I give a sick little laugh. The blood in my system heads south to my stomach like lead. My sweat turns cold.
Radovich is looking at me. So is Acosta.
“Transference,” says the shrink. This draws their attention away from me for an instant.
“He objected to one of your questions.” She winks at Radovich and they convene out of earshot of the witness.
The D.A. and I join them, though my knees are so weak at this moment I can barely walk.
The psychologist is whispering to Radovich. “She knows that somebody in the room is a bad person. She knows it’s not the lady at the other table.” She means the deputy D.A. “Or the officer who brought her the drink. She figures it has to be one of the men at the other table. It’s simple. You’re the one who spoke up.” She looks at me. “So she picked you. She guessed.”
The wonders of modern analysis.
“The record will reflect that the witness indicated the defense attorney,” says Radovich. “What else?”
There are a few chuckles in the courtroom, the bailiff and the clerk. Kimberly’s grandmother is eyeing me warily, whispering to her husband.
I am thankful that Kline is not here to see this. He would no doubt make more of it than the judge, put two and two together: Lenore’s print on the front door along with the little girl’s make on me. By tonight I would be talking with bright lights in my eyes, figuring ways to save my ticket to practice.
CHAPTER 17
TODAY THE COURTROOM IS PACKED, EVERY SEAT IS OCCUPIED, with a line two columns deep in the hallway outside, roped and cordoned to one side to keep the halls clear for workaday foot traffic.
Even with the notoriety of this case, it is not likely that we will see such a crowd again until a verdict is delivered.
There are pickets carrying signs on the steps outside—“Women Against Violence,” “Mothers Against Crime”—exclusive franchises of virtue from which all men are blackballed.
Since the disclosure of the evidence in Acosta’s case, the talk airwaves are hot with anti-male rhetoric, aimed chiefly at those of the political class. At night I can turn on anything electronic and hear screaming voices with their endless anecdotal tales of predatory men. From the more farfetched of this crowd, there is now a cry for a federally mandated neutering program for the male of the species, presumably to tame the violent among us, though this is not entirely clear.
“Susan B. Anthony’s final solution,” says Harry.
From another quarter there is talk of whether judges are sufficiently monitored in their personal behavior. Acosta’s case is the rallying point for judicial reform among the “cause-of-the-hour set” in the state legislature. These are lawmakers who watch television in the afternoon to see what bills they should introduce in the morning.
There are budding campaigns for the protection of witnesses, and the limiting of judicial terms of office. There is even a proposal to limit the number of words that a lawyer may utter in a trial, like the preemptory challenge of jurors, the only difference being that when you run out, they hang your client.
In all, Acosta’s case is a cross between Carnival and a public hanging, with hucksters peddling snake oil from the tailgate of your television set.
It is in this maelstrom of hysterical political dialogue that we are now to obtain a fair trial.
In the shadows there is the deft hand of Coleman Kline, whipping this froth for spin. He is suddenly everywhere on the airwaves. While he studiously discusses none of the particulars of the case, he has views of every social and political issue swirling about it, enough to lay a plush carpet of blame all the way to Acosta’s cell door.
This morning Armando sits next to me dressed in a dark suit, something Lili picked from his wardrobe. It hangs on him like the skin on an Auschwitz survivor, so much weight has he lost since we stalled.
Our first move is tactical. I ask the court to exclude all witnesses from the courtroom. This so that they may not hear the opening statements and conform their testimony accordingly.
Radovich goes me one better and instructs them not to listen to or read reports of the doings in this trial, though this is impossible to enforce.
“Mr. Kline, are you prepared to open?” says Radovich.
“Your Honor.” Kline rises from his chair. He tugs the French cuffs of his linen shirt an inch from the end of each sleeve of his suit coat, like a warrior girding himself for battle. Today he is dressed in his finest, a dark worsted suit, power blue, set off against a blue-and-red-striped club tie. The maroon satin lining of his coat flashes open as he approaches the jury box, and glances quickly at the watch on his wrist.
Then to the rapt silence of the courtroom, Kline opens slowly with the core concepts of his case, the central themes of the prosecution.
Standing four feet from the jury railing, without benefit of a rostrum or notes, he speaks in firm, clear tones, the discourse of death; how the victim’s body was found, dumped unceremoniously in a trash bin, how copious amounts of blood were discovered in her apartment, and the graphic nature of her death—a prelude to the pathologist who will soon take the stand.
“The state, ladies and gentlemen, will prove that this was a murder committed by the defendant, a man who held a position of trust in our society, a judicial officer sworn to uphold the law,” he says, “who betrayed that oath of office.” Through all of this he has an outstretched arm loosely directed at Acosta, pointed more generally at our table so that his words are an assault on any who might support the defendant.
This is an important theme, since if Acosta takes the stand, Kline is certain to revisit the implied violation of his sacred oath of office in weighing the man’s credibility. In all of this, the elements of deceit, the betrayal of trust, place high among the uncharged sins of my client the inferential and unstated reasons why the jury should put him to death.
“We will show that this murder was intended to obstruct the very ends of justice to which the defendant, Armando Acosta, was himself sworn to protect.”
With this, Kline lays open his theme, “the fallen judge,” to which he will return time and again. He tells them that the state will produce a witness who will verify beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant attempted to engage in illicit and unlawful sexual relations with the victim, an undercover operative working with the police, and that Acosta was netted in this undercover sting, “a corrupted and fallen judge,” he says.
He walks them through the chronology of events in the earlier case, from the failed wire on Brittany Hall the night of the prostitution sting, to the collection of her statement by prosecutors, the contents of which he carefully skirts to avoid the hearsay objection. Still the point is well-made: that Acosta had a clear and indisputable motive for murder.
Through all of this, the eighteen souls—twelve jurors and six alternates—sit behind the railing, riveted by the unfolding tale.
Kline deftly deals with the picky little points, the circumstances that incriminate, stacking one upon the other as he continues to gather steam, until at a point he breaches the surface, belching fire and brimstone, unable to avoid the moral judgment. He is a verbal Vesuvius.
“We will show,” says Kline, “that this defendant had a reputation for illicit liaisons with other women that ultimately led to prostitution and murder.”
Radovich’s eyes go wide. A look at the seamier side, judicial life in the big city.
I can hear the frantic scratching of soft lead on paper. Reporters behind us in the front row getting cramps taking notes, trying to catch all the sewage being dumped on Acosta’s head at this moment.
The man is tugging at my sleeve.
“You should object,” he says.
I am already halfway to my feet as he says this.
“Your Honor, this is improper.”
“Mr. Kline,” says Radovich, “you are aware of the limitations regarding character,” he says.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Then the jury will disregard this last statement,” says the judge.
The issue here is whether the state will be allowed to delve into Acosta’s character, past acts that are not related to the crimes in question. This is taboo unless we open the issue ourselves by placing evidence of our client’s good character before the jury. With the Coconut, this would be something on the order of foraging for grass in the Sahara.
“Carry on,” says Radovich.
Kline gives him a slight bow of the head, an appropriate show of respect that for anyone else might come off as subjugation, but not with Kline. He picks up without losing a beat.
“The state will prove,” he says, “beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant, Armando Acosta, brutally and in cold blood murdered Brittany Hall, a judicial witness, in order to silence her and save his faltering judicial career.”
It is only a taste of what awaits us in the trial.
Then, for nearly two hours of uninterrupted monologue, Kline postures for effect, pacing in front of the jury box, as he makes point after point, turning on the key issues of his case, the hair and fibers, which he says expert witnesses will link to the defendant; the note in the victim’s own hand showing an appointment with the defendant for the day of the murder; the absence of any alibi for the defendant; the broken pair of reading glasses found at the murder scene, which Kline says he will link unequivocally to our client.
With this I glance over at Acosta, who gives me a daunting look. If they have evidence of this they have failed to disclose it.
Harry nearly rises from his chair, but I motion him to let it go. There is time for this out of the presence of the jury. Why make an issue here and mark it indelibly in their minds?
I see Harry make a note.
Kline has difficulty on one point that he cannot seem to explain, and yet cannot pass over without comment. Why, in his theory of Acosta as killer, would the judge move the body after the murder, to deposit it in a trash bin a mile from the woman’s apartment?
Kline admits that this involved risk, which no rational person would take on lightly. But then he adds that the defendant at that moment would not be acting rationally. His quick explanation is that having committed murder, the man panicked.
“Your Honor, I object. This is surmise and argument,” I tell Radovich. “Do the people intend to produce evidence on the point?”
Kline gives me a look like this is unlikely. How would he climb into my defendant’s mind?
“Then you shouldn’t be mentioning it here,” says Radovich. “The jury will disregard the last comment, the speculations of the district attorney,” says the judge.
Acosta raps me on the arm lightly with a clenched fist, a blow for our side.
It is a nagging loose thread, one that Kline cannot tuck neatly into his case. The fact remains that he has no ready explanation why the killer would take the time and assume the risk of moving the body. It is one of those gnawing points that lends itself to other theories, suggesting another sort of killer, one with reason to move Hall’s body. The first that comes to mind is a live-in lover. And yet no evidence of cohabitation was discovered in the apartment, no male clothing in the closet or drawers, no witnesses who saw men coming and going. And no effort was made to conceal the fact that death occurred in the woman’s apartment. For the moment, the mysterious movement of Hall’s body is a little more useful to our side, since we have no burden of proof.
Kline has saved the most poignant and powerful for last.
“There is,” he says, “a motherless little child left by this brutal crime.” Kimberly Hall, a hapless five-year-old.
“Little Kimmy,” as he calls her, is waiting in the wings to tell us what happened.
Up to this point he had not indicated whether he would call her as a witness. Though she remains on his list, I had assumed this was for psychic value, and to keep us off balance.
Following the little girl’s traumatized performance outside of court, her stone silence and confusion in front of the camera, we had concluded that she would not appear. She had offered nothing concrete by way of evidence, at least not verbally. Now Kline seems to be saying otherwise.
“This little girl was present during the argument and violent confrontation that took her mother’s life,” he tells the jury. “We are not certain at this point whether she can identify the killer, but she can attest to the valiant struggle that her mother made to save her own life, and the violence that took that life.”
It is clear what he is doing. If the child cannot identify the killer, she can at least, by her very presence in the courtroom, attest to the tragic loss suffered in this case.
I am torn as to whether to rise and object.
Radovich looks at me. He has seen the video and knows that it is void of any such evidentiary content. On a proper motion he might bar the witness from testifying, strike Kline’s bold statements, spare Kimberly the need to appear.
The problem here is that to object before the jury on such a sensitive point would be to do more damage than good. Regardless of her tender years, Kimberly is the only possible witness who was present on the night of the murder. Any objection may send the signal that we have something to hide. With Acosta whispering animated protests in my ear, I sit silent and suffer the point at Kline’s hands.
He balances precariously, just on the edge of argument, as he talks about the child. For an instant, Kline is overcome himself by the emotion of the moment, his voice cracking, then breaking. He talks about the living victim of this crime, Kimberly Hall. That these thoughts seem to drain him emotionally is not lost on the jury. Several of the women on the panel offer pained expressions, as if they would like to ease this load from Kline’s shoulders.
I am on the edge of my seat, half a beat from objection.
Then, as though in a daze, Kline draws himself up, as if this comes from an inner strength he did not know he possessed.
“You will hear from little Kimberly Hall in this courtroom,” says Kline. He doesn’t say what they will hear. Promising more in an opening statement than you can deliver at trial is like stepping on a legal land mine. Your opponent is certain to saw off your leg somewhere above the knee in closing argument.
“And after you hear this little girl. . .” His voice breaks one more time. He regroups. “And after you hear Kimberly,” he says, “it will be left to you to decide who murdered her mother.” He turns and looks at Acosta as he says this. “And what punishment should be meted out for that terrible crime.”
With this thought Kline leaves the jury, and as he turns for the sanctuary of his counsel table, there is, halfway down his cheek, a lone tear. It is in every way a capital performance.
We are on the noon break, and I am going over notes in the courthouse cafeteria with Harry, prep for our opening, when a bailiff from one of the other departments finds us.
“Mr. Madriani. You got a call,” he says. “On one of the pay phones outside.”
I give Harry a look, like who would call me here?
“Maybe the office,” he says.
I leave him to take it, make my way across the room, shuttling between tables to the bank of pay phones on the wall outside. The receiver for one of these is dangling near the floor by its cord. I pick it up.
“Hello.”
“It’s me.” Lenore’s voice. “I took a chance that you would be lunching in.” She means in the courthouse.
Lenore has been careful not to be seen near the courtroom since her ouster from the case. She has taken up other digs for work, another friend across town, at least until the trial is over, a kind of moving Chinese wall to avoid tainting the partnership with conflict. Despite this, she is still worki
ng in the shadows, shamelessly feeding us information.
“How is it going?” she asks.
“My turn in the tumbler this afternoon,” I tell her. “Our opening statement.”
“Any surprises from Kline?”
I tell her about the reading glasses, that the state has promised the jury that they will link these to Acosta.
“Maybe Kline is hoping,” she says. “Throwing up a little dirt in hopes that some will stick.”
At the moment this sounds more like our own case.
“Why did you call?” I can sense in her breathless tones that there is more than curiosity at work here.
“I am hearing rumblings from people downtown that Lano is on the warpath,” she tells me.
“Somebody take his rawhide chew stick away?” I ask.
“It may not be so funny,” she says. “It is your name he is taking in vain. He got service on the subpoenas yesterday afternoon.”
Lenore is talking about the legal process Harry spent a week preparing, subpoenas with enough small print to strain Lano’s eyes. Hinds is rooting around in the association’s private papers, tracking through the organization’s financial dealings like a dog peeing on somebody else’s lawn. He has demanded bank statements and telephone records, with particular emphasis on the private line that rings in Lano’s office. These would be obtained from third parties, so Lano cannot destroy or alter them.
“Word is, he’s storming around his office, demanding your scalp,” she tells me.
“When’s the next performance? Harry would like to buy tickets.”
“Lano may cut a comic figure, but he is not one to take lightly.”
“Is he threatening my life?”
“Lano’s more subtle than that. Besides, I’m not privy to the private conversations of the rabble that hangs in his office.” According to Lenore, there are those among his cadre who are no doubt sticking pins in my effigy as we speak.
The Judge Page 23