Fat Tuesday(3)

Vastly different moods emanated from the camps of the opposing sides.

Burke shared Pat's estimation that the assistant D.A. had done a poor job of prosecuting the case. After lamely limping through it, he now was seated at his table, bouncing the eraser end of a pencil off a blank legal tablet on which was jotted not a single notation. He was nervously jiggling his left leg, and looking like he'd rather be doing just about anything else, including having a root canal.

While at the defense table, Bardo and Duvall seemed to be sharing a whispered joke. Both were chuckling behind their hands. Burke would be hard pressed to say which he loathed more the career criminal or his equally criminal attorney.

When Duvall was distracted by an assistant from his office and turned away to scan a sheaf of legal documents, Bardo leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and gazed ceilingward.

Burke seriously doubted the son of a bitch was praying.

As though he'd been beckoned by Burke's hard stare, Bardo turned his head. Connecting with Burke's gaze were flinty dark eyes, which he doubted had ever flickered with a twinge of conscience. Lizardthin lips parted to form a chilling smile.

Then Bardo dropped one eyelid in a wink.

Burke would have come out of his chair and lunged toward Bardo if Pat, who'd witnessed the insolent gesture, hadn't grabbed Burke by the arm and restrained him.

"For chrissake, don't do something stupid." In a tense undertone he said, "Fly off the handle, and you'll be playing right into the hands of those bastards. You'll lend truth to every negative allegation they made about you during this trial. Now if that's what you want, go ahead."

Refusing to honor the reprimand even with a comeback, Burke yanked his arm free of his superior's grasp. Smug grin still in place, Bardo faced forward again. Seconds later, the court was called to order and the judge resumed the bench. In a voice as syrupy as the sap that dripped from summer honeysuckle, he admonished everyone to conduct himself in an orderly "maunnah" when the verdict was handed down, then he asked an aide to summon the jury.

Seven men and five women filed into the jury box. Seven men and five women had voted unanimously that Wayne Bardo was not guilty of the shooting death of Detective Sergeant Kevin Stuart.

It was what Burke Basile had expected, but it was harder to accept than he'd imagined, and he had imagined that it would be impossible.

Despite the judge's instructions, spectators failed to restrain or conceal their reactions. Nancy Stuart uttered a sharp cry, then crumpled.

Her parents shielded her from the lights of the video cameras and the rapacious reporters who swarmed her.

The judge thanked the jury and dismissed them, then, as soon as court was loudly and formally adjourned, the ineffectual prosecutor quickly stuffed his blank legal pad into his new-looking attache case and walked up the center aisle as though it had just been announced that the building was on fire. He avoided making eye contact with Burke and Pat.

Burke mentally captioned the expression on his face: It's not my fault.

You win some, you lose some. No matter what, the paycheck comes on Friday, so get over it.

"Asshole," Burke muttered.

Predictably, there was jubilation at the defense table and the judge had given up trying to control it. Pinkie Duvall was waxing eloquent into the media microphones. Wayne Bardo was shifting from one Bally loafer to the other, looking complacently bored as he shot his cuffs.

His stone-studded cuff links glittered in the TV lights.

Burke noted that his olive-complexioned forehead wasn't even damp. The son of a bitch had known he had this rap licked, just as he'd beaten all the others.

Pat, acting as spokesman for the N.O.P.D since the incident involved his division, was busy fending off reporters and their questions.

Burke kept Bardo and Duvall in his sights as they triumphantly worked their way through the crowd of reporters toward the exit. They dodged no microphones or cameras. Indeed, Duvall cultivated and relished publicity, so he basked in the spotlight. Unlike the prosecutor, they were in no hurry to leave and in fact loitered to receive the accolades of supporters.

Nor did they avoid making eye contact with Burke Basile.

On the contrary, each slowed down when he reached the end of the row where Burke stood, right hand flexing and releasing at his side.

Each made a point of looking Burke straight in the eye.

Wayne Bardo even went so far as to lean forward and whisper a hateful, but indefensible fact."I didn't shoot that cop, Basile. You did."

"Me?"

She turned and pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand."Hi. I wasn't expecting you."

Pinkie Duvall strode down the aisle of the greenhouse and took her in his arms, kissing her hard."I won."

She returned his smile."So I gathered." '"Another acquittal."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you, but this one was hardly a challenge." His expansive grin belied his humility.

"A less brilliant lawyer would have been challenged."

Pleased by her praise, his grin widened."I'm going to the office to make a few calls, but when I come back I'll be bringing the party with me. Roman had everyone on standby. In fact, I noticed the catering vans arriving when I came in."

Their butler, Roman, and the entire household staff had been on alert since the trial began. The parties Pinkie hosted to celebrate his legal victories contributed to his notoriety as much as the flashy diamond ring he wore on the small finger of his right hand, from which he'd derived his nickname.