Turning The Witness
by Jeremiah Healy
Riding the elevator alone to Steve Rothenberg’s floor, I finished reading an article in the Boston Globe about the lame-duck governor of New York and the dead-duck mayor of its largest city, the latter committing political suicide by crossing party lines to endorse the former. We don’t have those kinds of problems in Massachusetts. No, our electorate votes overwhelmingly in favor of term limits on the Commonwealth’s pols, then on the same ballot returns Teddy Kennedy to continue his fourth decade in the Senate. You figure it out.
When the elevator stopped, I tucked the paper under my and walked down the corridor to Rothenberg’s door. He shared space with six or seven other attorneys, the individual names on wooden cross-bars, each done by a different artisan. The overall effect would remind you of a primitive, vertical xylophone.
Inside the door was a cluttered, shabby waiting area, but I didn’t need the receptionist. Rothenberg already stood by her desk.
“Steve.”
“John, I’m glad you’re here.”
“Client getting a little nervous?”I said.
Rothenberg just ran a hand through his thinning graying hair. The beard was a shade darker, his tie already tugged down from an unbuttoned collar, even though my watch read only nine-thirty A.M.
“Come on back,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket.
As we entered the office, a man in his thirties rose from one of Steve’s client chairs. About six feet tall and sturdy, he had curly black hair and blue eyes that might have gained some sparkle from contact lenses. His complexion was ruddy above the collar of an oxford shirt and repp tie the herringbone suit looking custom-tailored.
Hanging his own jacket on a battered clothes tree by the desk chair, Rothenberg said, “Rick Blassingale John Cuddy.”
Solid handshake, but he also placed his left hand over our joined right ones. “Mr. Cuddy, I really appreciate your coming down on such short notice.”
The voice was gravelly, and I placed him from the media coverage of his wife’s killing “Mr. Blassingale-”
He released my hand “Rick, please.”
Rothenberg said, “Why don’t we all sit down?”
Settling back into his chair, Blassingale said, “I guess the first issue here would be confidentiality.”
I remembered the newspaper describing him as an investment adviser. “You have any law school, Rick?”
A modest smile. “Graduated but never practiced. You?"
“One year, nights. Steve didn’t tell you there’s a confidentiality provision in the licensing statute on private investigators?”
“He did. I just wanted to be sure we were all aware of it.”
I was beginning not to like Blassingale very much, and I wondered why an apparent high-roller would be represented by a hand-to-mouth criminal lawyer like Steve Rothenberg.
Blassingale let out a breath. “As you’ve probably heard, the police think I killed my wife. We were separated, and the probate and family court was in the process of cleaning me out, but good. The police say that’s plenty of motive, since Libby had no other living relatives, which means everything comes back to me.”
“If you’re acquitted.”
A very steady “Yes” with a glance toward his attorney. “And the bail bond just about tapped me out of what I did have left."
Meaning he had to go with a low-rent lawyer and keep his fingers crossed. I looked to Steve. “Where do I fit in?”
Rothenberg twiddled a pencil on the desktop. “The evidence against Rick is completely circumstantial. Libby Blassingale was still living in their marital home, a condo on upper Marlborough Street. Nothing missing from the apartment, and she was bludgeoned to death, weapon not found."
“Suggesting premeditation,” I said.
Rothenberg nodded. “No sign of forced entry, either, and time of death is a wide bracket, six P.M. to sometime around midnight on Tuesday, November fifteenth. The body wasn’t discovered till, the next morning when the decedent didn’t meet a neighbor for coffee as scheduled."
Blassingale said, “Libby was a platinum blonde, John, very flashy. She could have picked somebody up or just let them in.”
“What makes you think that?’
“It’s how we met.” He let that sink in some. “I’ve learned my lesson, though. Strictly brunettes for me now.”
A poor joke, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard somebody actually use the word brunette in a spoken sentence.
Blassingale mistook my silence and grinned, man-to-man. “You married, John?’
I thought of Beth, lying in her hillside overlooking the harbor in South Boston. “Used to be.”
“Then you understand what I mean.”
I looked at Rothenberg, who in turn looked out his window at the Boston Common across Boylston Street.
I said, “My wife died, Rick.”
“Oh.” He shifted in his chair. “Jesus, I’m sorry, huh? What I meant was, Libby was crazy enough to try anything, anybody, even in these times.”
I turned back to Rothenberg. “What else does the prosecution have?”
“Rick’s fingerprints all over the apartment
“Hey, it used to be my place, too.”
I said, “Any other forensics?”
“Fibers from her carpet on a pair of Rick’s shoes.” A glance to his client. “Her new carpet, laid down after Rick moved out. And some blood of hers on the top of those shoes.”
I looked at Blassingale, who said, “I was over there after I moved out. September, two months before Libby was killed. We were talking about trying to work something out on the settlement-the divorce stuff-and she got nervous, pulled a hangnail. It must have dripped blood on my shoes when we said good-bye at the door.”
A hangnail “How hard did you hit her, Rick?”
Blassingale opened and closed his mouth. Then, “She never reported it, but that coffee friend of hers saw the mark and told the cops about it when they questioned her.”
From the tone of his voice, Blassingale thought that awfully unfair of the friend. I said, “Didn’t the papers say something about an eyewitness?”
Blassingale just looked at me, but Rothenberg said, “Two, actually, the night of the killing. One was a woman walking her dog, says she saw a man wearing a Celtics warmup jacket on the right block about eight P.M. that night.”
Within the bracket. “She identify Rick as the man?”
Blassingale said, “Couldn’t pick me out of the lineup, but the guy she described was close enough to me.”
“I turned to him. “You have that kind of jacket?”
"Had."
“What happened to it?”
“I don’t know. It was old, and I must have left it somewhere.”
I didn’t say anything.
Blassingale grew more earnest. “You know, all the warm weather we had back in October? I must have taken it with me someplace and just left it. I don’t remember where, but give me a break, huh? Everybody and his brother has one of those.”
To Rothenberg, I said, “Sounds like enough for the DA to get to the jury.”
“It is, but the second witness is what you’re here for.”
“Go ahead.”
“This second witness is named Claire Kinsour, K-I-N-S-O-U-R. She lives on the next block of Marlborough in-town from Mrs. Blassingale.” Rothenberg drew in a deep breath. “Ms. Kinsour came forward a few weeks ago, just after the prosecution said it was going to trial against Rick. She says she saw the man in the Celtics warmup jacket that night of the fifteenth, too, only it was about eight-thirty. And she saw him running east down the block, away from the decedent’s building.”
I said, “Where do you live, Rick?’
Blassingale shifted again in his chair. “Waterfront” A grunt. “Like l’d walk two miles to Libby’s place in my own jacket to kill her.”
“Where on the waterfront?”
“Where I live, you mean?”
He gave me the name, one of the chi-chi wharf buildings that stick out into the harbor. “Only about a mile and a half; Rick.”
“That’s not the problem.”
Rothenberg said, “The problem is, Ms. Kinsour definitely identifies Rick as the man she saw that night.”
“How can she be so sure?”
Blassingale said, “Claire and I used to work together.”
Great. "Go on.”
“She was a trainee at Goff Searle, this brokerage house I worked for until I went out on my own three years ago. Claire had the hots for me then, and I wasn’t interested.”
“And Ms. Kinsour just happens to live down the street from your wife?”
Rothenberg said, “Moved in a month before Mrs. Blassingale was killed.”
“Did they know each other?”
Blassingale said, “I don’t know. I sure never took Libby to any Goff Searle events when Claire was there.”
“You have an alibi for the night in question?”
“No. I was home, reading. I even pulled the phone out of the wall jack"
I shook my head.
“Hey, I do that sometimes, get some peace and quiet. Claire’s lying. She’s going to commit perjury to get even with me, and Steve here says there’s nothing he can do about it.”
I couldn’t remember a perjury indictment for the past ten years. “What kind of plea bargain did the prosecution offer?”
Blassingale’s face got ruddier, the color high at the cheekbones. “That seems pretty damned defeatist, don’t you think?”
Rothenberg made a calming gesture with his hand. “Before Ms. Kinsour came forward, twenty and change. Afterward, nada”
I thought about it. “And Ms. Kinsour comes forward only after the news hits about Rick going to trial.”
“Why?”
Rothenberg smiled. “One of the many questions we’d like you to ask her.” Then the smile died. “We have to impeach her, John. The other stuff I can deal with on cross of the Commonwealth’s witnesses. The blood on the shoes through the coffee friend and the abuse incident-”
“I didn’t abuse her, For Chrissake! I slapped her, once.”
Another calming gesture. “But Ms. Kinsour sinks us, John. We have to turn her as a witness, or the jury sees this thing only one way.”
I looked to Blassingale. “Any other help you can give me on that?”
A shrug. “I don’t know. Claire had a girlfriend at Goff Searle, another trainee. Gina Ferro-that’s F-E-R-R-O-- was her name, but we checked the phone books, and she’s not listed anywhere.”
“Might the brokerage know?”
“Might.” Blassingale brightened. “Yeah, they might. I should have thought of that.”
Yes, he should. “Anybody still there I could contact?”
“Try Mike Oldham. Ferro worked with him the most.”
I watched Blassingale. “One more thing?’
“Shoot.”
“You seeing anybody now?”
“Seeing…?’ Blassingale looked down at his shoes. "Yes."
“She with you that night?”
Blassingale looked up. “No.”
“You sure?’
“I said no. Besides, she’s married.”
“And brunette?”
The flesh around the cheekbones got ruddier again.
Marlborough Street stretches east to west for nine blocks from the Public Garden through Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. The buildings are three- and four-story town houses in brownstone and brick, some still single-family. Most are divided into condos and apartments, though that doesn’t diminish the imitation gas lamps and residential parking restrictions or the red-bricked sidewalks, frost-heaved into stumble-humps. The trees whose roots helped with the heaving were bare of leaves and stark against the sun on the north side of the block where Claire Kinsour lived.
At the front entrance, I walked up the stoop and pushed her buzzer. Getting a tinny “Who is it?’ from the speaker, I asked if Ms. Kinsour could speak with me about a court case. Two minutes later, the massive formal door opened, and an ash blonde in her late twenties looked out coyly at me. Kinsour was slim but big through the chest under a cotton cowl sweater, and she cocked her hip, straining some bleached jeans.
“And who might you be?”
I showed her my Identification.
Kinsour took the folder, holding it up to the light. “John Francis Cuddy.” She looked from it to me, using her free hand to tap the index fingernail against her lower front teeth. “Irish, right?”
“At some point.”
Kinsour handed back the ID. “What’s this about?”
“I’m working for the lawyer representing Rick Blassingale.”
“And you’d like to ask me some questions, help to trap me later on in court.”
“Something like that.”
A coy smile joined the look. “Well, at least you’re honest, which is more than I can say for Rick.” She canted her head. “The prosecutor said I didn’t have to talk to anybody if I didn’t want to.”
“And you don’t.”
“But you’re cute enough to spend some time with.” One tap of the nail. “And I don’t have anything else to do, so come on up.”
As Kinsour climbed the central stairs ahead of me, I said, “It’s good luck to find you home.”
“Not really. I’m unemployed. Those of us out of work spend a lot of time at home.” She half turned. “Or hadn’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“About the latest decline in the securities industry. First there was Black Monday in ‘eighty-seven, and then came just the slow torture of the last year or so.”
We reached the second floor, and a door stood open around the corner of the landing. Kinsour beckoned me over the threshold into a front unit with nice sunlight streaming from the bay window onto an Oriental rug. The furniture was tasteful and fairly new; an elaborate stereo system was arrayed under the window.
“Nice place for being unemployed.”
She laid a hand on the back of an easy chair, then made for the one opposite it. “I wasn’t out of work when I landed here.”
We sat. “Which I understand was just early October?”
Kinsour became a little defensive. “That’s right.”
“Did you know Libby Blassingale?’
“Before she died, no.”
“But you’re sure you saw Rick Blassingale the night of the killing?’
“That’s right.”
“From this room?”
“It was only about eight-thirty, but I wanted to turn in early, so I was in the bedroom.” The coy smile. “Alone. Then I came out here to be sure the CD player was off and I saw Rick across the street.”
I got up and walked over to the bay window. “From here, then?”
“Right where you’re standing.”
I looked through the panes of angled glass. Squeaky clean, and a nice view for one block east and another west. “And where exactly was Mr. Blassingale?’
“Rick was on the other side of the street-his wife’s side, it turns out. Running toward the Public Garden."
Meaning eastward. “Wearing?”
“One of those shiny Celtics jackets. You know, that kind of off-green you see everywhere on St. Patty’s Day?’ A pause. “No offense meant.”
“None taken.” There were two gas lamps across the way and the trees would have been bare by then, even with the warmer weather we’d had. “Was he carrying anything?”
“Some kind of bag, like for gym stuff.”
Which could have held the weapon. “Hat?”
“Wearing one, you mean?’
“No. I got a good, clear look with the streetlights, and I recognized him.”
“Because you two once worked together.”
“That’s how I’d describe it. Rick, though, he wanted it to be more than that.”
I turned to her, came back to the chair. “How so?’
Kinsour rotated her neck on the shoulders a little, then tapped again with her index nail against the teeth. “Sex so.”
“Anything come of it?’
“I was a trainee at Goff Searle. I wasn’t about to cut my own throat, so I didn’t make any sort of complaint.”
Which wasn’t exactly what I’d asked her. “Were you and Blassingale ever intimate?”
Kinsour puffed out a breath. “Only in his dreams.”
“Why were you so late in coming forward to the authorities?”
“Identifying him, you mean?’
"Yes."
“Simple. All I saw was Rick running down the street that night. No big deal, right? Then the next morning, I had a dawn flight to Seattle. That’s why I was going to bed so early.”
“Seattle.”
“Yes. Job interview, and I stayed with a friend of mine from college for a few days. So I guess I left before the wife’s body was found, and all the TV stuff about Rick had died down by the time I got back.”
“Then what led you to contact the police?”
“There was this thing on the news about Rick going to trial soon, and I just kind of freaked. Then I said, ‘Oh my God, I bet they could use me,’ so I called them.”
“To get even with Rick.”
“That’s why I called them.” Tap, tap. “But that’s not what I saw or why I saw it that night.”
“And you remember it was that night-”
“November fifteenth, because my flight was the sixteenth. I didn’t get the job, but check it out with the airline, you want to.”
“Thanks, I will.” I rose, and she did, too, slowly, even languidly.
“One other thing,” I said. “Have you beard from Gina Ferro recently?”
“Gina...?‘ Tap, tap. “What does she have to do with this?’
“Maybe nothing. I’d just like to speak with her.”
“Well, I don’t know how’d you’d reach her.”
“No idea at all?’
A theatrical shrug. “She got married, I heard. Don’t know about the name.”
“Her husband’s name?”
A patient look “No, her name. If she changed it, I mean. A lot of women still do, you know?”
“Law offices.”
“Steve Rothenberg, please. John Cuddy calling.”
“One moment, please.”
A click and a burr, then, “Steven Rothenberg.”
“Steve, John Cuddy.”
“How does it look?”
“Bleak, if Claire Kinsour is on the level.”
He paused. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”
“I know, Steve. But Kinsour says your client’s the one who made the move at the place they worked.”
“You believe her?”
“I’m not sure I want to believe either of them, but a jury would like her more than Blassingale, I’d say.”
“Oh, that’s just ducky.” Again a pause. “On the other hand, whether he rejected her or she rejected him, I can show Kinsour’s biased.” A third pause. “You going to the brokerage house next?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have hired you, right?”
The receptionist at Goff Searle & Associates led me deftly to a rear corner office. Plaques recounting good deeds and photos displaying hearty handshakes occupied every avail able square foot of wall space. The desktop was covered by two different computer systems and God knows what else to support them. Michael Oldham seemed nearly buried behind the equipment. Even when he stood to greet me.
About five-three and slightly bow-legged, Oldham reminded me of a miniature Dick Van Dyke from the old TV show as he dimmed the screens he’d been studying. Half glasses on the end of his nose over a bowtie and suspenders, Oldham was very old-school and pushing fifty but not showing an ounce of fat doing it. “Have a seat, Mr. Cuddy.”
“Thanks.”
Oldham signaled to the receptionist, who withdrew and closed the door behind her. Taking off the glasses, he said, “Now, just what can I do for you?’
I told him.
The stockbroker’s face looked as though the market had just hit the “dive” button. “Distasteful business.”
"I agree. But that doesn’t get it done.”
His expression returned to normal. “No, you’re certainly right there. Very well. What do you want to know?”
“What was the relationship between Rick Blassingale and Claire Kinsour while they worked here?”
“Relationship?”
“How did they get along?”
Oldham knew that wasn’t what I meant. “Claire was a trainee. I matched her up with Rick. My fault, really.”
“What was?”
“There was some kind of tension between them. Friction. You could almost see it jumping off their bodies whenever they were together.”
“Sexual 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.”
“Blassingale 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 analysis, 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 Blassingale’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. Spacious 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 cushion. 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 Blassingale 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 Blassingale 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 Blassingale 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 Blassingale’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-fashioned. 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 Blassingale’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 Blassingale’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 Blassingale.
When the prosecutor passed 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 Blassingale 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, God, 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 Blassingale.”
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.”
As the witness left the stand, eyes down and almost trotting out of the courtroom, the judge turned to the jury.
“After I hear some motions by counsel, we may have closing arguments tomorrow morning.” Then she told them when and where to report and excused them for the day.
After the last juror had filed out and the court officer closed the door, Rick Blassingale threw his arms around Rothenberg, then extended his hand to shake mine, again closing his left over our two ‘hands, saying warmly, “All I could ask for, John. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
For some reason, I felt sick.
Usually, cases are hard. Occasionally, they’re easy. Virtually never is one served up on a silver platter, and so dramatically.
Leaving the courthouse, I went back to my office and sat with my eyes closed, going over in my head what I’d learned and how I’d learned it. Blassingale giving me Claire Kinsour, Michael Oldham, and Gina Ferro. Kinsour telling me Rick was after her, not the other way around, but also mentioning that Gina might have changed her name after getting married. Oldham not knowing that new name but having a new address in his computer. Ferro remembering the date and time other dinner with Kinsour, who paid for it in a way that produced a time-stamped receipt. Almost like I was following directions.
At the cemetery, I’d told Beth that I didn’t know who was telling the truth. If what Claire Kinsour said from the stand after seeing the receipt was reality, then Rick Blassingale had been honest with me in Rothenberg’s office. Ferro might have mentioned over dinner that she wasn’t keeping up on the news, given the baby and all. But If Kinsour wanted to nail Rick as vengeance, why not just say she saw him running down the street at ten-thirty, not eight-thirty, which was still within the time-of-death bracketing? Especially when Kinsour had to know that Ferro, if found and interviewed, could destroy the eight-thirty version?
There was only one complete explanation, and I just hoped Michael Oldham’s take on the players was right enough to help me prove it.
Dressed in dingy work pants, a sweater torn at the neck, and an old parka with the stuffing peeking out, I put a liter bottle of Sprite in a brown paper bag and crimped the paper at the top. Then, I drove down to the waterfront, parking three blocks from Rick Blassingale’s building on the wharf. I walked to the building, a little unsteadily, and slumped down against a wall across from the main entrance, taking a slug now and then from the Sprite as though it were something stronger.
Nobody was on duty inside the door, which didn’t surprise me. People came and went, several on entering having some trouble getting their keys to turn in the lock. Then a brunette appeared, her back toward me, walking toward the front door. Her hair was done in a pageboy flip, the long winter coat bulky around her body, making it hard to estimate weight.
She had trouble with the key, too. Then she held it up to the light, tapped with her index fingernail on her lower teeth, and tried the key again, this time getting it to work.
The woman disappeared inside, and I watched an upper-floor light come on, then go off. Shortly afterward, what might have been a living-room light dropped to a romantic level.
Oldham was right. Arrogance on the one hand and deference on the other.
Leaning over, I poured out the rest of the Sprite and went home.
Steve Rothenberg said, “John, thanks for coming, but we really don’t need you for the closings.”
I looked at both of them, people bustling around us in the corridor outside the courtroom. “The judge denied your motions?”
Rothenberg glanced confidently at Rick Blassingale beside him. “Yes, but I expected that. Without the Kinsour woman’s testimony, there was still barely enough for the prosecutor to carry his burden of production, so the judge is letting the case go to the jury. But after what happened yesterday on the stand, I’m not worried about this one.”
“You should be.”
Rothenberg darkened as the color ripened in his client’s face. “What does that mean?”
I pinched Blassingale’s arm gently at the elbow. “Why don’t we go over here, where it’s a little more private.”
In the dead-end alcove, they stood while I sat on the stiff bench and crossed my arms, leaning back. “I’m going to give you my own closing here, guys. Tell me what you think of it.”
Neither of them said anything.
“Rick Blassingale is going through a bad divorce but has a new-or not so new-girlfriend. It’d be great to be a widower, be thinks. Unfortunately, though, he’d be the prime suspect, a role he’d rather not play. Then he sees a way to get what he wants without having to duck the role.”
Blassingale said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It gets better. Rick has his girlfriend move into an apartment almost across the street from his wife’s place. Using that as a base of operations, he ventures forth on the night of November fifteenth around eight P.M. in a fairly common jacket that was expendable. Unfortunately, a woman walking her dog spots him, but that alone isn’t fatal. He uses his old key to get in his wife’s building, then gets her to open up the apartment door on some pretext, maybe more talk or ‘I have a let’s-make-up present in the bag, Libby.'”
“You’re nuts,” said Blassingale.
Rothenberg said quietly, “Let him talk, Rick.”
I nodded toward the client. “You get back to Claire’s place pretty quickly, leaving her the weapon, the Celtics jacket, and probably everything else you were wearing that night in the bag, to take to Seattle with her and dump safely. You’re home free, except you forget to throw away the shoes you wore in September, the night you hit Libby, the shoes that had her blood on them as a result. Bad luck, but then, you can’t be expected to think of everything, right, Rick?”
No response.
Rothenberg said, “But then why have Kinsour come forward at all?”
“She doesn’t, Steve, not until after the lab tests on the shoes, together with the other evidence, give the DA enough to go to trial. That’s when Rick’s reserve plan has to kick in. Not a great plan to a practicing lawyer, but it must have seemed awfully clever to somebody who only graduated law school. Have the witness, with an apparent motive to get even with the defendant, testify against him, then be turned by an incontrovertible piece of evidence, like the restaurant receipt or Gina Ferro’s testimony on timing that night”
Rothenberg shook his head. “So that Kinsour first implicates, then exonerates, Rick as the killer?”
“Exactly. Otherwise, she just testifies that she saw the definite Ricker here at ten-thirty, leading to no impeachment of her testimony by receipt or Ferro.”
I fixed Blassingale, who was breathing badly and looking worse. “And you used me to set it up for you, Rick. Knowing that the system’ wouldn’t bother prosecuting Claire for perjury, you led me by the hand to Kinsour, Oldham, and eventually Ferro and the restaurant. Neat, but a little too neat.”
Blassingale managed to say, “I told you, I swore off blondes.”
“Not based on what I saw last night, at your building’s front door, with her own key. A brunette to the outside world, an ash blonde inside your apartment?”
Blassingale clenched his hands into fists and took a step toward me on the bench.
I said, “Keep coming, Rick. You’d look great to the jury with a broken nose.”
Rothenberg turned to Blassingale. “Calm down. I need to know whether John’s just blowing smoke here.”
The ruddy face pushed toward the lawyer’s. “You don’t need to know anything. You just need to go back in that courtroom and argue to the jury what they heard from the stand.”
I shook my head this time. “Sorry, Rick. No go. I seem to remember the DA offering you a plea bargain of twenty and change before Claire Kinsour came forward. I have a feeling the prosecutor would jump at that if you were to tell him through Steve here that the offer looked good, that you didn’t want to risk what the jury might still do.”
Blassingale stared. “You’re asking me to send myself to prison?”
“Rick, it’s plead out, or I go to the prosecutor myself with what I know and hang you in front of this jury or the next one.”
Blassingale’s face looked like it was about to explode. “No way! That’s double jeopardy.”
I looked to Rothenberg, who said, “Not until the verdict comes back, and we haven’t even closed yet. With what Cuddy has, the judge could declare a mistrial and start you in front of a whole new jury.”
His face back to me, Blassingale started to dissolve. “But you promised me confidentiality. I’ll go…I’ll file a complaint…
“That’s just a license, Rick. This is murder. I lose my ticket, I lose it. But one way or the other, you’re going to pay for killing your wife. And I have a feeling that after I talk with the other side, the twenty and change won’t make it back onto the bargaining table.”
Tears actually started from Blassingale’s eyes, rolling down his ruddy cheeks, spotting his collar and tie. “What are you doing to me?’
I stood up. “Just turning the witness, Rick. That’s the problem with the technique, though. Sometimes they turn back on you.”
Steve Rothenberg and I walked away from Rick Blassingale, to give him time to make up his mind.