we had dinner."

I was still confused. "Dinner?"

"Yes. Claire called me in early November, said she was going out of town for a while, and did I want to get together with her. I thought it was kind of funny, but I said sure, why not. I mean, the baby's kept me kind of home-tied for over a year now-they say you can watch TV and all? Don't believe it, especially when Art-my husband, I mean-is out of town."

"Ms. Kinsour called, and you thought it was 'kind of funny'?

"Well, yeah. I mean, Claire and I weren't exactly close at Goff Searle, and she left before I did. But you know, once you leave a place, you lose touch with the people, especially if you aren't working somewhere else. Claire said she wasn't working, either, and was flying to Seattle, maybe to move there, and 'Why don't we get together around seven,' you know? So I said sure."

"And so you did?"

"Yes." She ruffled her son's hair, and he giggled again, kicking his leg sideways. "I got Art's mom to baby-sit-she isn't too keen on me going out when he's gone, tell you the truth, but that's just her way. So I met Claire for a drink, and we talked about her new job possibility and Arthur Junior here. One drink turned into two, and two turned into dinner. Just pasta and salad, but it was nice. Kind of reminded me what I liked about working downtown?'

"And when was this?"

"When we went out? The night before her flight."

"Wait a minute. The night Libby Bla.s.singale was killed?"

"Like I said. Of course, I didn't hear about it right away- Arthur Junior keeps me pretty occupied." More ruffling, and the boy plodded around, like a cat coming back to be scratched. "But I remember saying to Claire at dinner, 'Girl, you're gonna be dead on your feet tomorrow, you don't get to bed early,' and thinking later how weird it was that Rick's wife got killed, probably around the time I was saying that. But Claire wouldn't hear of cutting the evening short. Said how often would we ever see each other, and she had a good point there."

Very slowly, I said, "What time did you and Ms. Kinsour finally part company?"

"Oh, ten, ten-fifteen? I know it was ten-thirty before I got home, because Art's mother was in a funk over how late I was out with my 'girlfriend.'"

Two hours after Claire Kinsour supposedly stood in her apartment, seeing Rick Bla.s.singale running down Marlborough Street. "Where did you eat?"

"This little place on Beacon Hill. It wasn't very expensive, but even so Claire insisted on treating me."

"She did."

"Yes. Said, 'So long as I have plastic, I can't be broke, right? I felt kind of bad, her being out of work and all, but she gave the check and her credit card to the waiter before I knew what was happening."

Which meant a receipt and maybe even.... "Ms. Ferro, do you remember the name of the restaurant?"

The weather had finally turned to winter by the time of Rick Bla.s.singale's trial in a ninth-floor session of Suffolk Superior Court. At Steve Rothenberg's request, the female, fiftyish judge allowed me to sit inside the bar enclosure at counsel table with him and his client. What a treat.

The courtroom itself was old-fas.h.i.+oned. High, almost church windows over mahogany wainscoting and scarred oak furniture. Fifteen years ago, the jury would have been three housewives, three retired people, three welfare recipients, and three postal workers. Now, with the "one day, one trial" system, almost everyone was subject to jury duty, even lawyers and judges, and the men and women staring back at us seemed as close to a cross-section of society as one could draw.

The prosecutor was a guy about Bla.s.singale's age, and the case for the Commonwealth went in smoothly, a tide building from the jury box against the defendant. On cross examination, Rothenberg chipped away at each witness where he could getting the dog walker to admit she couldn't pick the defendant out of a lineup, the coffee friend to venture that the mark on Libby Bla.s.singale's face might have bled a little, the forensic expert to concede that the bloodstain on Rick's shoe might have been left there months before the killing.

The prosecutor saved Claire Kinsour till last. Her ash-blond hair was pulled back into a conservative bun, her suit a dark blue that complemented her coloring. Kinsour was composed, even compelling. I could feel the tide from the jury rising to a wave against Bla.s.singale.

When the prosecutor pa.s.sed the witness to Rothenberg, Steve rose and requested permission to approach the bench. When he got there, he asked the judge if "this item" in his hand could be marked as Defendant's Exhibit No. 5 for Identification. After the court reporter scribbled on it, Rothenberg showed it to the prosecutor, who did a good job of not fainting. Then Steve requested and received permission to approach the witness.

At the stand, Rothenberg said, "Ms. Kinsour, it was your testimony a few minutes ago that you saw Rick Bla.s.singale running eastward on Marlborough Street about eight-thirty on the night of his wife's death, is that correct?"

Kinsour didn't have to think. "Yes."

Nodding to the jury, Rothenberg handed her the "Item" and said, "I show you now Defendant's Exhibit Number Five for Identification and ask you if that's your signature at the bottom."

Kinsour said, "Yes," and then her eyes bugged as they moved up the restaurant receipt to the top.

Rothenberg lowered his voice. "And what is that exhibit, Ms. Kinsour?"

"It's...it's a charge card..."

"The exhibit is a charge card receipt you signed at a restaurant half a mile away from your apartment on the night in question, is it not?'

"Yes."

"Please note the computer time-stamp under the name of the restaurant, and tell the jury what it says."

"It...it..." Claire Kinsour rubbed a hand over her face. "I can't...oh, G.o.d, I can't believe this." She turned to the jury. "I lied. I was attracted to Rick when we worked together-"

The jurors all came forward in their seats, some with mouths open.

"Objection, Your Honor!" cried the prosecutor.

The judge started to say something, but Kinsour's voice caromed around the courtroom. "I didn't see Rick that night at all. At ten-thirty; I did see a man running down the block, carrying a bag and wearing a green Celtics jacket like I knew Rick had."

"The witness will please-"

"When I heard Rick was going to trial, I went to the police and lied. The man I saw, and saw clearly that night, was not Rick Bla.s.singale."

Steve Rothenberg moved back to the defense table. The judge told Claire Kinsour that her next unresponsive sentence would leave her open to contempt of court, but you could tell the judge's heart was barely in it.

In disgust, the prosecutor said, "No questions. That's the Commonwealth's case, Your Honor."

The judge looked over toward us. "Mr. Rothenberg?"

"I don't see the need for any defense witnesses, Your Honor."

"Yes, well, why don't you keep your editorial comments to yourself? Ms. Kinsour, you are excused."