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 Ma.s.sachusetts. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 unb.u.t.toned 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 Bla.s.singale 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. Bla.s.singale-"

He released my hand "Rick, please."

Rothenberg said, "Why don't we all sit down?"

Settling back into his chair, Bla.s.singale 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 Bla.s.singale very much, and I wondered why an apparent high-roller would be represented by a hand-to-mouth criminal lawyer like Steve Rothenberg.

Bla.s.singale 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 circ.u.mstantial. Libby Bla.s.singale 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."

Bla.s.singale 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.

Bla.s.singale 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 Bla.s.singale, 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?"

Bla.s.singale 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, Bla.s.singale thought that awfully unfair of the friend. I said, "Didn't the papers say something about an eyewitness?"

Bla.s.singale 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?"

Bla.s.singale 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.

Bla.s.singale 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. Bla.s.singale." 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?'

Bla.s.singale 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?"

Bla.s.singale 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. Bla.s.singale was killed."

"Did they know each other?"

Bla.s.singale 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?"

Bla.s.singale's face got ruddier, the color high at the cheekbones. "That seems pretty d.a.m.ned 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. .h.i.ts 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 Bla.s.singale. "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." Bla.s.singale 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 Bla.s.singale. "One more thing?'

"Shoot."

"You seeing anybody now?"

"Seeing...?' Bla.s.singale looked down at his shoes. "Yes."

"She with you that night?"