Reese screams in pain, shocked at what’s just happened to him, but before he can move back, Robby holds down his arm and smashes the hand again.
Then Robby calmly places the pan back on the stove as Reese stares down at his hand, shaking there on the counter.
“I mean, Allen, who the hell is betting on the fucking Giants this season?” Robby asks.
Reese, still staring at his hand, somehow responds as if Robby has just asked a serious question.
“The points were just too good to pass up …”
Robby puts a finger to his lips.
“Stop talking now, before I break your other hand,” Robby says.
Then he reaches over, pats Allen Reese on his bald head, and leaves.
SIXTY-ONE
I AM WELL AWARE of the change Welsh has made with her opening witness. The original plan was to call the first detective to arrive at the Carson home the night of the murders.
The call Katherine Welsh made last night—after Brigid fell asleep in my guest room and I was still very much eyes-wide-open awake—was a courtesy on her part, nothing more, Welsh knowing before she made the call that there would be no grounds for me to object to the change she was about to make.
“I’ve gone back and forth on this,” Welsh told me on the phone. “But I finally decided this was the best way to handle things. Put it out there, first thing, so to speak.”
“Do what you have to do,” I said, and told her I’d see her in court.
So to speak.
But even knowing what’s coming, it’s still jarring when I hear her stand and say, “The people call Jimmy Cunniff.”
“What the—” I hear Norma Banks say from my left, and I give her a look that stops her right there.
Jimmy walks through the gate and makes his way toward the witness stand, wearing his one good suit, white shirt, navy tie. He’s even shaved and, I see, shined his shoes for the occasion, trying not to look like what we both know he is, which is a grumpy witness, if not a hostile one.
He’s testified plenty of times, in his life as a New York City cop. Has sat in that chair so many times he’s lost count.
Just not like this.
As Jimmy takes his seat, Rob Jacobson, face clenched like a balled fist, leans past Thomas McGoey and motions me to come closer to him.
“You couldn’t give me a heads-up on this?” he hisses.
I feel a big smile cross my face. I can’t help myself.
“Not as much fun when you’re the one getting smacked in the face, is it?” I whisper to him.
SIXTY-TWO
KATHERINE WELSH WALKS JIMMY through the preliminaries as quickly as she can manage, starting with his job description with me, his background as a former NYPD detective. Jimmy answers politely, on his best behavior because he’s promised me he would be.
Welsh is on her own best behavior, steering clear of asking Jimmy about the way his career with the NYPD ended, which means when he was asked, and not politely, to leave.
He is, after all, her witness on this day.
Before he’s all mine.
Welsh gets to it now, walking over to the clerk’s table and picking up the bagged gun that the jury probably hasn’t even noticed until now.
“Let the record show,” she says, holding up the gun, “that this is very much Exhibit 1.”
