Free As Dog Is My Witness by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

asked. She chuckled
lightly.
    I couldn’t follow up on her comment about Justin’s
innocence because Rezenbach sat down next to her again, looking
into her eyes to see if confidences had been betrayed or emotional
barriers broken during his 20-second absence. He looked at me with
intensity. Luckily, I live with a lawyer, so intense looks don’t
really have that much impact anymore. I’ve seen Abby rehearsing
them.
    “My client,” he announced, “will not discuss anything
related to the case against the man accused of killing her husband.
She will discuss her marriage and her husband’s character, so long
as the questions are not so personal as to upset her. She has been
through an enormously difficult time and is still suffering great
emotional pain. I will not allow you to increase that pain. Is that
understood, Mr. Tucker?”
    I took a long moment and studied him. “Did you
practice that?” I asked. “I mean, last night, when you were getting
into your pajamas, did you look in the mirror and do that speech?
Because it was very convincing, really.”
    Rezenbach, who wasn’t used to people not quivering at
the sound of his voice, fumphered briefly, then regained his
composure. “If you are intent on being irreverent, young man, this
interview will be terminated.”
    “Wow. Now you sound like my fourth-grade teacher,
Miss Rubinski. Did you know her?”
    Karen Huston seemed not to be listening to this
exchange. She was watching the dog, who was lying on the dog bed
with her tongue hanging out, staring with one eye at the
ceiling.
    “We are not prepared to continue,” said Rezenbach,
and he stood, expecting Karen to follow him. She kept staring at
the dog.
    “Sit down, Mr. Rezenbach,” I told him. “I don’t
intend to violate your client’s privacy or ask her questions that
are going to make her more upset. She doesn’t know any more about
the murder than the cops, and they don’t mind me asking sensitive
questions, since they rarely answer any questions. So switch
to decaf and take a seat.” Surprisingly, he sat. I love summoning
my inner Bogart. Another minute, and I’d have been telling him to
shut his “yap.”
    My diatribe at her lawyer seemed to snap Karen to
attention— she looked at me, her eyes open, but still haunted. I
knew I couldn’t press her on much of anything.
    “How did you meet your husband, Karen?” You always
start with a softball question because it loosens the subject up
and gets her into the flow of the conversation.
    She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “We were
fixed up, believe it or not. My college roommate Pearl introduced
us when I was working in the city at HBO and Michael was in the
financial planning department at the charitable foundation where
Pearl worked. She thought we’d hit it off, because she knew I’d
been through a number of bad relationships in a row, and he seemed
like the kind of guy who wouldn’t hurt me.”
    “She was right,” I suggested.
    Karen nodded. “Yes, she certainly was. Michael was
devoted to me from the day we met. He actually proposed on our
first date, and I had to hold him off for three months.”
    “But he wore you down, finally.” You don’t want to
put words in the subject’s mouth so much as lead them in a
direction and see if you’re right. If you’re not, they’ll tell
you.
    This time, I wasn’t wrong. Karen nodded again. “Yes,”
she said chuckling. “He wore me down. How could you not give in to
a man that open and—” She sniffled and stopped herself
mid-sentence. “I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay, Karen. You’re doing fine.”
    Rezenbach considered saying something lawyerly, but I
cast a glance in his direction, and the memory of my Sam Spade
impersonation came back to him. He decided to let it go, for now.
Even we little folk can be intimidating when we’re sitting
down.
    Karen Huston composed herself, but it was an effort,
and it certainly wasn’t an act. I knew the more difficult questions
were